I am concerned about the election and will be flying all day tomorrow to Florida, which will prevent some of the doomscroll. I am also a mess otherwise.
We are now hitting what I call the dredged-up trauma part of the year, when I remember all the ways I contorted myself to deliver a perfect holiday experience for my kid by taking her BY MYSELF to Knoxville year after year instead of saying, "We live in Florida, suck it."
Two years ago today my husband and I went to see her in Memphis for the first time since lockdown. It was a great trip!
Last year her dad "blackmailed" her into coming to stay in Knoxville with his mom, paid for the trip, and "allowed" her one day with me and Ed. As it turned out, he screwed up the return ticket, and we found out his mom had paid for it anyway, so Ed stepped in and got her a first-class ticket back.
This year I got a message that "weekends are booked with Grandma," but she could see me on a weekday.
Okay. She's 33 years old. The other part of this story is that she runs way hot and way cold on her dad, who is a narcissistic child, and that Grandma is rumored to have hella lot a money that apparently everyone thinks they are going to inherit. I hope Grandma has secretly spent it all on holiday china, which is her weakness.
Anyhoo, as they say. I love my kid. I knew I'd leave her dad when she was 18 but had no idea the drama would go on and on and on.
Please don’t apologize! I’m sorry you’re going through this. I haven’t seen my son in years and in September—after my flight to go see him never left Austin—I fell into despair. I felt some frustration with him for not coming to see me. Then it dawned on me—not unlike some events in Grok This, Bitch—a couple of years ago, his father informed me that he could no longer visit me “unsupervised” by his cunt girlfriend. That man missed thirteen years of our son’s life due to his drinking. I, too, contorted myself, driving Henry to see him in St. Louis, explaining away his father’s alcoholism, doing everything possible and then some to keep the door open. When he wanted to move back to Austin to try to repair the damage, I made space for that. Gave him a place to live, found him a job that he has to this day. I was so very kind. Then the insecure girlfriend comes along and decides I’m a threat and makes her proclamation and my son’s father goes along with it. It sucked when he bailed on me and his two-year-old son the first time. When he bailed on me the second time—wow, that was a total crusher. So I really do understand how complicated it is. And I also finally understand that a big reason my son doesn’t come to see me is that he just doesn’t want to deal with the drama started by his father. So yeah, I get to deal with the fallout. Oh it sucks. I hope you enjoy your doomscrolling-free flight tomorrow. ❤️
Oh thank you for this. Thank you for weaving hope into dread. Thank you for all the work you have done on behalf of all of us and your future granddaughters (may there be many, may they grow up in a place that is free and safe for women and for all beings). And thank you for continuing to love even those you don’t understand. That is very inspirational. The more heated all this has gotten, the harder I work to not give into the hate. Yesterday something wonderful happened. One of the outdoor toilets overflowed, a bubbling bellagio of brown shit water. So disgusting. I plunged and I plunged. I tried four different plungers. I so wanted to avoid another plumbing bill I cannot afford. But in the end, I had to resort to calling Charlie my plumber. This is a pretty regular occurrence given the state of the old pipes out here. During the 2022 midterms, when Charlie came to install a new septic field (whatever that means) I greeted him with enthusiasm, gratitude, and $4,000. I happened to be wearing one of my many anti-Abbott t-shirts. Charlie—who is more than my plumber, he is also my friend and neighbor—looked at the shirt, and said to me evenly, “Now Spike, you do know I’m a middle aged white guy living out in the country.” And we both laughed. We often congratulate each other on our friendship and our refusal to think poorly of the other based on political differences. So when he arrived last night and I was wearing my HARRIS shirt, it was Deja vu all over again. He got right in there, into the shit water, this after working a long hard day on another job. He got the shit flushed in no time. He made no comment on my shirt. We expressed our joy at seeing each other and I was so happy to hear his failing health has improved quite a bit. This is my hope for all—a lofty hope, an impossible hope—that we can see the humanity in each other and not live on a steady diet of fear. It’s nice to have you back. Go Kamala Go!
Brown Shit Bellagio! Put it on the TTR Tourism Brochure! :) (OK, maybe not the cover.)
There are plenty of decent people, obviously, who will never vote for any Democrat. I worked with many of them on Illinois farms. I will NEVER understand how they got all deathly skeered of (and worked up over) trans peeps, though. It's not like Mrs. Doubtfire ever haunted a soybean field.
Fear is a powerful motivator, for sure, and I try to save my ire for the people who knowingly exploit that. I have my own too (though these mostly extend to teens with semi-automatic weapons).
I am concerned about the election and will be flying all day tomorrow to Florida, which will prevent some of the doomscroll. I am also a mess otherwise.
We are now hitting what I call the dredged-up trauma part of the year, when I remember all the ways I contorted myself to deliver a perfect holiday experience for my kid by taking her BY MYSELF to Knoxville year after year instead of saying, "We live in Florida, suck it."
Two years ago today my husband and I went to see her in Memphis for the first time since lockdown. It was a great trip!
Last year her dad "blackmailed" her into coming to stay in Knoxville with his mom, paid for the trip, and "allowed" her one day with me and Ed. As it turned out, he screwed up the return ticket, and we found out his mom had paid for it anyway, so Ed stepped in and got her a first-class ticket back.
This year I got a message that "weekends are booked with Grandma," but she could see me on a weekday.
Okay. She's 33 years old. The other part of this story is that she runs way hot and way cold on her dad, who is a narcissistic child, and that Grandma is rumored to have hella lot a money that apparently everyone thinks they are going to inherit. I hope Grandma has secretly spent it all on holiday china, which is her weakness.
Anyhoo, as they say. I love my kid. I knew I'd leave her dad when she was 18 but had no idea the drama would go on and on and on.
Sorry for being a downer!
Please don’t apologize! I’m sorry you’re going through this. I haven’t seen my son in years and in September—after my flight to go see him never left Austin—I fell into despair. I felt some frustration with him for not coming to see me. Then it dawned on me—not unlike some events in Grok This, Bitch—a couple of years ago, his father informed me that he could no longer visit me “unsupervised” by his cunt girlfriend. That man missed thirteen years of our son’s life due to his drinking. I, too, contorted myself, driving Henry to see him in St. Louis, explaining away his father’s alcoholism, doing everything possible and then some to keep the door open. When he wanted to move back to Austin to try to repair the damage, I made space for that. Gave him a place to live, found him a job that he has to this day. I was so very kind. Then the insecure girlfriend comes along and decides I’m a threat and makes her proclamation and my son’s father goes along with it. It sucked when he bailed on me and his two-year-old son the first time. When he bailed on me the second time—wow, that was a total crusher. So I really do understand how complicated it is. And I also finally understand that a big reason my son doesn’t come to see me is that he just doesn’t want to deal with the drama started by his father. So yeah, I get to deal with the fallout. Oh it sucks. I hope you enjoy your doomscrolling-free flight tomorrow. ❤️
Yeah, @WRITEWITHSPIKE I got all the electoral feels, boss. And none of the joy. For the record: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ybrpFvHuOSmexxS5G0SxayBYo4CyWDTZsQ-J5Rg6cJo/edit?usp=sharing
Oh thank you for this. Thank you for weaving hope into dread. Thank you for all the work you have done on behalf of all of us and your future granddaughters (may there be many, may they grow up in a place that is free and safe for women and for all beings). And thank you for continuing to love even those you don’t understand. That is very inspirational. The more heated all this has gotten, the harder I work to not give into the hate. Yesterday something wonderful happened. One of the outdoor toilets overflowed, a bubbling bellagio of brown shit water. So disgusting. I plunged and I plunged. I tried four different plungers. I so wanted to avoid another plumbing bill I cannot afford. But in the end, I had to resort to calling Charlie my plumber. This is a pretty regular occurrence given the state of the old pipes out here. During the 2022 midterms, when Charlie came to install a new septic field (whatever that means) I greeted him with enthusiasm, gratitude, and $4,000. I happened to be wearing one of my many anti-Abbott t-shirts. Charlie—who is more than my plumber, he is also my friend and neighbor—looked at the shirt, and said to me evenly, “Now Spike, you do know I’m a middle aged white guy living out in the country.” And we both laughed. We often congratulate each other on our friendship and our refusal to think poorly of the other based on political differences. So when he arrived last night and I was wearing my HARRIS shirt, it was Deja vu all over again. He got right in there, into the shit water, this after working a long hard day on another job. He got the shit flushed in no time. He made no comment on my shirt. We expressed our joy at seeing each other and I was so happy to hear his failing health has improved quite a bit. This is my hope for all—a lofty hope, an impossible hope—that we can see the humanity in each other and not live on a steady diet of fear. It’s nice to have you back. Go Kamala Go!
Brown Shit Bellagio! Put it on the TTR Tourism Brochure! :) (OK, maybe not the cover.)
There are plenty of decent people, obviously, who will never vote for any Democrat. I worked with many of them on Illinois farms. I will NEVER understand how they got all deathly skeered of (and worked up over) trans peeps, though. It's not like Mrs. Doubtfire ever haunted a soybean field.
Fear is a powerful motivator, for sure, and I try to save my ire for the people who knowingly exploit that. I have my own too (though these mostly extend to teens with semi-automatic weapons).
How I feel about voting this year….. I love it. I hate it.