Of Birthday and Beer Pong

13,323 Days Alive

272 Miles Driven Today

80 Years Celebrated

1 Rubber Duck Won

Yes, we played something soberly akin to beer pong at Grandma Gator’s eightieth birthday celebration today.

No beer, just water, but still. Even the birthday lady and the babies got into it. Little Miss Bubbles, who is very opinionated on who gets to touch her and who doesn’t, loved seeing her Tia Theo (yours truly). I even got a kiss on the cheek and a high five. What more can one ask from an almost three year old?

I’m so proud of Mal and Bubbles for raising their girls with strong bodily autonomy. Neither Little Miss Bubbles nor the younger Baby Bubbles were forced to give or take affection from anyone present.

It was entertaining enough, especially seeing everyone play “beer” pong with toddlers. Cousin J did a good job and Cousin K was an absolute godsend. Uncle Gator was really good to me too. When I got overwhelmed he suggested I go into the den to decompress. It was very sweet but I was trying so hard to be sociable and present.

Grandma Gator, the birthday babe and officially an octogenarian, loved the raspberry lemonade blanket I made for her. I’m so glad as it’s been months in the making. I can’t wait to surprise Aunt and Uncle Gator with their own throw later next year.

Uncle Em, and his wife Aunt Elle, were also there. They were friendly, mostly. A dig or three about my weight, but other than that, no major drama. I turned the other cheek when he said something about my “pill popping” and my weight, but he did try to remain friendly. I guess. I don’t know if he hates me or not. He sure as hell doesn’t know me well enough to hate me with reason. But he’s a troubled person, with many mental and physical issues of his own, and I try to remember that in my interactions with him.

My hands are still shaking.

I love seeing my family but it always stresses me out. I feel, like, major anxiety afterwards when I see them. I went through all my yarn in a fit of post-familial mania. Purged three trash bags full. They’ll be donated to a teacher friend of Fen’s who is in need of yarn.

Anyway, my stomach is sour again and I am wrung out like a washcloth after a bath. I’m going to bed.

Take your meds, folks.