FUCK CANCER.

No.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK CANCER.

I say that from the very bottom of my soul with every ounce of strength I have left.

The biggest middle finger I can possibly throw belongs to cancer.

I’ve had it twice myself.

Thyroid cancer.

Uterine cancer.

Thankfully, I’m still here.

But so many of my people aren’t.

Cancer has stolen way too many of them.

Lately I’ve realized something…

I’m at a point in my life where I desperately need to have a conversation with my grandma.

There are so many things I need to ask her.

So many stories I never thought to hear.

So many recipes I should’ve written down.

So much advice I didn’t know I’d one day need.

I can’t.

She’s been gone for almost thirteen years now.

Then, just a few months ago, we lost my Aunt Char.

Now you have to understand…

She was my person.

She had been since the first time she held me as a baby.

When I was little, I wanted to be wherever she was. As I grew up, our relationship changed, but one thing never did…

She was always there.

She was the one I’d message when I needed advice.

When I wanted to bitch about family.

When motherhood was kicking my ass.

When I found a new recipe I just had to share.

When something hilarious happened.

When life felt too damn heavy.

And the beautiful part was…she’d message me too. Just as often. Sometimes she needed to vent about family. Sometimes she’d send me a recipe she thought I’d love. Sometimes she’d tell me something funny that had happened. Sometimes she’d ask my opinion or just check in because she wanted to talk. We were each other’s safe place, and I don’t think either of us ever had to wonder if the other one would answer.

Our personalities were so much alike. We saw the world through a lot of the same lens. Politics, food, family, life…we could talk about absolutely anything.

The other day, something happened.

Without even thinking, I opened Messenger and started typing her a novel.

Paragraph after paragraph.

Exactly like I’d done hundreds of times before.

I laughed while I typed.

I complained.

I asked for her opinion.

My finger hovered over Send…

…and then it hit me.

She isn’t going to answer.

Ever again.

I just sat there staring at the screen while the realization crashed over me all over again.

Grief is a real son of a bitch like that.

It doesn’t always show up on anniversaries or holidays.

Sometimes it sneaks up on you on an ordinary Tuesday while you’re doing something you’ve done a thousand times.

One second you’re living your life…

The next you’re crying over a message that will never be read.

I hate losing people who matter.

I don’t care if it’s cancer.

A heart attack.

A car accident.

Old age.

None of it feels fair when it’s your person.

People love to say, “Time heals all wounds.”

I don’t think that’s true.

I think time teaches you how to survive the wound.

The sharp edges eventually dull a little.

You stop crying every single day.

You learn to laugh again.

But there are people-shaped holes in your heart that never completely close.

You just learn how to carry them with you.

So today…

Cancer gets another giant, unapologetic middle finger from me.

Because it didn’t just take lives.

It stole conversations that should’ve happened.

It stole holidays.

It stole recipes.

It stole phone calls.

It stole advice.

It stole hugs.

It stole future memories that families will never get to make.

And that’s the part that breaks me.

To everyone who is missing someone today…

I see you.

I know that ache that comes out of nowhere and steals the air from your lungs.

I’d give just about anything…

For one more hug.

One more laugh.

One more “I love you.”

One more conversation.

Fuck cancer. Forever and always.

PEEEEEEPS…

Nobody warned me that one of the hardest parts of parenting wasn’t diapers…

It wasn’t potty training…

It wasn’t middle school hormones…

It wasn’t teaching teenagers how to drive while simultaneously praying to every deity ever invented.

NO.

It’s this absolute BULLSHIT where you’re supposed to just…let them become PEOPLE.

Excuse me?!

I MADE THESE PEOPLE.

I grew them.

I fed them.

I kept them alive despite their lifelong commitment to making questionable decisions.

Now society expects me to just casually release them into the wild like…

“Fly, my beautiful children!”

ABSOLUTELY THE HELL NOT.

In my brain they’re still tiny little baby ducklings that belong tucked safely underneath me during a thunderstorm.

Reality, however, has filed an official complaint.

Friday morning Lillian is headed to Burwell with all the girls in her senior class for a lake day.

So while she’s out there voluntarily swimming in giant fish toilet water and hanging onto the side of a boat like she’s auditioning for Redneck Survivor, I will be pretending I’m totally fine.

Narrator:

She was, in fact…NOT fine.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Miller Circus will be in Geneva for Jaxin’s end-of-year baseball pool party.

Jaxin is 13.

Translation…

“Dad…Mom…can I go…”

Can I go here?

Can I go there?

Can I go with so-and-so?

Can I leave?

Can I breathe outside the property line?

My guy…I haven’t emotionally processed you turning FIVE yet.

Then there’s Vern.

That child either disappears into her room like Bigfoot avoiding the paparazzi…or suddenly wants to go to her friend’s house in McCool.

I’m beginning to suspect she’s mastered teleportation.

Matt?

WORK.

Always.

So…

What the hell am I supposed to be doing?!

Besides cleaning.

Doing laundry.

Cooking.

Writing.

Inventing desserts that contain enough butter to make a cardiologist audibly gasp.

And wandering through my house wondering why it’s simultaneously too quiet AND somehow still sticky.

Because here’s the thing…

I’ve spent the last 18 years being “Mom.”

Not that I’ll ever stop being Mom…

But my babies don’t need me every five minutes anymore.

And while I’m ridiculously proud of the humans they’re becoming…

I’d also like to file a formal complaint with whoever decided time should move this damn fast.

Rude.

Disrespectful.

Zero stars.

Would not recommend.

SO…

What’s next for Heather Joleen Miller?

WELL…

You know me.

My ADHD treats hobbies like Pokémon.

GOTTA CATCH ‘EM ALL.

So naturally…

I have already started something.

Because apparently sitting still and relaxing is a personality trait I was NEVER issued.

And I honestly think y’all are gonna lose your ever-loving minds when you find out what it is.

So…

Let’s play a game.

👇 Drop your guesses in the comments.

The FIRST person to guess correctly gets a special surprise from yours truly.

Now if you’ll excuse me…

I’m gonna go pretend I’m emotionally stable while secretly tracking my children with the power of anxiety, caffeine, and a mother’s supernatural ability to know when somebody’s doing something dumb from three counties away.

Pray for me.

Or send snacks.

Actually…

Send snacks.

PEEPS.

I….. sighs

I have officially reached the conclusion that someone has hired a swamp witch, a forest goblin clan, and the entire fucking woodland community to put a curse on me.

There is NO OTHER EXPLANATION.

This morning…

I woke up before my alarm.

Not a little before.

4:00 A.M.

FOUR.

IN.

THE.

MORNING.

Why?

WHO THE HELL KNOWS.

My brain apparently decided today was the perfect time to contemplate life, the universe, every embarrassing thing I’ve done since kindergarten, and whether raccoons have organized crime families.

(They HAVE to…right?)

So there I am…

Wide awake.

Staring at the ceiling.

Questioning every life decision that has brought me to this exact moment.

Finally I gave up.

Dragged my exhausted ass into the kitchen because surely…

SURELY…

Coffee would save me.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

NO.

My coffee pot has apparently decided it’s done participating in society.

It doesn’t brew coffee anymore.

It just spits and leaks boiling hot-ass water all over my countertop and floor like it’s trying to recreate Old Faithful.

I managed to get about 2½ ounces of what can only be described as…

Coffee LaCroix.

The idea of coffee.

Coffee’s emotionally unavailable cousin.

This shit is so weak I think the coffee beans just waved at the water as it walked by.

So I’m thinking…

“It’s fine. I’ll go sit in my peaceful little zen spot on the deck.”

I sat down.

Got comfy.

Started calming down…

And then…

BOOM.

WRONG.

OUT OF ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOWHERE…

A BIG ASS CROW lands LESS THAN A FOOT FROM ME.

THUD.

Just standing there.

Looking directly at me like…

“Mornin’, Heather. Rough day?”

(In a British accent, obviously.)

I say this with my entire being…

GET THE FUCK OFF MY DECK, YOU FEATHERED ASSHOLE.

And then I remembered…

THIS IS THE SAME DECK…

WHERE YESTERDAY…

Some unidentified woodland criminal climbed up and TOOK A SHIT ON MY TABLE.

NOT THE YARD.

NOT THE GRASS.

THE TABLE.

THE ACTUAL FUCKING TABLE.

The crow wasn’t visiting.

He was conducting quality control.

At this point I’m convinced the wildlife has a neighborhood Facebook group where they coordinate ways to inconvenience me.

“Hey guys…Heather’s outside.”

“Bet.”

I don’t know what kind of Disney Princess contract some of you people signed…

But nature hates ME.

Mother Nature and I have officially filed for divorce.

FUCK NATURE.

FUCK THE OUTSIDE.

The birds are assholes.

The squirrels are probably in on it.

The raccoons are DEFINITELY the masterminds.

And whatever took a dump on my table yesterday is obviously the Godfather of this entire operation.

Also…

IT IS ONLY…

6:14 A.M.

SIX.

FOURTEEN.

IN.

THE.

MORNING.

Do you understand how much of today I have already TODAY’D?!

I’ve been awake for OVER TWO HOURS…

WITHOUT REAL COFFEE.

By 9:00 I’ll feel like I’ve lived an entire year.

By noon I’ll probably be speaking fluent crow…

(You know…so I can cuss at them in their own language.)

By supper I’ll either have solved all the world’s problems…

Or I’ll be fist-fighting whatever poor woodland creature makes eye contact with me because it was looking at me funny.

AND THEN…

As if this entire dumpster fire wasn’t enough…

I looked at the calendar.

It’s.

Only.

Fucking.

TUESDAY.

YOU GUYS.

I HAVE TO SURVIVE UNTIL FRIDAY WITHOUT A COFFEE POT.

I’d like everyone to start making funeral arrangements immediately.

Instead of flowers…

Please bring coffee.

And your favorite snacks.

Instead of a eulogy…

I would like the service to begin with the sound of a coffee maker brewing while everyone participates in mandatory Music Appreciation Hour.

If you don’t hear from me by Friday…

Assume the wildlife won.

Tell my family I loved them.

Tell my children to avenge me.

Tell Matt I died doing what I loved…

Complaining.

And tell that crow…

AND HIS ENTIRE FEATHERED STREET GANG…

This isn’t over, bitches.

NOT.

BY.

A.

LONG.

SHOT.

BRUH…lemme set the tone for today’s episode of “Heather Can’t Have Nice Things.”

Made myself a fresh cup of my disgusting hot bean water.

Opened the back door.

Walked out to my comfy chair.

Sat down.

Took one deep, peaceful breath…

…and immediately smelled SHIT.

Now hold on.

It wasn’t human shit.

At least I don’t THINK it was.

It took me a solid minute of sniffing around like some kind of bloodhound before I found the crime scene.

Y’ALL…

SOMETHING POOPED ON MY TABLE.

Not on the deck.

Not in the yard.

Not by the flower pots.

ON.

MY.

TABLE.

The AUDACITY.

Who the hell climbs UP onto someone’s deck table just to take a dump?!

I can’t have nice things.

Ever.

Anywhere.

Mother Nature wakes up every morning and chooses violence specifically against me.

“Oh…Heather finally has a peaceful little coffee spot…”

“Shit on it.”

Rude.

Then I happened to look up…

WHO is brave enough to climb on my roof and knock down TWO giant wasp nests??

They’ve already been sprayed, so theoretically there shouldn’t be any spicy sky demons left in there…

…I hope.

But somebody still has to knock those big bastards down.

Should I be climbing on a roof with my shitty MS balance, numb legs, and the coordination of a newborn deer learning to ice skate?

ABSOLUTELY not.

Will that stop me if nobody else does it?

…stay tuned.

If they aren’t gone by tonight, I’ll post a schedule for anyone interested in watching me make terrible life choices. Bring lawn chairs. Maybe an EMT. Just in case.

NOW…

Let’s move on to something that ISN’T trying to kill me.

MY GARDEN!!

MY TOMATO PLANT IS ABSOLUTELY SHOWING OFF!!

That bitch is LOADED.

The tomatoes are HUGE.

They’re GREEN.

And let’s all quit pretending they’re ever gonna turn red.

Nope.

Those heifers were born to become fried green tomatoes and they don’t even know it yet.

I’ve also got SIX jalapeños getting bigger every day…

…and approximately 47 metric tons of mint.

So who’s coming over for fresh mint juleps??

And later this summer…

Homemade salsa.

I don’t make the rules.

The garden does.

Today’s main event, though…

The basement.

Me.

Three teenagers.

And enough cleaning supplies to qualify as a chemical weapon.

This whole “Mom doesn’t have a full-time job” thing is REALLY starting to piss my kids off.

Because now I have time.

Too much time.

And when I have time…

EVERYBODY has chores.

I’m broke…

So my entertainment is making my children clean things they’ve been strategically ignoring for six months.

There will absolutely be a dump run.

There will absolutely be free stuff.

And there will probably be food too because we’re cleaning out the deep freeze and if we aren’t gonna eat it before it expires…

One of you heathens might as well.

Meanwhile…

Lily has officially reached her limit with me.

This child has ALREADY bought all of her school supplies.

Her backpack is packed.

Ready to roll.

She informed me LAST WEEK…

“This summer has been buns cheeks so far. Might as well just go back to school now.”

—Lillian Rae

Imagine your mother becoming such a relentless pain in your ass that ALGEBRA starts sounding fun.

Couldn’t be me.

Actually…

It absolutely could.

AND FINALLY…

I worked a WHOLE seven-hour shift yesterday.

SEVEN HOURS.

Apparently that was enough to emotionally traumatize my dog.

Kashy has refused to acknowledge my existence all morning.

Won’t look at me.

Won’t cuddle me.

Won’t even fake being happy I’m home.

She’s treating me like I cheated on her.

Matthew Miller…

Buddy…

We’re gonna need you to become outrageously wealthy.

Because Kashy has made it crystal clear that my true calling in life is being a full-time stay-at-home dog mom.

And honestly…

I support her career goals for me.

I’ve always felt like I was everyone’s second choice.

I know.

I KNOW.

It’s probably all in my head.

Probably something I should unpack in therapy instead of trauma-dumping on the internet.

But therapy costs money.

Facebook is free.

So here we are.

My idiot brain has spent forty years convincing me that somebody else is always prettier…

Smarter…

Funnier…

More talented…

More likable…

Just…

Better.

Anyway…

Let’s completely derail this emotional train and talk about my teachers.

Because whether they realize it or not…

These people helped create the sarcastic, loud-mouthed, coffee-fueled, weird-ass feral housecat standing before you today.

## Kindergarten

My kindergarten teacher was the first pregnant woman I’d ever actually spent any amount of time around.

I was absolutely fascinated.

She had this beautiful classroom with giant windows.

We got graham crackers with frosting and milk for snack.

She was just…

Kind.

Ten out of ten.

Would absolutely attend kindergarten again.

## First Grade

This is where school got serious.

Math happened.

I don’t really have a funny story.

Just love for my first-grade teacher.

I still see her around every once in a while.

I’m positive she has absolutely no clue who I am anymore…

…but she left an impression that’s lasted almost thirty-five years.

That’s pretty incredible when you think about it.

## Second Grade

I literally don’t remember this bitch’s name.

She got married over the summer.

She had been a student teacher the year before…

…and I was THRILLED when she left.

Only for her to come back as my actual teacher.

Apparently my brain decided she wasn’t worth the storage space.

Moving on.

## Third Grade

Started the year with a teacher I absolutely adored.

No notes.

Loved him.

Then…

My family moved.

Which, looking back, seemed to be our favorite hobby.

Then I got…

The worst teacher I have ever had.

If I ever have the unfortunate experience of seeing this woman again…

I don’t care if she’s ninety-five…

I will still have to fight the urge to throat punch her.

She made me hate school.

She made me feel like I couldn’t do anything the “right” way.

She made me dread waking up every morning.

I hated it so much that I literally learned how to make myself throw up just so they’d send me home.

No child should ever feel that way because of one adult.

Thankfully…

We moved again.

The teacher I had after that completely changed everything.

I was only in her classroom for a couple of months…

But she made me feel safe again.

Between her kindness and a few really good friends…

School became fun again.

One teacher almost ruined learning for me.

Another reminded me why I loved it.

That’s how much power teachers have.

## Fourth Grade

School got harder.

Life got messier.

Those teachers were patient.

They cared.

Sometimes…

That’s enough.

## Fifth Grade

This teacher is the reason I became obsessed with science.

She made it fun.

She also told us the most horrifying eyeball story known to mankind.

It was educational.

It was traumatizing.

I still think about it whenever I touch my contacts.

Mission accomplished, I guess.

## Sixth Grade

I have notes.

Several.

During a parent-teacher conference I was sitting outside your classroom while my mom and dad parked the car.

You thought I couldn’t hear you.

You were wrong.

I heard every word.

You talked about my body.

You said I shouldn’t wear shorts because I was too big.

You said it was embarrassing.

You said my parents should be ashamed for letting me dress that way.

You said I wasn’t attractive.

I was eleven years old.

Maybe you don’t remember saying any of that.

I do.

Forty years later…

I still hear those words sometimes when I look in the mirror.

I genuinely hope…

I was the only child who ever left your classroom carrying something that heavy.

## Seventh Grade

Literal angel.

I started my very first period…

During study hall…

Surrounded by teenage boys…

While wearing white shorts.

If you just physically cringed…

Good.

You understand.

She handled it with kindness and dignity.

I’ll never forget that.

Also…

Home Ec.

The teacher who accidentally got me interested in cooking.

Little did anyone know I’d eventually spend years working in professional kitchens.

Life has a funny sense of humor.

## High School

There is a reason I chose to send my own kids to that school.

I had teachers who made me feel seen.

Teachers who listened.

Teachers who encouraged my weird ideas instead of trying to squash them.

Teachers who somehow convinced other kids to be nicer to me.

Teachers who introduced me to poetry.

To writing.

To books.

Teachers who made learning genuinely fun.

One teacher spent half the class actually teaching and the other half somehow getting talked into playing games with us.

Educational?

Questionable.

Fun?

Absolutely.

One teacher taught me how to use a table saw without removing any fingers.

Honestly…

An underrated life skill.

And then there was one administrator.

The kind every school deserves.

The kind who cared.

Really cared.

Even now, years later, if I see him at a school event…

He stops.

He asks how I’m doing.

He asks about my kids.

He listens.

He hugs me.

He remembers.

Kids notice when adults genuinely care.

They always have.

—

Here’s the point to this ridiculously long ADHD-fueled TED Talk.

Teachers have no idea how much power they hold.

Actually…

ALL adults do.

Some of them become the voice inside your head that cheers you on for the rest of your life.

Others…

Become the voice that tells you you’re ugly.

That you’re too fat.

That you’re weird.

That you’ll never be good enough.

The incredible teachers probably have no idea how much they changed my life.

The terrible ones probably don’t remember me at all.

But I remember every single one of them.

Every kind word.

Every smile.

Every eye roll.

Every insult.

Every moment they made me feel seen.

Every moment they made me feel invisible.

So if you’re a teacher reading this…

Please remember…

You aren’t just teaching math.

Or science.

Or English.

You’re helping build the voice a child is going to hear inside their own head for the next fifty years.

You may never know which sentence they carry with them forever.

So please…

For the love of all things holy…

Make damn sure it’s a kind one.

There are very few people on this planet that I can confidently say helped create the absolute feral, sarcastic, hard-headed menace to society that I am today.

My mother likes to think she raised me right.

Bless her heart.

But let’s be honest…

She has spent the last 40 years trying to undo what Paul Anthony Patton accidentally programmed directly into my DNA.

Spoiler alert…

She lost.

Ladies and gentlemen…

Meet my father.

If you haven’t yet, congratulations. You’re about to understand me a whole lot better.

If you HAVE met him…

Well…

This story probably isn’t going to surprise you one damn bit.

Paul Anthony Patton.

Professional Old Fart.

Retired truck driver.

Full-time smartass.

Part-time instigator.

And quite possibly one of the most ornery human beings God has ever unleashed upon this Earth.

Now before anyone gets offended on his behalf…

HE would be offended if I DIDN’T call him ornery.

It’s one of his greatest accomplishments.

According to my Aunt Sue, he was a naughty little brat as a kid.

According to my Aunt Pat, somewhere around middle school he evolved into a full-blown naughty little shit.

Honestly…

I don’t think he ever outgrew it.

He just got wrinkles.

Lower back pain.

Questionable knees.

Dad noises every time he stands up.

The attitude, however?

Factory original.

Zero miles.

Never serviced.

And apparently…

Hereditary.

Because I am, without question, the female version of my father.

Not just because we’re both sarcastic.

Not just because we think arguing is an Olympic sport.

Not just because if someone tells either one of us, “You can’t…”

We immediately make it our life’s mission to prove them catastrophically wrong.

No.

I literally LOOK like the man.

I’ve got his build.

His arms.

His hands.

Sometimes I’ll catch myself looking down and have to do a double take because I swear to God…

I’m looking at my dad’s hands.

And every single time…

My heart does this weird little thing.

It’s happy…

And broken…

At exactly the same time.

Because one day…

Those hands won’t be here anymore.

But mine will.

I’ll still carry a little piece of him around every day.

That’s one hell of a realization.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

Comforting.

Heartbreaking.

All at once.

Growing up, my dad drove truck.

Not once in a while.

Not seasonally.

My ENTIRE childhood.

That man hauled everything under the sun across this country while I logged more miles riding around in the sleeper of a semi than most people ever will.

Little Heather?

She bitched.

Constantly.

“I wanna go hoooommmmeeeee!”

“I’m booooorrrrreeeeddd!”

“How many more hours?”

“Are we there yet?”

“Why don’t we ever stop and SEE stuff?!”

You know…

Because apparently I thought Dad was out there hauling freight for funsies instead of, I don’t know…

WORKING.

Teenage Heather?

She somehow hated it even more.

Looking back…

Someone should’ve lovingly told little Heather to shut the hell up…

And maybe punched teenage Heather square in the mouth.

Because adult Heather?

Adult Heather would trade just about anything for one more ride.

One more sunrise through that windshield.

One more truck stop breakfast that somehow tasted better than a five-star restaurant.

One more cup of coffee poured out of that ancient green Stanley thermos.

One more random conversation about absolutely nothing.

One more day riding shotgun.

Even if I spent the whole trip complaining that we never stopped to sightsee.

Funny how growing up works.

You spend your childhood begging time to hurry up…

Then spend the rest of your life begging it to slow the hell down.

Being a truck driver meant he missed things.

Concerts.

School plays.

Programs.

Random Tuesday school assemblies where thirty-seven children screamed songs completely off-key while parents pretended they were watching Broadway.

There were plenty of times he physically couldn’t be there.

But here’s something I never questioned.

Not once.

Whether he loved me.

Because he always called.

Before.

After.

He wanted to know how everything went.

He wanted every detail.

He wanted to hear about my day.

He never let distance make me feel forgotten.

That’s something I’ve appreciated more with every birthday.

Love isn’t always measured by where someone is standing.

Sometimes it’s measured by how hard they work to stay connected when life keeps pulling them away.

And my dad…

He mastered that.

Now let’s discuss genetics.

Specifically…

The personality defects this man generously donated to me.

Our sense of humor?

Identical.

Music?

Same.

TV shows?

Same.

Comedians?

Same.

Our favorite family pastime?

Annoying my mother until she threatens bodily harm.

Honestly…

It’s our love language.

Neither one of us likes being told what to do.

Neither one of us enjoys admitting we’re wrong.

And once we’ve committed to an argument…

There is absolutely no turning back.

Even if halfway through we realize the other person is right.

Too late.

We’ve already invested.

We’re finishing this out of pure spite.

Tell either one of us…

“You can’t.”

Congratulations.

You’ve activated our final form.

We’ll do it.

We’ll overdo it.

We’ll probably improve it.

Then we’ll make damn sure you know we did it.

With a smug little grin.

I spent YEARS thinking I was my own unique flavor of stubborn.

Nope.

Turns out I’m just Paul Patton with longer hair…

A better skincare routine…

And significantly perkier boobs.

(Well…

Maybe just the right one.

His left one has me beat…

But that was surgically enhanced.)

Sorry, Dad.

Science.

Now everybody knows about your fancy left boob.

Be prepared.

People are absolutely going to ask to see it.

The older I get…

The more I understand him.

The more I realize parenting isn’t usually the big speeches.

It’s the little things.

Working when you’re exhausted.

Providing when nobody notices.

Showing up however you can.

Doing what needs to be done because that’s what dads do.

He never had to tell me how to work hard.

I watched him.

He never had to explain loyalty.

He lived it.

He never had to lecture me that family comes first.

I saw it.

Every single day.

That’s the funny thing about dads.

When you’re little…

You think they’re just going to work.

When you’re older…

You realize they were carrying the weight of the entire family on their shoulders…

And somehow making sure you never felt how heavy it actually was.

That’s a different kind of love.

A quiet love.

A dependable love.

The kind that doesn’t need applause.

My dad isn’t perfect.

Hell…

He’d probably interrupt me right here and tell me to quit making such a big damn deal out of him.

Then he’d yell…

“Marcella! I NEED you to make me some coffee!”

Followed immediately by…

“Heather…your mother hasn’t fed me in about six days.”

Meanwhile Mom would be standing there holding the dinner she literally just made him.

Because dramatic.

Then he’d complain about my coffee.

“What is this frou frou shit?”

“Why would anyone pay ten dollars for ONE cup of coffee?”

“I can buy a can of Folgers and make HUNDREDS of cups.”

“And it actually tastes GOOD.”

“Y’all have lost your damn minds.”

Yeah…

Yeah…

Yeah, Dad.

Rolls eyes.

But if somebody handed me a magical reset button and said…

“You get to pick your parents all over again.”

I wouldn’t hesitate.

Not even for a second.

I’d choose him.

Every.

Single.

Time.

I’d choose every truck ride.

Every sarcastic comment.

Every argument.

Every laugh.

Every lesson.

Every mile.

Because when people meet me…

Whether they realize it or not…

They’re meeting a little bit of Paul Anthony Patton.

And honestly…

I hope I keep becoming more like him.

We are basically Pokémon.

Dad evolved into Professional Old Fart.

I’m currently evolving into Dad.

And Lily…

God help us all…

She’s evolving into me.

This family tree isn’t branching anymore.

It’s just cloning itself.

Sorry, Mom.

You truly never stood a chance.

You thought you were raising Heather Joleen.

What you actually got…

Was Paul Anthony Patton 2.0.

Just with better hair.

Better coffee.

One better boob.

And enough expensive coffee beans in the pantry to make my father clutch his Folgers can and mutter about “kids these days.”

I love you, Dad.

Thanks for teaching me how to work hard.

How to laugh.

How to be stubborn enough to survive just about anything life throws at me.

And thanks for accidentally making me exactly who I am.

Even if Mom has spent four decades trying to reverse-engineer your influence.

Love you, Old Fart.

Happy to be your daughter.

Always.

I have a confession.

I derive an alarming amount of joy from annoying the absolute, ever-loving SHIT out of my mother.

Like…

An unhealthy amount.

It is my favorite hobby.

My favorite pastime.

My cardio.

My emotional support activity.

I genuinely believe the Good Lord looked down forty years ago and said,

“You know what would be hilarious?”

“Let’s give Marcie ONE child…and make her feral.”

Mission accomplished.

I have been a menace since conception.

I wasn’t even born yet and I was probably kicking her kidneys just to see what would happen.

Fast forward forty years…

Absolutely nothing has changed.

I will drive over to her house on a random Tuesday morning…

Annoy her for exactly 6 minutes…

Raid her coffee…

Tell her three completely fabricated stories…

Scare her half to death…

And then leave.

Like some kind of emotionally unstable neighborhood raccoon.

I don’t need anything. I didn’t come for a purpose.

I simply woke up and thought…

“You know who hasn’t been inconvenienced by my existence yet today?”

Mom.

I LOVE sneaking up behind her.

I LOVE making weird noises.

I LOVE speaking exclusively in movie quotes until she threatens my life.

I LOVE doing Beavis and Butt-Head impressions.

I LOVE randomly becoming Ace Ventura and talking to her with my BUTT for no reason whatsoever.

And my personal favorite…

Making up completely believable stories.

Not little lies…

I’m talking full-blown Netflix Original productions.

One time I convinced my mom there was a homeless family secretly living in our barn.

I had names.

Backstories.

Employment history.

I had these imaginary people paying imaginary utilities.

My mom looked at my dad…

Dead serious…

And said…

“Go check the barn.”

…

HE WENT.

My father…

A grown-ass man…WITH MORE important shit to do…

Walked out to investigate fictional squatters because of something that came out of MY face.

I nearly died.

Not from guilt…

From laughing! I watched it all unfold from the kitchen window peeps.

Honestly…

I’m beginning to understand why I’m an only child.

Things are starting to make sense.

My mom had me…

Spent a few years with my personality…

And probably looked at my dad and said,

“Absolutely the fuck not EVER AGAIN. This is it no more kids for us!”

“This experiment has concluded.”

But in all seriousness…

My mom’s life has not been easy.

Before I was born, she had my older brother.

She lost him at birth.

At the exact same time…

At only nineteen years old…

She suffered a stroke that left her disabled.

Nineteen.

At nineteen I was worried about what song I wanted as my ringtone and whether my eyebrows looked even.

My mom was learning how to survive unimaginable grief while figuring out how to navigate life after a stroke.

Life didn’t gently hand her lemons.

Life backed over her with the whole damn produce truck.

But if you know my mom…

You know quitting has never been part of her vocabulary.

She got back up.

She adapted.

She kept moving.

She built a beautiful life anyway.

She chose joy anyway.

She chose family anyway.

Then…

She was blessed with the greatest child in recorded human history.

Me.

You’re welcome, Mother.

You truly peaked.

After me, she lost another baby.

So yes…

I really am an only child.

Which explains…

Everything.

Spoiled?

Absolutely.

Opinionated?

Violently.

Independent?

To a fault.

Convinced I’m right?

Almost always.

Born believing I was management despite never being promoted by anyone?

Without question.

CEO of Things That Aren’t My Business.

Chairwoman of the Committee of Unsolicited Opinions.

Founder of Chaos Incorporated.

My mom deserves her own post because I honestly don’t talk about her enough.

Mostly because I try to leave her out of my internet shenanigans.

She’s been through enough.

She doesn’t also need strangers messaging her saying,

“So…Heather really IS like this in real life?”

Yes.

Yes, I am.

Unfortunately for her.

By the time we’ve spent an afternoon together…

I’ve probably already annoyed her enough to last the entire fiscal quarter.

If I start writing about her daily too…

She will absolutely:

List me on Facebook Marketplace under “Free. Slightly used. Loud. VERY ANNOYING”

Donate me to science.

Drop me off at the zoo because clearly I belong with the other wild animals.

Or simply pretend she doesn’t know me in Walmart.

Honestly…Fair.

But here’s the thing…

My mom is one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.

She has lived through losses that would crush most people.

She survived a stroke before most people have even figured out who they are.

She rebuilt her life.

She kept loving.

She kept showing up.

She kept putting family first.

She kept choosing us.

Every.

Single.

Time.

And somehow…

SOMEHOW…

She also managed to raise a daughter whose full-time personality is “lovable pain in the ass.”

For forty years she has tolerated my mouth.

My stories.

My dramatic entrances.

My inability to behave in public.

My tendency to make friends with complete strangers while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with people I actually know.

My weird voices.

My puppets. (which i’m not allowed to bring in the car anymore since circa 2001)

My inability to leave literally anything serious for more than thirty-seven seconds before making a joke.

That isn’t patience.

That’s a damn Olympic sport.

So here’s to my mom.

The woman who raised me.

The woman who occasionally still answers my phone calls.

(Usually Dad answers because Mom has apparently reached her daily Heather quota.)

The woman who somehow hasn’t sold me for store credit.

Yet.

The woman who taught me what resilience looked like before I even understood the word.

The woman who showed me that life can absolutely beat the hell out of you…

…and you can still choose to keep going.

She is the reason I don’t quit.

She is the reason I laugh through hard things.

And she is the reason Dad now instinctively checks the barn before questioning anything I say.

Forty years later…He’s learned.

Love you, Mom.

Thank you for raising me.

Thank you for surviving everything life threw at you.

Thank you for never giving up.

And thank you for somehow resisting the overwhelming urge to return me to the hospital where you got me.

I love you more than words…

And just a little bit more than I love being a pain in your ass.

Which, if you know me…

Is saying a whole damn lot. ❤️

HAPPY 250TH, AMERICA! 🇺🇸

The land that I love…

…and the government that gives me high blood pressure.

Last night I sat on my lawn chair watching the drone show and fireworks put on by the York Chamber, and somewhere between the giant eagle made out of drones and the fireworks that rattled my rib cage, I got emotional.

Not because I’m getting soft.

Well…

Maybe a little.

The older I get, the sappier I become. Time is hauling absolute ass, people. Yesterday I was twenty. Today I throw my back out looking at a laundry basket wrong.

How did that happen?

But here’s what hit me.

Nobody celebrates their country quite like Americans.

Nobody.

We throw an entire birthday party for our nation.

We light thousands of dollars on fire because… FREEDOM.

We grill enough hamburgers and hot dogs to feed a small nation.

We buy enough red, white, and blue decorations to make our garages look like Uncle Sam exploded.

We gather our families.

We laugh.

We eat entirely too much potato salad.

We let our children run around like caffeinated raccoons while somebody’s uncle inevitably says, “Hold my beer.”

It’s beautiful.

It’s chaotic.

It’s the most American thing I’ve ever seen.

And I absolutely love it.

Now before somebody on the internet stretches before they reach…

I LOVE MY COUNTRY.

Read that again.

I.

LOVE.

MY.

COUNTRY.

I do NOT love most of the people running it.

Those are two completely different statements.

I don’t care if they’re Republicans, Democrats, Independents, or members of the Society of Professional Ding Dongs.

If you’ve been in Washington so long that you think a gallon of milk costs $2.37 and a family of five can survive on “cutting back on Starbucks,” congratulations—you’ve officially lost the plot.

These people don’t know what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck.

They don’t know what it’s like to stand in Walmart doing Olympic-level mental gymnastics with your calculator trying to decide which groceries have to go back because your electric bill was higher than expected.

They don’t know what it’s like to work your ass off every single week and STILL wonder how you’re going to make everything stretch until payday.

Most of them haven’t had to choose between fixing the car or fixing the dishwasher.

They haven’t looked at their bank account and said, “Well…I guess we’re having ‘creative pantry surprise’ for supper.”

The average American has become a damn financial acrobat.

We’re juggling bills.

We’re juggling groceries.

We’re juggling gas.

We’re juggling insurance.

We’re juggling medical bills.

At this point, if Cirque du Soleil is hiring, America is QUALIFIED.

And can we talk about money for a second?

Who invented this nonsense?

Seriously.

Who was the first guy that looked around and said…

“You know what would be hilarious? Let’s make people spend eighty percent of their one beautiful life working so they can maybe afford the privilege of continuing to exist.”

Sir.

I just wanna talk.

Respectfully…

What in the cinnamon toast Kentucky fried hell were you thinking?

We all enter this world exactly the same way.

Naked.

Broke.

Screaming.

And somehow somebody convinced the rest of humanity that little pieces of paper—or numbers on a computer screen—should determine whether people get food, medicine, housing, vacations, retirement, or the ability to breathe without anxiety.

That feels like a design flaw.

A pretty big one.

Here’s the thing…

I don’t have all the answers.

Hell, I barely know what I’m making for supper half the time.

But I DO know this.

We have got to stop treating each other like garbage.

The world is already hard enough.

Smile at people.

Wave at your neighbors.

Hold the damn door open.

Tell your friends you love them.

Call your parents.

Give strangers grace.

You have absolutely NO idea what battle someone else is fighting while they’re standing in line beside you buying eggs and toilet paper.

And maybe…

Just maybe…

We remind the people in expensive suits that THEY work for US.

Not the other way around.

“We the People” wasn’t meant to become “We the People Who Get Ignored Until Election Season.”

We’re tired.

We’re stressed.

We’re working harder than ever.

We’re doing our best.

And despite ALL of it…

I still believe this is the greatest country on Earth.

Because America isn’t defined by politicians.

America is the mom working two jobs.

It’s the farmer up before sunrise.

It’s the truck driver.

It’s the teacher.

It’s the nurse.

It’s the soldier.

It’s the mechanic.

It’s the waitress.

It’s the factory worker.

It’s the small business owner.

It’s YOU.

The people are what make this country great.

Not the people standing behind podiums pretending they understand what it’s like to live like the rest of us.

So…

HAPPY 250TH BIRTHDAY, AMERICA! 🇺🇸

The land that I love.

The people I love.

The place that’s worth fighting to make better.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go eat another hot dog, watch things explode in the sky, and continue exercising my God-given American right to complain about my government while loving my country.

Because that’s about as patriotic as it gets.

BREAKING NEWS FROM THE FERAL HOUSECAT HEADQUARTERS…

Absolutely nothing has changed. 😂

Same shit.
Different day.
Different level of caffeine deficiency.

HOWEVER…

✨ I DID clean my kitchen yesterday.

AND…

✨ I made all the food for the 4th of July.

Which means I have officially unlocked one of the rarest achievements known to motherhood…

**A CLEAN KITCHEN.**

I work at MY JOB on Sunday…

BUT THEN…

Peeps…

I have an ENTIRE WEEK…

AN ENTIRE…
FREAKING…
WEEK…

…with a CLEAN KITCHEN.

Do you know what kind of dangerous power you’ve just handed me?

By Wednesday there will be made from scratch cinnamon rolls.

Thursday? Maybe lemon blueberry cheesecake.

Friday? Homemade bread.

Saturday? I don’t know…I might wake up possessed by Betty Crocker’s ghost and start making croissants from scratch because apparently I hate free time.

My Pinterest board is about to become legally responsible for my actions.

Matter of fact…

Should I just make one of those fancy online sign-up sheets?

☕ Coffee & Chaos with Heather.

Appointment slots available.

Today’s menu:
✔ Shitty coffee.
✔ Homemade desserts.
✔ Me talking for three hours about absolutely nothing while somehow ending up discussing raccoons, the Roman Empire, why squirrels are sketchy, and why I think every recipe secretly needs more garlic.

Come witness my life unfold in real time.

It’s basically a live nature documentary.

*”Here we see the Midwestern Feral Housecat in her natural habitat…avoiding phone calls…collecting kitchen gadgets…and wandering from room to room because she forgot what she stood up for.”*

Speaking of habitats…

I AM ALWAYS HOME.

And before somebody comments…

“Girl you need to get out more!”

ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Every single time I leave my house…

It costs roughly…

$1,213.11.

Gas.

Coffee.

“Oh I’ll just stop at Walmart for ONE THING.”

Lies.

LIES.

Nobody has EVER walked into Walmart for one thing and left with JUST that thing.

You leave with a seasonal candle, dog or cat snacks…

a shower curtain you weren’t looking for…

an air fryer cookbook despite being an actual chef who doesn’t need cookbooks…

and somehow sixty-eight dollars worth of snacks.

I don’t make the rules.

So I stay home.

Because I’ve spent YEARS carefully curating this little slice of heaven.

It smells good.

Everything in here is MY favorite.

My blankets are fluffy.

My couch knows the exact shape of my butt.

The lighting is immaculate.

The snacks are within walking distance.

Strangers can’t talk to me because they don’t know the password to get inside!

And there are designated “Heather Zones” where my children and husband know if they cross the invisible line while I’m drinking coffee, they better have either a severed limb or a million dollars.

Otherwise…

Respectfully…

Get back.

I LOVE my house.

It’s my emotional support building.

Speaking of emotional damage…

Remember when I told you guys I found my dream house?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…

Anyway.

Turns out she needs WAYYYYYYY more work than we can afford.

She’s like me.

Pretty cute.

Needs therapy.

Expensive to maintain.

So Matt and I are just gonna keep working our asses off and hopefully someday buy the house we’ve lived in for 17 years.

SEVENTEEN.

At this point I’m basically emotionally attached to the drywall.

The Blue Valley program was SUPPOSED to help us be ready buy this place.

Instead…

For years…

Apparently they had people running it who treated the instructions more like “creative suggestions.”

So now they’re finally doing things correctly.

Which is awesome.

Just would’ve been cooler…

I don’t know… SIXTEEN YEARS AGO.

Now we’re trying to fix our credit as quickly as possible.

Trying to save money.HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…

I transferred FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS into savings Last Friday.

I felt responsible.

Financially mature.

Like one of those adults that owns matching bra and panties sets.

Approximately one hour later…

*”Hey babe…”*

Immediately followed by…

*”I’m gonna need to move some of that back…”*

Cool.

Love that for us.

Current financial update…

Savings:
💰 $1.00
Checking:
💰 $1.62
Grand total…
$2.62.

Peeps…

I have seen toddlers with more financial freedom than me!

Matt doesn’t get paid until next Friday.

And before somebody says…

“Apply for assistance!”

NOPE.

We make…

✨TOO MUCH MONEY.✨

Which is fascinating.

Because if anyone sees all this extra money we’re apparently making…

PLEASE SEND HER HOME.

SHE DOESN’T LIVE HERE.

I genuinely want rich people to explain themselves.

How do you ALWAYS have money??

Do your bills just…

…not attack you?

Does your refrigerator refill itself?

Do your tires not randomly decide today’s the day?

Is your check engine light just…

…respectful?

Teach me your ways.

I’m tired.

Also…

Targeted ads are WILD.

Every single one starts with…

“Do you wake up tired?”

YES bitch I DO!

“Do your joints hurt?”

ALSO YES. DUH

“Do you occasionally forget why you walked into a room?”

I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT ROOM WE’RE TALKING ABOUT.

And suddenly I’m convinced I have seventeen vitamin deficiencies, low magnesium, adrenal fatigue, ancient curses, and a haunted pancreas.

Now…

I usually DON’T buy the stuff.

Because…

Again…

*$2.62.*

BUT.

I DID try that mushroom coffee.

Friends.

It tastes exactly how I’d imagine licking the rows in the corn feild behind a Tractor Supply after it rains.

Absolutely foul.

Negative twelve stars.

Save your money.

Go to an Asian grocery store.

Find the tiny grandma/grandpa that’s worked there since dinosaurs.

Tell them what you’re trying to fix.

That woman/man knows plants.

They’ll hand you something for eighteen dollars that’ll probably solve six problems you didn’t even know you had.

basically a wizard.

Meanwhile…

The tents.

…

Still.

Not.

Folded.

I don’t wanna!

Every time I look at them I pretend they’re invisible.

Maybe if I ignore them long enough they’ll migrate south for the winter. They are just gonna live in my trunks until I DO WANNA!

Today’s agenda?

Absolutely nothing.

And let me tell you…

I have EARNED this absolutely nothing.

Well…

Until the York fireworks tonight.

Now somebody make ONE decision for me because my brain has officially clocked out.

🍝 Chicken Parmesan?

🥩 Philly Cheesesteaks?

Or do I wander aimlessly through my kitchen opening the refrigerator every six minutes hoping a fully cooked meal magically appears like I’m in a Disney movie?

Asking for me!…and the refrigerator, who’s getting real tired of seeing my face every twelve minutes.

# Coffee, Chaos & Choosing Violence (The Legal Kind)

As I sit here this fine Wednesday morning, sipping on what can only be described as **hot bean-flavored betrayal**, I’m trying to decide if I can make a covert military operation out of driving to McCool and back before a single soul in this house wakes up.

Mission objective?

FINALLY try A Latte Coffee.

Because this cup of disappointment currently in my hand tastes like someone whispered the word “coffee” into a mug of hot water and called it good.

Absolutely disrespectful.

The real question isn’t *should* I go.

The real question is…

**Can I make it there, acquire the caffeine, return home, and be standing innocently in my kitchen before my family realizes I’ve disappeared?**

Operation Caffeinated Freedom is officially underway. PRAY I can aquire GOOD coffee today!!!

Now…

I need everyone to understand something.

I woke up today and chose…

Not violence.

Just **aggressive pettiness.**

There’s a difference.

I’m feeling just asshole-ish enough that I have this overwhelming desire to connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker and absolutely **ASSAULT** my family’s eardrums with my cleaning playlist at full volume.

Good morning, sunshine!

WAKE THE FUCK UP!!

Mom’s rage-cleaning today!

Nothing motivates teenagers quite like hearing AC/DC at volumes normally reserved for aircraft carriers while their mother angrily scrubs baseboards they didn’t even know existed.

I don’t even care what song starts first.

If it has drums…

We’re cleaning to it.

If it has electric guitar…

The bathroom is getting disinfected.

If it makes the windows vibrate…

Congratulations, we’re also reorganizing the cupboards!

By the time these people crawl out of bed, I want them to think a cleaning crew, an exorcist, and a tornado all came through at the same damn time.

And then…

MOTHER NATURE… MY HOME GIRL

That magnificent, beautiful, sarcastic queen…

Looked down from the heavens.

Saw today’s to-do list.

Saw that it included working in the front yard, cleaning up the backyard, refolding those demon-spawn camping tents that NEVER go back into the bag they came out of, and generally pretending I enjoy manual labor…

…and she said…

**”Girl…abso-fucking-lutely not.”**

Cue the rain.

OH NO.

What a devastating development!!

Guess I can’t sweat my ass off outside today.

Guess I’ll just have to remain trapped…

Inside…

In my beautiful…

Air-conditioned…

House.

Thoughts and prayers during this incredibly difficult season of my life peeps!

I suppose I’ll just have to spend the morning rage-cleaning my pigsty while fueled by superior coffee (at least I HOPE), questionable life choices, and pure spite.

Honestly?

Spite is one of the strongest renewable energy sources known to women over 40.

If you happen to drive past my house today and hear music so loud your own children start cleaning… (YOURE WELCOME)

I’m creating memories. One day my children too will torture their children and think back fondly on how I TORTURED THEM!

And if my family doesn’t like the complimentary 7:00 AM concert…

They should’ve woken up before I started DJ Mom’s “Clean This Damn House” World Tour.

Now if you’ll excuse me…

I have a coffee mission to complete. IF I DON’T MAKE IT TO MCCOOL I might die.

Godspeed.

Pray for my speakers.