Darling Ones,

One of the reasons I love soup so much is often it’s very easy. You chop up a bunch of stuff, throw it in a pot with some liquid, wait until you are hungry, and voila you have magically made yourself a tasty, warm, comforting bowl of nutritious love.

I’m so good at making these kinds of soups that I’m sick of them. I don’t think I’ve made a single pot of chicken noodle at all this soup season, which is rapidly coming to an end. My new favorite thing is to make various inauthentic ramen from recipes I find on Pinterest. The kinds of ramen I make take more active time and attention, which is why whenever I summon up the kind of focus and energy it requires it feels like I’m reaching for an extra special level of taking care of myself.

And boy, I fucking needed that today.

My parents came over yesterday under the guise of picking up some more boxes and borrowing a pair of pliers. While I’m sure that was their honest intent, they ended up tossing an emotional grenade into my lap and then skedaddling to go finish packing for their move today (they’re moving to a smaller place down the hall from their current apartment).

Out of nowhere, at least to me, my parents started laying it on thick about Sister #3’s estrangement from the Sister Club. I’m not exaggerating. My dad said, and I quote, “I don’t have much time left and I really want to see us all together again.”

Then my mom started crying and said, “I’m just so afraid that when I die she’ll be all alone without any family.”

Yikes.

It was a fucking lot and I felt ambushed. Since Sister #3 opted out of the Sister Club in 2020 I’ve had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy about her and The Tibbles. It’s too painful, a piece of glass in my heart I do not touch.

I reminded my parents I did not banish Sister #3 or The Tibbles from the family, that this was her choice. She’s the one who blocked us on Facebook and she’s the one who told me to never contact The Tibbles again. I also told them holidays were less anxiety-riddled for me now that I don’t have to arm myself against her free-floating meanness.

Their sadness about this familial rift leveled me. I spent last night in a funk debating with myself about texting Sisters #2 & #4 about what happened. I didn’t want to burden them the way I felt burdened, so I just went to bed at 10 (only to learn of the death of Taylor Hawkins, which has hit me in a weird way).

The sadness didn’t dissipate in the night. I carried it around most of the day. It doesn’t help at all that today is Liam, the youngest Tibble’s birthday. He’s seventeen now. I don’t think I’ve really talked to him since 2019. I will never be able to properly describe the hole his absence has made in my life.

My plan was to sleep and read my way to emotional numbness, but my friend EM called and so I cried on her shoulder and that made me feel moderately better, so I texted the sisters.

Within thirty seconds of sending the text, Sister #2 had all three of us on a FaceTime call where I spilled many tears and the entire story. I’m so glad I burdened them, even though neither of them felt particularly burdened. I think living so far away gives them better perspective or they’re better at letting go of the ongoing saga.

They reminded me this is not my problem to fix, which is right. They also said it’s okay to protect myself from Sister #3’s toxic behavior even if it does make Mom and Dad sad, and I don’t like that one fucking bit even though I know it is true.

I’m a mess, Darling Ones. This is zero percent fun and I hate it.

Sadly yours,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

In the middle of my many and varied pandemic depressions, I ordered a tradescantia nanouk named Travis. I’ve mentioned him before. What I don’t think I told you is that the first one that arrived was dead. If I have told you this, forgive me. On day 389 of the pandemic I can’t keep my stories straight. At least that’s what I’m blaming it on.

Anyway, the poor little plantling travelled from wherever it was from to Supergenius HQ in the middle of that -16º cold streak we had. When it got here the leaves were all gross and soggy. It seemed pretty clear it was DOA. The place I got him from sent me a new one, obviously and now Travis thrives in the fecund Sadness Garden.

However, as you may know, I do not give up easily. Also, I’m a firm believer in magical thinking, specifically that I can make things happen through the sheer force of my desire. And, as my former boss Sandy, creator of the nickname Jodi Chromey Supergenius once said, “you have a knack for finding the unlovable and loving it.”

With all those dominant personality traits marching to the front I cut off the gross, sogginess of that poor plant and then I loved it. I loved it so hard and so throughly and so much that when it seemed to show signs of life I bought it an extra special adorable planter.

And I named it Dino. Look him grow!

He’s gonna be part of Sadness Garden II: Bleakness Boogaloo once I finish getting my act together. Getting my act together means finally pulling the trigger on the bedroom tree plus getting new pots for Roger & Laurence.

In other news, Easter kicked my ass because my socialization muscles are so weak. The Olds & The Youths came for dinner, which was a duplicate of the meal we had for Christmas but with deviled eggs too. This time it was much better because nobody was sad. At least that’s what my dad and I decided.

After dinner we zoomed with the South Dakota and Portland contingents of the family. It was nice to tell my sisters how heavy my heart has been because every day TimeHop is an emotional landmine because of all the Cade stuff from last year and all the years before when The Tibbles spent their spring breaks with me.

At some point this week, I don’t remember the exact day, it will be a year since Sister #3 and The Tibbles unsubscribed from the Sister Club. I keep thinking it will get easier and easier, but it hasn’t. Sisters #2 & #4 deal with it much better than I do. Sister #4 is really good with her boundaries around what happened.

I still cry whenever I think about it and my anger at Sister #3 still pops up in my dreams at least one a week. I don’t know if this is because I’m a sensitive crybaby or some inherent weirdness about being the half sister.

Bleh. I’m just gonna keep trying not to think about it, which should be pretty easy this week because I have three work meetings. THREE! Like a goddamn adult who works. Plus, Wednesday night is a livestream Gina Frangello meeting and I cannot wait for that.

Rise up with fists, Darling Ones!
Jodi

(That made no sense at all, but the song just popped into my head. You’re welcome).

P.S. I have been dealing with a running toilet & then a leaky toilet since Friday. My nephew, Maxwell, fixed one issue last night and then the other problem popped up this morning. He drove back over and fixed that too. Plus, he noticed I dyed my hair blue, which my own mother who gave birth to me did not notice. He is the best nephew.

P.P.S. I got to pull out a bunch of Actual Factual Toilet Repair jokes, which still made Jaycie give me the stink eye.

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Hi Darling Ones,

I did not intend to take a three-day hiatus from the COVID Diaries, but Sister #4 came up from South Dakota for work-related reasons and that took up all my time. I probably shouldn’t be writing now because I’ve had very little sleep over the past three days and that tends to make me more melancholy than usual. So, why not write about some of the ways a heart can break?

The First Way

Beverly Cleary dies.

I was in the middle of making of all Sister #4’s coworkers hobbies (she was reading from the company employee directory) when I spied The Washington Post alert on my phone and immediately burst into tears. “BEVERLY CLEARY DIED,” I shouted. Then I typed it in all caps in our Wedding Party group chat.

After that, I warned Sister #4 that I was going to cry for awhile. The news of her death shattered me. I knew she was old and wouldn’t be around forever. Hell, I wrote this appreciation of Beezus & Ramona in 2009 in honor of her 93rd birthday. I’ve written about reading Cleary as an adult, about Beezus & Ramona being the best literary siblings, and there’s even a COVID Diaries entry from October about Beverly Cleary after I read a Willie Nelson memoir.

She meant more to me than any other author. Beverly Cleary’s books are the foundation of my personality. Who am I if I had never discovered Beezus & Ramona? Who is Jodi Chromey without a life-long love of books and words and writing? Would you even be reading these words without Beverly Cleary’s existence?

The Second Way

A dog can hate you so much she spends the night howling in despair. I had to dogsit Dolly while Sister #4 did her work stuff, which involved an overnight stay at a hotel. Dolly: not a fan. Not only did Dolly cry for 10 hours straight after my sister left, Dolly proceeded to wail/howl when I put her to bed in the bedroom she and Sister #4 share when they’re here. I had to close the door on Dolly at bedtime so my poor Vengeance Demon, Wendell, can use the facilities and eat. Whenever Dolly’s here, Wendell spends the entire day in my bed, quaking under the covers. It’s all a nightmare. I hope I never hear a dog wail from a broken heart, because that was a lot.

The Third Way

Yesterday was the 16th birthday of the youngest Tibble. You should know by now that the loss of my relationship with The Tibbles hurts me so much that I don’t like to talk or type about it. Again, I try to stay away from the piece of glass in my heart and for the most part do a pretty good job of it. But, you know, birthdays.

The Fourth Way

Uffda! March is rife with shitty, painful anniversaries. Every day my TimeHop is filled with punches straight to the heart, not only is it filled with memories of last year at the start of the pandemic when Supergenius HQ briefly became Aunt Jodi’s Home for Wayward Nephews, but also years and years of Tibblesitting during Spring Break. It’s so bittersweet. And then today this fucker popped up.

Ugh. Ouch. Barf.

Thankfully, along with that picture TimeHop also served up the Internet being kind to my broken heart, which did make me smile.

This one still pokes at my sore spots, and not just about the person who broke my heart, but the loss of my relationship with FFJ who came over to tend to my broken heart that night. I miss her a lot, but it still stings how she threw me over for a boyfriend like we were fifteen. I don’t have the capacity to do all the emotional labor it would take to incorporate her back into my life in a meaningful way, and I’m not even sure she’d want that. The last time I saw her in 2017 or 2018 she was salty that I hadn’t told her how sick my dad was in 2016 and how close we came to losing him after his stroke.

That’s all for now, Darling Ones, more tomorrow,
Jodi

The post The COVID Diaries: Some of the Ways a Heart Can Break appeared first on I Will Dare.

Tuesday, the two youngest Tibbles and I went out to lunch and to see “Ghostbusters”. Since my teenage nephews are dabbling in sexism and misogyny (please, please let this be a rebellious phase, please), they were not included in the outing. They think it’s because they didn’t want to go, but fact is, I didn’t want them to go. It breaks my damn heart.

Before I tell you about the movie, I have to tell you this: for lunch we went to Liam’s favorite restaurant, a hotdog joint in Shakopee we call Speedy Dog. The kid loves this place and the entire time we wait for our food he gives a running commentary about how great the place is. It’s adorable.

Anyway the dude working the counter on Tuesday was amazed by my incredible height. “You are the tallest woman I’ve ever seen,” he said. As we ordered he asked me one million questions about my height, and I answered politely because he was nice. After lunch the Tibbles bolted for Ruby because we wanted to rush to make the 1:30 movie instead of waiting for the 3:15. Since I am slow I was lagging behind. As I was heading for the door, counterman asked me if I ever made it up to Minneapolis and if I did he said I should come to the bar where he works and we could have drinks. I was all “yes, of course, if I ever make it up there.”

When I plopped into the truck I turned to The Tibbles, “That guy in there asked me out.”
“What?” Nolan asked.
“Like on a date?” Liam asked.
“Yep,” I said with a pursed-lip, smug head tilt.
“I can’t believe that is a thing that actually happened,” Nolan said as we backed out of the parking spot. “A guy asked you out.”
“THAT’S BECAUSE I STILL GOT IT!” I shouted.

We spent the entirety of the five-minute drive from the hotdog joint to the movie theater talking about how much they couldn’t believe that the dude asked me out. Mostly them in disbelief and me being smug. It was great.

Once we got to the theater they quickly abandoned me for the back row where the cool kids sit. I sat where the long-legged kids sit, in the front row behind the railing, because I enjoy not having my knees smooshed into the seat in front of me. Oh the joys of being a giant in a normal-person’s world.

By the time the previews were over, The Tibbs were seated next to me and then we sat back and enjoyed the shit out of that movie. I’m not even kidding when I say I started smiling the minute it started and I didn’t stop the entire movie.

I had more than a little trepidation going into this movie. Not because of all the boo-hooing of babymen crying over ruined childhoods and all their misogynistic bullshit.

No, I frequently have issues with Melissa McCarthy. Not her specifically, I think she’s delightful, but often her roles are nothing more than extended fat jokes, which I find hurtful and offensive. I understand that fat people are the last group of people you can hate with unmitigated glee and make cruel jokes about without rebuke, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Fat jokes are the reason I will never see “Pitch Perfect” and why I won’t read A.S. King’s books anymore. I don’t find it funny and humor that is intended to make me feel bad about myself is not my thing.

So yeah, I wasn’t looking forward to the fat jokes I was sure would be all over “Ghostbusters.” Lucky for me, I had just been asked out by a man, which made my self-esteem regarding my appearance at a peak. This doesn’t happen often. So at least I had that to help guard against the onslaught of fat shame.

Instead I was treated to a movie about four women who didn’t body snark each other at all, and only gently ribbed each other about their fashion choices ala “Where did you find that world’s tiniest bow tie?” Bah! I was so happy.

The movie is about female friendships and women fighting to be recognized for their contributions, and it is hilarious at every turn. It’s a sort of critique of dudebro culture without being overbearing. There’s tons of nods to the original movie and a bunch of great cameos, and it’s exactly the kind of movie you want to see in the middle of a heatwave when everything feels awful and you want to die from sweating.

Kate McKinnon and Leslie Jones kind of steal the show, which is nice because we already have plenty of Melissa McCarthy & Kristen Wiig in our lives. At one point Kate McKinnon as Jillian Holtzmann dances around with some blow torches, and a maybe eight-year-old girl sitting behind us said in a breathless voice to her dad, “She’s my favorite.”

I teared up in my seat because I was so happy that little girl gets to grow up in a world with female Ghostbusters. She doesn’t have to do the mental yoga so many of us have had to do to picture ourselves in roles so often played by men. Representation matters! It’s been my mantra for the past six months or so.

And another thing? Barely any stupid romance. I say barely because Erin (Kristen Wiig) has a huge crush on Kevin, but it’s just a small running gag and not the whole point. None of the women fight over a man. The goal is never to win over a man, which is god-damn refreshing. Because, shockingly, most of our lives do not revolve around an eternal quest for love.

And another thing? Every time I leaned down to tell Nolan that something was from the original movie he’d be all “yeah, I know.”

And another thing? I think I might actually go see this one again, because I enjoyed it that much.

The post On Ghostbusters, Getting Hit On & Fat-Shaming (or lack thereof) appeared first on I Will Dare.

Tuesdays are Restaurant Day during Tibble Summer. Each Tuesday one of us gets to choose the restaurant we lunch at — nobody gets to complain. If you don’t want to go you don’t have to. Unless you are me, then you have to go because you have the money and the vehicle.

Yesterday was our first Restaurant Day and Cade chose Hong Kong Buffet. Bleh. I think I have finally disabused them of their Hong Kong Buffet affection. Or they’re finally old enough to understand the utter insanity of paying so much money for them to eat six wontons, three lo-mein noodles, and two glasses of chocolate milk.

Anyway, as we were heading home in Ruby every radio station is in the Twin Cities was playing bullshit so I switched over to the CD player. The CD player is filled with CDs I made when I first got a CD burner. . . so circa 2002? 2003? I can’t even remember. I’m sure if I dug through the I Will Dare archives I would find the exact date.

As I flitted through the songs I asked Cade, who was sitting in the front seat, if he liked each artist.

“You like Iggy Pop?” I asked as “Lust for Life” filled Ruby’s cab.
Cade looked at me and said nothing.
I pushed skip. “How about Social D?” We listened to the opening of “Ball and Chain.”
Nothing. Skip.
“Beck?” (New Pollution)
Nothing. Skip.
“Oh, man. You gotta love Bowie!” (Rebel, Rebel)
Nothing. Skip
“How about The Replacements?” (Answering Machine).

Finally, a big sigh. “I don’t like old people music.”
“Old people music?” I asked.
He nodded his head at me.
“My courage is at its peak you know what I mean? How do you say you’re okay to an answering machine,” I sang as loud as I could.
Cade crinkled up his face and shook his head. “What’s an answering machine anyway?”

Hrmph.

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