My parents moved to Oklahoma Tuesday. We’d planned to meet for lunch – they would be finished packing, and we (me, husband, and kids) would pass through their town on our way to a vacation. My mother was completely dithered when we arrived, way behind schedule after running into multiple
Happy Like a middle-aged Cinderella, I got an invitation at the last hour to Comic Con this year. Acquiring the necessary tickets/parking/ place to stay two weeks before an event sold out since January seemed the fool’s errand. But magically and more magically, it all fell together. So I kissed
I’m either A) slipping into depression, B) out to set the world record in feeling sorry for oneself, or C) in an exceptionally bad mood these days. As differential diagnosis, let me offer this: If you tell me to seek help, I’ll invite you to mind your own fucking business,
Well, living in a Dickensian novel as I do, you won’t be surprised to learn a family friend who was about my father’s age committed suicide since we last talked. Guess why. Guuuuuuuessssssss. Did you say Degenerative Incurable Brain Disease? Well then, ten points to Gryffindor. It’s ghastly, ghastly business
I did not and do not want to keep talking about my dad. I had a very firm plan about boxing that issue off and focusing all my anxiety into something productive. Worrying about him results in zero productivity, unlike feeding my new found Pearl Jam obsession or playing Bejeweled