My husband is the optimist in our relationship. He's the yin to my yang. He's the glass-is-half-full to my fuck-that-glass-I-hate-that-glass-so-I-smashed-that-glass-on-the-floor-and-now-it's-empty-forever-and-you-can't-argue-it's-not.
There I was, standing amid rows and rows of Christmas decorations at Michael's. In early September. In the middle of a heat wave that buoyed my hot flashes and delivered to me a few weeks later a $445 electric bill (fuck you very much, SDG&E).
In today's pain-free state, it doesn't begin to seem reasonable that I took a $2,200 ride in an ambulance to the hospital. But it was that bad. I'd diagnosed myself with something imminently terminal, and I wasn't going to wait around for the mister to show up and find me dead.
Poor Edwin Decker. I don't know which is worse. First, his column space gets co-opted by his better half, the wicked-smart Mizz W. (I've met her and can attest that Decker is playing up.) And now La Belfer has sneaked in to rearrange the furniture. Oh, the joy!
As I sit at my desk, I notice the light has faded. I look out my office window and decide, when the garden lights pop on, that it must be nearly 8:30 p.m., but then I look at the clock and my worst fear is confirmed: It’s only 7:22.