Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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Keeping with my tradition of selecting a theme from favorite TV shows (Gossip Girl turkey and Rachel Zoe Project turkeys), I’ve chosen Mad Men as my theme this year. Fancy, also keeping with tradition (Rob Pattinson turkey #1 and “Happy Fangs-giving” turkey AKA Rob Pattinson turkey #2), has selected another scary movie staple: zombies of course!

We hope you enjoy our craftiness in the gallery below. Click on the “i” in the upper right corner of the gallery and you’ll get a caption too! Happy Thanksgiving!

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Our phone conversation last night began innocuously enough. How’s work, what did you do this weekend, how was the movie, let’s plan Mother’s Day, and the like. She went on to share her annoyance after attending my cousin’s birthday party earlier that day. Annoyance at feeling obligated to spend time with her family- her brother and sister and their spouses, her parents, her other nieces and nephews. Annoyance at being smothered and stifled and forced to “get with the program” after spending the past 27 years living four to 19 hours away from all of them. Now, suddenly she and my dad are back in the very town they grew up in, the same neighborhood even, and it’s weird. While listening, I thought I’d sympathize (empathize) with her, offer my apologies for how very annoying that must be.

I regret that now.

She acknowledged that “Yes, it IS weird,” we talked a bit more about it, and then we hung up. I got ready for bed in anticipation of another week working the equivalent of three jobs. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and stressed. Having finally done laundry after a month, I was just thinking what a blessing it was going to be to get dressed in the morning and not have to dig through the laundry bin for a “clean enough” pair of jeans when the phone rang again. She must have forgotten to tell me something, I naively thought.

No. Instead, my mom was calling me back to launch what amounted to the world’s most ironic argument. She informed me that she was “bothered” and “hurt” by my words. What words were those, I wondered. She threw out accusations while I sat stunned into silence; things like “I feel like a throw-away mother,” “you won’t let me call you every day or even every other day anymore,” “I never see you and you’re so close,” and “you’re cutting me out of your life.” She had the audacity to punctuate her claims by using my boyfriend as a catalyst for my apparent bad behavior, saying “you’re dating someone who doesn’t care about family and now you’re…”

And that’s when I cut her off. I love my mother, but hell no. While I had hitherto been preparing to decline the invitation to fight and hang up the phone, instead I got mad and retaliated like the truly resentful 29 year old daughter that I am.

“None of this has anything to do with him- I don’t want you calling all the time because I’m busy with work and feeling overwhelmed and can’t talk. And when I’m not at work I’m trying to relax, trying to still have a social life, trying to get things done like the dishes or the laundry. I’m trying to EAT an actual meal or SLEEP without having to knock myself out with medication. And as far as not seeing me very often, just because your life has changed and brought you into closer geographic proximity doesn’t mean that my life has changed to suddenly accommodate your nearness or availability.”

“But you kids are all that I have and now I feel like I’m losing you,” she sobbed. “I don’t have anything else in my life- our house is in foreclosure; I have no job, no friends, no….”

“That’s all you have. Really? Your adult children,” I quipped.

“Well, what else is there? What do you think I have that I don’t?” she shot back. And with that, we were off and running.

“It’s not my job to point out what you have to be happy about; that’s your job and if you can’t figure it out on your own, then you need to find a therapist to help you,” I flung at her. And I didn’t stop there. “Also, telling me that my brothers and I are your only happiness doesn’t actually make me feel good. It puts a lot of pressure on me to make and keep you happy and sane and that’s not okay. It’s an inappropriate expectation and it’s a refusal to acknowledge and adhere to healthy parent/ child boundaries.”

Four years of sessions with my own therapist were then met with her “go to” maneuver: martyrdom.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I didn’t mean to put pressure on you or make you upset. I’m not trying to be such a BAD mother…”

“You need help.” I repeated it five times as she tried to bar my words from entering her consciousness. “You’re depressed and unhappy with everything in your life and you’re pinning it on your daughter to make you feel better. I can’t fix your life for you.”

I’m fed up with these mind games and manipulations. I’m fed up with my parents and their problems and their refusal to act like adults, like parents, and be responsible for their own problems and feelings. I’m fed up with being my family’s scapegoat and outlet for all of their personal emotional turmoil. I. Am. Fed. Up.

And yet, while I’m unsurprised by my mother’s codependence, while I can anticipate her words and actions and understand what’s really going on beneath them; I am still deeply hurt and disappointed by her inability to act like the parent she ought to be. I am still hurt and disappointed that when I voice my own needs I am met with her victim mentality and guilt trips.

In response, she chose to cry.

Before the phone call ended, I questioned what she hoped to gain from the conversation. I’m not going to change, in fact cannot change, anything about my circumstances. I do not want, nor am I in a position, to sit on the phone for an hour each night while she tells me about what food she did or did not eat that day. And I cannot drop what I am doing to visit her for one to two weekends a month simply because she lives two hours away.

She may have been looking to be consoled and reassured, but unfortunately for her she came to the wrong person on the wrong day. I’m still a reliable “good” daughter, but I’m getting better at being a “good” individual.

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BUT….

It’s that time of year again. The time when competitive sports become interesting before their long winter (AKA baseball season), the time when words and phrases like “and 1,” “brick,” and “in the paint” once again become a part of my lexicon. When I marvel at Krzyzewski’s perma shoe polish hair, and am reminded of such animals as terrapins and catamounts and lobos, oh my!

March Madness is nearly upon us and while my body valiantly attempts to absorb this z-pack, I’ve also tried to absorb what sports commentary was available on ESPN for free (read: very little). Thus, my final four this year consists of Kansas, Kansas St., West Virginia, and Villanova. I know, I know…what, no Kentucky? Kansas St. over Syracuse? Really? Yes, really. Suck it, haters.**

And for those of you who are “meh” about The Madness, there’s that other bracket. My final four there? Lady Gaga, Taylor Momsen, Juliette Lewis, and Rhianna. I think Little J is the dark horse here in that while she may be young, she doesn’t have an excuse for being such a dumbass about fashion like Lady Gaga (it’s her thing), Juliette Lewis (she’s just cracked out anyway), and Rhianna (who actually can pull off most of her crazy). Little J, I am not amused.

That’s all I’ve got, kids. Back to drinking green*** tea and not sleeping at my desk. And you, well, you’ve got some brackets to fill out. So get to it, yo!

*Or applied.

**My apologies. Blame the cold medicine for my snarkiness. Also, GHatorade. 

***Because it’s green and it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Ahhh, snap.

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