Tonite’s Sky

Wherever you are, I hope you saw it…

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There’s A Public Service Announcement At The End Of This Post

I had an especially shitty night the other night – nothing worth commenting on here, just an unfortunate episode in the shitshow called LIFE, but I most certainly will take this opportunity to comment on my almost 21 year old daughter rolling in off the streets at 2am for the second night in a row and deciding it was the perfect time to do her laundry because she didn’t have any clean clothes to wear to work in the morning, causing me to ask if she’d been drinking because if not, surely she’d lost her mind – and consequently, I was wide awake until way too fucking late. 

By last night, I was less shitty, more salty and exhausted, but I continued to be the delightful host to my family I always am. After I worked for a few hours and we fetched the kids from day camp, I cooked dinner for almost ALL OF THE PEOPLE again. I’m not in any manner complaining, because extended extended family time is the best. Smiley face. Heart. I mean it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not complicated.

Anyway, before we sat down to eat, my sister and I wrestled for the last IPA and finally settled on sharing it. Sorry, but half an IPA is not sufficient for these days, not at all. I lowered myself and opened the only thing left in the beverage center, a bottle of Rolling Rock. I took one sip and said, “here, Dad, I opened a beer for you”. Piss water. Unacceptable. Rolling Rock, you’ve been chopped. 

Shortly thereafter, my other sister called to inquire about dinner plans for tonite, which will be provided at my house, again, and she asked what she could bring. I told her the price for admission to the NUT HOUSE will be an IPA with an alcohol content of at least 7-8% because I don’t have time to go to back out to the store, again.

Earlier in the day, we’d been at a local grocery store when the young woman at the cash register asked my 45 yr old sister if she was a senior. As in, “do you qualify for our senior discount, ma’am?”

I’m a horrible person so of course I laughed, mainly because it wasn’t happening to me this time. Plus, it was absolutely ridiculous. Have you seen my youngest sister? She still looks like she’s 12 years old. After the fact, I realized it was probably some sort of twisted misplaced karma for that time the cardiac nurse in Atlanta asked me if I was this same sister’s mother. If you want to know how to kick a woman when she’s already down, that’s it. Not cool.

With all that’s going on in this foul and confused world, I’m not sure why I have to provide instruction on this topic, but apparently I do, and I’m going to do it free of charge.

So listen, do not ask me if I want a senior discount. Do not ask my sisters or my girlfriends if they want senior discounts. Do not ask a half dead shriveled up woman with a walker and a big ass hearing aid if she wants a senior discount. 

Just DO NOT do it. 

There exists no senior discount that is worth being asked that question. If I’m a senior and I want my fucking senior discount, I’ll ask for it. It could be that I am indeed a senior and I do not want to exchange the factual status of my chronological age for a savings of $1.99 or whateverthehell, in which case, you are to STFU. Or it could be that I most certainly am NOT a senior and you need to STFU. I might be 54 and look like I’m 65 because of the aforementioned shitshow called LIFE. Or a bad hair cut . I might be 54 and not look a day over 50, but you’re 18 and we all look half dead to you. Either way. STFU. Oh, and one last thing, this does NOT give you creative license to apply a senior discount without asking me because I sure as hell do not want to get out to the parking lot, check my receipt before shoving it into my purse, and find the words SENIOR DISCOUNT next to my adjusted total. You might as well shank me in the neck. Do NOT do it. Got it?

You’re Welcome.

The Ties That Bind

What do you call a concoction of comforting familiarity, gut-splitting hilarity, multi-generational trauma, guilt, shame, along with the associated anxiety, depression, and self-medication, blahblahfuckingblah, and a healthy portion of OMFG get me the hell out of here, STAT? 

My family. My entire extended family under one roof. My roof. All together. At the same time. For all the days since late last week. Except my BIL, the one who dropped dead in March. 

I bet you think I’m going to launch into a free associating, twisting, turning post about our collective misadventures and triumphs. You’d be wrong. I may or may not be working on it, but the truth is even if I’m working on it, and I’m not saying I am, I might never have the skin tags to post it. So, for now, let me leave you with this photo essay – during which I may or may not have pissed myself laughing, TWICE – entitled, Three Sisters, A Mother, And A Selfie Stick:

And in closing, let us pray for the next generation….they’re having a great time together, btw, and that’s everything….