Season of the Out

Priscilla always thought adulthood would eventually calm down. Maybe not peaceful, but at least predictable. Instead, her life had turned into a year‑round carnival run by raccoons, children, and whatever cosmic intern was in charge of her fate.

It started with the Christmas lights.

She walked into her living room in April and found a full string of blinking red and green lights wrapped around her ceiling fan. She didn’t own Christmas lights. She didn’t even like Christmas. She stared at them, arms crossed, thinking, “Of course. Why wouldn’t the universe decorate my house like a Walmart clearance aisle.”

She unplugged them.

They turned back on.

She unplugged them again. "fuck this shit dude" she muttered.

They blinked faster, like they were trying to communicate in Morse code:
You’re losing it.

She muttered, “If this is a metaphor, I’m punching the sky. Judo chop” she gestures with her hand slicing the air

She didn’t have time to deal with it, because outside, the raccoons were fighting her cat again. Over the trash. Loudly. Violently. One raccoon had a plastic fork like it was armed. The cat was screaming like it owed money. Priscilla opened the door and yelled, “I swear to Gods, I WILL CALL ANIMAL CONTROL!”

They ignored her.

Inside, her adult daughter’s “chaos garden” had started creeping into the house. Vines through the window. A tomato plant in the sink. A sunflower growing out of a boot. Her daughter insisted it was “intentional.” Priscilla insisted it was “nature reclaiming what it wants.”

Her other adult daughter was making a choice Priscilla was deeply concerned about — the kind of choice that makes a mother stare into the middle distance and reconsider every parenting decision since 2003. But she had to let her learn. Even if it made her want to wrap her kid in bubble wrap and hide her in the pantry.

The twin autistic sons were in the kitchen discussing whether toothpaste could be turned into ice cream. They had charts. They had diagrams. They had a bowl of toothpaste. Priscilla walked past them and said, “If you freeze it, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. and I don't want to taste it. BRUHS... could you at least use the old tubes I just got that” she looks at the tube. one of the twins says "this toothpaste is the proper taste and texture to add mild and oreos and then freeze". Priscilla gagged at his educated guess...

Her ADHD son was climbing the wall. Literally. He had drawn a villain mustache on his face and was announcing to the room, “I EAT KIDS.” Priscilla didn’t even look up. “Get off the wall. And stop threatening cannibalism before breakfast. Is that.... PERMANENT MARKER, well. enjoy your first day of middle school with that bad boy on your face bucko” she laughs and shakes her head.

Her ADHD daughter was being reprimanded by the 23‑year‑old daughter about why we don’t give teachers the middle finger when we walk away from them after being redirected. The lecture was passionate. The younger daughter was unbothered. Priscilla walked by and said, “I understand you want to dismantle the patriarchy but giving your gym teacher the finger because he told you to line up to kick the ball, is just not it queen.”

The 15‑year‑old was in his bedroom doing weird boy things with small engines. She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. If it wasn’t on fire, or the smell of gas. or drugs and sex, she considered it a win.

Her son‑in‑law popped his head in and asked if she could do his hair. She stared at him for a long moment and said, “of course let me take of this shit first and ill get the curl cream ” He nodded and backed away to the basement to wait for her to holler down.

Her adopted daughter and granddaughter were making plans to take her shopping for new gothic yard birds. They were excited. They had coupons. Priscilla appreciated the enthusiasm, even if she wasn’t sure why her yard needed to look like a Victorian funeral.

Her other adopted daughter was living her best life as a scientific researcher for a cosmetics company. She had recently informed the family that “cruelty‑free” didn’t mean what people thought. Apparently, they put full‑size tampons in rabbits. Priscilla had stared at her and said, “I didn’t need that information, but thank you. I will probably not take that to my grave.”

Her oldest adult son hated his Dollar General job and wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. She told him, “Nobody knows. Just don’t quit until you have a plan. Or at least a hobby that doesn’t involve crane operating, after what happened to your uncle Garret. or food service.”

The dog was stealing all the shoes again. Every pair. Every size. Every room. Priscilla found her boots in the bathtub and her slippers in the yard. The dog looked proud. no one could find a mating pair of shoes to save their lives.

And then the goldfish attacked her. out-of-nowhere.!

One of the giant goldfish jumped out of the tank, launched itself at the fish food can, missed, hit her in the face, and gave her a black eye. It bit her. somehow.. She stood there holding her face, staring at the fish flopping on the floor, and said, “I swear to Gods, I’m going to eat you. or have a fish skin leather purse.”

She put it back in the tank. It glared at her.

All of this would’ve been enough chaos for one woman, but the universe wasn’t done.

Because the universe had decided she was “out of season.”

It started leaving messages.

A plastic Easter egg in her shoe.
In October.
Inside was a note that said:
You’re late.

She laughed — one of those dry, humorless laughs that sounds like a veteran being told to “calm down.” She wasn’t late. Life was early. Life was wrong. Life was showing up like a drunk holiday mascot who didn’t check the calendar.

Then came the carved pumpkin on her porch.
In July.
She kicked it. It rolled down the steps and exploded like a grenade made of squash.

She said, “Good,” and went inside.

A Valentine’s Day card appeared on her bathroom mirror.
In August.
It said:
You’re out of season.
frustrated Priscilla shouted at her reflection in the mirror "no.. you are the season of the out. I AM the season. bitch."

She stared at it for a long time. Not hurt. Not confused. Just tired. Tired in the way only someone who has raised a small army of children can be. Tired in the way only someone who has had to be the adult in every room can be. Tired in the way only someone who has survived life’s nonsense without backup can be.

She didn’t rip the card down.
She left it there.
Let it watch her brush her teeth.

The final straw came when she opened her fridge and found a fully cooked Thanksgiving turkey sitting on the top shelf.
In May.

She didn’t touch it.
She didn’t question it.
She just said, “Alright. Message received.”

She walked outside, looked up at the sky, and said, “I’m not out of season. You are... AND you're outta fuckn line bubb, you got me right out straight ya muthah fuckah.”

The Christmas lights flickered once, then shut off.
The Easter egg cracked open and turned to dust.
The pumpkin dissolved into nothing.
The Valentine’s card curled at the edges and fell off the mirror.
The Thanksgiving turkey vanished from the fridge like it had never existed.

Everything snapped back into place.

Priscilla leaned back, crossed her arms, and said, “Finally.”

She wasn’t out of season anymore.
She was right on time.
And she wasn’t letting anyone — not the universe, not fate, not chaos, not raccoons — drag her into the wrong month ever again.