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

The post Stroke Me Day 275: Slowly Destroying My Life appeared first on I Will Dare.

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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Hey Darling Ones,

It was one of the summers of 2017-2019 when I was really invested in dating and dating apps. I get like this occasionally, where I tire of waiting for Prince Charming to hack through the brambles, find me half asleep in my castle, kiss me. Fairytales are never not creepy as fuck.

When I get like this I sign up for all the dating apps and spend a ridiculous amount of time flipping through a catalog of humans and growing more lonely and depressed by the swipe.

Dating is hard. I hate it. I super hate it not just because I’m an arrogant, awkward introvert who made it this far without romantic male companionship, but also because I live in a body that is frequently fetishized. I am not a fan of being someone’s fetish object. When I’m fetishized all the great things that make me Jodi Chromey are erased except for my fat, freakishly-tall body.

Talking about my body is my least favorite activity. It’s why I haven’t been in a grocery store in two years (aside from the pandemic). Every time. Every. Single. Time. All of the times I’ve gone to a grocery store I’ve been stopped by a stranger who wanted to talk about my unusual height.

Back to the summer of 2017, 18, or 19. I was ding the dating apps and this 5’9″ fellow we’ll call Josh, because that’s what he said his name was one time, chased me all over those apps. I’d block one account and he’d pop up under another name.

It was the summer of pesky pervert whack-a-mole. Josh was a submissive who really, really liked feet and wanted me to be his Dom. For the record, I don’t think being into BDSM makes you a pervert. It’s not my jam, but you do you. I am not here to kink shame. Or fetish shame.

I recently learned the difference between kink and fetish and feel really smart about it and wish I had more occasions to use this new knowledge.

Josh was good at his game. He’d slide into my DMs talking about books and music and I’d fall for it, because I am a sucker. Eventually his desire to be bossed around, whipped, humiliated, and literally worship at my feet always got the best of him and I’d figure it out. I’d tell him to fuck off, and go away and block him. This whole dance happened so many times.

I don’t know how stupid Josh thought I was because I always figured it out. Of course, he did have varying degrees of success because at one point he got my actual phone number and would text me.

This fellow, who may or may not be named Josh, has been on my mind lately because Wendell, my cat is obsessed with cuddling with my feet. This new habit of his is completely adorable and only mildly annoying. Wendell’s kind of a dick when I want to change positions, get up to use the bathroom, or do any manner of activity that disrupts his sleep.

He’s lucky I find it so charming because I got roughly no hours of sleep last night due to his sleep-disrupting activity + how oddly hot it was in my bedroom, and maybe the full moon? I don’t know. I’m tired.

So that’s the story of foot-worshipping Josh (he once suggested I could use him as a footstool while I worked and he was dressed in a French maid costume) and my cat’s new obsession.

Not really a foot-person myself,
Jodi

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Dear Darling Ones,

These are vital updates I would have made throughout past week or so if I weren’t so busy making the dollars. The worst thing I do to my creative practice is trying to complete all the paying work before I do the stuff that pays my soul. Such is life, I guess. My soul doesn’t pay the goddamn mortgage around here.

Speaking of making the dollars. . .
I had a Zoom meeting with a potential new (PNC) client who is considering giving me dollars for making some words. During the meeting this exchange happened.
Me: I’m very, um, what’s the word? You know for someone who writes a lot?
PNC: prolific?
Me: Yeah! I’m very prolific.
PNC was not afraid of my boneheadedness and I’m signing & sending a contract to him tomorrow. Which is why I . . .

Promptly ran out & spent the dollars I have yet to earn. . .
I fell in love with a red cardigan that is like $60, which is really rich for my inexpensive blood. But it made my heart go zoom when I saw it, so I ordered. Then that felt so good I ordered some more of those expensive socks my feet love. And then because Valentine’s Day is nearing I bought myself a little $38 present I will tell you about later when it comes and I can show you it.

Of course I bought all that garbage and now I’m 83% sure I’m going to have to buy a new coffee maker, but I will bore you about that later.

A truthy interlude
I can’t keep up those kinds of transitions because none of the rest of these have a lot to do with each other, and trying to make them parallel is gonna be awkward and more work than it’s worth. Most of this blog is more work than it’s worth. I go a long away to keep myself amused, which is weird because I’m generally pretty easily amused. I’m still laughing about the Frightened Rabbit lyric I hid in the image on this post.

The other day

1. I made 12 breakfast sandwiches with a bunch of leftover English muffins from Christmas, the dozens of eggs I keep on hand at all times because I live my life like someone is going to walk in, put a gun to my head, and say if I want to live I must make bacon & eggs for nine people, and some of that bacon from the aforementioned imaginary scenario. I’m four sandwiches in and I’m sad to report they are not as good as the frozen kind. Cheaper and healthier, probably? But for my money if you’re gonna make some sort of homemade, handheld breakfast the breakfast burrito is where it’s at.
2. I ate one of those breakfast sandwiches for dinner with some leftover tortilla chips while watching “Bob’s Burgers.” I thought to myself, as I licked a tortilla crumb off my shirt, “It’s a good thing I’m so big, it’s would be hard to fit this much sexy in a smaller body. I need seventy-seven inches to contain all this.” Like I said, very easily amused.
3. Then I looked up and saw Alex Papasian on the screen and realized we were dressed alike (pictured above).
4. Also pictured above, I can put my hair in a ponytail now. We’ve come a long way, baby.

Supergenius vs. The Trash Goblin: The Heating Vent Wars
Now that all the coffee table truffles are gone, Wendell has to find a new fuckery to use to drive me bonkers. His favorite pastime is removing the heating grates from the heating vents in my bedroom. I don’t know if all houses are like this, but my grates are just gently placed on the vent and pretty easy for humans to remove and mildly more difficult for really determined felines to remove.

Wendell cannot abide grates on top of heating vents. It is the scourge of his existence and if I put them back he will spend hours at 3:23 a.m. removing them the way god intended. I have stopped fighting this battle and just let the grates sit next to the vents. But because he is a fucker, sometimes he drops one of his many beloved pipe cleaners down there and then must spend a lot of time rescuing his friend from the fiery pits of hell. At least that’s what it sounds like to me.

Prolifically yours,
Jodi

The post My Soul Doesn’t Pay the Mortgage & Other Vital Updates appeared first on I Will Dare.