I want my epitaph to read “She showed up.” Fortunately, there won’t be room on the headstone to talk about lost keys and spilled coffee and long lists of wrongfully heard sentences or the myriad ways in which someone’s performance as a supportive person could be improved. Just carve this in the granite so years from now the cemetery moss can flower, illuminating the letters in that velvety green: She showed up.
Yesterday, I told a nurse, for what reason I can’t remember, that I had four children but only one baby. So all of the things about a newborn baby seem new to me although I experienced a lot of them once but long ago. That I didn’t fully appreciate those things at the time is a regret for me. You can’t go back though. Only forward.
My husband is googling hotels around Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territories. This is because we just watched a 11-part series of Alone: Tales of the Arctic in which ten contestants vied to be the person who makes it to 100 days in the Arctic wilderness. In winter. We would be going in summer and staying in a hotel but, other than that, we are one with the Alone contestants. It’s a spiritual thing.
I make a pretty good potato salad. It’s a Michigan thing. You can’t grow up in Michigan and not a) have an enduring love for potatoes in any and all forms; and b) know how to rustle up a potato salad that you could take to the band concert picnic and not be embarrassed. There are no pickles or raisins or greenery in my potato salad so stand back, fancy dancers.
Thank you, Joe Biden, for running out of patience. I have had it with worry. Worry that I’ll get sick, worry that I’ll make someone else sick. I have had it with being Responsible Sally – getting vaccinated, staying away from crowds, WEARING A MASK AROUND MY NEWBORN GRANDDAUGHTER, for Christ’s sake. I can’t even kiss her. My resentment of the people who refuse to be vaccinated now ‘knows no bounds’ as they say, nor is it likely to be short-lived.