And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again.*
The longer I’m away from anything, the harder it is to make my way back. That book on the nightstand—I put it down one night and didn’t have the nerve to crack it open the next—becomes a member of the DNF list.
Did Not Finish.
Since I’ve been gone, Coco started high school. Cherry is on the endless mailing list of college recruiters. And Bacon underwent dozens of medical tests that promised scary outcomes, but proved nothing. I’ve become a middle-aged, female Atlas, holding our world over my head while screeching, “Don’t eat that. Eat this. Put down your phone. Finish your homework.”
My arms hurt.
My mother always told me, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” I shouldn’t blame my absence on Mom. I’ve been occupied. And whiny.
I hate whiners.
My girl Hillary lost the election. Today’s news brings it home. She was robbed. We were robbed.
I kicked my next door neighbor out of my house last October. She said he wasn’t a racist. I reminded her, “My children aren’t white.” She said he doesn’t believe what he’s been saying. With my hand on the doorknob, I told her, “If it walks like a duck, if it talks like a duck, it’s a duck.” I shut the door behind her.
I’m a red state snowflake.
We made nice over Christmas. I wish I’d served duck soup.
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