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.
Some time ago (OK, fine, so it was just before Ruby started kindergarten), after many years of struggling with our now 7-year-old’s well-documented sleep issues that—at their very worst—forced my husband and me to seek middle-of-the-night solace in our Civic Hybrid.