This has turned into one of those mornings. On the way home from getting my sons some ice cream and coffee (as well as some actual groceries), someone ran a red light, which caused us to stop short and for me to spill coffee all over my sweater. Then I had an upsetting call with my mother, whose dementia is spiraling. It didn't end well, and I'm not the only person she contacted (or who's upset).
I wanted to cry, and my sister advised that might be the best course of action. The last thing I wanted to do were those grown up things that, you know, help me achieve my goals...but I did them anyway. I did my PT exercises and noticed that, hey, I'm getting much better at them. I forced myself to transcribe this new installment, and you know what, this new twist doesn't suck. And I really, really, did not want to call Nevada voters first thing in their morning, but after bracing myself to get hung up on ten times, three out of ten were pretty nice.
None of this makes the issues with my mother go away, nor does it address my other anxieties, both personal and, well, larger. But it's not nothing, and sometimes that's a big win.
Right...I'm also keeping up with my reading (yes, thank you, I will take the medal, parade, and statue), but one book I happily ditched into the library was some edited compilation of Douglas Adams' writings. My husband really liked The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy...and then came upon some bs Adams wrote about trying to be Jewish--in no small part because of the size of his nose--but, as the title says, he likes bacon.
God damn, I am so glad I never wasted my precious time on anything he ever wrote. Why someone like that repelled me, I can't tell you, but sometimes my instincts aren't wrong (see also: Roald Dahl and Doctor Seuss). Now if only I could get over The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock...
Deb in the City
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