Aand within days she was struck by a virus, fevered and ached, shivering in her bed. This AND she received a vitriolic, hate-filled email addressed not only to her but to her colleagues as well. All of whom would vouch for her character. Brought her to tears it did. She would tell you all the nitty but this here’s the public stratosphere. Suffice to say she should have seen it coming, the pain. The misery, the amputation of endorphin flow and thus her social world of bootcamping ladies. Muscles slacken. The sofa has gone miles of dreamless sweaty sleep as the virus tendrils way too slowly out of her system.
*For me anyway. Or for you if you’re like me: a sensitive, sardonic, exhibitionistic, aesthetically driven forty-something female who strives to eliminate suffering from her life and live the happiest life possible.
Spike woke up a newly minted 9 this morning. At 6:30 AM. He was excited to open his presents. I am ready for a nap. Just like I used to be all the time about nine years ago.
Christmas. Merry. Happy. Joy. Stress. Angst. Guilt. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. Ah, the holidays. Continue reading
I finally found it. I’ve been looking for it since last night. I don’t even know how it came up. I was talking with the kids after dinner. We had fish—a nice frozen white filet of some sort from Trader Joe’s that I’d defrosted in the fridge and refroze about three times before finally committing to the thing. I hate eating fish when it’s raining. It’s too much water element, you know? It depresses me. And I always think I’ve scored the deal of the century buying a frozen fish filet at Trader Joe’s, but the things are still like six dollars a pound which ain’t cheap.
It’s been almost a month since my last confession. I left off shortly before Halloween. Then Sandy came. And the election.
My fingers hover over the keyboard wondering what the hell to write. Sandy was devastating. The election, for me anyway, was a relief. Now it’s Veterans Day and the veterans are being thanked. Thank you veterans. Thank you hurricane clean-up volunteers. Thank you linemen and women. Thank you donators. We give thanks every night in my house. Thanks that we have heat, electricity. Hot water. Food. Health. An internet connection. Coffee. Pie. Snuggly fitted fleece jackets with those neato holes in the cuffs for your thumbs. Poo poo as my mother would say.
Good evening Fine Reader. I don’t know where to begin. It’s been seven days since my last confession. Today, this day of atonement. Means little more than a full day with the kids to an atheistic Hebrew school dropout like me. Rabble rouser. Inappropriate joker. TMI connoisseur.
Allow me to present exhibit one: sweet fig and goat cheese frozen custard with crinkle-cut French fries for dippin’. Courtesy of Shake Shack, my new favorite obsession, thanks to my dear friend Danielle.
I have joined a new cult. The cult of ballet. Not my ballet. Peaches’ ballet. It happened so fast and now I’m out $300 and I don’t care! Will I turn into THAT mom? Will a deep crease make its home between my eyebrows as I shuttle precious Peaches to class, insist she work harder, outshine all her six-year old competitors, keep her eye on the prize of being chosen for the elite company when she turns ten… Is that the road I’ve just stepped upon?