All the women, who independent, throw your hands up in frustration…

So, I haven’t mentioned that I’m moving again, probably in about 2 weeks. The rent in my generic, cookie-cutter apartment complex is going up to an amount that’s basically a mortgage. I COULD pay it, but decided to go see what else I could get for that amount or less.

Turns out, I can get the same amount of space but WAY cuter, a more walkable neighborhood, better food options, and closer to everyone I love, for about $400 less a month.

I made lists. I did math. I considered all my life factors and made a grownup decision. When I talked to my therapist, she told me it sounds like the perfect choice for everything I’ve said is important to me, including my budget and mental health.

NO one in my family is happy for me. Everyone got some shit to say.

Today my grandfather offered to let me move in with him, basically rent free, saying my new rent is “still a lot of money,” and my dad chimed in and said, “Yeah, can you imagine putting that amount in the bank every month? After 5 years you’d have, what, $60,000?”

Um…$60,000 for WHAT, exactly? My retirement to an institution because I haven’t had sex in 5 years and have gone insane living with a 90-year-old man who watches home shopping at full volume all day and lectures me about my sodium intake?

It’s a VERY sweet offer, honestly. I’m incredibly grateful. If I am ever in any form of dire life straits, obviously this would be a lifesaver. (Speaking of which, I’m not a total asshole — Granddad doesn’t need live-in help; his health is probably better than mine.)

But I know my family, and this is a goddamn trap. I love my grandfather, but dude IS the patriarchy. I’ve lived alone for 5 years, sir, sometimes unemployed, and the beauty of that particular soul crush is, you learn to fucking handle your bid-ness. I don’t know what kind of helpless, broke-ass princess they think they’ve raised, but I ain’t havin’ it.

I am going to live alone, and walk around naked, and stay up too late, and binge watch My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on weekends, and hopefully have noisy, raucous sex followed by salt-laden Indian takeout at the first available opportunity.

NOW. If you’ll please excuse me, I gotta go throw my hands up at Destiny’s Child.

Well, at least there’s that.

Quotable therapist: “I promise, you don’t hit menopause and automatically become a Republican.”

You heard it here, folks.


Bookworming my way out of bullshit

When your family is coming to visit and you go around the house to collect all the books you’re reading and hide them in the bedroom, because it’s basically just a list of eight conversations you don’t feel like having today, plus the fact that “you read too much” and “have too many books — ha ha ha, hoarder” has somehow been a truly hilarious running joke for them since your childhood…

#issues #SuckItNowIGetPaidToRead

Papa, don’t preach. (No, really. Stop.)

What’s great about having a dysfunctional family is that, between Dad, Stepdad, and Grandpa, this whole weekend was Father’s Day. So I’ve just been going house to house trick-or-treating for daddy issues.

“Yes, I should absolutely stay at my job forever and never pursue anything different, because I have ‘stability’ and I’m ‘not getting any younger.'”

“Nope, not dating anyone. No, not a lesbian, either, but thanks for letting me know that would be OK. I really, REALLY like dick, though.”

“Mm hmm, yeah — Whole Foods IS too expensive. I don’t know why I go there, either. I COULD get the same things at Walmart.”

“Yes, I’m sure he IS going to make America great again…”

Too much family. Not enough alcohol.

How have we not inspired at least one country song?

Right, so… THAT was the kind of family gathering that makes one consider seeking emergency weekend therapy.

Though score one for the preemptive healing properties of Malbec, hiding in restrooms, and dancing to “Runaround Sue.”

And, you know, for avoiding humanity for the rest of the weekend.

“I can see clearly now, the Crazy’s gone…”

Listen HERE, world. I only go to therapy every other week, so dumb family shit that’s going to eat my brain until vodka makes it stop can’t happen during off weeks.

It’s not even worth detailing because they’re SUCH stupid conversations, but did you ever have a mundane discussion with your family that just crawls under your skin and colonizes? Yesterday with Dad, today with Mom — almost as if they’d tagged in and out.

Remind me again, WHY don’t I just send the therapy bills to my parents? Wait, what? “Owning my issues because I’m a grown-ass lady?” That doesn’t sound like me at all.

I’m so grateful to have so many influences outside my family. And for the therapist. SO MUCH FOR THE THERAPIST. (And obviously for my willing/ableness to work and tell heredity to go fuck itself.)

*deep breath*

Mo’ mommy, mo’ problems.

Bwah ha ha… “Throw some soft cheeses into the mix, unless you’re insecure about your weight because she sure mentioned that, too. You know what, you are going to need that cheese. And all the wine.”

My personal recent Mom favorites:

  • “That’s a great length for a shirt. It covers your butt.”
  • “This totally-the-opposite-of-your-hair color/style would look great on you!”
  • “If you were going to have kids with anyone, I’d want you to have them with [Ex], because he’s smart.” (<– That one was 3 weeks ago. We broke up 3 years ago.)

Cheers, y’all!

Via Reductress: 6 Wines that Pair Well With Having Just Gotten Off the Phone with Your Mother

Family ties that bind…oppressively.

It’s adorable how I thought I could exist in my family and get away with saving some cash by getting LESS therapy. But at least they gave me some money for Christmas, so they’re inadvertently footing the bill.

Are you serious? We’re adults. Someone in the family just DIED — they are now an EX-parrot. Maybe get some perspective? When YOU die, are you gonna be like, “Heh… Yeah, I was a complete DICK to my niece in 2016, remember? Deleted her from Facebook for some BULLshit — I showed HER. LIFE? HA! NAILED IT. Go ‘head, Jesus, take the wheel!”

I’m pretty close to telling everyone to go fuck themselves. I’ve already said, “I want nothing to do with this.” Do you know how much you have to fuck up before *I* won’t talk to you? You have to, like… kill a Muppet.

Time to invoke The Asshole Inference: “I don’t know. I don’t wanna know. I’m out.” *hand gesture*

(Actually, I think writing this and seeing Token was probably all the therapy I needed. And also bearing in mind that running away to CA and never coming back is always an option.)

Daddy issues are so passé.

Every time I spend time with certain members of my family, the five stages of grief happen in my brain.

Except rather than acceptance, the final stage is praying to all available deities that it’s not too late for me to fight heredity.

Maybe add a bonus sixth stage of eating feelings, which pretty much starts the cycle right over again.

I know I’m bound to turn into my mother in some respects, but I’m *thisclose* to asking my closest friends for reassurance on others. (I haven’t, because my ex would say I should have more faith in myself, and even *I* would say, “If you don’t want to be like that, then just don’t be.” So I’m trying. No guarantees, though.)