every time I leave a room to go answer the phone, (if we’ve left it on the charger and it’s not with us), no matter what else is going on, no matter what, my mother will tell me to be careful. 

you can find a kleenex in the pocket, or pockets, of almost every single article of clothing in my mom’s closet that has pockets. (what, you’ve never moved in with a parent and borrowed something to wear?)

not sure if it’s the algorithm of just enough but not too much or too quickly wine that enables me (finally, possibly) to start to learn to live beside, to live with the shifts and changes.  to step out of my need for my mother to be what and who and how I need her to be and to remember that loving her isn’t necessarily convenient.  god knows, loving me for the last 56 years was is has been no fucking walk in the park most of the time.  (see, particularly: adolescence and acting out; the 30’s, altercations involving himself and also general tomfuckery [mine]).  least I can do is begin to pull up my socks.

scrambled three eggs for our dinner, made myself sad thinking of how surprised (or not) himself would have been at all the cooking I now do (last night: haddock, asparagus, baked potato).

went online at nine tonight to take the jeopardy test, but was too late.

all true