Hey Darling Ones,

Over the weekend I watched not one but two docuseries on the Twin Flames cult. One on Netflix and the other on Amazon Prime. Both fascinating.

I love documentaries about cults and con artists, which if you think about it are kind of the same thing.

If you don’t know about the Twin Flames Universe it’s a pyramid scheme/religion run by two jokers who claim to know who your twin flame is, which is like a soulmate on steroids and for some number of dollars they guarantee they will hook you up with your twin flame. Then you will live happily ever after boning and being rich and happy.

Of course, it’s complete bullshit and sadly, vulnerable people fall for it.

Even though I don’t believe there’s one soulmate for each person, I did spend a lot of time thinking about my twin flames. Here’s a short list.

1. Matt Dillon. Probably.
2. Fergus. When she curls up on my chest and her head nestled underneath my chin? I turn into a pile of goo.
3. Leslie Jones I spent parts of the weekend when I wasn’t watching Twin Flames listening to her memoir, and now my inner voice is Leslie Jones’s voice. I call everybody a motherfucker. For example, while I watched the Twin flame shows I kept saying to Fergus, “Who in hell would follow the word of that Pete Campbell looking motherfucker?”
4. My eye doctor. He is a petite Filipino man who I’ve been going to for years. I saw him last week, and he was so pumped about how much better my vision (20/20 s 20/40) is going to be with my new glasses (which should be here in 7 to 10 business days). Plus, he was all, “you should put new lenses in those frames, because they really suit your face.”
5. Pickled red onions. I just made my fourth pint of pickled red onions in the last three months. For Christmas I got a mandoline and some new jars that are a little easier for my hands to handle, so I’m gonna pickle everything this winter.
6. Harry Connick, Jr. circa 1990-1993. I’m revisiting my Harry Connick phase. I cannot get enough of his version of Lazybones. I listen to it every night before I go to sleep because I am ridiculous.

Will all you Darling One ones cross your fingers that this is the last blurry-ass update?Hopefully the next update I’ll be able to see clearly and this will help my writing again and I can get work because your girl is broke.

Love, Jodi.

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Hey Darling Ones,

I desperately wish I were the kind of person who, after going through something something tragic, like, you know, a debilitating stroke that leaves you basically disabled and wondering if you’ll ever get your life & body back would come out the other side as a person who is relentlessly positive and encourages you to find joy in the beauty of two kittens asleep on a yellow sweater.

I want to be the kind of person who would reflect on my trials & tribulations and then impart tons of relatable yet wry wisdom people would want on coffee mug.

Maybe I’d be like a wellness coach or a guru of positivity or I don’t know some sort of influencer. I’d be both financially secure and beloved by thousands of adoring fans.

Instead, I’m a person who went through a tragic, debilitating stroke with serious vision problems who is cheerfully cranky about my limitations and how hard every fucking little thing is while reminding myself that I’m grateful for being able to do hard things.

I’m the person who roared at the adorable kittens this morning because Fergus bit me hard while I was getting dressed and now I have two puncture holes in my arm and when I came downstairs to dress my wound I discovered they knocked over the garbage last night while I was sleeping and spread citrus peels, pistachio shells, and a bloody pork shoulder bag, all over the floor. They also broke the beautiful little saucer with violets painted on it my nephew Cade gave me, and they knocked over the lavender on top of the China cabinet, and while I was cleaning up all the mess Fergus & Mortimer batted pistachio shells around the kitchen in the pork blood and Wendell puked between the couch and the coffee table, which is really hard for me to clean up because of the aforementioned disability.

And I am not at all aglow with positivity or full of wise words perfect for coffee mugs.

I’m cranky that I can’t easily clean up the barf. I’m cranky they knocked over the lavender and I can’t right it because standing up and moving my hands above shoulder height makes me super wobbly and afraid I’m going to plummet to the ground.

God, I wish I could be the kind of affirmation-spouting, relatable person instead I’m just this messy-haired, bloody-armed, cranky old giant who is resentful about all the mess, but super fucking proud that I cleaned it up.

If you ever need someone to help you rage at the tiny injustices or minor inconveniences of life, I’m your girl.

Love,
Jodi.

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Hello Darling Ones,

Today is December 6th. I’m exactly 51.5 years old and it’s been nine months since the shitty, shitty stroke.

Nothing is new. My vision is still garbage. My brain still thinks my right side weighs a ton and is convinced every second of every day that I’m about to fall. I teeter on the brink of financial ruin.

I’m working to accept my limitations and celebrate all the things I can do. Lexapro helps with the money anxiety.

You may be surprised that the stroke is not what is slowly destroying my life.

It’s Fergus & Mortimer. Those adorable little jerks are trying to ruin everything I love and also my socks.

Getting two kittens while recovering from a stroke was my worst, best idea of all time.

Kittens are endlessly infuriating and fascinating.

Last night before bed, I sat for five minutes watching Mortimer try to sneak up on Fergus who was trying to hunt Wendell, who was sniffing something by the front door.

Dual, tiny, wiggly kitten butts nearly killed me.

It’s only fair. Yesterday while talking with the Tea Ladies, I told them if the cats ruined my Monstera (named Cub) I would ruin them.

The kittens are doing their best to kill off the Sadness Garden. Last weekend they knocked Joanie, a snake plant, off the half-wall between the dining room and kitchen. They keep digging around in Trevour, the lemon tree, and treating to tip over Janis, a pine tree.

Though, Janis seems to be ailing for her own personal reasons.

They love garbage and playing with it. When I shout “Los gatitos, ven aqui!” the come running. If Fergus wakes from a nap and can’t find me she walks around the house meowing until she finds me. Mortimer is Wendell’s kitten and I’m only a little bitter about being second choice.

This morning I sat on my wheeled kitchen stool and chased them while they played hockey with an ice cube that got away from me.

It’s so nice to have something new and cute and not at all depressing slowly destroying my life.

Your favorite spinster cat lady,
Jodi

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Darling Ones,

Supergenius, Inc. has doubled in size! Friday we added two new colleagues to our tiny operation.

Fergus and Mortimer came to from Sister #4’s house in Savage. Their mother, Patches, was a South Dakota stray who adopted by sister shortly before she moved back. One day before a thunderstorm, Patches appeared on her porch. She tried to find Patches’ humans, but to no avail. Patches had already made herself at home by the time my sister realized she was pregnant.

As my nephew Maxwell said, when she told us of the pregnancy, “FREE KITTENS!”

My intentions was to only bring Mortimer (he’s the black and white one) into the fold, but y mom used sneaky mom-tricks to con me into taking two kittens.

“They’re best buds,” she said. “They do everything together.”

And she’s right.

So I took in Fergus (the fuzzy grey one) too. Three cats to one human officially makes me a crazy cat lady, which was my destiny anyway. Why fight it?

The three cats have yet to form a trio. There’s curiosity on both sides, more so Wendell. His yearning to play with the kittens reminds me of how I felt when my sister wouldn’t let me join their fake band. I’m still bitter!

Pretty sure adopting two kittens while trying to recover from the stroke is the worst idea, but as Sister #2 said, “There’s only one way to find out!”

Wish us luck!

Crazily, catly, ladily yours,
Jodi

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