If you’re anything like my husband, you’re getting sick of all the turtle talk and ready for a change of subject. Thus it is time to address, in that sideways fashion reserved for ongoing legal dramas, The Other Thing.
I’m so sorry.
Just one this week, and all depressing. Skip it if you like; I won’t judge.
Deserve is the most useless word in our language, and should be removed from the common lexicon.
I’ve been reading and hearing it a lot lately;
But here’s the thing: that word doesn’t matter. Deserving something, believing you deserve it, having hoards of people say you deserve it, doesn’t change shit.
You get what you get.
As my father used to point out to me on a near-daily basis: life isn’t fair.
Jan stayed with a friend my last night in Colorado, so I had the house—and her cat—to myself.
I nursed my hurt with sweet tea and tater tots, waiting to get good and tired.
I fiddled with their remote, possibly breaking it, and finally got one channel in.
I taught the cat new tricks.
I was waiting without knowing it.
The call came just before 1am.
The day of The Meeting was also my last full day in Colorado.
I’d prepared my father for my departure, reminding him that with a flight leaving at noon I wouldn’t have time to run all the way up to him in the morning and still make it to Denver in time to check in.
I was half hoping he’d change his mind about The Meeting, decide to spend his daughter’s last day in town actually with her, but no. As long as you make it to that meeting, I’ll be happy, he’d said.
So here I was, dragging my exhausted ass into the hospital for one last day on watch, and even that would be interrupted by the actual Worst Meeting Ever—and I’m including the times I had to sit and listen to a man with dreadlocks down to his ass lecture me on the poor feng shui of my desk while rearranging my shit before I’d finished my goddamned coffee.
I had done the right thing; I had told my father his idiot brother didn’t currently have the PoA he thought he did, even though in doing so I was almost certainly shooting myself in the ass. Or foot. Hell, probably both at the rate I was going.
I stopped for really excellent Mexican and got something with waaay too much cheese.
I went back the next day braced for whatever might come of my confession…