Complicated

 

Friends, I hate to do this to you again but I don’t have a funny today.

 

Husband is fine.  I’m… physically healthy.  I’m sat right here[1] on the couch beside him watching him get murdered by dinosaurs in pursuit of… other dinosaurs.  It should be a lovely evening but I’ve got a migraine and a tummy full of knots from a full day of crying and drama and more crying.

 

It was a hell of a weekend and I find all I really want in this crazy fucked-up world is to tell you about it.

 

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2019: In With a Sniffle

 

I really want to give you something special today.  I want to start 2019 off with a bang, you know?

 

But here’s the thing: I’m sick as a fucking dog* and dealing with some serious post-holiday blah on top of it all.

 

This was our first Christmas with Offspring as a (welcome!  So very welcome we almost didn’t let him leave) “visitor” rather than a permanent installment in our home, and now my holiday season has an official end: the day he leaves.  Always before, I was content—determined, even—to keep my tree and my carols and my lights going as long as would be permitted by Husband, the neighbors, and local laws.  But when I hugged Private Squdgee Booboo goodbye (and went right back to bed because his flight was at bullshit o’clock) I had no further desire to light the tree.  It’s not that I’m over Christmas, it’s just… it all looks sort of sad now that he’s not here.  Like a Who house after the Grinch left; all hooks and wire and crumbs.

(How the Grinch Stole Christmas) sad Who house, all stripped bare of Christmas cheer and decor following a visit from the Grinch; wires and scraggly bits of tinsel hang from hooks and the hearth is bare

 

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Can You Have Too Many Probes?

 

Friday’s child was un-fun and I promised you something lighter.

 

Can we talk holiday prep?  Because it’s me, and you know it’s already ridiculous.

 

This is my new favorite thing in the whole wide world:

 

red and white ribbon-wrapped pen with red maribou feather topper and jingle bells on top; lying across open planner page.

 

How… everything is that?  Sure, it’s not glittery—I actually thought about adding glitter or rinestones, but I didn’t want to be tacky.

 

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First Class Mistake

When last I left you, I was not going to be a sky pirate captain because my husband is a quitter—a died-in-the-wool giver-upper who never supports my dreams.

Angelina Jolie (Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow) in her black uniform and eyepatch, on the deck of her skyship, against a background of clouds and skyscrapers

I’d have had a better hat, though.

I am, as it happens, still not a sky pirate captain.
I am, however, a person who has literally paid for a hotel by the hour, (though I’m sure the good people at Ramada don’t advertise this service) upgraded herself out of the best flight ever, and—because I love you—snapped a photo of the most mockable woman in all of Georgia.
Here’s what happened:

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Snail Male

 

In case you’ve ever wondered what sort of head case I am: when planning for Offspring’s departure I realized we wouldn’t be able to speak on the phone often or at all so letters would be the thing—which has turned out to be true—but then I started overthinking it.  How does one address such a letter?  How often should I write?  What should I write about?

 

Now, I could have brought these questions and concerns to Husband or Offspring, but that would have exposed my inadequacies and, frankly, my level of crazy.  I’m only comfortable showing you my crazy. 

 

So I googled it.

exhausted man at cluttered desk; desk placard identifies him as Google (from "If Google was a guy" videos)

 

Extensively.

 

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