Category: Anger

F@*& Off With Your Sad Stories

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That is a direct quote from a lovely English couple I met on my 40th birthday at the Grand Ol Opry in Nashville, TN. I was there with some girlfriends, we’d had a long day of alcohols poisoning and one thing about Kellie, she can open right up to just about anybody – just add alcohol. Ask my gal pals, one vodka too many and my sad story is coming out whether you want to hear it or not. Do I want attention? Sympathy? Empathy? My drink to be paid for? Probably all of them. I don’t know. Maybe I just need to talk about it but am too afraid to talk about when I don’t have the alcohols to blame it on. Maybe I’m lonely and looking for a kindred spirit. Maybe alcohols just makes me nearly intolerable and a real pain in the ass. It is a depressant after all.

So there I was, sitting in a church pew, sharing a vodka drink with my besties, just trying to tell my tale to this couple (that had a tale of there own, I can assure you of that, but, alas, it is not my tale to tell) my woe is me, alcohol induced word vomit of sadness when he looks at me and says “fuck off with your sad stories” and she follows with “yeah, fuck off with your sad stories.” And I fell a little bit in love with both of them.

And they are not wrong, as my friends are not wrong every time they attempt to shut up my drunken, sad mouth. Nobody wants to hear that shit. Everybody has their trauma. Move on. I get it. And in the right environment, said with enough love and satire to make me not feel like a piece of shit, I appreciate it.

Like a broken record, here I am again, to repeat I WRITE BECAUSE IT HELPS ME (sorry for yelling, but I needed to say it louder for those in the back). I didn’t go to therapy for a really long time. Also, I’m not so good at the talking. When I sit down at the keyboard, my fingers can barely keep up with my stream of consciousness, all over the map, tangent galore, hamster spinning on a wheel, brain. But if you were sitting right in front of me, and I were sober, and we weren’t close, I would not word vomit any kind of feelings on you. That’s not my thing. I am who I am. If I were to open up to you, chances are most everything out of my mouth would be sarcastic, morbidly funny, and I would not be making eye contact if by some chance I happened to say something on the more realistic and serious side. And it would also be followed up with some self deprecating bullshit to try to fool you into believing that I am seriously the strongest, most bad ass woman on Earth, maybe in the universe.

I’m going on the defensive here, something I know I’m not supposed to do, but since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I’ve been one hell of a defender. Fuck, in high school basketball, all 5’2″ of me played center on defense. Because I am scrappy. I don’t give up. And I will protect what is mine. I knocked some large girls on their asses, my dad couldn’t have been prouder. Right now what I’m protecting is my own well being.

Anywho, my last blog was a homework assignment from my therapist. I am not an author. Hell, I’m not even a writer. I am a woman, navigating an unexpected life, raising 2 children and trying her best. I am also a real human being. With real feelings and emotions. While I joke all the time that I am dead inside, emotionless, all the annoying things I do, I actually am not. I can be hurt. And while my parents used to always preach “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, that’s just not the case. I’m a sensitive little bitty. Always have been, probably always will be. Sure, the older I get, the thicker my skin gets, the easier I let things roll off my back, the more tolerance I have for bullshit because honestly I don’t have the energy to call every asshole I encounter on their bullshit. But my heart that is not exactly made of ice gets a little bit broken. (Side note – I’m not supposed to say “but” anymore. Clearly I’m still failing therapy).

I understand that expressing myself on the line (the inter webs for those that haven’t seen The Internship) is a real quick way to invite uninvited opinions and judgments into my life. However (just a fancy but), and for the quadrillionth time, my writing is for me. If it helps someone in a similar situation, that is amazing. I’m happy my word vomit can be there for you. If you do not relate to it, lucky you. If you find me annoying and whiney (I’ve never claimed not to be), just keep scrolling. There are parts of my life that are private, that I will always keep private but there are parts of me that need shouting and this is how I shout. This is another facet of my therapy, one I started on my own, one that I am pretty proud of. One that is ugly and sad just as much as it is beautiful and uplifting. It is mine. Sure, I share it, but It. Is. Mine. (It’s either this or get drunk on the regular so I can get any kind of real feelings out and apparently daily drunkeness is considered “alcoholism” and not altogether “healthy”.)

Fuck off with your opinion of me, it is none of my business.

Dating and Why It’s Stupid

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Ladies (and gents, I’d hate to not be politically correct here), this is a gentle reminder to clean out your purse(s) perhaps a little more frequently than once every 2 or so years. Don’t be like Kellie (I’m Kellie, in case you forgot). I just pulled out a purse that I apparently haven’t used in quite a while (as in years, this purse may not even be in style anymore, who knows?! Who cares?!). Don’t worry, there was nothing disgusting in there. I’m not a total pig. But at the bottom of it was a pill bottle. And in that pill bottle was a little something called ZenPep. And ZenPep is a prescription given to those who cannot digest food normally because their pancreas does not make enough enzymes. Any guesses on who had to take that? Any guesses on who just had a major breakdown over an orange and white pill used to aid in digestion? It was me. (I had the breakdown; I didn’t have to take ZenPep – there is nothing amiss with my digestion thus far in my life. Ash was the ZenPep taker – if you recall, he had bile duct cancer and all sorts of problems that came along with bile duct cancer and prescriptions out the ying yang to help live with bile duct cancer, which clearly did not work as he is no longer living. Thanks for being such a douchebag, life.).

Grief is a little crazy in that way. It never truly goes away. You learn to live through it. You find the happy again. But then sometimes you find a bottle of pills and it’s like the whole wound has just reopened and you have to work and fight and cauterize and stitch that wound back into submission. I know, that doesn’t make a lot of sense but you get the point.

Things have been interesting around here as of late. I have dove/dived (what’s proper here?) head first into the big bad world of dating. We’ve gone over this, I know, but for fun, let’s go over it again. And by fun, I mean torture. Because that’s what dating is. Pure torture. I thought it was bad in my teens and 20s. That shit ain’t got shit (I know what you’re thinking, damn she speaks so eloquently and I know, it’s a gift) on being a widowed mother of 2 at the ripe old age of 38. The games are just as strong now as they were then. And I can’t figure out why. I’m an honest person. I’m not going to tell you that I like you if I don’t like you. Just like I wouldn’t expect a man to tell me that he liked me if he didn’t actually like me. And it’s really easy to tell if someone doesn’t like you. Mainly because they don’t speak to you. They don’t call, text, send carrier pigeon. Nothing. They leave you with an I like, maybe a little smooch or 2, and then they disappear. Only to reappear a few days later with some nonsense you don’t really give a shit about but feel excited because they did in fact reach out, so then you feel like you can reach out next time with some nonsense that they don’t give a shit about only to be ignored again. What in the actual fuck?

You’ll also recall I was called a very bad name recently. And I’d like to shed a little light on that, lest you think that I actually am a whore. I told you I was not. Maybe naive. But definitely not a whore. Someone I have been friends with for more of my life than not was very supportive to me, well, in reality, always. We always stayed in touch, always checked in, always kept our friendship alive, if you will. He doesn’t live here but we have maintained communication throughout most of our adult lives. Once my husband passed away, he kind of turned into my rock. I leaned on him. A lot. And what was a very close friendship almost morphed into something more. I knew he was married, however, (and here’s were the dumb girl believing everything she’s told comes in; damn dumb girl) I was under the impression the marriage was not a happy one and would be ending any day now. As you have seen, that was not the case. The marriage was not over, let alone unhappy. I mean, it may be a bit unhappy now as dude was busted and stuff, but that’s not my problem.

What is my problem, though, is that I lost my rock. I lost one of my best friends. And he has not spoken to me, explained anything to me or reached out in any way. And I understand it on one hand. But on the other hand, I don’t understand it at all. My heart was broken. My heart, that has already been through so much pain and despair, was ripped to shreds by some selfish asshole that claimed to be anything but a selfish asshole. And I find that wholly unfair. What kind of human does that to another human? What kind of human does that to their own family? For what purpose? Is he sleeping well at night knowing that not only did he devastate his own family, he also crushed another human spirit? What a prick.

Here’s what I know, though. (I’m gonna get a little too self confident here, prepare yourself.) Do I have a little baggage? Of course. Who doesn’t at almost 40? Am I perfect? Obviously not. As was pointed out to me just last week, I’m not very warm and fuzzy. I can be a little standoffish at first. And I am a bit shy. And clearly, I’m a little bit too trusting. But, also, I am the prize here. I am kind. I am funny. I am a lot of fun. I’m honest. I’m financially secure. I can be cute if I try really hard. I’m open and can be adventurous with a bit of a nudge. I’m sporty. I like to go out just as much as I like to stay in. I can be sexy (probably – it’s been a while). I have a lot of love to offer and I am not willing to settle for some bullshit game playing.

My point is this – don’t mess with a broken widow. She (or he) has been through enough. And she (or he) may be gone before you realize what could have been.

4,368 Hours

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Dear Jonesie:

We’ve made it 6 months, half of a year, 4,368 hours or 262,080 minutes without you. Take your pick on whichever way you prefer to tell time these days. I’m not sure how it works where you are. Some days have been hard. Some days have been heartbreaking. Some days have been ok. And some days have even been great. But they’ve all been different.

We just celebrated Mother’s Day. I wanted to thank you for creating these 2 beautiful lives with me. They are incredible. Which I know that you know. And I know you are watching. I know you saw them bring me breakfast in bed Sunday morning. They made scrambled eggs (if I’m honest, they were a little crunchy due to the added bonus of a few egg shells and a little, let’s say, not quite done and runny), a biscuit that was reheated in the microwave and came out more rock like than biscuit like and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries. It was nearly perfect. The only thing missing was you. And just to piss you off, I let the boys eat breakfast, in our bed, with me. So ha! They remembered, though, that all of you brought me breakfast in bed last year and they were so proud to do it on their own this year. I tell you, whatever gal (or guy) ends up with each of our boys, they are in for one hell of a good life. We did good, Jonesie. Hopefully, I can keep doing good without you.

It’s not easy, doing this life without you. I don’t know what stage of grief I’m in – I think I’ve created my own – it’s called I hate everyone and everything so please leave me alone but please don’t leave me alone. I think the closest thing to it is anger, which I think is the 2nd stage of grief. I’m pretty sure I’m not doing the stages in order, though. I’ve accepted that you’re gone, which is the final stage, but I’m reverting back to the angry stage. Maybe that’s how grief works. Maybe I’m just backwards. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. I hate how I feel. I hate how angry I’ve become (which, let’s face it, I’ve always been more on the angry side than not, and really didn’t think I had room to grow in that area.) Apparently I was wrong. I’m angry with you. I’m angry with God. I’m angry with myself. I’m angry at the unfairness of it all. And if I’m totally honest, I’m angry that people’s lives are moving on yet I’m still stuck in this pit of hostility and jealousy and more self pity than I care to admit. (Although, that statement was just an admission of said self pity so there’s that.)

I recently started reading Girl, Wash Your Face and I think it’s doing the opposite of what it’s supposed to do. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to inspire me to become a better person. But all I’m really feeling inspired to do is break shit, kick holes in doors and be the crazy, spitfire, passionately pissed off Irish girl that only you really know me to be. Perhaps when one is grieving, one should not take on reading self help books. I’m hoping that the loss of your husband can maybe excuse the fact that you’re not quite ready to set goals and show up for yourself and all that positive self talk bull shit I’m supposed to give to make myself a better person, friend, mother, daughter, sister, etc.

Unfortunately, this anger coursing through me reared it’s ugly head at our first born the other day. We had dinner with your mom as a Mother’s Day celebration. We were sitting around, playing games, just chatting and having a nice time when I remembered your voicemail, your voice still on your phone. I imagine your mom hadn’t heard your voice since she last visited you just before you left us, and even then, it wasn’t “your” voice, the one you had most of your life. It was that of a dying man. So I thought I’d play your voicemail, the one I just recently wrote about so that she could hear you again. When I went to retrieve it, the message was gone. Deleted. No longer available. I held my tongue. I had not announced that I was searching for your voice for all of us to hear again. I asked Jack what happened to it. He claimed he didn’t know. Heat flushed my cheeks. I announced our departure, we got in the car, headed down the road and my anguish exploded. I am not proud. I accused our son of deleting it. I accused him of lying. I yelled. I sobbed. I deflated. We got home and I sent him directly to bed, so upset I didn’t know what else to do. And then I wept some more. I realized my myriad of errors. I scared our little boy. I made him feel overwhelmingly sad and guilty. And I’ve never felt more disgusted with myself. I went to his room, apologized profusely and begged his forgiveness, which he offered instantly. He also apologized, said he didn’t know or remember if he deleted it but he hadn’t meant to do it. I told him over and over again how wrong I was, how sorry I was, what I huge mistake I had made, treating him that way. I hugged him until he admitted I was squeezing him too hard. And we moved on. But I am still ashamed.

Adding fuel to the raging fire already lit inside of me, I’m going to assume you saw the unexpected, unannounced and a little bit unwelcome guests that showed up at our home the other day. They came, they offended (at least Jack and me), they praised the amazingness that is Colt, said how special he is and they left. Luckily, Jack had gone back inside while Colt’s praises were being sung. Not to take anything away from Colt, because he is amazing and his praises deserve to be sung, but so is Jack and I find it so shockingly sad (and cruel) that some people don’t see him that way. You know my theories and I will leave it at that.

It took everything in me not to kick them “out” (I use the term out loosely because I did not allow them in my home because a. coronavirus and 2. I would gladly allow some unexpected guests in our home, but some, especially the offensive kind, I will not), but I did use the manners I was raised with, I was kind enough even if not deserving, I let them offend our oldest son and me and then I watched as they drove away. I may have expressed some very expletive language in front of our children and then took the rest of my frustration and anger out on the treadmill, running 3 miles faster than I have in my life to date. It’s amazing the adrenaline anger can cause to course through the body.

In other news, I received the 6 month “making sure you haven’t killed yourself or anybody else” check in from hospice. It came with a quiz this time to see if  “I may benefit from increased exposure to a support system”. I passed with a 2. If you received higher than a 5, then it may be time to call on said increased exposure to a support system. The quiz consisted of 5 questions, none of which were “are you so angry you’d like to take a golf club Elin-style to any and everything you possibly can?” so I’m not sure it was the best assessment in the world, but they didn’t ask for my opinion.

I’m really more ok than I am letting on. I think anyway. But I also do have an unnerving amount of hostility running through me with thread bare patience and a general loathing for a lot of things. But, in that hospice letter also came 20 Common Reactions as You Heal From Loss and apparently my reaction is common. So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.

Apparently, though, the 6 month mark is supposed to be when you’re feeling more healed than not. But some wounds never heal, some things will never be the same and 6 months is not that long.

In more positive news, I’m buying a lot (as in a piece of land, not like a lot of things) this week. I close on Friday. I’ve been working on house plans and should have a first draft in hand some time this week. The lot is well over half an acre, on the sound, full of trees, tucked away from all things I may want to hit with my 7 iron and just perfect. Or just perfect enough. The boys and I are so excited to build, to move, to start fresh somewhere we never expected to be. It feels good to have something positive to focus on, to make tough decisions, to lead myself and our little bear cubs down the path the I chose.

Lastly, you should know, I picked up Colt’s memory book from preschool. You remember last year’s, I’m sure. This year’s was just as lovely, if not maybe even a little more so. Our boy looks so happy in all of the pictures. Laughing, learning, playing. At the end, there’s a page that starts “When I grow up, I want to be…”. Colt’s response? A golf teacher. Talk about a punch to the gut. It hurt in the most beautiful way. He is his father’s son. Everything you’ve done, he wants to do. Everything you were, he wants to be.

Be proud, my Jonesie. Your boys grow into the young men they are meant to be more and more by the day. We did good. I’ll continue to do better. I will not let this anger get the best of me anymore. (We both know that’s a lie, but I strive to let it go.) I will be strong for them. I will control it for them. And hopefully soon, I can let it all go for them. And for me.

Missing you always,

Your Poopsie

PS – I have finally mastered your un-patented but should be patented hiccup cure without your guidance. It works every time. Kurt, I don’t know if you are reading this, but if you are, unbeknownst to you, your friendship with Ash Jones almost ended rather abruptly after the 2 of you went skiing together and you hiccuped almost the whole way home because you wouldn’t listen to Ash’s cure. He was so mad at you when he got home. True story. Glad he recovered from it and we all remained friends. Love and miss you guys always!

Nothing and Everything

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My husband is dead. It’s been almost 6 months. And he’s still dead. I walked into our, well, my, technically, bedroom tonight and I could smell him. And I sobbed. He didn’t even really have a particular smell. He didn’t wear cologne even though I kept buying it for him. He used whatever soap I purchased, so I guess we smelled pretty similar. His shampoo wasn’t super aromatic. But I swear I could smell him. So maybe he did have a scent.

I miss him. And yet, it’s almost as if he were never here. I often wonder how in the world did it all happen. Why did we meet? How did we fall in love? How did we come to marry and have children? And how on Earth is he gone? At 37 years old. I’m 13 days older than Ash and he always joked I would die first, naturally, because I’m so much older. But that didn’t happen.

He started getting sick in 2014. I also happened to get pregnant at the very end of 2013 so, at first, I felt like he was stealing my thunder a little bit, what with all the throwing up and not getting out of bed. That’s what I was supposed to be doing. He had countless doctor appointments and multiple hospital stays before he finally ended up with a diagnosis. Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. It’s an auto-immune disease that affects the liver and bile ducts. I’m sure you could have guessed that if you have been reading my writings for a while. There is no cure. He may need a liver transplant 10-15 years down the road. Ash’s doctor was world famous. One of the best in his field. We were scared back then but he assured us, most people that have PCS die with it and not from it. Most people.

Ash and I changed our lives. Our marriage had been more than a little shaky for a while. At times, I did not deserve him. At times, he did not deserve me. But once he was diagnosed, back in 2014, our perspectives changed quite a bit. We learned to accept each other. We worked at it every day. And it worked. We changed. Ash had to quit drinking, you know, because of the whole liver disease thing. He started a clinical trial, we had to travel a couple hours north once a month to his doctor to check in and they were some of the most fun days in our relationship. We learned to communicate with each other again. We fell in love all over again. I guess, in a way. Life changed, for the better, if you can believe it.

In April, 2018, we were back at Ash’s liver doctor, just for a routine check up. And the words that came out of that doctor’s mouth was some of the best news we’d ever gotten in our lives. He said “I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep it up. Your numbers are incredible. We don’t see this with this particular disease much.” In September, 2018, he was diagnosed with Stage IV Terminal Cholangiocarcinoma. Bile Duct Cancer. Terminal. That’s how fast it happened. He went from what we liked to joke as a “medical marvel like Ross Gellar” to a dying man. How does that happen? Why does that happen?

I just miss him. I miss kicking his ass at Mario Cart. I miss all our date nights. I miss holding his hand. I miss just driving around doing nothing with him. I miss the way he could make me laugh. I miss his amazing smile. I miss his positive attitude. I miss how he always knew when I was about to start my monthly business based on my attitude. I miss hearing his voice. Jack has Ash’s old cell phone and the voicemail on it is still Ash’s voice. I call it, at least a few times a week, just to hear that “Hey, it’s Ash’s voicemail. Leave a message.” Simple. To the point. Just like Ash wasn’t. Ha! (It’s funny because it’s true.) Either way, I miss him. Hell, I miss the shit that I hated and thought I’d never miss. But I do. Grief is annoying like that. It reminds you that even the bad shit wasn’t really that bad. In my case anyway.

The kids are so incredible. They are so resilient. So in the moment most of the time. Sure, they have their breakdowns. But they are less frequent. I’m so envious of their strength. They are growing and learning and they are just amazing.

I don’t know the point to any of this, other than I went in my room, could smell my husband, sobbed and felt the need to write. So I did. And it’s helped in the way that only it can. My own personal therapy. Remembering him is a gift, one that I hope to only love one day.

Broken

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How do you not hate everything? It’s nearly impossible. You have good days. You have shit days. You have mediocre days. But even on the good days, there is this underlying pain that trumps even the best times.

We put on a brave face most of the time. But if I can be real for a minute, that’s all it really is, just a brave face. Because inside we are so fucking fragile. We are broken. We are lost. And I don’t know how we come back from that.

We trudge along. We do the things we are supposed to. We laugh at stupid jokes. We talk to our friends. We go about our daily lives. But none of it is the same. Because we are fucking broken.

We are vulnerable. We are scared. We are bone deep sad. We are so sad that it physically hurts. We have this newfound realization that everything, and I do mean everything, fucking ends. The good things end. The bad things end. Things you wish would last forever end. Things you never wanted to begin with end. It all just fucking ends. Whether you are ready for it or not, it all ends.

And it fucking hurts. I hurt all the damn time. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I’ve tried to fill the void with things that are good for me. I’ve tried to fill the void with things that are bad for me. I’ve tried distraction. I’ve tried copious amounts of wine. None of it fucking works. It may seem like it for a time, but in the end, I still fucking hurt.

Was my relationship perfect? Not even close. But it was mine. I married a man. I started a family with a man. And now, he’s gone. And we are fucking broken.

I grilled steaks tonight. I didn’t burn my house down. I didn’t burn the steaks. They were even quite tasty – according to Colt, the best he’s ever had, my sweet, sweet boy. And Jack? Jack could barely eat it. He said it didn’t feel right eating steak without daddy. Because we are fucking broken.

To my friends, I’m sorry. I am a terrible friend right now. I am selfish. I am angry. I am tired. I am alone. And I can’t be the friend you deserve. To my family, I am sorry. I rely on you for everything. I need you constantly. I thought I was strong, but I’m not. I’m just fucking broken.

I want to numb the pain. I want to make it all go away. I want to forget. And I never want to forget a thing.

I sometimes ask myself, if I had it to do all over again, knowing the end result, would I do it? Would I go on that date? Would I meet that man that would change my life forever, in so many ways? It’s a stupid path to go down, because, of course, we can’t change a damn thing. But it doesn’t stop me from wondering. Of course, the immediate response is YES! I would do it all over again. The days when I’m really feeling it, this unrelenting agony, this gut-wrenching pain, the answer is no, I would skip all this heartache, all this pain, even though it would mean I wouldn’t have these exact children, because then they wouldn’t be broken either. But the real answer doesn’t matter. I don’t even know that there is a real answer because you can’t change what has already happened. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to. I mean, if I could go back and change things, I would change Ash’s shit liver, not us being together. Because, no matter how short, we were meant to be together for that period of time. We were meant to have 2 beautiful boys. And I guess we were also meant to lose each other November 12, 2019. And I guess that means Jack, Colt and I are meant to be a little bit broken, for the rest of our lives.

When Life Hands You Lemons, Go Buy Toilet Paper?!

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Full Disclosure: I’m full of complaints.

Did you know that when your spouse dies, you will get a notice in the mail asking for an “inventory” from your local clerk of court office? Of what you ask? Well, it doesn’t say. Just says turn it in by March 17, 2020 or else. Ok. Currently in my pantry there are approximately 11 opened packages of noodles with about 1/3 of the contents in each pack; 4 open (and stale) boxes of various cheez its, 1/2 a jar of expired peanut butter, Oreos (both vanilla and chocolate because Jack is vanilla and Colt is chocolate) and more canned soup than we can consume in a month.

Guess what? That’s not what they’re looking for. No, they’re thinking more large scale items, like your home, car, all items of personal property including but not limited to all your furnishings, jewelry, any boats or other motorized things you may own, bank accounts, really anything of any value (they do not care about the contents of your pantry). Do you know why they want this information? It’s so that they can charge you a fee. Because the death of your loved one wasn’t payment enough. Because even though you’ve already paid taxes on all this shit you own, they’re going to charge you one more time, just for good measure. I owe the Clerk of Court nearly $1,000 because my husband is dead. That seems fair. Who else can I bend over for?

In other news, the coronavirus is of course ruining everything. No Duke for my boy this weekend. Possibly no sports at all for anyone. But it’s cool. We can just hole up in our houses and wipe our asses with all our over excessive bought toilet paper. In my defense, I subscribe to my toilet paper and haven’t quite gotten the timing right, so I do have an over abundance of toilet paper. I was cool before cool got cool. So, if anyone is in need, I’ve got 12 Mega Rolls with your name on it. All you have to do is pay the clerk of court for me. (Side note – I’m taking this coronavirus seriously enough; however, I will not give in to panic and fear. Please save your lectures on safety and hand washing and whatever other soap boxes you may want to jump on.)

It’s not all doom and gloom though. I did get an email from my new BFF – Duke Head Baseball Coach Chris Pollard. Of course, it was just an email with disappointing news. But still. He was considerate enough to make sure I knew I was going to ruin Jack’s weekend. I did, Coach. But thanks for thinking of us! He did say he’d get Jack in there as soon as he could, so BFF status still in tact.

I am grumpy. My children are grumpy. Hell, the whole world is probably grumpy right now. But at least I have toilet paper.