humor

The Miserable

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the miserablePlans to dine at the charming French bistro had been made since the trip was set into motion over 2 months ago. Lee’s friend is a chef who’s vacationed on Hilton Head Island since childhood, and he’d given the place his trained culinary stamp of approval long before our hotel was ever booked.

But there were simply too many things to see and do on our last day at the beach and I had waited too long to eat and was feeling weak and nauseated. I needed some crackers and Sprite STAT to settle my stomach or else I feared I would not be able to enjoy the epicurean delights of the wonderful little estlablishment where we had just been seated.

I looked up at the waiter with great desperation and even greater embarrassment as I asked him to bring me those items as soon as he could…. “I want to enjoy this wonderful food, but my stomach is a little off I’m afraid… perhaps some crackers or rolls and a Sprite will help me feel better. The menu looks amazing!” I interjected a little over-dramatically so as to compensate for my poor form as I removed my silverware from the elegantly-folded napkin.

As I mowed through the French bread and sucked on the Sprite like my plane was going down and it was indeed my final meal, we began looking around the restaurant and noticing how much older the other patrons were. We were easily the youngest people in the place by a robust 40-year age gap. Small tables of white-haired octogenarian couplets dotted the entire space. The men all were impeccably dressed in tidy sweater vests and the women carefully wrapped in fancy scarves secured with decorative pendants. They sipped their wine or coffee, making sour faces and taking infant-sized bites of their food.

The place was small and quiet and the interactions of our fellow diners were easy to see and hear what with our youthful, 30-something eyes and ears and whatnot. And every table (TRUST ME — we kept track) had some sort of a complaint to register. It was too cold, they didn’t like their souffle, the table was placed in too conspicuous of a spot (I am not making this up), they wanted to be seated by a window, parking was too far, they couldn’t understand the French waitress’s English, the lovely young lady at the next table was eating her bread too fast… blah, blah, blah… blah, blah.

With each grievance filed, Lee and I would exchange glances that quickly evolved from wide-eyed stares to stifled snickering and silently-mouthed OMG’s. We knew we were  in an area largely populated by white, wealthy, retirees with an obsession for golf — but had not yet encountered such a situation as this. Needless to say, we felt a bit out of our element amidst the disgruntled frosty-haired, Cadillac-Lincoln-Buick Bunch.

“I don’t want to be like THAT when I get old!” I declared to Lee after our entrees arrived.

“Like what?” he said, drawing out the “uuut” in what with a cheshire grin, goading me.

“You know… All ‘irritated’ and ‘grumpy’ and ‘complain-ey’ and ‘demanding’ and full of ‘special needs’ and ‘specific requests’ and what-have-you” I said in return with great animation, abusing the use of air quotes the entire time and completely ignorant as to the reasoning behind his ever-growing curious smile.

“You don’t?” he asked slightly sarcastically, raising one eyebrow and directing his gaze toward the empty bread basket and trail of crumbs that led all the way across the table and stopped… immediately in front of my plate. “Oh, by the way… Here comes our waiter… do you need another Sprite?”

“Damn.” I said aloud as the irony of what had just transpired hit me right between the eyes. “It’s too late. It’s already happened. I am apparently already one of ‘those’ people. And as soon as we get back I should trade in my sporty little Pontiac for a boat-sized Buick and hit the links. By the way… don’t you think it IS a little cold in here?”

The Non-Traditional Student: Lessons In Irony

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EPSON scanner imageAs a “traditional co-ed”—i.e. someone who enters college in the same calendar year that he or she finished high-school—I thought I was so cool walking to the art building in my oversized flannel shirt and shredded jeans while listening to Pearl Jam on my headphones. Yes sir, in the mid-nineties, grunge was in and being between the ages of 18 to 22 was even more so.

The “non-traditional” students were a phenomenon my friends and I could not wrap our heads around. Thus, we enjoyed making fun of them. We thought they were musty, crusty and old and we wondered why in the world they would CHOOSE to put their ancient, arthritic asses on the hard wooden seats in the same stifling lecture halls that WE had no choice but to drag our hung-over selves to at the ungodly hour of 11 a.m.

I mean, they had jobs and houses and families and cars and probably unpronounceable medical conditions and doctor’s appointments for crying out loud! Why did they feel the need to spend their “spare time” with us intentionally exposing themselves to the likes of English Comp, Abnormal Psych or the Geologic History of the Dinosaurs?

I remember at the start of each new semester taking a passing glance around my new classes, trying to get an overview of my fellow attendees while simultaneously looking for hot guys. And each time my gaze got snagged on someone sporting a fanny pack or grey hair, I would roll my eyes in bitter disgust, groaning and dying a little bit more inside. I would be stuck with the know-it-all geriatrics for the better part of five months.

It was incomprehensible. And it was annoying. Because fifty bucks said they were always going to have the answers FOR EVERYTHING. And another fifty said they’d have a nice long-winded story to accompany said answer. AND they asked a TON of questions. It was excruciating. The only saving grace was the possibility that I’d be paired up with one of them for the final class project — since they had, in fact, roamed the earth WITH the very same dinosaurs we were studying. I bet they had some real side-splitters about that ornery, ‘ole Velociraptor.

Imagine now, if you can, the calendar pages flying as I invite you to travel with me briskly into the future to a new chapter called “Irony’s a Bitch” … or “Getting What You Deserve” … or “Here’s To Me and MY Arthritic Ass” … whichever title you like best, go with it. The point is that since I’ve enrolled in a course at a local college of art and design, the irony is not lost on me that I have become the very butt of my own joke. I am the punch line. I am the “non-traditional” student.

I am the one with the answers and the long-winded story to accompany them. I am the one staying after class to ask the professor “one more question” in order to “get my money’s worth.” Yes, I have a job and a house and a family and a car and the pharmacy on speed dial AND I just happened to have a doctor’s appointment this very morning…

But I implore you, Dear Beautiful Young Blonde Coed Who Sits Beside Me With The Bright Red Lipstick and Super Trendy Glasses Looking Stunning Even Though You Are Totally Hung Over… please try to forgive me when I launch into a lengthy story about my recent vacation and the amazing architecture, rich history and Spanish moss of Savannah… For I—the non-traditional student (sans fanny pack and grey hair, of course)—am NOT too old to learn stuff too.

Judge Not Lest Ye Be… Messy

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SCSSA crumpled Wendy’s bag on the floor of the front passenger’s side, a coffee-soaked napkin in the cup holder resting innocently atop sticky, stray coins mingled with toothpicks and straw wrappers and a Starbucks pastry wrapper pinned beneath the snow brush on the floor of the backseat told me all that I needed to know.

As someone who thrives on neatness and order, I used to be quite judgmental of people with messy cars. And let me be a bit more specific by stating that when I say “used to be” I mean like… a month ago.

But climbing into my driver’s seat yesterday morning to the aforementioned scene caused me to realize that I am, indeed, one of THOSE people. That’s right. I, myself, am hereby (or at least for the time being) a Messy Car Person.

In my past life, I wondered how on earth it was possible for people to ride around in vehicles with muddy floor mats, cluttered backseats, unidentifiable schmutz on the interior and random cheerios strewn haphazardly about or ground deeply into the carpet.

I marveled at others’ abilities to travel from A to B all the while overlooking such sins as dirty clothes, fast food wrappers, wrinkled bits of note paper and empty beverage cups. I mean, it’s a CAR… not a closet or a kitchen or a GARBAGE CAN! Thus, it is with great humiliation and shame that I admit… I now stand among them.

HOW did this happen? You might ask. Someone once so fussy has now just given up!? Am I merely a modern version of Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout who would not take the garbage out? Well. It’s not quite that simple. Or maybe it is. I’m not sure. What I DO know is that I got busy. VERY busy.

I know I’ve already touched on this but I started a new job that occupies me greatly with its lengthy commute and wicked learning curve. (Not that I’m complaining… because I honestly LOVE IT!) And I started taking a class. That has actual homework. So apparently I went from having oodles of time for the luxury of tossing out the trash… to not… having that luxury.

That’s it. That’s all I got. It’s the only excuse I can come up with. Busyness. I don’t want to admit that I’m lazy or dirty or slovenly. I think I’m just busy at the moment. At least I hope that’s all it is. Hopefully it is a fleeting thing and one day, when life begins to flatten out, I’ll be Little Miss Clean Car again — looking down my perfect little nose with great disgust in heavy judgment of the Messy Car People once more.

And all will be right with the world.

Seinfeld-ology: “Nods to Nothing”

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SeinfeldWhile having lunch with a coworker the other day, our conversation wondered to the topic of a man we work with. For the sake of the story (and to protect the guilty) we’ll call him Bradley. She and I commiserated about the fact that while very friendly and outgoing initially, Bradley’s interactions with each of us had indeed diminished over the course of time.

“Don’t you think that’s strange!?” I said to her in an extremely annoyed and curious tone. “I mean, why in the world would a person just STOP communicating for no apparent reason?”

My dining companion appeared to be equally vexed at the mere consideration of my question. “You know,” I continued “You’re probably too young to have watched or remembered the show, but this whole situation reminds me of an episode of Seinfeld.”

Of course, as many of you know… almost EVERYTHING reminds me of an episode of Seinfeld. Though I’d like to think that rather than this being due to my having some sort of sick, twisted obsession with the “Show About Nothing” — it can be contributed to the fact that the show was pure genius in that it dealt with the mundane, everyday things that happen to all of us.

Tell me friends, has anything like this ever happened to you? Here is Elaine’s scene from the aforementioned episode…

ELAINE: Tell me if you think this is strange: There’s this guy who lives in my building, who I was introduced to a couple of years ago by a friend. He’s a teacher, or something. Anyway, after we met, whenever we’d run into each other on the street, or in the lobby, or whatever, we would stop and we would chat a little. Nothing much. Little pleasantries. He was a nice guy, he’s got a family… then after a while, I noticed there was no more stopping… Just saying hello and continuing on our way.

And then the verbal hellos stopped, and we just went into these little sort of nods of recognition. So, fine. I figure, that’s where this relationship is finally gonna settle: Polite Nodding. Then one day, he doesn’t nod. Like I don’t exist?! He went from nods to nothing.

And now, there’s this intense animosity whenever we pass. I mean, it’s like we really hate each other. And it’s based on nothing.

You see, this was a perfect description of what was happening to my coworker and I! We went from nods to nothing with this guy. And although it remains annoying… there is a bit of comfort to be found in the fact that this MUST be a somewhat common occurrance in social settings.

I only wish that I had the guts to confront “Bradley” the way Elaine eventually does with her problematic rude dude…

ELAINE: So, I had what you might call a little encounter this morning. I spotted the guy getting his mail. And at first, I was just going to walk on by, but then I thought “no, no, no, no. Do not be afraid of this man.

So, I walked up behind him and I tapped him on the shoulder. And I said, “Hi, remember me?” And he furrows his brow as if he’s really trying to figure it out. So I said to him, “You little phony. You know exactly who I am.”

And he goes, “Oh, yeah. You’re Jeanette’s friend. We did meet once.” And I said, “Well, how do you go from that to totally ignoring a person when they walk by?”

And he says, “Look, I just didn’t want to say hello anymore, alright?” And I said, “Fine. Fine! I didn’t want to say hello anymore either, but I just wanted YOU to know that I’M aware of it!”

But alas, I would never actually have the intestinal fortitude to say such a thing. Most of the time art imitates life. But oh how I wish (in this case) it could be the other way around.

Silence Isn’t Golden… It’s Diamond

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diamond ringsI’m not a very quiet person. I realize this may come as a shock to some, but I like to talk. Oh, who am I kidding? I LOVE to talk. I REALLY LOVE to talk. I can talk all day, everyday about anything, everything and nothing. I am basically a good person, but my one downfall (if I had to admit to one)… the ONE thing that has consistently gotten me into trouble is my talking. I opened my mouth in pre-school to talk about who knows what—probably Play-Doh or Barbies or Captain Kangaroo—and I haven’t closed it since.

Which is why it was not surprising when yesterday evening during dinner I got the sneeking suspicion that Lee (being as polite as one could be after a long, hard day at work) wanted me to shut the hell up. He was eating peacefully and there I was yammering on about something I’d read on Facebook, various job leads, the bank account, bridal gown shopping and a web design class I thought I should register for.

He didn’t SAY anything, mind you. But I could tell. I’d seen the body language before in my father, my mother, my sister, my co-workers, the teller at the bank, the clerk at the grocery store, the optician fitting me for new glasses and the poor, helplessly-captive phlebotomist drawing my blood at the Red Cross. Once that needle’s in… she’s committed baby! I’ve got an audience for at LEAST a pint — which CAN be awhile if you fail to squeeze the squishy ball hard enough.

I don’t know how else to describe it. But it’s something that can be read in the resigned slump of the shoulders, the “please shut up” roll of the eyes and naturally the “oh $#@! here we go again” nodding-while-avoiding-direct-eye-contact thingy. I guess it’s just something one must experience in order to recognize. But… I digress.

Anyhoo, immediately upon detection of this behavior from Lee that he did, indeed, want me to shut the hell up… I sighed a heavy sigh, pet the cat and said to Lee: “Well, I should probably just be quiet now and let you enjoy your meal.” An observation that he, of course, did NOT deny. But he DID un-slump his shoulders, make eye contact with me and smile. He finished chewing what was in his mouth, used and re-folded his napkin, then turned toward me to speak.

“I just find it interesting that you’ve been talking to me this whole time while we are eating and yet…” He paused for a drink of his Diet Dr. Pepper. “… you sat silently on the couch for over an hour when I got home this afternoon, glued to those ring catalogs that I gave you to look at.”

For a rare moment I was speechless. My gaze immediately darted from him toward the living room, landing on the carefully-stacked diamond catalogs sitting innocently on the edge of the coffee table. He had brought them home only hours earlier for me to “take my time” perusing in search of a potential wedding band and light blue sticky notes were already jutting out from the edges of several pages. I looked back at him sheepishly and silently… my face turning fifty shades of pink… my diamond lust having been found out and now grossly on display beneath the revealing yellow light of the dining room.

“I guess I know how to shut you up then.” He said, half-teasing and partially serious. Apparently… for me… silence never was golden. But it just might be diamond.

Merry Christmas! I Love You Thi$$$$ Much!

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price tagsWell, it’s descended upon us again hasn’t it? The traditional, commercial Christmas is practically here. That magical time of year when we all gather together after rushing madly hither and yon in search of that perfect gift that lets our loved ones know just how very much we love them. Literally.

For example: “Here, Aunt Nancy… here’s a lovely plaid scarf. I know it’s wool and a little scratchy but it matches your eyes. Don’t you think? They did have cashmere, but you see… My love for you is not a cashmere kind of love. My love for you is a woolish kind of love. In fact, I love you around $11 worth.”

See what I mean? Without realizing it, we often divide those we care about into categories, defining our love for them by assigning dollar amounts. Now I know you might argue with me that it is all about budgeting and how can you possibly spend more on Cousin Stuart after dropping less than 20 on Aunt Nancy’s hideous scarf… but we ought to admit that on SOME level it is true.

The math goes a little something like this (Feel free to add a zero depending on which “percenter” you are)… There are those who fall into the $5 category. They are the ones most often occupying the fringes of our lives… Those we HAVE to see on a daily basis but would not necessarily interact with were we not forced to. And those we place into the $10 to $20 range… People with whom we choose to spend time but are not related. And then there’s family. Family eats up most of the budget either out of necessity, obligation or affection.

And this is where the real fun begins. You consider what THEY got YOU last year and thus what type of gift should be given this year. This sometimes breeds a healthy bout of one-up-man-ship or at the very least a breaking even. I’ve often wondered whether or not we should all just keep the $50 or $100 since we’re essentially handing it back and forth year after year. But what would be the fun in that?

Then I remember that it isn’t really about the money. The money is the necessary evil by which feel we must express our gratitude or love this time of year. It’s really all about recognition. Recognition of the people we COULD not or WOULD not live without whether they gave us a faulty, small kitchen appliance (with or without a warranty), a gift card to a place we hate, a too big pair of pajamas or a hideous pair of slippers last year.

Merry Christmas everyone! May you give and receive lots of love to and from your 5, 10, 20 and 50-dollar people this holiday season… no matter what form of currency it comes in.

Farewell, Family Christmas Letter

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awkward-christmas-card-photosWe’re all aware that while constant connection due to social media is convenient and entertaining, there are many things that have been lost due to this advent of technology and instant, infinite contact. Some things have made me sad as I’ve watched them go… like actually sitting in the same room with someone and talking face to face. But other things?… Not so much. Some things, I was happy to see fall by the wayside. And in recent years, Christmas time has reminded me of one of those things. I am referring to the family Christmas letter. Remember those?

I used to hate them. Every year my mailbox would be jammed with fancy envelopes adorned with pictures of the baby Jesus and custom gold and silver embossed address labels. Inside were the letters… chocked full of bloated, flowery lies stories about the family and their annual exploits. These always included (but were NOT limited to) fancy vacations, costly household renovations or new real estate ventures, overachieving brats children and their exhausted utterly thrilled and proud parents.

Of course accompanying the letters were the perfectly-staged “family photos” — everyone gathered ‘round the hearth in matching turtleneck / sweater combos that had either holly leaves, reindeer or snowflakes embroidered on them. (See above photo for perfect specimen.) OR said family was seen sitting serenely on some beach somewhere in coordinating white linens and sandals.

However, admittedly so, before I hated them… I wrote them. I know… I realize this makes me a bit of a hypocrite and one of “those” people, but at least I’m admitting it. I’m not proud of it, but there was a period of time in the late nineties that I wrote a few of my own. What can I say? I was young and stupid and when I first struck out on my own, how else was I supposed to learn how to act like an adult if I didn’t copy everyone else?

So I’d compile a letter “fluffing” up the events of my life in kind. And being a graphic designer by trade, my letter had to LOOK killer. Thus, I usually chose a theme (yes I said theme) and began its “development” in June. Therefore assuring that nothing worthy of note would be excluded and I would have ample time to procure excellent photos to accompany my exaggerations ur… embellishments um… life events.

So, why did I stop? You may be wondering. I simply got tired of it. And like I mentioned at the beginning, I began to hate them. Sensing that I was, indeed, seeing through the entire charade, I grew weary of reading people’s letters. But even more so, I got tired of feeling the overwhelming need to create my own “utopian mirage” that for a mere 32 cents a piece (back then anyway) could be mailed directly to the residences of everyone I knew.

Family Christmas Letter season was like a printing and postal arms race. Who could cram more into their perfectly-printed letter by being the prettiest, happiest, richest, most-successful, most-fulfilled family IN ALL THE LAND!?! Just once I wanted to see someone compile a letter that was REAL. I never actually had the courage to BE that person… but it would have been so delightful to go to the mailbox and find something like this instead:

Dear Friends and Family,

This year has totally sucked. I hate my job. Bonuses were eliminated despite the fact that the workload has increased by 20 percent. Most weeks I work six, 10-hour days and get maybe four hours of uninterrupted sleep if I’m lucky. Little Larry is failing ALL of his classes and the school has begun tossing around words like “alternative learning programs” and “family intervention” and “expulsion for the betterment of the educational environment as a whole” — whatever THAT means. Our daughter Maude has contracted some sort of scalp fungus that has yet to be identified. My lovely wife Bunny has gained 30 pounds and I swear sometimes when I look at her I believe she is plotting my demise. I no longer eat her cooking.

We didn’t vacation this year due to the fact that the house is falling down around us. The roof is leaking, the bathroom tile is chipping, there is a strange greenish water spot spreading across the kitchen ceiling — the source of which I cannot find to save my life. Meanwhile I discovered asbestos in the attic while setting rat traps and no one will admit what or who caused a giant, smelly rust-colored stain on the living room rug. Unfortunately, none of it can be repaired anytime soon because financially, we are bust. We’ve run up 40K in credit card debt, Maude’s mystery fungus is bankrupting us and the car needs a new transmission.

Sadly, our beloved dog Walter died tragically in a Fourth of July fireworks incident gone horribly wrong and the kids are driving me crazy begging for a new puppy. However, there is one bright spot to report. September proved to be a better month when the lawsuit against me was dropped so long as I continue to adhere to the rules of the restraining order. So that’s a plus.

I’m not going to lie… I hope this letter finds you and yours to be just as miserable as we are.

Happy Holidays!

Sincerely,
The Sellers Family

What’s That Elf on the Shelf REALLY Up To?

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So here we are again. It’s creeping up on Christmas and parents everywhere are creeping around their houses late into the night searching for just the right spot to place their creepy little elf for the kiddies to find come morning. Yes, that wicked ol’ Elf on the Shelf has sprung to life once again and being the hater that I am… I couldn’t help but devote some blog time to the miniature Freak Show.

Some of you may recall that I wrote a post about him and his meteoric rise to fame last Christmas when the tiny demon became a blip on my personal radar. In case you missed it and you’re interested, you can read that one here. I feel I did an adequate job of relaying my fear, disdain and general creeped-out-ed-ness for this convention so I don’t think it’s necessary to expound on that much more.

What I would like to point out is that while I knew I wasn’t the ONLY person who found the Elf on the Shelf to be the very incarnation of evil itself — I had no idea how popular fearing him had actually become. It seems that for every parent out there who adores inflicting him and his “magical powers” upon their child, there is someone else more sensible, someone more enlightened, someone… well… someone more like me.

These enlightened ones know this little guy is up to no good. They understand that beneath that tiny red suit beats a heart of pure darkness. And behind those rosy cheeks and piercing blue eyes lurks a monster waiting to be unleashed… in your home… after you’re all asleep.

I’ve compiled the following images from around the web as proof positive that he is not all he’s cracked up to be. The catchy tune, the cutesy animated commercial and the adorably designed, strategically marketed storybook and package is all a disguise. The plan? Get inside your home and gain your trust. The ultimate goal? Well, take a look for youself…

elf_tree lightself_artistelf_song elf_grandma elf_fluffy

Not to worry though parents—if you’ve been duped by the elf and his cleverly-hatched scheme, and he is, in fact, IN your house this very instance—there is a glimmer of hope. Perhaps your child is also an “enlightened one” like I mentioned earlier. And perhaps he or she will take matters into their own hands… like this one did…

elf_fire

Christmas Tree Mystery

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stanley under treeTwas weeks before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring… save for perhaps a large orange cat with a penchant for shiny red round things that dangle tauntingly from evergreen branches and roll wildly when he bats and chases them. Saturday morning—after meticulously positioning the tree skirt “just so” and adusting every last branch, twinkle light, bulb, miniature angel, teddy bear, snowman, santa and reindeer the night before—I awoke to discover an ornament missing from the tree. Thus far the crime scene clues include a slightly askew tree skirt, two vacant metal hooks embedded into the carpet, a random red bulb resting silently in the middle of the room and one “innocent” looking kitty peering out at me from between the brightly lit branches. Not sure I’ll be able to crack this one.

In Sickness

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sick coupleThere’s nothing quite so lovely or nearly as romantic as being sick with the one you love. Ahh yes, gazing softly and tenderly across the kleenex-and-blister-pack-strewn room… peering pathetically into one another’s deeply-sunken, dead-grey eyes and affectionately eeking out the phrase: “My dear, will you please pass the Mucinex?”

If you haven’t experienced this blissful coupled journey already, I can promise that someday you will. And on that day you will come to realize that indeed, the honeymoon is over. When you’re too tired to take a shower or work a comb through your hair and you’re incapable of remembering exactly which day last week the sweatshirt and pair of pajama pants you’re currently wearing emerged from the third dresser drawer — it isn’t a pretty sight.

Nor is it for the faint of heart. No Ma’am. You’ve gotta be 100% committed to this $#!*. Because instead of discussing where to meet up with your friends for drinks on Friday night, what new restaurant you might check out on Saturday or a possible weekend road trip… you’re reading aloud to one another absolutely riveting passages from the dosing instructions and possible side-effects portions of various OTC and prescription drug leaflets and packages.

Yes, “The Crud” has hit our home and hit it hard. And based upon my constant perusal of various social media outlets — it has been descending upon many other households as well. Fortunately (for me I suppose) I have not fallen as ill as Lee. Unfortunately (for him) he has really gotten slammed. And I do hope that he will be on the mend soon.

Quite miraculously it has worked out that (over the course of seven days — give or take) when one of us has been really down, the other has seemed a bit stronger. Initially, out of sympathy, this spurs a kind of trading of roles from patient to caregiver. However, this turn of events can oftentimes trigger a wonderfully entertaining and hearty bout of the game of One-Up-Manship that I like to call: “Who’s Sicker?” a.k.a. “Who Should Be The One To Go Out and Retrieve More Medicince and Comfort Food?”

Slinging phrases such as “My head is really pounding” or “My throat is really sore, I sure could use a slushie from Sonic” or “I’m so weak I need to lie down for awhile” or “I’m pretty sure I’m going to hack up a lung if not a kidney here pretty soon” usually helps in determining the game’s winner. Thus far, I have only emerged the victor on one occasion.

Hopefully, our walk through the wilderness of disease and pestilence will come to an end — soon. Until then I guess we’re stuck with each other — in all of our sniffly, stuffy, coughy, achy, short-fused, wild-haired, week-old-pajama glory. Neither one of us has run screaming toward the hills just yet. So the way I see it, that’s either a sign of true love… or we’re just too worn out to make the trip.