* I wrote a post about my uncle a few months ago, and this is the follow-up. I actually mailed him a copy of this letter and sent one to his personal and work e-mails. I also included a copy of the afore mentioned post, which pretty much says it all. I will not be ignored. Heh. *

Dear Uncle,

I sat down tonight to write you this letter after weeks of staring at the phone, dialing your number and then hanging up. I wanted to say some things but knew that the temperament of a phone call could be too harsh, words said and exchanged that could be misconstrued and twisted and used against either one of us, mostly I’m sure by you.  This letter is in black and white. It is solid. It is truth. You may choose not to read it, and that is your decision. But if I know you, you’ll read it. It may take a few tries, but you will. I know we are too much alike to not read something passed between us and our curiosity rivals that of the cat who allegedly died for his passionate pursuit of such. I also know that we are of the fiery temper and this is liable to end up shredded or aflame in some random fireplace. But don’t worry, I emailed you a copy and put one on the internet where it is bound to live forever. And if you want to talk about this letter to anyone, feel free. You certainly exercise every opportunity you have to speak ill of your family to everyone you see. I’m sure you think we don’t know about all of the things you say, but never forget that small town circles run deep and are far-reaching. You used to tell me that no one can outrun a radio or a phone. Neither can you.

I have always loved you. Through all of your bullshit and drama. You have always made me laugh and you can carry on like no one else I know with your quick wit and dry humor. When Daddy died, you were the second person I called in those screamingly painful wee hours when we were seeing our worst fears realized. I first called my brother who shares the same mutual disdain for you as you do for him. And then, I called you. I wanted you there to tell us it would be ok, to take us through the awful journey that losing the most important man in all our lives took us on, to take care of us. Like you promised my Father. The promise you have broken. The promise being picked up and delivered by others in our family, strong men who say what they mean and mean what they say. Men who haven’t let the business of a dollar get in the way of what’s right.

You like to talk about people. You talk about (name omitted so as not to awaken the drama llama) like she is no better than dog poo on your shoe, about how she has forsaken the family and is no good to anyone. And now, you are no better than she is. You have forsaken your sister, who looked to you for strength and support when the main source of her’s is gone. And where are you? Sitting on your porch a few miles away, stewing because you weren’t given anything. Bitching to whoever will listen about a Jeep, a boat, a pickup truck and a boat house, as if these were the most important things in life. They are not. I have heard you have problems of your own. Who doesn’t? In the two months since you have spoken to your sister, you didn’t have a minute to pick up the phone? To say “Hi, I know you are having a tough time, but so am I, I just called to say I love you.” You can’t even do that? You can go to the hunting lease just down the road and visit friends who live a mile away but you can’t take time for your blood? You are sorrier than the people you talk ill about. And this isn’t the first time. Remember Barbara, your other sister? Who you shunned for years after Grandma died and y’all fought over her stuff? And when she died unexpectedly you told me how you wished you hadn’t done it and that it was one of your biggest regrets and you loved your sister and blah blah blah more of your lying bullshit. You had me fooled into thinking you learned something from that.

So many people have told me to forget you, to write you off. If it was just me I probably could. But to know my mother cries over you and is hurting more than she has to because you are acting like an ass leads me to this. There is time for forgiveness. There is time to make it right. She misses you,  you selfish jerk. You still have a family. Be part of it before it’s too late. Or not. It’s your loss, and I hope it hurts you as much as you’ve hurt my mother. And then some.

Your niece,

As you get older, your friendships and your family ties are supposed to strengthen and mold into some type of safety net for your life. At least that’s how it happens on the big screen and in many books. Mostly fiction.

Real life is not always so warm and fuzzy.

It’s more of a sticky, syrupy haphazard obstacle course laid out like some game on which I find myself the pawn lately.

I’m tired of it. I’m making cuts. Severing ties. Doing for me. Me. ME. Or of you like the interwebz slang, MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !

If you’re not aware, there is the asshole uncle saga.

The ex-wife and evil step-daughter saga’s.

The other family drama I have yet to blog about for fear of the nuclear bomb it will unleash upon my barely hanging onto the definition of family.

And now, as it has been before, the frenemies saga.

The people in this picture were my friends. Two of them were what I would have called best and lifelong friends.

They were my friends before Gregory and I fell in love. They were mutual friends of ours. If not for them, there would be no Kim and Gregory. P was Gregory’s friend for 30 years. They went to school together, they lived together, they were like brother’s. C was a teenager when she and P started dating and knew Gregory for just as long. The have a lake house three houses down from ours. Their home is a 1/2 mile from mine, their subdivision borders ours. I worked with them, I cried with them, I played with them. Some of the best memories of my life happened at their home and at the many Auburn games we went to with them.We were as thick as thieves at one point. In the beginning of our relationship, they were less than thrilled with G and I being together. I’m still not totally sure why. There were things said, feelings hurt, but in the end, the friendship prevailed. After we got married, we still hung out, but not as much, what with jobs, the kids, etc. Gregory and P had a falling out, and we tried to repair the damages to save the friendship, but things were always different. One of the reasons we stopped hanging around so much was because of the atmosphere and some of the people in their circle. It just wasn’t good for us. So we retreated into suburbia, soccer practice, weekends at the lake, and us. When G went into the hospital, these people were on a cruise. They came to the funeral. They were “here” for me, to a degree. But really they were here for themselves. They are toxic. They are the kind of people that cannot stand for others to be happy, because they are not. Even though it took me awhile to see that about them, I mourned the death of our friendship as I mourned the death of my husband and slowly tried to put them out of my mind.

And then came the estate battle.

I hadn’t heard from them in months. I had heard about them, oh yes. About them hosting my ex-husband at their home. About their digging into mine and Gregory’s business. Then they showed up at my father’s funeral. It wasn’t the time or place to confront them.

Two weeks after we buried my father, I saw them again. Sitting on wooden benches in a Shelby County courtroom, with Gregory’s ex-wife and my step daughter. Neither would meet my eyes. They sat in that courtroom and listened to the testimony. For what? I don’t know. Neither were privy to our business decisions, personal or otherwise. At that moment they were dead to me. Gone. Ghosts in the machine. I deleted their numbers, threw out anything that physically had anything to do with either of them.

Today while I was mowing my grass, I missed a call. From C. She left a voice mail. I haven’t talked to her in so long, I almost couldn’t place the cadence of her voice. But then I did. I recognized the drunken slur. The “Hey girrrrrl” she always started off with when talking to me drunk. She wanted to know “how the hell I was doing” and why she hadn’t heard from me all summer. Really? REALLY.

At first I was MAD AS HELL. She has some damn set of balls to be calling me after all of this. Then I was sad. I was sad for the past, for the life that I had before, when everything seemed so perfect. Then I was mad again, mad that one call could send me into an emotional tailspin, questioning my emotions, my decisions, myself. Mostly mad at myself. I am in charge of me, no one else. And the me that’s in charge says the hell with her, the hell with them. All of them. All of the people who cause me anger, grief, and to question myself. I don’t need them in my life. Not right now. Maybe never.

They are going away. To some far off corner in my mind where they can stir the pot of crap they bring with them and make mayhem amongst themselves. I’m not dealing with them anymore.

From here on out, its all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns farting cupcakes.

Or as close as I can get.

Yesterday I decided to stop by Macy’s and see what kind of new fat girl clothes they might have that appealed to me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with that idea because the place was packed out.

I looked for a bit and found a few things I thought might work and headed to the dressing rooms. While I was finishing up I heard a heated exchange between two ladies (and I use that term generously) that went something like this….

Woman #1 “What the hell? Someone’s up in my fitting room!” (bangs on door with the fury of a SWAT team)

Woman #2 (in said fitting room) “Stop banging on the GD door – I’m butt naked!!”

Woman #1 “You need to get outta there, don’t you see my stuff?!” (bang bang bang)

Murmurs were heard from the other rooms, all full.

Woman #2 “You wait just a GD second and I’ll be out.” (much slamming and rustling)

(I hurried to get dressed cause I didn’t want to miss this scene.)

Woman #1  ”You best fuckin’ hurry up cause I’m tired of waitin’ on your ass I want my stuff.”

I slowly open the door to the room I was in to see a very large, very angry black woman hovering next to the dressing room door next to mine, holding a huge mound of clothes. Barefoot. In Macy’s. And yes, I am telling you she was black because this factors into the story in about 30 seconds.

An equally angry, equally sized white woman flung the door open to the disputed dressing room wearing only her bra and panties and stepped into the tiny hallway to confront her nemesis, effectively blocking my escape. Shit.

More four, five and even higher number words were exchanged and I noticed a pile of clothes on the floor of the seemingly priceless piece of real estate. Right next to the pile, two pairs of shoes. Using my amazing detective powers I concluded that these belonged to W#1 and W#2. I also immediately thought that I could stomp on their toes and outrun them while they writhed in agony  if they banded together and turned on me since I was obviously the smaller opponent.

W#1 then looks directly at me and says “Hey! You saw me going out when you were coming in, tell her that’s my dressing room!”

I  said I didn’t know who had what that as far as I knew Macy’s owned the dressing rooms and I’m sure y’all can work it out, and excuse me but can I get by please?

W#2 immediately follows up with “That’s right honey you tell her, it’s for ANYONE to use, and I’m going to keep using it and she can just wait til I get finished.”

Shit.

And then W#1 comes out with this gem ….. “You white people, you always got to stick together.”

SERIOUSLY ?  Saying that crap ? Over a dressing room?

My response ?

“Are you both crazy? I don’t give a shit who had what, but I’ll tell you something. You’re both acting like ignorant twats and frankly, I’d be embarrassed to try anything else on if I were either one of you because I wouldn’t want to look at my dumb ass in the mirror!”

And I made my escape.

Guess neither one of them will be friending me on Facebook anytime soon.