Relative Survival Explains Itself

I'm a Survivor. Not in the pink ribbon, race for the cure kind of way. More like I stuffed my angst and misery deep down inside and didn't draw up a manifesto-inducing spree kind of way.

And I'm pretty sure my relatives are to blame. For example, I just returned from a three week visit with family and friends in Texas over the Christmas and New Year Holidays. Unfortunately, my mother has chosen this time to launch her mid-life crisis. Nothing spells awkward like a 55 year old grandmother of three demonstrating her booty-pops (courtesy Zumba class) to her son-in-law while in her sports-bra. And that was just Day 1 of our 20 day stay. But more on that later.

So, back to being a survivor. From checkered childhood to dramaculous adulthood, in my efforts to overcompensate with my own children for the mother-figure that Disney villains are made of, I still end up falling oh-so-short of the mark. Let me declare this blog a record of my journey from the day I ruined my mother's 21st birthday (which also happens to be my BIRTH day) til present day.