Grandma, seeks reindeer

I suppose real bloggers post on a more regular schedule.  But I’m not a real blogger, am I?

Some periods of life just don’t result in material for a blog.  Sometimes, not even enough for a short Facebook post.  Either this is one of those times, or my chemo brain is worse right now than I thought.  If you are not aware, chemo brain is both real and sporadic.

This is the time of year I hate.  The period of November that is cold, grey, and rainy.  I would so much prefer snow.  These November days just feel like I do – blah.  And then it leads to December.

So much perkiness all around.  Really?  Is it real, or is everyone just better at pretending than I am?

I hate Christmas.

I have since I was a child.  With my alcoholic father, alternating between extreme depression because it would be his “last Christmas”…and then driving my mom and me while drunk, down icy streets.  My cousins all seemed to be enjoying themselves.  I don’t know if they really were.  I remained on the sidelines at my Babcia’s (Polish for grandmother) house, waiting for the whiskey to make my father totally obnoxious, and praying that some adult – any adult – would pull me aside and tell me everything would be okay.  (To this day, no one from my family will admit they had any idea my father was an alcoholic.  Yeah.  Right.)

So, if you like Christmas, please continue to do so.  At 68, I am pretty good at just gritting my teeth through December 26.  Then I self-medicate with hours and hours of college football.

I didn’t anticipate this topic when I started typing.  But.  Here we are.  I wish I could promise you future perkiness.  But as I wrote in the beginning, I don’t know how many – or few – precious days I have, and there are thoughts that need to be preserved.  Well.  Maybe they don’t really need to be.  I just want them to be, for whatever posterity there is.

And now I am going to seach for the recipe for Thompson turkey, to see if I think it could be adapted to a crock pot.  I can hope.

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