Jessie's Journal (10/27/26) (Patreon)

Dear Journal:

Today, I brought home the Grease handbill, hot off the press.  We’re doing four shows, November 19th-22nd--Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, then a matinee on Sunday.

I showed it to mom and dad at dinner.  Dad’s eyes lit up when he saw my name.  Mine is the last one in bold, but at least it isn’t lost in the ensemble shuffle.  Those names are so small you can barely see them!     

“I’m proud of you, hon,” he said, tapping my name with his finger like he was patting me on the back.

“Which show do you think you’ll come to, Dad?”

“Uh, all of them,” he said with a smile.  He looked at Mom.  “Right?” 

Mom nodded enthusiastically.  “Right!”

“What about, Michelle?” I asked.  My sister had already cleaned her plate (surprise, surprise) and been excused to “rest her feet.”    

Dad cast a disparaging glance toward the living room, where sissy was watching TV, and sighed, “I’ll drag her to as many shows as I can…”

His voice trailed off, as if there were an unsaid suffix to his sentence.  “…before my back gives out,” was my guess.

As I went upstairs, I passed Michelle—an inert lump with her nasty-ass feet on the sofa—and felt a familiar tinge of satisfaction.  Her 19th Birthday was still a couple of months away, but slumped and slack-jawed in her sweats, bathed in the television’s pallor-soaking glow, she looked 30-something. 

With her Plantar Fasciitis, she looks even older when she moves. I would never admit it, but I modeled my walk for Ms. Lynch after her.  It’s this doddering shuffle that looks like Charlie Chaplin if you played the film at half-speed.   Last week, when I was feeling sorry for Michelle, I tried something else, but the director admonished me.   “Do that silly little waddle,” he said.  “It’s hysterical.”

I doubt sissy will find it funny. 

Anyway, I've tried calling the dogs off, but the dogs won’t listen. No matter what I say, Rachel keeps bringing junk food over at every opportunity.  Today, she brought over a “fun size” bag of candy bars and placed them in a bowl on the bureau outside sissy’s bedroom.  She seemed proud of herself, like she was providing alms for the poor rather than Almond Joys for the portly. 

Meanwhile, Mom keeps replenishing her not-so-secret stashes with donuts and snack cakes, but her dwindling figure suggests she isn’t eating many (any?) of them.  And then there’s Dad.  Michelle’s always been the apple of his eye, but now that her fruit is overripening, he seems to have given up on her and is redirecting his love and affection toward me. 

I shouldn’t like it…but I do. 

So, I’ve decided to stop fighting things.  I may have started the boulder rolling downhill, but now that it’s gathered steam (and pushers), I can't stop it.  All I can do is stay out of the way and enjoy the carnage it creates. 

--Jessie