I’m Backkkkkkkk
The Dow Family Christmas Letter: A Tradition in Dysfunction
Cole: The Tattooed Power Ranger of the Apocalypse
Let’s start with Cole, my 23-year-old son, who has traded high school tardies and his brief experimentation and manufacturing of questionable substances for sleeve tattoos and a robust crypto wallet. That’s right, the kid who once thought “YOLO” was an investment strategy is now Googling compound interest and contributing to his coinbase wallet like a modern man—or at least someone who’s trying to impress his future in-laws.
Speaking of future in-laws, Cole is engaged to Brooke, the love of his life and a Hawaiian-Mexican-Filipino princess who is everything our family needed but doesn’t deserve. She’s stunning, smart, and has somehow hasn’t run screaming despite the fact that Cole is basically a walking WebMD search bar. Together they have Milo the Shitzhu, and Puma, a black cat rumored to be the offspring of the mysterious Jaguar from Mauna Kahalawai.
Brooke, bless her soul, has joined forces with me to help him overcome his chronic hypochondria. It’s a full-time job, honestly. Just last week, he called me convinced that his elbow pain meant that Haleakala was about to erupt. (Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. He just played video games too hard.)
Cole and Brooke Maui 2024
And then there’s Cole’s day job. My son is basically a Power Ranger now—an electrician. Sure, he doesn’t have a helmet or a sword, but he does have wire strippers and a dangerously low tolerance for voltage. He rewires houses, fixes things I didn’t know could be fixed, and somehow manages to look cool doing it. When the world ended on 8/8/23 ( RIP Lahaina and Lahaina people. We will never forget.) I knew Cole would have a generator up and running quickly.
So here’s to Cole: a tattooed, cat-loving, dog-chasing, apocalypse-prepping electrician with the best fiancée anyone could ask for. He’s come a long way from tardy slips and questionable decisions, and I couldn’t be prouder—paranoid phone calls and all. (Last week he was electrocuted and Minit Medical knows him by first name. 😂)
Pre-Sleeve Tattoo
Demi: The Intergalactic Ghoster Extraordinaire
Ah, Demi. The elusive daughter who claims she’s “bad at texting” but somehow finds the time to single-handedly destabilize family group chats with one swipe of her thumb. Last time we talked to her, it was with the help of the Chinese government (thanks, TikTok!) and only because she needed something. Classic.
Demi recently walked away from a project manager position in construction because, in her words, she was “too smart” for the job. And honestly, she’s not wrong. She managed to turn an 8-hour daily workload into a solid one-hour hustle and promptly decided she’d rather spend her time plotting her next big move than pretending to be busy. Efficiency goals? Yes. Family communication goals? Hard no.
These days, Demi is fully immersed in what I like to call her “intergalactic journey.” It’s a phase of deep self-discovery—or perhaps a prolonged vacation from reality—that conveniently involves ignoring her family’s existence unless it’s to provide a vague complaint about nothing specific or to gush about her boyfriend, Hunter. Her level of obsession with him is honestly kind of impressive, as is her unparalleled ability to be mad at nothing and everything all at once.
Adorable beings
Let’s talk about Hunter, the Italian Stallion who’s stolen her heart—and her attention span. He’s charming, devoted, and the perfect partner for her, even if their shared hobby seems to be overthinking absolutely everything. Together, they’ve mastered the art of turning tiny inconveniences into full-blown existential crises, which honestly makes them both kind of adorable. Hunter has seamlessly blended into the family, even if we only see them when they emerge from their love cocoon to grace us with their presence, and usually just to tell us about a new bird they have rescued and are raising by hand. We love you, Hunter.
Slightly Co-Dependant
Still, beneath all the pot-stirring, TikTok scrolling, and strategic silence, Demi has the world at her fingertips—even if she hasn’t quite realized it yet. Someday, when the intergalactic journey comes to a gentle landing, she’ll see just how capable, brilliant, and annoyingly fabulous she is. Until then, we’ll be here, waiting for her to reply to our texts—or at least send a funny TikTok. We love you Demi.
Perfectly, perfect.
Stephanie: The CEO of Chaos and Questionable Decisions
Now, let’s talk about me: a 44-year-old emotionally guarded powerhouse who somehow still feels 25, despite the glaring evidence to the contrary (hello, crow’s feet and two grown kids). I’ve got ADHD running at a solid sprint alongside empty nesting, which is just a chef’s kiss combination for irresponsible spending. Enter my latest passion project, Fit Financial Females, because, spoiler alert: I am clearly not one. Honestly, I started this whole thing to save myself from going broke with random projects I’m never actually going to finish (entering Coco into a feline beauty pageant and buying a dollhouse I threatened to remodel) and five Seal Point Ragdoll cats named after ex-boyfriends. (Paul, Josh, Ray, Bill and Brad.)
Helping women with ADHD and Depression navigate their finances and reach their goals!
But hey, I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. Take, for example, my uncanny ability to talk my way into a lucrative medical device sales job without a college degree. That’s right—I’m out here selling life-saving technology like it’s Girl Scout cookies while hiding the fact that I once thought “angioplasty” was a type of pasta. It’s a skill, really. The same skill that allows me to make any situation much worse with a well-timed comment, a misread email, or my signature ability to panic-Door-Dash-Cinnabon at 10pm. Sigh.
Life at 44 is a wild mix of trying to get shredded at the gym, overanalyzing texts from my kids and running a business that I both love and secretly worry will expose me as a financial fraud. But hey, if you can’t be a role model, at least you can be a cautionary tale, right?
So here I am—equal parts disaster and determination, barreling through life with a credit score that used to rival my high school GPA (don’t ask) and a talent for making everyone laugh while we all wait for me to maybe get my act together. Until then, cheers to another year of just barely holding it together and still somehow making it look like a choice!
Fabulous and almost 45. Still humble. ;)
Last and certainly not the least: Our Judgemental Coco, the Ragdoll
Coco, our impossibly beautiful, snobby Ragdoll cat, who tolerates us with the disdain of a dethroned queen. She lurks in the shadows, her piercing gaze filled with quiet contempt, watching, always watching, as if plotting something none of us will see coming. We know Coco has at least five other families she claims as her own, manipulating each one with her charm to secure endless meals and the devotion she barely acknowledges. She’s a creature of secrets and shadows, and while she graces us with her presence, it’s clear: Coco belongs to no one but herself.
Leading Santa’s naughty list, Coco.
