Well, I didn’t go anywhere, if you were wondering

I’ve been busy writing creatively. This blog is where I go when I can’t find the motivation to work on my novel. I hate calling it that, it makes me feel like a douche. Like the kind of punk who sits in a Starbucks all day on their laptop writing. That sounds like a nightmare. I have an extreme peeve about people doing that. Every member of my family did it to me when I was writing as a child, on our trust Packard Bell, and it was one of the many things they all did to make me feel like I had ZERO personal privacy. Which…I guess if you need that pointer (for writing, or real life I guess if you’re a psycho who reads WordPress for fun…), that’s a REALLY good way to ruin someone’s regard for themselves as a human being with rights and feelings – take away any semblance of privacy while still somehow suppressing everything about them that doesn’t fit what you think is best.
Because that is definitely what my family did. ALL of them, even Grandma, and we all know I nostalgia-ify the crap out of my memories of her, did it.
And, the more I think about it, the more I realize that no matter what I did, I was fucking attacked for it. It’s hard because you think of stuff like this throughout your day, like you remember when you did a simple thing and your mom and dad and brother all started yelling at your simultaneously for making a simple mistake, for running into something, for misspeaking, for dropping something, like now that I think about it I realize it was the fucking recipe for developing anxiety about being around other people. They all made me value alone time so fucking much, I even managed to get over my extreme fears of being alone at night and the dark. I mean a lot of people never live alone. I did it at 18 because I had to be away from my family, I had to have a general independence from them. Though it would take me years to finally break all ties with my family, we’ve been over that a few times, I swear.
And now that I ponder on it, I realize that might be the same reason I am always unapologetically doing clumsy things. It’s like….does some terrible part of my brain that I have no conscious control over really crave negative attention, because that’s the only attention I got a lot of the time, like most of the time, as a child?

You’ll think of stuff like this if you try hard enough, and you get stoned enough if you’re like me, and you take the time to write it out.

So, I must take a moment to brag about my week, because I’ve been meeting personal goals lately, and that’s always exciting – so this week Monday-Thursday, I managed to every day:
1) Work 7-4 (6-4 on Monday, and that was after being emotionally distraught and drunk for that episode of Game of Thrones – am I right?)
2) Come home and immediately perform house-related tasks and work out for 30 minutes (translation – I rode my stationary bike for half an hour while I watched a chick-oriented show on Netflix that my husband would hate)
3) Eat a packed lunch and cook dinner from scratch/fresh ingredients at home – more or less, no eating out ever because it’s expensive and typically less healthy than what I make
4) Spend a minimum of 60 minutes per day writing – that’s about how much time I have between completing those first three tasks and when my husband gets home from work. He has a new job. During his extreme-major meltdown at me like three weeks ago now, I wrote about like crazy on here, he mentioned how he was just so demoralized by this job he got because I told him landscaping wasn’t good enough. Which I mean….really? He’s blaming all of his life’s issues on me? Somehow, his every decision has been made by me in secret somehow, and I’m still a cold bitch to him despite his acrobatic attempts at pleasing me….that was the summation of it really. I would count writing a blog as this one as well, because it counts it’s just not as important. I mean obviously. You don’t blast something truly dear to yourself all over the internet. My thoughts and feelings aren’t all that dear to me, if you were wondering why I would say that then keep such a personal blog. I change names to protect other people from my innate hostility
5) Possibly most important of all – STOP THINKING NEGATIVELY. It is and was and always will be my biggest issue. I definitely heard from more than one source throughout my childhood that I complained too much. I HAD A LOT TO COMPLAIN ABOUT, OKAY? Sorry for type-yelling. But I find that if I don’t constantly reminisce on bad shit, I am much happier. Fucking striking concept, right? BUT, that also means that I don’t think about things to blog about as much.
You could argue I could blog about positives in my life. But then I remember that I still haven’t seen my mom in almost three years because I can’t because I refuse to have anything to do with my father because he’s a fucking sociopath. ANYONE who really knows him, and has seen him in action would agree with that name for it. But then, even then, even now at this point, just like when a song you haven’t heard in years pops into your head, these rare, isolated memories you have, that few and far between times that were happy, are there to haunt you. There was a handful or two, I’d say, when I guess things were as close to normal as we could get them and everyone decided to get along and be happy. It became very rare the older my brother got. I was thinking about my brother on Thursday while I was watching that chick show on Netflix. A mom was freaking out about a baseball coach’s ability to influence her son’s formative years. And it made me think about how my brother just had no fucking chance.
There’s something to him…a narrowness…or like this stubbornness, or just this hard-headed idiocy brought about by emotional abuse that makes him do that same thing to others? It’s there…I just don’t know what to truly call it yet. It like…incapacitated him. Because what I did, what a person is going to have to do in our situation, is psychologically construct your OWN father figure in your mind, and use that to comfort yourself. I have this CREEPY fucking habit of stroking my own hair when I’m VERY upset. I mean it creeps me out when I do it, because I know why I’m doing it. And another huge peeve of mine is ANYONE touching my hair. I think that contributes to the fact that I no longer dye it (though I did that constantly from ages 14-26) and cut it myself. It’s been almost three years since I’ve had my hair cut professionally, though in part that is to save money. But also I really always resent stylists because they’re touching my hair, and inevitably snagging one of my many eccentric ear piercings on their combs. Egh, just thinking about it makes me cringe. Anyway.

So, I accomplished all of the above last week. And my husband’s new job entails different hours that allow him to leave when I leave in the morning. With his OCD, this is a huge blessing for him. It’s very hard for him to be the second one to leave the house. He becomes unsure if all of the cats are accounted for, and if the stove is off and the doors are locked. He spends too much time checking and rechecking, etc. And I like being the last one to leave, because then the house remains in the state of tidiness I so strongly prefer.

But, like I said, in doing so I don’t leave much time for writing blogs, because I’d rather attempt to dedicate my spare thoughts to my creative process, than obsessing over shitty things.

Also, in other rather superficial news, I found a skincare regime that works for me. And I mean when you’ve been trying for something for like 17 years, it feels like an accomplishment to be there. The process, you wonder? I use cold cream as a make up remover and face wash. Then rosewater as a toner. Then stupidly expensive moisturizer. That’s at night. In the morning I just apply moisturizer then concealer/blush on top of that as needed. Because I had my eyeliner tattooed on, I wear those two items and mascara, and that’s it. It’s so amazing having a simplified routine that works and it creates a look I enjoy. For so many years I wore such intense eye shadow every single day. I remember once in a college psych class a girl asked me if I did my own make up, implying I looked like I might be having it professionally done. All I said was “Yeah.” Because I was a weird, stoned twenty-one year old, and I felt bad because later on I identified that as a opportunity to socialize with someone about something I liked. But whatever.

And, in less superficial news but also something that hasn’t changed since I was young. Okay, I’ve probably already mentioned it, but I am weirdly attached to the psychological personality testing known as Myers-Briggs. I am deeply obsessed with researching my type and just basically always being like “SO TRUE!” at all of it after I look back at my behavior. And I actually took the Myers-Briggs test three different times from the age of 18-23 or so. Twice it came out INTJ, once INFJ. I took it again because I found a link to take it for free (which, you should because it’s so cool, at  16personalities.com) and it came out INTJ again, BUT on the thinking/feeling 3rd letter, I was a 60/40 split. So I’m on the fence there. This time it said I was an assertive INTJ…I was like….since when? I went to grad school for no reason, mostly just boredom. How wild am I? So it was exciting to think that that hasn’t changed. I already mentioned that I’m pretty well aware of why I’m introverted. Not that I don’t have this fake people-person persona that you develop when you have to wait on customers for 11 years. That’s why my desk job still is amazing to me. Just not having the general public in my face seems like a reward still. And I make way more money.
Speaking of making more money. My husband is actually going to be making more than me at this new job. He’s getting less person hour, but he’s getting far more hours, he even has to get 6 hours in today. It’s why I’m up and blogging so proficiently at 10am. I’ve been up since 6am because he needed my help getting up. Plus in all honesty I was awake before the alarm because that’s when I always get up during the week. I deeply splurged and went and got an iced coffee with all the extra caloric add-ons because I drink two pots of drip coffee per day and sometimes you’re just not in the mood. I justify it because black coffee with no sugar is good for your teeth (kills plaque, staining is just superficial anyway) and that’s how I drink it.

So, that’s it I guess. That’s my goal meeting for now.

My next major goal is to keep drinking confined to the weekends. In the 2 months that I’ve been trying to bike every day and count all calories using My Fitness Pal, you REALLY start to notice where your calories come from. And if you’re ashamed to tell an app how much you drank in one night, you might want to examine things? I mean, you probably knew that. I do. Did. Whatever. So that means I will need more weed. Which is fine if we can afford it. The dream is to be able to have enough to just make oil or butter and just always have that on hand/use that. Like I want to come home and make 1 piece of toast and just douse it with weed olive oil and get messed the fuck up on that, rather than smoking bowl after bowl. That’s the ideal dream, if you ever wondered what the ideal dream was. So I guess that’s another goal. Those are important, but so are plans to achieve these goals. But, I’ve always been great at having this REALLY long-term plan. I persevere. It’s what I do. But we might be closer to our weed goal with this new job. So that’s exciting too, because it’ll mean drinking less. Husband is still not drinking, of course. I just bought him a small gift for his 2 year AA anniversary, which is actually August 30th, but whatever I gave it to him early, it’s not like it’s Christmas. Plus no one else really acknowledges his AA-ness, not in his family. They really are the classic, reserved, rather not talk about it, types of people. Common to the middle and upper class I think. They’re used to trying to keep things nice, to admiring the surface value of shit, makes them want to keep a social front as well. Not always though.

Then, I would like to find a church I like down here. We moved downstate over five years ago, and we always said we’d find out. We tried for a little, but each one we visited acted very…odd….towards us. Like they’re a church, they should be freaking welcoming to strangers, not all like “HI, WHO ARE YOU?? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE???” *artificial smiles*!! It’s weird. It happened three different times. These congregations need to get it together. It doesn’t take a genius to see their ever-dwindling memberships. It’s not shocking why, either. It’s hard, because I want to believe in it, but some of the absolutes of Christianity…like the concept of hell….I just….it’s really hard to actually comprehend an eternity of torture and damnation. Like….whaaaaaatttt?
But even THAT, that thing I just said that made my heart race to admit, that’s how DEEP those Lutherans manage to instill a terror of God in you, is a sign of an INTJ. We’re a small section of the population, especially the women, but of our tiny sliver of the pie, most are atheists, the ones that do believe in a higher power tend to be less accepting of all these contradictory absolutes. Literally one of the ‘celebrities’ that was an INTJ was Doubting Thomas. I remember a college counselor saying “Oh you went to [Lutheran high school] you’ll know who that is.” I was like…all right that’s not a great guy to be associated with…from the perspective I was taught to have……

Well, this have been a fulfilling hour and an a half spent, I guess, but I should be off. I truly do intend to spend more time writing today than I did on the weekdays. Because that only makes sense to me. But, it’s hard because there’s never not cleaning to do, am I right? I so value cleanliness and order that I know it hinders my creativity, especially my time for it….but I need organization in my life…so….you just have to learn to balance.

But I think for now, because I’m trying to not totally obsess all day about my shitty childhood, that maybe I’ll just use this blog to keep track of these goals I have. I think I’ll be pleased with the results and myself if I keep to them all and add more. Like most things in life. Like when I decided it was time to quit smoking and I actually (With Chantix, which I recommend, it didn’t give me nightmares, I swear it’s a suggestability thing. Yes I invented that word, but you get what I mean right? If you talk about having a certain kind of dream…you’re really like to have that dream for real. If you didn’t know that…try it. Your brain is more open to influence than you realize. And dreaming is just psychic file-sorting, so while cool and necessary it’s really not life-shattering stuff. Another peeve is hearing people describe their dreams. Newsflash – NO ONE CARES. Sorry, needed to be said.

So, hope all is well. Try and set goals for yourself. Don’t even write them down, just remember them. Know them well enough to note need a paper or digital reminder. Like showering and sleeping. Make the things you want to give a fuck about like that. That’s my suggestion. I’m not saying I think I’m like some superior being. I truly do not. I hope any long time readers have gathered that by now. Self-obsessed and arrogant are not the same thing.

~Cassie

I fucking hate the phrase ‘teachable moment’ but I think I need to use it anyway

Last Sunday, we had what I have come to think of as a teachable moment. And let me be clear, I really hate that phrase. Another phrase I cannot stand is when women describe abuse as “he put his hands on me.” Like….do you really have to somehow soften the action by being EXTRA vague? Others put their hands on you for not abusive reasons, so stop it with the turn of phrase, you’re talking about being abused. The two, my teachable moment and that annoying phrase, aren’t linked at all, except how I dislike their wording.

But this TM if you will happened on Sunday. My husband and I were leaving for some errand. He was looking for his socks. Because the moment he returns home from the outside world or from working out one of his first actions is to remove his socks and leave them balled up wherever he took them off. Obviously I will instinctively pick them up and put them in the hamper. I wash about twice as many of his socks as I should because of these separate habits of ours, but anyway. As he was inquiring to his socks’ presence he was pulling his shirt on (because he must be in his underwear only if he’s at home unless it’s the dead of winter) and he blinded himself as he walked past a wrought iron wall-mount candle holder I have, and have had since I was 16. I went though this weird wrought iron candle holder phase, but I got rid of all of them except this one. Just because I liked it the most and I bought it from the first place I ever worked (a Jo-Ann’s) and I don’t know when you move 7 times in 5 years you lose a lot of possessions due to breakage and necessity, so something I’ve had since 16 might matter more than it would to others. So he knocks into the candle holder and knocks one of the candles to the floor, which doesn’t matter. But I thought he’d knocked down a glass holder too. And I immediately got incredibly irritated because I’d managed to lug that thing along with me so many places and not break it, but because he was getting dressed and walking and asking his wife where his socks were HE had to fucking break it.

(I have two side stories for a minute that will maybe make my reaction seem less bitch like, but probably not)

But I just kind of went off. I don’t even remember what I said, but it was things along the lines of ‘can’t you be careful’ and ‘did you seriously just do that’ and like a ‘why would you do that’ attitude towards the idea. My husband was like “What the fuck? I didn’t mean to do it.”

And like, obviously I didn’t think he’d purposely tried to break anything of mine. That wasn’t where my anger was coming from. It was just on fucking instinct to like POUNCE on the person who done fucked up.

And….it takes no deep digging to know where that’s coming from.

And okay I’ve been watching this Netflix show called Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce (I know I feel like a douche typing it, but I love any scripted TV anymore) and I am frequently just appalled at how lenient their parenting is. Like a six year old dumps a smoothie into his mother’s Mac book days before an important presentation of hers (saved solely on the laptop) and blames an imaginary friend. The stress registers, but not the fact that it was solely caused by a little brat’s cry for attention. And like….I think the reason I hate kids is tied in real strong with all of this. Because in my head I’m like “well you know what, [this] happened to me, so why shouldn’t it happen to others too?”

And that, THAT, is how really fucked up, abused people think. It’s how really terrible people think. I mean I kind of figured I was terrible by how I was always treated. And then you relate to those dickweed memes that are script that say “Why should I apologize for being a monster? No one apologized for making me this way” and then you REALLY know you’re the fucking worst. Because only very small, worthless people

We’re not all like that.

But I think I am. My brother sure is. That’s my test group. But I’m also like smart enough to see all this (spoiler, he is not). And we both got the addict gene, but he solely prefers opiates, I solely prefer alcohol, then we meet in the expected agreeable middle with weed. Whatever it is, I think I’ve identified it at its roots. If I were a poet or a painter I would have a much dreamier way of telling you, but all any addiction really ever is, is this voice that whispers ‘You need more.’

Didn’t mean to deviate but I’ve been meaning to write that one down because like every addict ever was just like yuuuuuup. I’m not trying to make light of it. I’m just at the point where I’m like, all right, let’s call everything what is it, be harshest to yourself first before anyone else steals that right. Because if history is any indicator, others are not going to be kind.

But then on the other hand I’m like….is ALL of this bull shit? Maybe I’m just a bitch and I can learn to not be if I want to actually try and stay with my husband. I mean he quit drinking maybe I could bother to not ALWAYS be mean, especially when I know I’m doing it. The problem is I’m always going to act first then realize how shitty I’m being after. Which sounds awful, but at least I know what’s happening.

If you’re wondering if I admit this to my husband, in part, yes. But not totally. In large part because I have to realize all of this by thinking about it all day at work. Less and less i think about my other writing. I can’t call it my novel, that sounds so douchey. I can’t with the ‘manuscript’ it’s its own thing, like contained chaos, at this point, so no labels and shit. And if I keep blogging at this rate, I’ll never get anywhere with all of that anyway and it’ll haunt me for all of my days. And so I don’t come to these conclusions until a few days later, and by then I really am not looking to restart an old fight so we can be upset with one another more.

No, I did not at any point say I think ANY of my behavior is healthy,* so please don’t start

*Disclaimer – when I say one of my recipes is healthy, it is. I do have this weird natural affinity for vegan/vegetarian dishes, though I am neither*

So I don’t always tell my husband I know how fucked my reactions are.

But I mean, as good as I am at obsessing over my own behavior like I’m observing some thought to be extinct animal I just don’t have the ability to call back anger. And anger is where I ALWAYS go. I don’t feel like that can helped. In part because okay remember my two parenting examples were a COMPLETE narcissist who was also a pretty incredible failure at life (think dishonorable discharge but that’s just a metaphor he definitely wasn’t in the military). Yet through it all, my mom stuck by him, and kept us, her innocent children, in the same house as him. What’s so fucking sad is how she thought she was doing the right, strong thing. But the abusive behavior started long before I was born. She told me. She didn’t mean to always tell me things a child shouldn’t hear. She just didn’t have anyone else. I’ve never doubted that my mother loves me, just that she probably was always too far gone to save herself, much less me. Which is actually an incredible gift to give someone, because when you get thrown off that dock you’re going to sink or swim, and us kids turned out to be a 50/50 split.

So those were my examples of adults growing up. The father I just described and have discussed so much before, who I haven’t seen in person in almost three years. And my sad, lonely, abused mother. Those were the options.

My brother had the revolting habit of acting SO much like our dad. It’s funny, because when someone hates someone as much as my brother hates my dad….and yet he acts so much like him….you’re just like….is it that invisible to the recipient of abuse? Does their trauma make some of them become just like their abuser but then tragically also blind to it, destined to always push normals away and repeat the cycle if they should have children?  That’s so fucked, if you think about it.

Because if they were strong enough, and smart enough, and have been handed just the right number of get-ahead-of-others passes in life, they’ll see that, they’ll see all of it. And then you’ll have someone like me. I’m still figuring out the rest as I go. But that’s always been my style.

So, I felt myself instantly jump into bad behavioral patterns instilled in me by my separately yet simultaneously abusive parents throughout my formative years. I’m not making an excuse, but rather an observation. It’s a bad, bad feeling, to realize this sort of shit. It just makes me yet again grateful I wasn’t dumb enough to have kids at a young age. It may well work for others, and great for them, but me? NO. NO NO NO. I would be an efficient mom, but I’m sure I would be just like my parents. Granted, if I’d just had my mom and Grandma’s damaging behaviors, I would’ve been all right, I just probably would’ve turned out a lot like them. It was my dad. He was and is and always will be the problem, the true cancer we need to extricate. I know that sounds harsh, but anyone who knows the truth knows I’m just being honest.

But, I should go, this much honesty takes times.

But really fast – if you recall a few scrolls ago I said I had two examples that would make my anger at my husband for potentially breaking something of mine seem less crazy:

1) The laptop – When I was a sophomore in college, my husband and I had just started living together. We were sitting down to watch a Youtube video of Trailer Park Boys, and he sat down too quickly with an open cup of water and sloshed water all over the keyboard of my laptop. It shorted out and I naturally freaked out. The laptop had been a once in a lifetime gift from my dad, and it had not only a final paper due in a few hours that I hadn’t submitted electronically yet but also all of my class notes for that semester, and it was obviously around the end of the semester. This was a final paper of the semester paper and it was an English literature class, so seriously. So I appropriately FREAKED THE FUCK OUT when those two things dawned on me. I recall this distinctly as the first time I told my husband “don’t fucking touch me” (I’d go on to say it so many times….). He had to go to class too, because it was like an exam day for him I think. And he came home with a stuffed monkey and a Choco Taco as an apology (And that ended up being a way more thoughtful gift than the nothing he got me for my birthday a few days later…but anyway….). It ended up working out, ONLY because I’d printed a really final rough draft of the paper a few days before, and it was unscathed in the recycling bin, so I just had to remember a few edits. I got it in before the deadline, but I remember being so mad that my husband had been so careless around such an important item.
2) The umbrella plant – I worked for years and years at a pet store. One day someone who no longer wished to possess a bearded dragon dropped one off at our store in a gross, dirty aquarium. The beardie was rehomed, but his tank needed to be thrown away. There was an umbrella plant that seemed to be doing pretty well, despite this family’s obvious neglect of their bearded dragon. I managed to call dibs on this umbrella plant, even though my one coworker usually managed to snag anything good in the employee freebies market at this store. And, for the FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, I was able to keep a plant alive! I have a plant stand that was my Grandma’s (that has a very checkered history, because my mom and Grandma has to go to about eight different department stores before my Grandma picked one out, and it INFURIATED my mother that she kept being so fussy about it) that this umbrella plant lived on, where my five cats couldn’t bother it. And I know it sounds dumb, but I was seriously so proud I was keeping a plant around for years after trying and killing like three dozen different houseplants.
But then, nearly 6 years ago when we moved downstate, my husband left the plant I loved so dearly at my in-laws. We didn’t want to have to bother with the care moving a plant required when we were already moving so much so far. BUT, unbeknownst to me, my mother in law didn’t want a plant in the house because her cats would eat it. So she put it on their deck, where it promptly fried to death. I’d had the same plant for like 6 years and my mother in law killed it because she couldn’t bother to put it on a high shelf for a few days. It seriously still makes me angry. I should not care this much about a plant but I fucking do.

So, those are my two things. I know it makes me seem a little like a lunatic, but seriously, can’t I have anything? And there’s something so infuriating about the oblivious carelessness with which my husband conducts himself. And it makes me realize that he’s not used to the SHARP criticism I always endured. I was astounded when he said something wasn’t your fault if you didn’t mean to do it. How could that be? How could a person learn that accidents weren’t their fault? Is THAT fucking normal? If so, I am so off.

Wow, again, apologize for length. The short of it – I probably shouldn’t ever have kids.

 

~Cass

Let it not be said I somehow stood in progress’ way

I did something I’ve been thinking of doing for quite some time. I started a recipe blog. Because, I don’t know how to quite describe it, but I don’t like cooking as much as I like making good food. Like the having an audience who praises the dish is as important as the skill it takes to make it. At least for me. But there’s officially two personal recipes on there. I’ve always really celebrated the odd fragments of my personality that somehow mainline it enough to make me seem usual, at least in one regard. But because of how I am, I’m not going to do something in front of people until I’m really good at it. So I’m only submitting recipes to the internet lexicon when I know they’re good and have made them personally at least three times.

Plus, I don’t know the exact deal with it, but my preparing of meals has always been something that’s meant a great deal to my husband and I. You obviously should pacify yourselves with food, but people do that all the time, so.

And also, I do so distinctly remember being told all of the time by my Grandma that I’d ‘make a good wife’ someday because I was so diligent about things about the house. Even my mother in law was telling me she was impressed at everything I did because sometimes people rebel against what they had to do when they were young. I guess my general survival instinct has always been to just go with whatever flow you have to to get by/get out. And that just really shows in certain aspects of my life. It’s not all bad though, because having a “well, it’s not like anyone else is ever going to do this…might as well do it myself.” sort of attitude is never a bad thing. Sometimes you feel like you’re everyone’s bitch, but other times you’re like….well, let it NOT be said I wasn’t willing meet everyone even more than halfway on things. Let it not be said that I was unwilling to do even more than my fair share. As a child, I tolerated a great deal more than my brother was ever expected to tolerate, even though he was a boy and three years older. It was strange, almost. But then it’s like why did they always coddle his horrid behavior? What possible favors did they think they were doing him? It’s like I got away from it because I was smarter than both of them, but unfortunately that wasn’t true of my brother. If I’d been the older sibling I might’ve been able to help him too. But maybe not. My best friend has a little sister I think 7 years younger than herself, and she feels like a nagging old harpie if she even begins to question anything her sister does, because that’s what their mom would do, I think.

So, I helped cook the meals when I was a kid, because it was kind of expected of me, and because I was like, well no one else is going to help mom (unless my Grandma were over, which was only on Sundays unless my mom had the day off work which happened two weekdays per month for most of my childhood). And when you’re cooking meals for yourself and assisting with meals for the family from a young age, you’re better at cooking than a lot of the people you know by the time you’re 18. When I was 18 I went to a 21 year old friend’s bridal shower. Among the gift she received was a trivet, and I’ll never forget her opening it and saying, “A trivet? What’s a trivet?” I almost laughed. I’d known what a trivet was since I was about 8.

So now that I’m perfecting recipes, I’m releasing them back into the wild. Like the catch and release fishing my brother used to so staunchly believe in. I’m sure he still does, but it’s not like he fishes anymore. By the time he was 18 he had an impressive fly fishing outfit, even better than what my dad had (my dad was sure to point that out a lot). But, the drug problems he was to have in the upcoming years would see to the selling off of all of his valuable possessions for heroin money. It would get really, really bad before it got better. And I don’t know how better 4 times a week methadone for a really long period of time (think years and counting) is, but that’s where that’s at. Not to mention he smokes enough weed to kill a horse, and that’s coming from me. I was into weed before he was. He totally copied me, like he always does.

But I don’t want to think I started ignoring my far more important blog for the sake of recipes. But also, I mean I’ve explained the high value I’ve placed on the normal aspects of my personality. I’m also lucky my general frame of mind makes me really complacent, because I feel like I’m playing the really long game, so it doesn’t matter that I’ve been broke af for years now, because at SOME point I’ll really unravel this whole writing thing and actually publish something and supplement my regular income and maybe somehow get out of this debt cycle. Or if not, at least have written something like I always thought I was meant to do.

Either way, I feel bad for the people who want to know about healthy chickpea salad and wind up reading some terrible childhood memory of mine, or vice versa. Although anyone could benefit from bean-heavy protein intake. It’s how I roll. I also so love that chickpeas have two really well known names. It’s how I want to be one day.

I’ve withdrawn as myself online and am establishing a presence as Cassie Stevens.

The full name, I shit you not – is:
Cassandra Santina Cooks Stevens
That’s the nom de plume I gave myself in the 4th grade. Okay, I added the Santina in the 8th grade when I was deeply obsessed with the novel The Godfather (Puzo) as the feminine version of Santino, who I thought was the best for some reason…
I changed from Cassandra to Cassie when I met two absolute cunts named Sandra, and didn’t want to accidentally remind myself. Plus, now I like Cassie a lot more.
I don’t remember where the Cooks and Stevens came from, other than I think I thought Cassandra Stevens sounded just like an author. And I agonized over whether it’d be one S or two in the first name. This was a serious deal to me, even two decades ago.
And it still is. Obviously. Sunday afternoon is the one time I have true free time. All of the work I’ve left for the weekend is complete, finally. There’s always so much and so little time, especially when you meal prep. It sounds nice in theory, but then you spend all of a day off standing in the kitchen and you’re like….could have been at a fucking beach…..

Although going to the beach is kind of tainted for me now. Because we went two times this year, in the middle and end of June it was. And both times were between when my husband fucked a stranger without telling me about it, either before or after, and had planned on keeping a secret forever and when I caught him. And the day I found out, that Thursday, July 20th, so fucking easy to remember because it’s exactly 3 months after my birthday and 6 days after our dating anniversary, we’d been texting about going to the beach a third time. So it really just seems like a revolting concept to me now. I remember being like wow we had such good days when we went there….and now I know it was him feeling appropriately guilty.

So I guess I’m sick of the summer at this point. Especially since I’m no longer biking or grilling outside. Both lose their novelty and you’re like this is probably more bad for me than anything.

Hope your weekend was grand

~Cass

Also, you know, in case you’re a gluten free vegan, or you just like healthy shit:

https://cassiecooksblog.wordpress.com/2017/08/13/supremely-perfect-chickpea-salad/

 

 

Arguably rawer than even my usual

What I’m going to paste below has been copied from an email I sent to myself. The email content originated in 3 notes I wrote on my phone today, one around 6:30 when I was leaving for work, one during my 10 o’clock break and one during lunch – the only editing that I’m doing is replacing people’s names with the noun clusters I use to describe them in this anonablog.

Some context : Yesterday after he got home from work around 8 my husband was on the phone with his mom for quite awhile. He mentioned that she said she was worried she’d offended me by asking about my situation with my mom. Because, much like her constant strife over her daughter, on most occasions she’d rather not talk about it, or have to think about it, because she really can’t do much anyway. And to make it more fun for me, at one point I was alone at our table at a restaurant with my father in law, and what’s the first thing he asks me about? The exact same thing.

And when I get into the “this is the kind of life you deserve” thing, it’s because my husband grew up quite spoiled and quite privileged. And his friends were the same way. Now all of them are struggling to even find gainful employment, much less match their parents’ successes by their the time they were their age. But I guess rich kids grow up just assuming they’ll be like they’re parents (poor kids grow up terrified of that same thing) because it’s always been that way why wouldn’t it stay that way? My mom even said something along those exact lines recently. And more than once my husband has said something along the lines to me of how I should hurry up and become a famous author already. And like…it’s nice to be that believed in, I don’t say otherwise, but also..like…please tell me that’s not what he’s waiting for.

I think that’s all the preamble required. Whenever I post something I’ve written in angered haste on my phone it’s a hit on WP so…here goes:

“It really irritated me last night when you said the situation I’m in with my mom was “unfathomable” to your mom. It is to me to, but I still get to live it and be asked obnoxious questions about it by BOTH of your parents, who I have to see all the time whether I want to or not.

Also I’m sure you didn’t even notice but when you mentioned this landscaping company works Saturdays and I was like well that means you’ll get out at 2 then come home and pass out and you said you were going to beat that habit this time and it’s like no, I doubt it, I know you are capable, but I guess you need a true motivator like getting to spend time around [girl he volunteered with] who is so amazing and inspiring and intelligent and impressive the thought of getting to impress her gives you energy you’ve NEVER had in my presence. So I guess if you’ll start volunteering again you won’t start sleeping after work but if it’s between taking a four hour day nap or getting to spend time with me, well history speaks for itself which you’re going to pick.
Also, what was your reaction to her expressing worry she’s offended me with her needless and nosey questions? Was it to just immediately assure her she was in the right and just expressing concern? Not that she would be doing me a kindness if she could just shut up about it. Because of course your mother is going to need comfort and reassurance, you’ve got to look out for your mother’s and your own feelings no matter what and certainly before mine. I get the version of you that snaps over the STUPIDEST shit, the you who’s just fucking owned by his OCD to the point you can’t even see it when it happens, who’s always assuring me all I do is make you feel bad about yourself (and you felt bad about yourself waaaaaay before we met, so please stop attributing my attempts to maybe IMPROVE you as a person as a vicious attack, but you’re too busy being a good, sensitive person, i fucking forgot).

Also, do you wish you’d been single when you met [her]? She’s the kind of girl you deserve to be with, you’re so entitled to a life of luxury despite your inability to work hard or overcome anything or be understanding or dare I say sensitive towards me (you’re too occupied over your own feelings, I forget). Too bad you were already tied down with a slutty bitch like me who spent “over a year” being “infatuated” with someone else and hatefully telling you to fuck off whenever you so healthily tried to talk to me about them ( you know when you weren’t passed out drunk and unemployed). Poor you. You deserve better than me. You told me so.
And of course I have to be worried that if I ever express my feelings in a certain way, it might trigger you, and then you become this really awful to be around, scary, unreasonable, horrifying shit show who bashes his head against things because he’s SO ANGRY at me (and throws things at me, and shoves me, and says HATEFUL shit to me) I mean I caught you cheating with a disgusting Craig’s list stranger on July 20th. By August 2nd you were bashing your head against our coffee table and telling me you were ready to walk away from our marriage because of how awful I am to you. Project much????? And what happened to “I won’t let you hate me” ????? You can be strong and tolerant for me for a week, that’s it? Then it’s back to self centered child husband who is a hair trigger away from physically hurting himself and others. You know it’s really telling that you’re afraid to talk to a therapist because you think they’ll institutionalize you. Isn’t that the exact person that needs to be institutionalized????

And another thing, last Friday when we got into yet ANOTHER huge fight you said you couldn’t imagine I would have sex with someone even though I was uncomfortable about it. But you SURE were more than pleased to take advantage of that EXACT problem of mine when it meant you getting to have sex. Do you think I wanted to swing? No! Not once! It’s fucking gross! But I get home from work one day and you’ve made this profile. But somehow you don’t recall that as a problem. I felt like you were whoring me out to get yourself gratification because you hate me anyway and the ONLY thing that REALLY matters to you is gratifying yourself and soothing your compulsions. NO ONE AND NOTHING comes even close. Yet you spend all day convincing yourself otherwise.
God what did you do to get stuck with such an awful wife????
I am still SO angry and things keep getting worse. How long before a compulsion takes over and you stab yourself or me?
I’m sick of this. I’m sick of working so hard. I’m sick of being unappreciated. I’m sick of your DEEP need to always be the victim. I’m sick of crying at my desk. I’m sick of crying when you’re not home. I’m sick of your promises that never amount to anything.
You said you’d be better and make things better.
They’re worse
You’ve made them worse since then.
I can’t stand this.
It’s going to kill me.”
Admittedly, I do feel better now that I’ve said all that. Its like lancing poison out. And I DO also freely admit I would NOT react well if my husband sent me a pages long text like this.  That’s what makes him good. Not the ways he thinks, but there is a genuine patience and tolerance to him that’s not the fake I-put-up-with-abuse-to-make-people-like-me shit that people like my mom put on. I sensed it about him a long, long time ago, and I think even at 21 I knew that was what I really needed. Because I’ve always taken care of every and all of my needs, except my emotional needs. No clue about any of that.
So I don’t know. The last line refers to these weird chest pains I get some times. Lately.
I still don’t know where things are at or what’s up. But we both have been trying really hard, and we want to get better and improve, so, we’ll see I guess.
~Cassie

True, drunken feelings about my best friend 

I’ve discussed her many times before. But now I’ll level with you.

Few people mean more to me. She’s on an even level with my mother and my husband. No one else living even comes close to that tier.

And as I grow older I realize that we have known each other and been friends for a very long time. We don’t have to explain the past to each other, we were there. 

And even today, just texting with her drastically improved my happiness. 

Not that many, in fact like veeeeeery few others matter as much to me. And it’s all right that we’re both busy living separate adult lives in different states, that’s how life goes. But no matter what else has happened, she always manages to make me feel like I truly matter to her. Things might be distant but we’re both always there if we  really need. 

And there will never be a better analytical take on my life.

And I’ve always been so glad she’s a part of my life. 

That’s how I really feel. Sure, I’m so easily irritated I’ll bitch about things but let’s be real that’s a human reaction to human interaction, at least when you’re me.

I don’t want my longest standing connection to be something I took for granted when I had it. 

~Cass