Christmas sucks and I’m not that crazy about Easter either but I’m getting used to the Rabbit #cherrypiecure

posted by susan-oh-susan / march 14 at 2:20 am / uncategorized / 22 comments

I never really wish we were more religious at Christmas, because there are so many things—you know, the tree, the presents, all the decorations, all the special food—and it all seems special and important. And I don’t miss midnight mass or carols that much. We never had them a lot when I was little anyway. My parents belonged to one of those Protestant churches that’s more about social events and bake sales than worship… anyway. I can do secular Christmas. It’s fine. It’s fun.

Actually, I love Christmas.

Well, I loved Christmas. This past Christmas sort of sucked.

Why am I writing about Christmas?

Oh. Because kids. Here. And it’s March. And Marcella bought me a Rabbit for Easter. Which isn’t for another month. But I’m thinking about Christmas, and Easter.

At Easter, I feel like a horrible imposter. Impostor? Importer? I’m in a poster…

I’m an impostor…

I mean… if I were a real Christian, this would be my most important, most meaningful holiday, right? And instead, what is it? Eggs and chocolate rabbits… and…

…rabbits…

Damn you, Marcella. Now I’m busy thinking about NOT going to Safeway and NOT turning on the Rabbit.

Even though my… well, never mind that. That’s definitely over-sharing.

Ok. I think like I’m rambling today because there’s something I want to tell you but don’t want to tell you.

So I should just do it, right?

Why was I writing about Easter?

I am not, by the way, drunk.

Maybe a little.

Nika and I had a bottle of wine with dinner. I thought the boys were drinking too, so I didn’t think anything of it when it was empty—what’s a bottle of wine between four people, and I opened another one. And it wasn’t until it was empty that I realized Cody was drinking beer and Tyler water.

“I’ve got a thing about mixing alcohol and weed,” he explained. At least I think that’s what he said. The world was getting a little blurry by that point.

I love my children very much.

And, oh, I love Nika. I really want her to marry Cody.

Except she won’t.

The boys stayed downstairs to watch some sports thing on television.

“I’m going to take your drunk mother upstairs and put her to bed,” Nika said. Except in a nicer way. I don’t think she called me a drunk mother.

And I said, “Cody, I love this girl. You have to marry her.”

And Nika laughed and dragged me up the stairs.

In the bedroom, she said, “Mama Susan, how drunk are you?”

I thought about it very hard.

“Some?” I said.

“Not so drunk that you won’t remember things?”

I thought about it very hard.

Very hard.

Thinking when you’re drunk is very hard, by the way.

Thinking.

Writing.

Thinking I probably shouldn’t be writing this right now.

You know what would be a really brilliant invention? A computer or smartphone that picks up the alcohol level of the user from their finger tips… and shuts off. No more drunk texting. No more drunk blogging.

OMG, I’m drunk blogging.

That’s ok.

I just won’t hit publish.

I can write anything I want to.

Easter is weird and Christmas is fun. Ha.

Nika won’t marry my son.

“I am drunk but not so drunk I won’t remember things,” I assured her.

And then I ran to the en suite bathroom and puked.

Washed my face with cold water.

“Wow,” I said. “I don’t think wine has ever made me puke before.”

Nika laughed.

“Ok, Mama Susan, now sit down, and listen,” she said.

And she told me.

That she and Cody broke up a couple of weeks ago. But she wanted to come see me. And when she heard he was coming out, she asked him if she could come too. And he said, he thought it would be great for me to have a woman there—“Your son’s sort of a sexist pig sometimes, Susan, have you ever noticed? He doesn’t think he is, but he is,” she said, and I said, “He probably gets it from his father,” and I wanted to puke again, but I didn’t—and so they agreed that they would come together… and they decided that they wouldn’t tell me that they had broken up.

“Because you seemed to like me so much,” Nika said.

“I do like you so much,” I cried. “I love you!”

“I know,” Nika said, hugging me. “And I hope you still love me. As a friend. Not as a potential daughter-in-law.”

And I got so sad.

Sad, sad stupid Susan.

Sad sad sad sad.

Susan is sad.

“But I put you in the same room!” I exclaimed.

Because I am STOOOO-PEEEEEED.

Hey, I just spelled stupid with peed.

By the way, the spell-checker on this blog is AMAZING. It’s correcting all my typos.

“It’s ok, Susan,” Nika laughed. “We don’t mind.”

And I thought… well, it’s not like I listened for it. But as the Vacuuming Rabbit Vibrator incident showed, the walls in this house are not that… thick.

And I heard… things.

Maybe?

Not super loud things.

But, you know.

Happy squeaky kinds of things.

And I said something about that. To Nika, my no-longer-future-daughter-in-law.

Because… why?

Drunk Susan.

Also sad.

But more drunk.

Drunk-sad.

And silly.

“Oh, Susan,” Nika laughed. “Well, we’re sharing a bed. We were both horny. We had some fun.”

And then I’m pretty sure she gave me a lecture, about something, except I didn’t hear very much of it because I think I passed out.

Then woke up.

That was a bad idea. I should have stayed asleep.

Everyone was asleep.

I was awake.

And lonely.

Safeway was very very closed and it wouldn’t be open for hours.

Sad, lonely Susan.

Dumped, divorced Susan.

Alone.

Lonely.

Lumpy.

Dumpy-lumpy.

Dumped-lumpy?

But mostly lonely.

I turned on my computer.

And logged into the blog.

And oh my.

Drunk Susan typing.

Drunk Susan blogging.

Squee.

Pee.

Penis.

Hee hee hee.

Ok, I’m going to stop now.

Delete.

*

22 comments on Christmas sucks and I’m not that crazy about Easter either but I’m getting used to the Rabbit:

ilikeherbooty-full: Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. Susan, I love you.

mommyshidinginthebathroom3: Best. Drunk. Post. Ever.

mommyshidinginthebathroom3: My husband’s in IT. I’m going to get him to start working on that alcohol-sensing/locking app right away.

Caspian00XO: Go Susan!

susan-oh-susan: OMG! I hit delete! I hit delete! I didn’t hit publish!

BeautifulThingsEveryday: Cheer up, Susan. What deep dark secrets did you reveal while drunk? Lamest drunk post ever. You didn’t even mention the boy.

FemmeFataleFun: Susan, is your clit sore from your Rabbit ride? Because there are balms for that.

susan-oh-susan: I am so embarrassed. I. Am. So. Embarrassed. I’m just going to apologize to all of you and then I’m going to delete this blog post. Marcella, can you please come over tonight and show me how to do that?

BeautifulThingsEveryday: No fucking way. Let the record stand.

goddessofvictory: For sure, Mama Susan, let the record stand. That’s a hilarious drunk post. And this whole blog rocks.

susan-oh-susan: Nika? What are you doing here? No! Stop reading!

goddessofvictory: I’m sorry, Susan, it was up on your computer when I came in to check on you this morning. It’s awesome. I’ve loved reading it. I’ve read the whole archive. And I love you. More than I love your cherry pie.

ilikeherbooty-full: If you love her half as much as I love her cherry pie, that’s loving her plenty.

Caspian00XO: So I haven’t read everything—is the cherry pie, like, a, what do they call it, a metaphor? Like a name for her pussy or something?

goddessofvictory: Who is this guy?

ilikeherbooty-full: Never mind him. I’ll set him straight later. Shut up, Caz. So, Nika, you single now?

BeautifulThingsEveryday: Fucking stop it.

ilikeherbooty-full: Jealous, Cougar? There’s enough of me to go around.

susan-oh-susan: Nika, please, please don’t tell Cody, don’t tell anyone about this blog.

goddessofvictory: Pinky swear, spit swear for all eternity.

FemmeFataleFun: So do you want that clit balm? Just message me if you do.

*

mommyshidinginthebathroom3: Femme! Just got your package! Never leaving the bathroom now!

Find out more: Cherry Pie Cure: Cast of Characters and More

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(including fabulous paper)

mjanecolette
TellMe@mjanecolette.com

PS A Table of Contents of the Cherry Pie Cure/Susan’s Writing Cure Blog posts can be found at the Cherry Pie Cure landing page.

Feature image source: https://www.pexels.com/photo/alcohol-bottles-celebration-color-209620/

About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and the just released TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the non-fiction collection of essays ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, and the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown and Screw Chocolate. Coming in 2019: Once Upon A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown.

One comment

  1. Pingback: Cherry Pie Cure–the real time Blog Edition | m jane colette

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