She-wolves are a thing and I love my pack

She-wolves; a group of awesome ladies that do dumb yet reasonable things together; ferocious loyalty; BFFLs.

I am part of a wonderful pack of women who I have made my family.  They get me even if it took damn near a decade, but its cool because I am still not sure I get me.

I fell into their lives while I was 1200 miles away from home, with a baby and a military husband.  I was a squishy ball of depression and I hated everything when I met them, including them.  I wanted so bad to have a companion and at the same time I wanted to cry in a corner alone and stuff.  It was hard, it was sad and I am so grateful to them.

They forced me to hang out, they bothered me and made me take my kid to places.  They gave me direction.  I had no idea how to be a grown up and here I was, thrown head first into a streaming pile of adulthood and I was 100% drowning.  They helped pull me up, but I am not sure they even know that.

As years moved on and our babies turned to toddlers we all became good friends.  We wined and dined, drank all the wine and had too much fun at garage sales.  We have played pranks, said things we regret, watched fellow she-wolves move away and our bond only gets stronger.

The years move forward still and now our kids are hitting their teenage years and the she-wolves have been officially labelled “old”.  Now its the little things that make us laugh, the memories some of us hold onto and the new things we find ourselves getting caught up in.  A trip to Whole Foods turned into a discovery that when saying the word “Cacao” you can sound like a crow and at Whole Foods, all that shit has Cacao.  So, why not shout it everything we see it.  A trip to Dollar General turned into a concerning conversation about leather seats and torn vaginas.  Yes, torn vaginas, its what happens when your junk sticks on a hot seat and you try to slide out of it.  A drunken night of laughter turns into tears for our losses, a tribute to us girls without dads.

My point is, these people have given me strength when I had nothing left.  They have lifted me up even when I thought I didn’t need to be lifted.  They have made me laugh when nothing was funny.  I could not have survived life without them.

Do not ever mess with the friendship of a she-wolf pack, we will not turn our backs on each other and will probably eat you.  We get hungry a lot and most of us are totally cool with the extra calories if its worth it, oh and throw in a nice robust Cabernet and its all over.  Good eats!

StClaire out!

wolf zoo dublin
Photo by Amar Saleem on Pexels.com

 

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Life is a f@#!ing nighmare

“Life is a fucking nightmare.”-John Mulaney

Am I really in the Truman show?  Like is this all a grand joke and the Gods are watching and laughing hysterically at my misfortune?  Did they laugh that one time I almost died because a bug flew into my mouth while I was driving?  Do they get pleasure in watching me hate myself?  Can it be?

My blood pressure soared to unexpected levels recently.  I could feel my pulse in my eyeballs and I was “stress hungover” the next day.  Anyone who has either had a few too many drinks or a really bad fucking day knows what this feels like.  It starts with waking up in a sea of regret and thinking about every detail of the day before, essentially picking through your actions and words so thoroughly that you end up hating yourself for being yourself.

Then comes the roaring headache that doesn’t seem to want to quit.  Its lingers and annoys you and there is nothing you can do to stop it.  You try water to no avail, Tylenol does nothing, the pain sometimes lets up to give you a few moments of clarity and you think, “Ah, yes its over,” and the headache is all “fuck you bitch, I am just getting started.”

Then you wonder why you make such bad choices, why you put yourself in all these situations.  Essentially blaming yourself for every wrong action you have ever done in your whole life that would lead up to this.  Let’s not forget when this headache is so bad you would rather be dead than have it for a second longer.

Bring on the only other option in any attempt to relieve the mental and physical angst you are feeling; McDonalds.  You’re magically sitting in the drive-thru wondering how you even had the strength to get there and then you order 3 cheeseburgers and some fucking french fries and you wonder if it’s abnormal to want an egg McMuffin to wash down your burgers.  Yea, Ill take 3 egg mcmuffins and a Dr. Pepper.  The whole time you’re nauseated and hungry, sad and glad, tired and awake.  You get home, proceed to feed on all the saturated fat and then you feel a little better.  The grease courses through your veins and you think you might make it out of this alive.

After a McDonalds induced 3 hour nap you wake up refreshed although your stomach is in knots and your mouth is drier than Death Valley and smells like a horse’s ass.  You accept the night before, you understand that no one is perfect especially not you and that is it.  Life moves on and so do we.

alcohol bottles celebration color
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

However, you never apologize to yourself for all the abuse you just put yourself through. This folks is my anxiety, this is me trying to cope with poor choices, this is me a lot.  Except add tears, anger, frustration and a little bit of crazy talk and a creepy quiet “thought” phase where I try to prove to myself that they (my friends and family) are truly better off without me.

I am blessed to be able to think that and not act.  I can say that people are better off with out me and then realize that those bitches would be lost without me, this thought is always stronger than the other. I love my people so very much.  Some people think just  one time that the world would be better without them and they end their lives, not knowing that their people become lost.  That their people think about them every single day and are haunted by memories.

Anyways, stress hangovers, it’s real and it sucks.  And so it goes.

In other news, I had a dream about a falcon.  I was holding this thing in my arms and like caring for it, loving it and it was my friend.  I looked up what dreaming of a falcon means because that shit could potentially mean something and it meant that everything was going to be alright.  Yea, that is what it means and that was the most comforting shit I have ever heard.  A week later, a falcon was sitting on the fence in my back yard.  We looked at each other for quite a while before that majestic beast flew into the sunset.  He was telling me I am going to be alright. I cut up an apple and stuck it in the fence right where he was sitting.  Then I realized that falcons do not eat apples, they are ferocious carnivores.  I left the apples anyways as a gesture of friendship.  The apples remain on the fence, but I have a feeling the falcon will come back.

brown short peak bird perch on brown tree branch
Photo by Frans Van Heerden on Pexels.com

Goodbye Blue Monday

In the mid 1800s, Blue Monday was the Monday following pay day.  When people working got paid on Saturday they would spend their pay check drinking all weekend and come Monday they were as useless as a box of rocks.  Employers expected less of their employees on Blue Mondays and the employers themselves did little business until Tuesday or Wednesday.

In the early 1900s, Blue Monday referred to laundry day, which happened to be Monday.  It was a day of great sorrow, a day where us lady folks labored over a steaming bucket of dirty water, hand scrubbing clothes.  Goodbye Blue Monday was a slogan created by washing machine makers.  What if you could get all the laundry done by 10am??  Shut up and take thy money!  All us ladies get the awesome washer and then we get told “look, now you have time to do more house work.”  This is an example of serving women a shit sandwich and saying it is delicious.  A common practice today.

Monday is my least favorite weekday, it is blue because it sucks.  Its time to get back to work, its time to start meal prepping, time to get the kids ready, time to be responsible and time to be a productive member of society.  Ew.  Blue Monday is way worse now, I would totally rather be hungover on a Monday than have to do any of the above.

I find myself being extra diligent on Monday.  I walk with more direction, I drive more attentively, I think through my words and actions a little more on Mondays.  Almost as if I may wake some sleeping giant of bad luck that will stomp me to death if I am too nonchalant.  Once Monday is over, I can relax a little.

Having a bad Monday can ruin an entire week, even if it’s your birthday, or Christmas.  The Monday giant doesn’t care if it’s baby Jesus’ birthday, it is out to get you, and you might die.  I mean not by an actual giant, but a car might hit you or someone might stab you because they are having a Blue Monday.  Its madness!!

I also do not do business on Mondays.  That sounds really fancy, more like I don’t pay bills or do anything really adult like on Mondays.  I’ve been around long enough to know there are some people at work hungover on Monday and they just cannot function, I can wait until Tuesday.

So, I realize it’s not Monday right now.  Its Wednesday and its the 4th of July.  Blue Monday is a super American.  I mean we are a country of rowdy ass drunks.  What if work weeks were made just because those guys in the 1800s couldn’t control their alcoholism and the system just catered to that.  Was that a part of why the prohibition happened?  If they got rid of alcohol maybe people would show up ready to work on Monday.  The more days of work, the more corporate American benefits right?  Just another way to keep that engine roaring and the people tired and numb.  Goodbye Blue Monday.

You may also recognize this from a wonderful book, Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut.  I am reading it for the 4th time and it never gets old or less relevant.  He says the washing machine company that wanted to get rid of blue Mondays by making awesome washing machines eventually started making bombs and they just kept the slogan.  If you get blown up by a bomb, well  Goodbye Blue Monday.  Also, what if that happened on a Monday?  The Monday giant for sure. If you have not read the book, please do yourself a favor and read it 10 times.  It is amazing.

Yours,

StClaire

 

Dear Dad, I miss you

 

To hear their voices sing to me, to hear them say hello, if my heart could feel actual pain it would so in these moments of unfiltered sorrow and want.

My Dad lost his battle with cancer almost 10 years ago and it still hurts like it happened yesterday.  I say battle because that is what he did.  His body waged war on cells that defied death.  Apoptosis is a fancy word for cell death incase you needed a word of the day.  Most cells have internal schedules that tell them when their time is up and they ‘pop’, aka die.  Cancer cells do not do this, they live forever, they multiply forever and then it kills people so they are gone forever.

Cancer took my Dad from 350 pounds down to 175.  He wasted away into almost nothing.  I remember the last time I hugged him when he was still well; it was like being wrapped up in a present.  His clothes always smelled like Tide clean breeze.  I didn’t want to let him go then and I wish I hadn’t. I was safe there. That was the day I moved away from home.

The next time I saw him, he was nearly gone.  The cancer had torn through him in such a an insidious way that before we knew it, it was too late.  He talked to me and tried to make my visit home as normal as possible except that he could no longer eat and was bedridden.  I sat with him everyday and even slept in the same room until the end.  We watched his favorite movie “Father Goose” and he struggled to stay awake for me.  We talked about the usual things, things that I wish I could remember but cannot.  I do remember when I said goodbye.

I held his hand and tried to etch it into my head.  I knew that this was the last time I would ever see him.  I held it and committed this memory, I made myself remember the wrinkles on his knuckles, the hair on his wrist, his perfect moons on his nail beds.  I said it was ok if he wanted to let go, that I would make it ok.  If I had known how hard it was to live without my Dad, I would never have said that.  He asked me if I wanted him to die.  I said no and flipped his hand over so I could look at the inside of it.  How many times had my hand fallen into this one?  How many times did this hand hold mine to guide me in the right direction?  How many times had it helped pull me to my feet and steady my gait?

The next night he was gone.  A priest came by and made sure he made it to heaven although I think the owls took him home.  Four hours after he passed, a parliament of owls showed up and sang to me, hooting wildly back and forth for at least an hour and then they were gone.  In some cultures they are the guardians that take souls to the other side.  My Dad stopped breathing on November 7th at around 9pm.  I felt his last breath leave his lungs under where I was holding him.  That was it.  The show was over and he was gone forever. I wanted him to just say one more word, blink his eyes one more time, smile just a little.  I wanted him to give me a sign that his wasn’t it this wasn’t the end.  But it was.

Years after his funeral, I still ache and I still wish things had turned out differently.  I am just as sad as I was then, time has not healed my wound and I don’t think time ever could.

My Dad was my hero when I was a kid, not because he saved my life or anything, but because I wanted to be just like him.  I wanted to make him so proud.  I used to dream of losing him to car accidents or murderers or meteors falling from the sky and I would be so upset I just couldn’t go back to sleep until I went in to his room and put my hand in his making sure he was alive.  Cancer made my nightmares a very true reality.

Dear Dad, I miss you, I hope I’ve made you proud.  I hope it didn’t hurt and that where ever you are you are well and happy.  That is how you live in my memories.  You are laughing and you are well.  I hope the air smells nice and the oyster bar is free and the tunes of Elvis fall easily on your ears.  I never told you I loved you enough as all asshole daughters will do I suppose.  I never should have let you go Dad and in a way I never will.  I will carry you throughout the rest of my life.  I’ll never let you go again.  I love you Dad.

Yours,

The Asshole Daughter

 

The cat is high on catnip and stuck in my t-shirt drawer

I didn’t know what to title this because I just wanted to write. The cat was indeed high on catnip and stuck in my tshirt drawer. She is fine, she was rescued without injury and has promised to never get that high again. I don’t believe her, she seems shady AF.

I decided yesterday that the public needed my weirdness so I went to target. I needed 4 things and left with 18 and forgot one of the 4 things I actually needed. I’m the cats supplier, yea…I bought the catnip at target because what the hell, I’m at Target.

A red shirted employee caught me off guard while I was arguing with myself about why a citronella candle was way better that a tiki brand table top tiki torch. “Can I help you with something,?” She asked. I wondered how much she had already heard of my conversation with myself. I decided to play it off like whatever, everyone talks to themselves and its fine. “Nope, I’m good.” I said. Maybe she thought I was crazy maybe not, I’ll never know. She walked away calmly, but it was more like how you walk away from a scary animal that may give chase if you move too quickly.

Later, while going out to dinner, Hobby Lobby made me long for the zombie apocalypse more that anything. Just the look of those giant orange letter made me long for the destruction and collapse of society. I have no idea why. Why do we need that many craft items? If zombies took over, no one would be at hobby lobby looting because it’s a useless store. I mean I might be able to make a weapon out of knitting needles and some curtain rods, but that’s too much work. So, yea no.

Let me tell you about this one time I got white girl wasted on some cabernet. It’s something I need to get out of my brain because I am not one to get that drunk, but it happened and I cannot stop thinking about it. It started with a shitty day at work, so like a normal day at work. Book club (yes, your absolute stereotypical, we drink wine and read books kind of bookclub) was that evening and I was going to be late so I decided to stop at the liquor store. I’ve named this liquor store ‘Liquor Liquors’ I have no idea why. Anyway, the first thing I saw was cold-brew coffee infused wine. Fuck yes. And then I got another bottle of a different wine just in case coffee wine was too weird.

Arrived at book club. Drank all the wine and got white girl wasted. Drank all the wine in like 3 hours. The things I remember are making everyone uncomfortable, telling a self proclaimed crunchy mom that drinking unpasteurized milk would probably lead to death, holding someone’s hand because I made them uncomfortable, trying to text someone but I couldn’t because the words didn’t make sense. The things I don’t remember because wine is the devil; making everyone really uncomfortable like really, whispering to the girl whose hand I was holding “it’s ok, this is our thing now”, texting one of my professors telling him to come swim at my house and bring his dogs because I’m a viking. Also the drive home, don’t remember that too well (thanks Sarah, you dirty hooker). And that is why I will never drink wine again, amen.

Yes, I drove drunk and I punish myself daily for that, I only live like a mile away from where I was so calm down judgy pants.

I have since sworn off wine and just drinking in general. I am too old to be getting white girl wasted at my book club, or am I? The real problem is self-control, on a bad day its hard to not drink ALL the wine or eat ALL the chocolate.

How can I overcome bad days simple, I can’t. They happen and I grin and deal with it, that’s what I’ve always been told to do. That my days weren’t as bad as others and essentially that my bad days don’t matter. Was my day as bad as say, someone who lived in Auschwitz? No? Well then your day isn’t that bad. Fuck that noise. Not Auschwitz, but comparing my day to that. I’m not in nazi Germany you asshole.

Well, this trainwreck is over for now. Let me let you let me go.

Yours,

StClaire

Ps: I feel I should mention that I don’t proofread this beyond spelling. I write how I talk or how I think and that shit has no rules.

The Art of Dog Walking

I have two amazing dogs. They are amazing because they only judge me when I really deserve it. They do not care that I poop with the door open sometimes when no one is home, they don’t care that I eat popcorn out of my cleavage sometimes and they don’t care if I sound like a complete idiot when I talk, they can’t understand me anyways. This is why they are great.

Ruxin is a regal mighty German Shepard, but really he is a huge baby who is the master of butt sniffing. We got him when he was like 2 or 3, from a shelter. Shelter dogs are the most grateful dogs. Like they know what the end looks like and they don’t want that shit ever again. When I met Ruxin for the first time I was all, “Hey man, sit.” and he was all “Fuck yea I’ll sit, I’ll do whatever you want just don’t send me back”, then he sat and we agreed that this was awesome! He was very skinny when he came home so he had steak and that fancy dog food that like has a wild wolf on it. Now he only gets steak on his birthday (9/11-never forget).

Sookie is my husky. Yes, she is named after Sookie Stackhouse from True Blood. How I got Sookie is a very interesting story. Instead of explaining all that bullshit I will tell you the end. I bought her for $200 in some alleyway to get revenge on a husky rescue. The rescue was full of bitches, the end. Sookie likes to chew. She will chew on anything including shoes, bras, pillows, the couch and her favorite: Xbox controllers. She cannot be crate trained. She poops in there and walks the crate around the house. So we just hide everything and hope this is just a phase that will one day stop.

So every night Ruxin, Sookie and I go on a walk. It is always exciting for them which makes it better for me when I am tired. Ruxin stretches his arms and wags his tail creating a wind tunnel of dog fur while Sookie runs to the door still unsure why she needs a leash. We start our walk with them pulling me in all the directions because they are some ill-behaved ass hats, but eventually we learn to work with each other. This is when I can enjoy the smell on the breeze, the sun on my face and the quiet non-judgemental company.

However, there can be obstacles on the way and by obstacles I mean people I don’t want to engage with and by people I don’t want to engage with I mean everyone. Example one: The witches (or lesbians) that hate me and my dogs. I have to dodge their 7 wiener dogs every time I walk that direction, it should really be an Olympic sport. I would win the gold. They called me rude today because they wanted to engage in conversation and I just fucking ran away (did I mention they might be witches?).Example two: strange kids that wander up to my huge dogs asking to pet them. I usually say yes, but telling them that both of my dogs are ferocious and may eat their hands off has crossed my mind. Example three: random adult runs out of house and says in the smallest tiniest Minnie Mouse voice “Can I pet your dog.” This was just today, one 20ish minute walk.

Even with all of the obstacles, I love these moments with my dogs. I never ever thought of myself as a dog person and here I am, writing my second blog ever about them and how great they are. But my main point is how great they are compared to people. Seriously human race, what the hell? I can’t even watch the news anymore without thinking to myself “This cannot be real, I have died and I now live in a different reality than the one 20 years ago.” The most recent thing I have seen that made me question my reality: Space Force. Think about that people!

SPACE FORCE.

Signing off,

StClaire

So it begins

Dear Reader,

I assume what most people write when its their first blog post is, OMG, its my first blog post.  But this is seriously my first blog post ever in my life.  How can that even happen?  I feel like everyone around me has like 15 blogs and I am sitting in the dark wondering what the hell blog even stands for.

Ok, first blog post…I feel a little scared, what if the internet doesn’t like me?  What the hell do I say?  I assume I will eventually get to my anxiety (see above), my depression, my family (or lack thereof) and all that deep dark bullshit we call life.  But for right now, I’ll keep it simple.

I wanted to start this so my thoughts have a place to live instead of smashed inside my head.  Sometimes it gets too busy up there and it can get hard to think.  I am not going to lie, I really want more room to think of cats and unicorns, but sometimes I have to think of adult things, like work and getting there on time.  I was recently late for work for the 8th time in less than a year! At first I thought ‘the man’ was out to get me, I thought they just wanted to watch me squirm, you know they wanted to show me they were the boss.  Turns out all the clocks in my life are 4-5 minutes fast or slow.  Fuck me, I was wrong.  They sure don’t make clocks like they used to, like in the 90s when time wasn’t a fucking lie.

The 90s was the greatest generation in the history of the world, do not let anyone tell you otherwise.  There were JNCO jeans aka comfortable denim, Salute your Shorts was a thing and the world seemed simpler.  Blogging in the 1990s was called a journal and it was done with a pencil and it was also some secret shit that would never leave the privacy of a bedroom.  Except for that one time when my very detailed and personal diary was used against me in a court of law.  I would have rather had them take me to juvenile detention than read that shit out loud, while my mom and dad where present, with like 20 strangers.  Its really no wonder I have anxiety, thanks parental units.

Ok, so I am from a town of 372 people.  Of that 372 I am related to all of them.  I am kidding, that would be really weird to be related to an entire town.  Ew.  I am related to a big chunk of them though.  I do not live there anymore, I have moved to a place that has 61,415 people and I am related to 2 of them.  My husband and my spawn.

Hey, is it weird to move from such a small town to a bigger one?  Yes!!! In my 372 person town, I never had to fear being stolen.  Not saying that couldn’t happen (there was a murder there in the 1970s) but it was highly unlikely, someone would have to be super stupid to take me because I cannot shut up and also everyone would have seen me getting into a van with a guy who had candy or something.  I wouldn’t be gone very long.  In the bigger town, I have no idea who these people are, what if they are serial killers?  I am pretty sure my new neighbors make meth in their spare time.  Two doors down are a set of old women who are either lesbians or witches, I am not sure.  Its all very chaotic and I am unsure of everyone.

A big thing for me is going to the damn store.  In town 372, the grocery store was like 20 minutes away and that shit is far no one wants to drive that far for some damn salt and vinegar chips and a Dr. Pepper.  So, our grocery shopping was done once a month and if you ran out of something…tough bananas, this is life.  In 61,415 town, the store is 5 minutes away and this has contributed to me over spending and over eating.  IT. IS. INSANE.

How would I know if my neighbors are making meth?  They probably aren’t, but what if they are?  There is one window that is like blacked out with some cloth and is like duct taped there.  Is that normal?

I am wondering if this first ever blog post ever is good.  I might not click the publish button because I am fearful.  No, I am definitely going to publish it.  I have no followers, it will be fine. Ha, this is cool.  Ok, until next time.

Yours,

St.Claire