Christmas Eve Chaos: Tamales, Aliens, and Everything in Between

It’s Christmas Eve, and let me tell you, it’s not a Hallmark-movie scene in this house. No twinkling lights, no perfectly decorated tree, and definitely no wrapped presents sitting under anything evergreen. If you’ve read any of my books, you know why. Growing up in foster care, the holidays didn’t exactly scream “joy and warmth.” They were just another day, another reminder of what wasn’t there. That kind of conditioning sticks with you, so no, we don’t do the traditional holiday thing. But don’t get me wrong, it’s not bleak around here. In fact, it’s downright chaotic in the best way possible.

The reason for the chaos? Anthony. My husband. The man is a wizard in the kitchen, and every year around this time, he turns our little Northern New Mexico home into a tamale factory. Pork tamales, specifically, and they’re insanely good. I mean, you’ve never had tamales like these—fluffy masa, perfectly spiced pork, wrapped up in corn husks like little edible gifts. It’s his thing, and it’s a tradition I’ve come to love, even if I stay far, far away from the stove. I can’t cook. It’s not even self-deprecation at this point; it’s just a fact of life. If I’m near a kitchen appliance, something’s going to burn or explode. So, I stick to what I know: keeping out of the way and singing Anthony’s praises while he does his magic.

This year, he’s also making this Mexican pudding for his mom. I couldn’t even try to pronounce the name, much less spell it. I just know it smells incredible, and it’s one of those dishes that makes the whole house feel alive with tradition and love. Watching Anthony cook for his mom is a reminder of why I married him. He’s thoughtful in ways that don’t need to be spoken. He shows his love with food, and I’m just lucky to be in the crossfire of his culinary affection.

Meanwhile, I woke up feeling kind of off. A little queasy, a little run-down, but it’s nothing a cold Sprite can’t fix. Sprite is basically my cure-all—don’t judge me. While Anthony conquers the kitchen, I’ve got plans of my own for the day. Today’s research topic: plasma orbs. These things are showing up everywhere, and I can’t stop thinking about them. People are seeing them in the skies all over the world, including here in my little corner of Northern New Mexico. And no, I’m not talking about the big, shiny lights of Vegas. I mean the other Las Vegas, the quiet, forgotten one that’s tucked away in the mountains, where the air feels like it’s hiding secrets.

There’s something about these orbs that feels bigger than anything else. The military has been throwing up excuses like “drones,” but even their leaked footage contradicts their half-assed explanations. That leaked video—the one where they admit they don’t know what these plasma orbs are—gave me chills. If the military doesn’t know what they are, who does? And what happens when we find out?

Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I’ve got a gut feeling about this. The whispers about 2025 being the year of disclosure, the expiration of some shadowy government-alien treaty signed in the ’60s—it all lines up too perfectly to ignore. Think about it: if the lid finally blows off this thing, if aliens step out of the shadows and into the spotlight, everything changes. I’m talking about society, religion, power structures—everything. How do you go back to church on Sunday when the galactic federation is holding a press conference? It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I believe it. I believe that we’re on the verge of something massive, something that’s going to force us to rethink our place in the universe.

This isn’t just wishful thinking. The signs are everywhere. Reports are increasing, not just from civilians but from credible sources—scientists, military personnel, pilots. It’s undeniable at this point. These plasma orbs aren’t just lights in the sky; they’re something intelligent, something intentional. And if we’re finally introduced to this “galactic federation,” I don’t think it’ll be the end of the world like some people fear. I think it’ll be the beginning of a new one. A world where we understand we’re part of something much, much bigger.

So, yeah, that’s where my head’s at on this Christmas Eve. Tamales in the kitchen, Sprite in my hand, and aliens on my mind. That’s life in this house. By the time the sun sets, I’ll probably have gone down a dozen rabbit holes on YouTube, combed through every UFO forum I can find, and filled my brain with enough theories to fuel ten more journal entries. And you can bet I’ll be back here to write about it because, well, that’s what I do.

Here’s to tamales and aliens. Here’s to chaos and discovery. Here’s to Christmas Eve in all its messy, unpredictable glory. Don’t forget to subscribe for more updates, listen to my music wherever it streams, and check out my books—they’re everywhere books are sold. If you’re looking for real stories, real thoughts, and real-life chaos, this is the place to be.