For the most part, things have very much returned to normal around here, inasmuch as living in a global pandemic can be normalized. Last night, we were snuggling up the kids. Conversation turned to past vacations, with some wistfulness for all the things we haven’t done in this Year of
Saturday, I dressed in makeup, hair, Spanx (not planned, but necessary unfortunately. Thanks, sourdough!) and funeral wear, then zoomed my dad’s memorial. It turned out more or less as expected, drama not entirely absent, but at low, simmering levels that were easy to ignore. The hardest part (for me) was
1. The cat delivered two disembodied (disembirdied?) bird feet on our mat yesterday around dinnertime. The kids were SUPER squicked out. My husband, in a moment of True Lawful Evil, gave them detailed instructions on how they were to clean up, delighting in their squeals and groans of dismay and
Coolcoolcool, so while I was sitting here waiting to decide if my symptoms (shortness of breath, hyper-vigilant edges with gooey fatigued interior, sweaty feverishness) indicate a) Coronavirus or 2) hypochondria or C) impeding panic attack, I remembered I forgot to tell you a tiny tidbit of embarrassment. THIS WILL NOT
Today’s my dad’s one year death anniversary. Mostly, I’m feeling it was a dick move for him to die on a holiday, because my husband was all HAPPY VALENTINES DAY! And it felt obligatory to say back to him YES BUT ALSO DEATH ANNIVERSARY. I don’t think my husband knew