Humor – freckled crab

Meh Mother’s Day

I was going to write a post for Mother’s Day, but I didn’t. It took me a little bit to realize why – it’s because my Mother’s Day was stinky.

I was a young single mom, and now my child is grown. I visited her a few months ago where it became apparent to me that although she likes texting me when I’m at my home, 2000 miles away, she does not enjoy my physical company. While I was there, sometimes she was rude, would say mean things but in a sweet voice, or go in to her room to nap and not come out for many hours. And I could see in her face – it was lockdown mode, like a garage door bumping down shut, and then her eyes drift off to her lower right – processing. Sometimes that she was both tolerating me and also not wanting to disappoint me. It’s a tough spot.

I understand there’s always a bit of regression when a child is near their parent, but when the parent travels 2000 miles just to do some things and spend some time, no need to be rude. I realized during that trip that I am now old and she is just not interested. Some of it is phase of life stuff, since I remember being her age and not super interested in my parents and feeling like I had to amuse them while they visited, instead of freaking unclenching and enjoying spending time with them like a normal human being (Oh my God I sound like my parents).

But also, because we grew up together, I think she feels a lot of responsibility for me emotionally, and now that she’s newly married with a husband who really depends on her, I don’t think she can carry the emotional burden of both of us. Not that I asked her to, but I’m thinking maybe she believes it’s baked into our relationship.

One Week Later

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Objectively, not personally. And I think I’ve found the answer:

I need to get a life.

Because for me: that just makes life better, right? Living life. Not waiting around for something to happen. And because for her: having a mom that is living life instead of shaking in the corner is so much better.

Simple shit, but I’m a slow learner.

The Last Night at Sturgis: A Private Metal Show for Fifty (and a Few Confused Dancers)

Rolling into downtown Sturgis on the last night of the rally is a little like showing up to a kegger after everyone’s already been arrested. The streets were quiet, the beer was warm, and the only thing still rolling was the tumbleweed of regret.

Shops were half-closed, their owners giving up on the last $20 sale of the week. A guy selling leather vests sighed so loud I thought his soul escaped. Even the tattoo artists looked tired—nothing sadder than a man packing up his “Free Touch-Ups” sign.

And the go-go dancers? Bless them. With no one left to perform for, they were dancing for each other—laughing, twirling, swapping turns like it was the end of the world and the jukebox wouldn’t stop. It was strangely wholesome. Like watching the last flamingo at the zoo just… vibe.

But I was there for one thing: Pop Evil.

Now, picture this—fifty of us in front of a full concert setup that could’ve powered a small city. It was like getting a heavy metal private show, except instead of champagne, there was Coors Light and the faint smell of burnt clutch.

The band came out and gave it everything. I mean, everything. They played like we were a packed stadium instead of a slightly inebriated support group. The guitars shredded, the drums went feral, and I swear the lead singer made direct eye contact with me during “Waking Lions.” It was spiritual.

And here’s the best part: at Sturgis, motorcycle revving takes the place of applause. They just fire up their Harleys, which are in the crowd and not like, parked in the back, like they’re summoning Thor. So between songs, the night exploded into revving engines, echoing off the wood store-fronts like a metallic standing ovation.

The band loved it. They smiled like maniacs, dripping sweat and gratitude. And I thought: this is it—the real Sturgis. No Instagram filters, no thousand-bike parade, just fifty stubborn weirdos and a band that refused to play small.

When it was over, the engines idled down, the last bar light blinked out, and the dancers took one final twirl. The rally was officially over, and it felt perfect—loud, weird, and just a little bit magical.

I walked back through the empty streets grinning like a fool. Because honestly, if you’re going to see a metal show, make it one where everyone can hear their own tinnitus.

Forest Turf Wars

I thought living out here in the woods would bring me serenity. Birdsong, mossy trails, that whole “Thoreau with Wi-Fi” vibe. Instead, I appear to be smack in the middle of a low-key turf war, fought with sticks, passive aggression, and camouflage netting.

First off, the lean-tos. Somebody had put time and effort into these—serious Lincoln Log energy. Straight branches, tight lashings, the kind of craftsmanship you only get from someone who’s watched at least three full seasons of Alone. And now? They’re knocked down and scattered, like Mother Nature threw a tantrum.

Then there’s the trail sabotage. My once-clear paths now have artfully dropped branches blocking them, like a woodland version of “You Shall Not Pass.” Not enough to be dangerous, just enough to trip over and mutter about while trying not to spill my travel mug. Honestly, it feels like a passive-aggressive beaver is running a HOA out there: “Oh, you wanted to walk HERE? Sorry, bylaws say detour through this thistle bush.”

And let’s not forget—it’s deer season. Which means men in ghillie suits now roam my dog-walking area. Imagine walking your sweet pup through the pines and realizing a shrub just winked at you. The forest floor crunches, your dog perks up, and suddenly you’re having a staring contest with a bush holding a rifle. Delightful.

What gets me is the sheer variety of combat tactics. Some mysterious woodland faction is going for brute force (lean-to demolition). Another is playing psychological games (branch barricades). And then the ghillie squad just… exists, like some kind of sniper-themed Easter egg hunt.

It’s ridiculous, but part of me admires the drama. Most neighborhoods get passive-aggressive notes about trash cans. Mine? Full-scale forest feuds with set design.

So tomorrow, when I leash the dogs and step into my “serene” backyard, I’ll be prepared. Maybe I’ll carry a rake, or maybe just bring popcorn. Because honestly, the forest turf war has better plot twists than half the shows on Netflix.

Don’t Mind the Hot Hot Mess

I forgot again. About this blog.

Holy crap I have to tell you about how I really forgot about things for six hours. BUT FIRST! I need to change/add some things to the site, like a cute link to my coloring book, because you guys, first of all, it’s adorable, and it helps to boost my confidence – to do something creative and people like it.

Meanwhile, look up Transient Global Amnesia.

My Countdown

I had a countdown going on for a minute there. It was for my vacation, in case you were curious. I had all kinds of plans for the blog countdown – a quick post daily, photos of the dogs every day so then I could make a cute video. Whole lotta nope.

I can think of two schools of thought to that – either I’m putting too much pressure on myself to do something that is a hobby, OR, stop being a lazy, procrastinating asshole. You can probably tell I agree more with the latter. Because I am a jerk. An undisciplined jerk.

Now that I’ve explained, I need a new countdown date. I have a bday with a zero in it coming up, so I could do that. No I will not say which decade I will be entering because you would be shocked, shocked and dismayed, by my immaturity. My emotional development stopped somewhere in the high teens but luckily I have other qualities that balance that out. Or that’s what I’m assuming because I do have friends that aren’t family and I am married so someone likes me.

Holy crap I just googled it’s less than 60 days until I am ?0.