A MISSIVE FROM MY CAT

Mom Fu*ked Up

She’s dangerously close to becoming persona non grata

Hello to my friends. Well, in spite of my promise to myself, that for once, I’d wake up on Christmas morning and not feel like a shit…I did.

I can’t even go there right now but one of our cats, Conor, has gamely stepped up to fill you in on my latest attempt to become the “One Who Is Never Invited, Again.”

Hello, everyone. As Mom told you, my name is Conor. I am her middle furkid. Dooley is the oldest and Lorna, or “the Baby,” as she’s called is the youngest. Don’t tell anyone I said this but she can be a beeyatch. Even so, I love her to death.

So Mom fucked up again. I could tell by the puss on her face when she and Dad got home on Christmas Eve that the evening didn’t go well. In fact, the shit was close to hitting the fan but thankfully, she was hustled out of my aunt’s house before any real damage was done.

As soon as they got in the door, Mom washed her face and hit the bed faster than you can say “someone’s going to get a talking to.”

You can probably guess when the night went south. Right at the juncture of “one’s too much” and “eight’s not enough.”

Yeah. Right there. But, you didn’t hear that from me.

The thing is, Mom wasn’t up for socializing this year. In fact, she’s become something of a grinch the last few holiday seasons, even though she tries to deny it. But, she would never do anything to hurt her sister’s feelings so she pretended to be up for a gathering that was heavy on people she didn’t know all that well, and light on any actual conversation.

It wasn’t a big crowd, per se, but most of the people there were members of her brother-in-law’s family, none of which have a single thing in common with Mom, other than her sister.

Also, she and Dad were the oldest people there. I heard them talking about that but personally, I think that’s a cheap shot as no one treats them like the old farts they actually are.

But, you didn’t hear that from me.

Mom looked good though. I gotta give her that. And she smelled yummy, although my preferred top notes are fish and fowl.

Also, as I heard Dad remark, who the hell wants to listen to people talk about how many times they’ve gotten trashed on shots, while actually doing shots?

I mean, WTF??

For a savvy woman, Mom can display a staggering lack of common sense. In a misguided attempt to remain relatively clear-headed, she came to the unfortunate conclusion that swigging vodka and sugar-free tonic all night would be preferable to mixing things up.

“No wine,” she vowed. Again, WTF?

What she should have done, was nix the vodka, but she’s like Lorna that way. Stubborn AF.

Her late father was like that, too. In fact, I heard Mom tell Dad that she thought she was channeling him.

Mom’s dad liked his vodka and he didn’t like being told when he’d hit his limit. In fact, he got kind of mean after one too many. But that’s another story.

To my dad’s credit, he didn’t make Mom feel any worse than she already did. He wasn’t having a good time anyway and was happy as hell to leave the party. Yet, it would have been preferable to leave on better terms. To not be hustled out the door with a swag bag of gifts and edibles that would only serve as reminders that Mom is on her way to becoming persona non grata.

And I know what that means ’cause I’m one, smart cat. You know. The relative who’s absent from socially specific occasions because she’s “under the weather.”

Oy.

So now, Mom’s slouching around the house waiting for her sister to initiate the “talk.” The holidays can’t be over soon enough for her, and while Dad was in the shower, she started stowing the decorations.

I heard her mumble something like “fuck waiting until after the New Year.”

Now, she’s bustling around looking for shit to throw out. She gets like this at the end of every year. As if decluttering the house will help declutter her brain.

Hell, if it works, I’m down. As long as she doesn’t touch any of our stuff (and she wouldn’t), she can toss whatever the hell she wants.

Psssst. I personally saw a carton of pumpkin puree on a laundry room shelf that expired in 2017.

I mean, what the everloving F?

As a way to make up for fucking up, Mom sent her sister an expensive bouquet of flowers, which she’ll get tomorrow. Something tells me that’s not gonna take the place of the “talk.”

Whatever. I’m not gonna judge as I like to hit the nip whenever I can, you know? These are strange days and if you can’t catch a buzz every now and then, you might really lose your shit.

But you didn’t hear that from me. Okay?

If you can handle it, read every one of my stories and those of other fab Medium writers. I’ll get a couple of shekels and you’ll have full access to this whole joint! https://sherrymcguinn.medium.com/membership

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.

Thanks for reading, guys. If you enjoyed this, I’d love for you to check out the following, as well as my newsletter, Sherry Raw.