Aahhh, These Summer Mornings

Just me, my flowers, the occasional spider to watch the sunrise.

Just me, my flowers, the occasional spider to watch the sunrise.

Seems peaceful, doesn’t it?  Especially before I boot the laptop, read about the day’s atrocities and most current buffoonery of Trump.

Not this morning.  Yesterday was long and busy.  We’ve reached the portion of the summer where my anxiety begins to rise, knowing before I can weep Nerd Child will be waving goodbye, headed North to school, and I’ll be back to twelve trains a day shuffling Art Child back and forth.  Ridiculous, we still have weeks, but there you have it.  With Facebook friends all over the country and world, I’m already seeing the obligatory first day of school pics.  There should be a way to block those until Labor Day, don’t you think?

With so many guests this summer, I’ve gotten behind on keeping the apartment neat and organized.  Small space, lots of people in and out, packing, unpacking, beach bags galore and the general sloth of long hot days. Time to start getting it together, so I’m not in a complete panic in another two weeks.

Too late!

Man Child’s girlfriend, Miss Music, was here last week, came for a week after her band finished its tour.  Fun.  Except one morning, she was sitting on the couch with Art Child, turned to me and said, “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

A mouse.

In my apartment.

IN my apartment.

In MY apartment.

Sweet mother of fuck, nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In my many, many years of NY living, I’ve never had a mouse in my apartment.  There was evidence of them in our last apartment before we moved in, so we filled every crack and hole we could find, and then put down glue traps just in case.  Big Senile Dog promptly got a glue trap stuck to his nose and each paw.  Good times.

I grew up near the water in Brooklyn, huge wharf rats could be seen regularly on the streets.  Yucky, but outside.  There was also a large population of feral cats, so mice weren’t such a thing, between the cats and the rats I’m guessing mice didn’t have a chance. I see rats all the time on the subway tracks.  Again, meh.  Part of NY life.

Back to the other morning.  We didn’t see anything, but we bought a few traps and put them down, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog only got 3 of them stuck to her, and they were much easier to remove than they had been for the big dog, because she’s used to being held to be groomed, and she’s got long hair.  Plus, not as dumb as I’d expect, she steered clear of them afterwards. Zero interest in the mouse itself.

No further mouse sightings, until a couple of nights ago, eating dinner and holy shit!  I saw a shadow fly over the living room floor.  That was no migraine floater.  The plan was to go shopping yesterday to restock on cleaning supplies and toiletries, both for the apartment and for Nerd Child to take to school.  Needless to say I picked up more mouse traps.

Got home, tore apart the living room, dining area, and kitchen, filled every hole around every pipe we could find, and laid 16 mouse traps.  When I say we, I mean Husband and Nerd Child, while Art Child and I steered clear and washed our hands every time those guys touched another trap.  I am not taking any chances.  I know, they’re a fact of life in NY, in most places, I guess, hence the city mouse/country mouse stories, but they’ve never been a fact in my personal space and I am not ok with sharing.  This apartment is crowded enough, thankyouverymuch. Nerd Child reminded me I’m against the death penalty.  Nope, only for two legged creatures.  Twitchy four legged ones need to be erased. Period.

You know how high my anxiety levels are now, right?  In case I needed a bit more, tonight is that open mic night reading.

So I got up, made coffee, went on the terrace, sat for a bit, and then prepared to sit at my desk.  One of the glue traps under the radiator worked.  But the critter was still alive, and had gotten two of my electrical cords stuck with it.  I woke Husband, went back to hiding on the terrace.  I was heroic enough to dispose of the whole thing, after it was bagged.

Yes, I took a pic of the mouse actually stuck to the trap, but I just can't bear looking at it again.

Yes, I took a pic of the mouse actually stuck to the trap, but I just can’t bear looking at it again.

The day has to go up from here, right?

Suck It Up, Ya Weenie!

The latest must-have accessory for the woman of 40,000 years.

The latest must-have accessory for the woman of 40,000 years.

I tried.  Tuesday afternoon I was shaken but feeling positive, “oh, a few days of rest and I’ll be ok.” Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, not so much.  I made a bunch of calls on Wednesday morning, trying to find an ortho who could see me that day. No luck–and apparently most of them super specialize, and the offices all insisted I choose if wanted to see someone for my arm or my pelvis.  “but they both hurt like hell.” “Well, you have to decide which specialist you want to see.” Screw it. No appointment, the pain seemed like it was easing up, I figured I’d just tough it out.

10:15 Wednesday night, I was lying in bed trying to pretend the pain had not increased by multiples of thousands, and my back doctor returned my call. Bless this woman. I told her what was going on, and she told me to come in first thing the next morning.  I did, she checked me out, and sent me off to the imaging place, with more concerns than I thought.

I may not have been able to tough this out, but apparently I’m pretty fucking tough.  The next ten hours involved 4 MRIs, 7 X-rays, 1 CT scan, and 3 exams.

At the first MRI stop, after being told it would take 2-3 hours. Umm, do you have a chill pill or something?

Sorry, Mrs F, we’re an outpatient facility, so we don’t offer any medications.  We have headphones and music, it’s on classical already.

Find me the classic rock station and we’ll be in business, I can get lost in my youth–where I didn’t humiliate myself by breaking and tearing my body from a simple slip on ice.

Between the music and the two hours of sleep I was running on, I was able to stay very still, no panic in the tube.  Could have done without Van Halen’s “Jump,” though.

The doctor was in touch with the imaging center throughout, and it seemed that every test finished sent me to another.  Everyone was nice, but suspiciously nicer as time went on, particularly since I had to have been screwing everyone’s schedule, being pushed (figuratively) to the front of the line, staff and techs waiting for me to hobble in at each new stop.

Can I please go get tea before the next one?

I’m sorry Mrs Fringe, they’re waiting for you.

Again and again.

Finally, one woman said I could get tea while they burned the images of all the tests onto cd.  Yay! When I limped back in, she told me my doctor was waiting for me to call her. I know, I know, by this time it was clear I’m looking at some serious injury, but by then 7 hours had passed, 8 since my morning coffee–a woman needs a cup of tea–and some of us need several!

Every time I thought I was finished, I was sent to the next test, the next building.  I stripped so many damn times by the time I reached the last X-ray tech I expected her to stick dollar bills in my underwear. By then I knew I had 4 fractures, why did I need more X-rays? The day ended at the office of a special trauma orthopedist, his physician’s assistant, his orthotist, his secretary, and the cleaning crew–clearly waiting and wondering when this patient would leave so they could do their jobs.

So. Despite that first X-ray done at the urgent care place, my arm is fractured, and now encased in a super duper molded to my arm but removable for showering cast.  The rest of it….As I understand it, there are three types of bones that make up the triangular shape of the pelvis.  I have fractures in all three, including one that extends to the hip socket. I would make a joke about not doing things half-assed, but I’m pretty sure this yields the very definition of half-assed.

Dogwalking is out of the question for the time being. I didn’t actually ask about typing, I figure I’ll just go slower and less verbose than usual, stop when it hurts.

On the positive side, even though I feel like I’m completely out of shape, all the past yoga left me in good enough shape that I don’t need total bed rest, can hobble with the cane when I need to, yanno, live.  And I think this gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up on my reading.


Little Incredibly Dumb Dog

Little Incredibly Dumb Dog

I refuse to turn towards the terrace and see the snow.  The snow that’s been falling and sticking for hours now, on this Sunday, March 1st.  Nope, I’m not looking, and neither is Art Child, or the dog.  Instead, we’re all watching the tank, pretending we’re on the beach.  Join us.

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Never Again! oh, and happy Thanksgiving

Yesterday was miserable weather here. Rain to sleet to snow and back again, all day.  Little Incredibly Dumb Dog ran to the couch after her 7am walk and did this.

Apparently taking her outside for 5 minutes in cold rain was cruel and unusual punishment.

Apparently taking her outside for 5 minutes in cold rain was cruel and unusual punishment.

I took the girl to school, came home, woke Nerd Child–because he’s home, yay!!!–went to two grocery stores, began prep work for Thanksgiving dinner, and prepped, and cooked, and prepped.  Nope, not going to do this anymore.  Next year, we are going out to eat.  My spine has handed in her official resignation letter, she refuses to support me in the chopping, lifting, mixing, and standing required for Thanksgiving dinner anymore.

Of course, I mentioned this to Fatigue on the phone last night, and his response was he’s heard me say this before.  Oh.  Well, this time I mean it.  Really.  And I did get Husband, Nerd Child, and Art Child to help me with some of the snipping and chopping, loading and unloading of the dishwasher, washing pots.  Of course being an idiot, I didn’t ask for help until my back was already screaming.  Man Child stayed up at school this year, he’s busy and working.  I missed him yesterday, and I’ll miss him more when we sit down to dinner, but he’s living his life, enjoying all the man child stuff I’m happy he can experience.

With fewer people at the table, I thought I’d share dinner with you, Fringelings.


Trying a different stuffing this year

Trying a different stuffing this year

Cornbread based. One day I'll figure out how to cook stuffing for fewer than 20 people.

Cornbread based. One day I’ll figure out how to cook stuffing for fewer than 20 people.

I skipped the yams entirely.  Went with an old favorite of mashed gold potatoes and parsnips.

I like to pretend the parsnips make this a healthier choice.

I like to pretend the parsnips make this a healthier choice.

Of course, the very first dish completed yesterday was dessert.  Another old favorite, pumpkin marble cheesecake.  I didn’t have it in me to drag the mixer out of the closet–it’s heavy!  As it turns out, my cooling racks are nowhere to be found.  You know those boxes you stick away when you move to a new place, with the intention of getting to them when you have time? I hope they’re in there.  They have to be in there. I’ll find them eventually.

Gingersnap pecan crust

Gingersnap pecan crust

Turns out I can't beat things by hand as smooth as I used to. Oops.

Turns out I can’t beat things by hand as smooth as I used to. Oops.

Want a slice?

Want a slice?

Today I’ll do the rest. Nerd Child was kind enough to prep the Swiss chard for me.  Ready, clean and waiting in bags.

Pretty, isn't it.

Pretty, isn’t it.

When I gave up yesterday and sat down at the laptop with a glass of Bailey’s, I looked over at the couch:

Seriously. All day.

Seriously. All day.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

And of course, because it’s obligatory:



And Then This Happened

Recuperating, settling in, where do the days go?  Happy Friday, Fringelings!

Welcome to my future beach house in a glass box.  Remember that spot I said I was planning for a new tank? Fatigue came over last week, looked at it, and dubbed it the interrogation corner.  He could have a point.

Where were you, on the night of the 25th?!

Where were you, on the night of the 25th?!

I will admit to being amused by the double take done by every person who’s walked into the apartment.  I made a game of guessing a) if they would stop and stare or keep glancing at it, and b) how long before they broke down and asked.  Hard to tell from this angle, but the tiled area is 4′ x 5′.  Alas, I don’t get much company so the game lost its charm after a week.

Allow me to present the new future fringie reef.

Eventually this will be 80 gallons of sexy reefing goodness.

Eventually this will be 80 gallons of sexy reefing goodness.

Even better, it’s in a prime viewing spot, easily watched from the couch and I can see it from my desk–though not so close as to be distracting when I’m trying to write.  Assuming, of course, the rest of life settles down enough for me to write again.   My desk.  Have I mentioned that 100 times yet?  It may not be a room of my own, but it feels pretty close.

A desk that isn't my lap!

A desk that isn’t my lap!

From this point on it will be slow going, for budgetary reasons and in the interests of good husbandry.  The first commandment of reefing, “Nothing good happens fast in a reef tank.”

In case you’re wondering, poor Little Incredibly Stupid Dog hasn’t quite settled in yet.  She’s still nervous, afraid of every new sound.  Just breaks my heart, seeing how anxious she is.

I'd like to share her level of anxiety.  Oh, and don't tell Husband she's on the couch.

I’d like to share her level of anxiety. Oh, and don’t tell Husband she’s on the couch.

What’s new for you?

Why Walk When You Can Crawl

Sculpture and quote by Nerd Child, 1st grade

Sculpture and quote by Nerd Child, 1st grade

Change the he to she and yup, that’s Mrs Fringe. Proof that Nerd Child was able to predict the future.

This move has not gone smoothly.  In fact, I can say without hesitation this has been the most disorganized, chaotic, and s-l-o-w move I’ve ever made–and I’ve made many.

First there was the realization I was living in a clown car.  Seriously, we had ten times the amount of shit we should have been able to fit in the last apartment.  Then there was the fact that every time I lifted a hefty bag or moved a box, my back would cry.  And then the kicker, an early flu/virus season.  Art Child got sick, and then I caught it.  The first day I was sick, I happened to have a meeting with Art Child’s teachers. “Sick while moving? Oh no.” “No worries, I have a strong immune system, never more than a nuisance head cold.”  Mmm hmm.  What’s that about famous last words?  By the following night, I had 102° fever.  I’m still not completely recovered, but no one else has gotten sick, so I’m not contagious, and I am improving.  What I don’t have is stamina.  Yanno, that trait needed to pack, move, and unpack.

We have been staying in the new apartment for the last six nights, but still have some miscellaneous crud to move up here, and then turn in the keys to the old apartment.  Every morning I think, we should be able to knock this out by the end of the day, and every afternoon, round about noon, I think, oh-my-gawd-I’m-dying-I-can’t-do-one-more-thing.  A model of efficiency, I tell ya.

The most welcome sight in the world.

The most welcome sight in the world.

Above, the saving grace.  Big boy sneakers.  My godson has come the last couple of weekends, to help with heavy lifting, shlepping, and bringing bags o’ crud to the basement.  Man Child, bless his Herculean heart, also came last week. He took two days off from school to help sort and pack, and then did the majority of the heavy furniture lifting and moving.  Mr and Mrs Smitholini also pitched in, putting up curtains and ceiling fans, general assistance and wondering what the fuck happened to me.

We did get some new pieces of furniture.  I have a desk! A real desk! And it’s all mine, bwahahaha!  And a new kitchen table, because mine didn’t fit in our new, smaller dining space.  Luckily, Husband is in the furniture business, so when we realized the new table wobbles, he was able to fix it in no time.

Maybe I should have gone with my first instinct, a couple of matchbooks.

Maybe I should have gone with my first instinct, a couple of matchbooks.

It is all getting done though.  The first several days were like camping.  The stove wasn’t hooked up, the kitchen sink didn’t work, the dishwasher (hooray!) was sitting in the living room, and did I mention that my refrigerator died the night before we moved it?  The wireless internet didn’t reach the living room (where my desk is), and then it was spotty.  Finally I have a reasonable connection, for the moment I’ll pretend those cables aren’t slithering down the hall floor waiting to trip me.

Sure she looks innocent while she's sleeping.

Sure she looks innocent while she’s sleeping.

Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is very unhappy with the move and attendant chaos, and has been displaying her displeasure by peeing on the floor.  Yesterday she decided it was time to meet the new neighbors. While I was cleaning, she snuck under the divider of our shared terrace, and walked into my next door neighbor’s living room.  My bell rang, she came running and barking as usual.  It was my neighbor, reporting the visit.  Are you kidding me?! We had the same set up downstairs, she never did that.

Almost done.  That’s what I keep saying.  Well, that and knowing I’m getting myself a new tank as soon as possible.  Besides, with the new, higher apartment comes a better view.  This was our first morning, not a bad way to wake up–and no boxes on the horizon.

Somewhere btw 5-5:30am

Somewhere btw 5-5:30am

Hasta Luego, Summer

Yes, I really do miss this.

It never gets any fucking easier.

And so it goes.

Hello Fringelings!  Lots of life since I last posted.  Still adjusting to life without Big Senile Dog, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is continuing to have a hard time, searching for her buddy.

I just said goodbye to Nerd Child.  You’d think with the years all this would get easier, wrapping up summer, saying goodbye to the boys, school starting up again…but it doesn’t.  For me, anyway.  Some people say the first year is the hardest, but I disagree because after the first year, you know just how much you’re going to miss them. Supporting each boy’s desire and decision to go to boarding school wasn’t easy, but the school Man Child attended was great for him, and the school Nerd Child is attending has him happier than I ever knew was possible to be in high school. This is a big year in Fringeland.  Man Child is in his senior year of college, Nerd Child is a junior in high school (though they don’t call it junior year in his school, all the boarding schools have strange and individual terms for the grades), and Art Child…Art Child begins eighth grade tomorrow.

Eighth grade means insanity here in New York.  High school admissions.  For those unfamiliar with the pomp and circumstance of city schools, entering high school isn’t limited to the “usual” adolescent stress of worrying about getting lost in new hallways and remembering where your locker is.  It’s a process.  There is no zoned high school for us, so even limiting the choices to public schools, there are tours and applications and interviews, portfolios and auditions.  Because being a young teen and parenting in the city isn’t stressful enough.  So yesterday, in preparation, I approached the crate.  Then I spent an hour and a half sorting through and tossing out all the junk we no longer need.  I thought I did this after Nerd Child’s high school admission rounds were finished, but apparently not.  From what I found, I hadn’t tossed anything since I cleared out after Man Child’s college admissions.

The Crate

The Crate

This is my super system for school admissions.  Sure, the savvy moms use Excel spreadsheets and apps, but I’ve got a crate.  The above pic is what’s left after clearing out.  The latest high school books from the Department of Education, a notebook I’ve used for notes and tracking since I began this fun eight years ago, a notebook from Nerd Child’s high school process (excellent tips that are still applicable from the admissions counselor of his middle school), and acceptance letters and packages (those I could find, anyway. I know several are missing).  Because mama pride.  All this experience, I’m more relaxed, right?  Nope.  This will be the first time everything is riding on the public school admissions, and Art Child would like an arts-focused school, so much will be new again.  Three different kids, interests, and abilities means different school choices. Crap!!!!

New Yorkers, of course, believe this is the best and only valid way to have their kids in the best schools, and have the best college options later.  Oh bullshit.  Colleges around the world–even those “top,” Ivy League colleges–are filled with kids who didn’t go to the “top” NYC schools.  And I’m having an ongoing panic attack thinking of many of those not top NY public schools that kiddos are assigned to when they don’t make their choice schools.  Can’t I just go back to the beach and stay there, eyes closed and iPod in my ears?  I may not have done anything fabulous or gone on vacation, but I will miss this summer.

I did have a couple of pieces of good news last week.  *drumroll please*  The larger apartment came through.  Oh. my. God.  I have no idea how we’re going to get it habitable and still have enough money to eat this year, no idea how we’re going to get packed and moved without the boys here to help without my back literally breaking, but it’s going to happen.  Even if I have a stroke from the price quotes I’m hearing for painting and floor installation, it will happen.  Even if  they don’t fix the toilet that’s currently doubling as a fountain, it will happen.  And luxury of luxuries, a second toilet, a little half bathroom.  Two!  I’m so thrilled by this the first second third thing I did was go up and scrub that toilet.  The first was sweeping, the second was bathe Little Incredibly Dumb Dog, who was gray and sneezing after spending a few hours up there with me.  The thought of moving into an apartment that won’t immediately be covered in a layer of dog fur is…strange.  Maybe not bad, but strange. (the little one doesn’t shed)

Another bit of good news.  I had applied to be a mentee through the WoMentoring Project, and received an email from the agent I applied to for mentoring, and yes!  I/Astonishing was chosen.  What, specifically, will this mean for me and Astonishing?  No fucking clue, but it won’t be bad, and could potentially be fantastic.  Actually, being chosen is already fantastic.  Funny, because when I wrote the essay for the application, I was thinking about all my application essay experience–writing parent essays for kiddos’ school admissions.  And I’ve written many, many of those, each school has their own special set of essay questions. Hmmm, if I never earn a dollar for my fiction, maybe someone will pay me a dollar for admission essays.  (Kidding of course, that would be unethical.)

Last week Mrs Smitholini and I celebrated thirty years of friendship.  I suggested matching tattoos, but for some reason Mr S didn’t care for that idea.  So we went to see Wicked.  Just Mrs S and I, like two grownups, a perfect show to celebrate friendship.

So as the season gets ready to change, changes in Fringeland.  Good stuff, nerve-wracking stuff, life.

Pinch and Dollop

^^The above title means nothing.  I’m a bit scattered today but feel like yapping, so this will be a scattered post.

I woke up this morning happy to not hear the sound of rain, looking forward to that first morning vat of coffee with an hour to myself.  All quiet, Art Child still asleep, dogs still on their bed and Husband left early for work.

That early morning brain didn’t calculate quickly enough.  Dogs still on their bed with me out of mine.  Yup, left the bedroom and walked through a stream of dog piss.  Aaah, kidney disease in an old, sizable dog.  Remember folks, I don’t live in a house.  It’s a high rise building, which means even if I “catch him” mid pee, at this point there’s no stopping him til I can push him out the door to the yard.  It’s leaving the apartment, waiting for the elevator, riding the elevator down, and then walking through the lobby to get outside.  Don’t ask, the answer is yes, I have been walking him more frequently.  Good times.

So after I washed the floor for the twelfth time this week and got the girl to school, I went for a walk.

Nice morning, cool angles.

Nice morning, cool angles.

Strolled down Broadway to the super duper stupor inducing home store.  I’ve spent a lot of money in that store over the years, but most of it has been outfitting dorm rooms for the boys.  Not today.  Today I was buying a mop.  Why yes, I have been washing the floor with a sponge on my hands and knees.  And double yes, my back has been singing an aria between the extra walks and the floor washing.  I’m tired, I’m frustrated, I was not just buying a mop, I was buying the king of all mops.  Of course, the one I wanted wasn’t on a shelf reachable by customers, but the man in the store was nice and accommodating, brought over the 50 foot rolling ladder and brought down the box I wanted.

Came home, opened the box, and found these.

A little daunting that the bit packed on top was the stop sign.

A little daunting that the bit packed on top was the stop sign.

Have no fear, Fringelings.  I’m a mother of three.  I’ve assembled countless Lego sets and performed surgery on multiple Barbies.  Not nearly as tricky as all the individual little bags made it seem it would be.  And now, a question.

Why has no one made me buy this before today?  I love this fucking thing.  I honestly couldn’t believe what a great job it did, while leaving the floor dry within seconds.  Well worth the $11,000 for a mop. Less 20%, because I remembered the coupon, whee!

Soon I  have to go pick up Art Child.  But first, I’m going to enjoy my floors while they’re clean and dry.


This Way Lies Madness

Make it stop!!!!

Make it stop!

That’s in the hallway outside my apartment.  It’s been chirp-shrieking for three days now.  Why, oh why, doesn’t someone with a ladder come and change the battery?

Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is afraid of the sound.  She spent all of Saturday quaking. She barks and jumps like a wee mop lunatic for me to pick her up every time we’re in the hall waiting for the elevator to go down for a walk.  By yesterday, she realized it can’t actually harm her through the door when she’s in the apartment, so she spent last night demonstrating her valor by growling and barking at the doorknob.  All. Night. Long.

I considered (for about the 29th day in a row) working on the short story I’ve been building in my mind. Nope, not yet.

Big Senile Dog is only bothered by the little one’s shenanigans.  I think his hearing is going, in addition to his kidneys.  Why yes, I did have to take him back to the vet for more testing, and spoke with her a while ago.  Renal failure.  We’re going to try to keep him as comfortable as possible for as long as possible.  The thing is, when you live in this world of medical mayhem I’ve been party to in the last ten years or so, part of your brain starts sifting through and throwing up memories of every one of these moments when you hear test results.  Fucked up as this sounds, I’ve dealt with much worse.  Sorry.  I love my beasts, but watching Husband turn blue?  Worse.  Art Child turn blue? No contest.

Big Senile Dog was a gift from my brother.  What an awesome gift, right?  None of us dreamed of the extent of  it until he became an unofficial but invaluable service dog for my daughter.  In the dog/people world, Big Senile Dog’s breed hasn’t been “just” a pet for very long.  They’re working dogs.  Bless his tired, scrawny body, he’s worked for us.  Gift isn’t the word, I don’t think there is one.

I didn’t cry when the vet told me, just asked questions about how best to keep him comfortable, and stressed that I don’t want him to suffer.  We should still have at least a couple of months with him.  I’ve been on the receiving end of bad news for people and critters I hold near and dear many times, and many lessons learned.  Among them, falling apart doesn’t mean you care more, not falling apart doesn’t mean you care less.  I will say, though, falling apart while speaking with a doctor makes it much harder to take in the necessary information, understand what they’re saying, and then move forward with what needs to be done.  This doesn’t mean I don’t feel, I’ve just become, I don’t know…judicious? in the when and where.  Try to be, anyway.

I’d like to say I’ve learned all these marvelous spiritual lessons, but in all honesty I can’t.  What I’ve learned is that all I don’t know, can’t control or predict, is vast– and there are no safe assumptions.  Not assuming medical science can treat all or even identify all.  Not assuming good writing trumps all.  Not assuming what I believe is everyone’s truth–or even my truth a year from now.

Nerd Child was home a couple of weeks ago, and sounded like shit.  His asthma and allergies were flaring, and I told him approximately 53,000 times how important it is for him to take care of himself.  In completely age appropriate teenaged boy spirit he told me, “Don’t worry, Ma.  I’m not dead yet.”  Flippant, sure.  But a good reminder to keep perspective, too.

So no, I’m not crying, but I need the musical equivalent of comfort food.