Hola Darling Ones,

Well, we made it to 2026 and it’s been a real kick in the crotch, hasn’t it?

On January first I started using this neck & chest firming cream before bed each night because I’m well past my prime.

I have/had a ridiculous amount of creams, potions, and unguents from good ol’2020 when I had more money than sense. I’ve been making my way through them over the past year or so. Most of them are crap because I look exactly the same no matter what I smear on my face.

The package on the cream claims, “97% had firmer skin in just two weeks.” That’s why I started using it on the first, because I’d be able to remember two weeks from the first.

But then monsters decided to up their cruelty and now my state is occupied my hostile forces and so last night as I was spreading the goo on my neck, I said into the mirror, “this is crap. My skin isn’t firmer!”

When I climbed into bed I realized we were only ten days into 2026. Yowza that cream’s got four more days to give me the neck of a 20-year-old.

As for 2026? I don’t know. . . it’s hard out there for a human.

Since I use humor as a defense mechanism and to hide from my feelings, I joked the other day about how I missed the pre-Rodney King 90s when white people like me could live in ignorant bliss about the murderous police and the violence they inflict on people because they feel like it.

The joke did not make me feel better, but I tried.

Can a person even feel better right now? Since the murder of Renee Nicole Good I’ve been quiet. I don’t have any words to help or heal, and no desire to add to the echo chamber that gets more performative with each atrocity. Between the woke scolds* and the creative-types patting themselves on the back for continuing to art as an act of resistance I’m a little more misanthropic than usual.

One of my goals this year is to write more (this has been my goal every year of my entire life), and that gets tougher as the US falls further into fascism. I do not want to write about politics and current events. There are smarter people that are better at that. I want to write about frivolity. I want to compare and contrast the use of sleep in the lyrics of Jason Isbell’s “Foxes in Snow” and Amanda Shires’ “Nobody’s Girl.”

However, that feels not just frivolous but unserious and disrespectful at this moment in time. I’m a generic Allen Ginsburg, “America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?”

Not even close to figuring it out,
Jodi

 
*I just learned the term “woke scold” from one of Wolfdogg’s daughters. She kept calling him a woke scold and it was hilarious because as a 50somoething white guy there about 583 million worse things he could be than a woke scold. Also, he’s right. Spotify is evil.

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Well, Darling Ones,

It seems I’m going to blog my way through this time as my dad lays dying. I really need to document my existence right now and I do not have the mental or emotional capacity to examine the reasons at the moment.

Jodi Ann Chromey, you might be thinking, why are you not spending every remaining moment you have left with your dad?

I can’t and I won’t, that’s why. Stop being so judgey.

I can’t because my dad is not currently speaking to the remaining members of the Sister Club. He stopped talking to us around Father’s Day because he blames us for Sister #3’s estrangement.

We had a long discussion about it when Sisters #2 & #4 were here in early June. He did not like how that conversation went.

So it goes. I’m okay with that being the last time I saw or spoke to him. He left on good terms, only growing angry a few days later as he processed everything. I can rest easy knowing the last thing I said to him was, “I love you. Have a good night.”

I won’t see him because I do not deal well with witnessing the end of life. It upsets me to the point where I cannot hide how sad and freaked out I am, which makes the other people in the room try to comfort me. It’s a bad situation. They have better things do in that moment than tend to a crybaby. And it’s wasted effort because there is no comfort in those moments.

I know this because I accidentally ended up in the room when my Grammu took her last breath. It sucked. Do not want to do that again.

This is why I have so much time to work, blog, and fixate on the brain weasels.

Brain weasels are whatever stupid, inconsequential thing my brain decides I must do lest I be a complete failure of a human.

Before I get to today’s brain weasels, I need to say a few things about weasels in general.

1. In college we used the term Greasy Weasel to label dudes who were kinda shifty. That guy who mansplained Pearl Jam and their lack of longevity to me in 1994? Greasy Weasel. Kevin, that short cross country dude who went on to become a cop? Total Greasy Weasel.
2. Despite this whenever I hear the term weasel without the greasy adjective I think of Pauly Shore. I spent a lot of the early-90s loving The Weas. So much so I saw “Encino Man” in the theaters.
3. I’ve been singing The Weasel Song from Bob’s Burgers all day.

Anyway, today’s brain weasel is making a bunch of food and freezing it so we don’t starve once my dad dies. The Midwestern Old Lady in me is strong. It’s taking all my self-control not to pop a tater-tot hotdish into the oven. I am going to allow myself to make chicken stock this weekend and probably a Cuban pork roast. I have about seventeen pound of pork shoulder in my freezer right now. I won’t explain why because it’s stupid.

Your not-so-greasy (I showered today) weasel,
Jodi

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Uffda, Darling Ones,

Today was rough.

As I mentioned yesterday, telling my clients about my dad being in hospice weighed heavily on my mind.

Since I had a pre-scheduled call with a client, I ripped the Band-Aid off with her. I only cried a little, mostly because she called me, “a force of joy in the world.” Hell, I’m crying again typing it. She was super understanding and gently encouraged me to tell my clients and everyone I know. She said to give people the chance to support me, even if the only thing I need is good vibes. I am very fortunate to work with kind people.

Thus far all my clients have been kind and their kindness brings me to tears. To be fair, most things always bring me to tears. I’m a crybaby under the best circumstances. Right now, being so emotionally fragile means the tears are always right on the surface.

This afternoon when I was done with work for the day I cried while hearting tweets about the ‘Mats Midway concert on this day back in 2014.

Now that work is no longer weighing heavy on my mind, I’ve decided to worry about ruining John Cougar Mellencamp.

When my nineteen-year-old cousin Alan died in 1996 they played Tom Petty’s song “Free Falling” during the graveside service. Twenty-six years later and that song still gives me a stomachache whenever I hear it.

For some reason, at least for today, the only thing my brain and ice-robot heart want to hear is ol’ JCM.

John Cougar Mellencamp’s music has been a comfort to me for as long as I’ve known music could provide comfort. It’s easy to listen to. I know all the words by heart. A lot of it the songs remind me of childhood/teenagehood. It’s all the good things.

This is why I do not want to sully the good tunes of Mr. Mellencamp with the time when my dad was dying. And yet, my brain is like no ‘Mats only Mellencamp. No Waxahatchee or Liz Phair or Material Issue.

So this is the thing my brain has fixated on today in order to not think about my dying dad and everything his death will bring.

Your force for joy in the world,
Jodi

P.S. I have to admit that my favorite JCM song is “Cherry Bomb” and I was forty-nine years old before I learned the line is “that’s when a sport was a sport” and not “that’s when a smoke was a smoke.” I might have already told you that. I was pretty shook by that discovery. I think my version is better. Who cares about sports?

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Well, Darling Ones,

My dad started hospice care over the weekend. His death is imminent and they’re keeping him comfortable until it arrives.

This sucks.

Do you want me to list all the ways this sucks? It’s a long list. Most of the ways are complicated and hard to explain. Families are complicated and hard to explain. All this grows exponentially as death hovers and dysfunction comes home to roost.

I’m doing my best to be at peace with everything — my dad’s death, the abuse, the estrangement, all the things. Whenever I succeed at convincing myself I’m at peace I tell myself I’m an ice-hearted robot harpy who feels nothing. So, that’s fun.

Wanna know what is the most fun? Worrying about work and trying to figure out the best way to handle this.

Capitalism uber alles. I’m roughly ten hours into my work week because I’m using it as a distraction. I know I won’t be able to perform much longer, but I don’t know what to do.

Do I warn my clients so they can find someone else to complete my work? Do I wait to say anything until he’s dead and I need actual time off?

They never taught me this in freelance school. (That’s a joke, I didn’t go to freelance school.)

Even though my mind has bigger fish to fry, it seems to be stuck on, “what if I disappoint everyone?” Am I just fixating on this one thing to stave off feeling actual grief?

As, I just texted BFK, “Feelings are so annoying.”

So my dad is going to die soon and I don’t know what to do with myself or my work or anything. They never taught me this in death school.

Liminally yours,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

I’ve told one joke and one excruciatingly long story recently that, well, mark me as a lady of a certain age who only speaks to other people of a certain age.

The other day a friend texted me a picture that took roughly one entire fortnight to arrive.

“The little bird inside the camera must have died,” I joked. Because in the Flintstoney days there was a bird inside the camera who chiseled the picture into, slate? Bedrock? A stone? The technology in The Flintstones was hilarious, but not very clear.

“There are fewer and fewer people around who will get that joke,” I said. I’m still debating if the slow disappearance of The Flintstones from the pop culture is going to be my villain origin story or if getting Flintstones fluency part of the common core curriculum is going to be the platform I launch my political career on. I got a lot to think about.

Incidentally, I was telling that same friend a few days later about my irrational hatred of people who partake in Renaissance Festivals in any way, share, or form. Performer, vendor, visitor, I dislike them all with a white hot heat I usually reserve for Gwen Stefani and marshmallows.

For the record, the RenFesters were the worst and would roll into the gas station I worked at in costume and try to speak Olde English while buying a pack of Camel Lights and a bottle of Mountain Dew. Barf. And they’d clog up the local Perkins with their loud-talking dramatic asses proclaiming about being “a professional actor.” The only thing worse than a 23-year-old former journalism/political science major turned gas station attendant is a 22-year-old current drama major/Renaissance Festival performer. Just kidding, drama majors past, present, and future are the worst. Why do you have to be so loud and dramatic all the time? I beg you, please stop turning everything into a performance. I love you, but y’all are a lot for us introverts.

One time, as a 30-something grown up I ended up at a party filled with former drama majors and forensics competitors and I’m still emotionally scarred by the situation. As someone who does not have a great quantity of chill or coolness, I can say without a doubt I was the chillest, coolest motherfucker in the joint. That’s saying a lot.

Anyway, as I was in the midst of my irrational tirade about RenFesters I started complaining about people who would come into the gas station for directions and then argue with me about it. Like dude, and it was always a man, I live and also am not lost. Why are you arguing with me?

I stopped in the middle of it and said, “I guess people don’t go into gas stations and ask for directions anymore.” Because, why would they? But in the early 90s people stopped in the gas station all the time asking how to get to Valleyfair, the RenFest, the casino, Canterbury Park. It was a side-effect of living in a tourist trap town.

Thank you Mapquest and GPS for saving all the gas station attendants who came after me.

Anyway, I’m old and obsolete. The end.

Love,
Jodi

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