Passages

I plopped down on the driver’s seat and glanced across to my daughter Lindsay, whose face was streaked with tears, “What’s wrong?”

“Beth’s grandfather died. She sent a Snapchat, crying, saying she just said her last goodbye,” Lindsay recounted the message from her best friend.

Sal had been in failing health – still, it is sad to lose someone you love, especially someone special like Sal.

Immediately I texted John, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad. If there is anything I can do, please let me know,” and ended it with a broken heart emoji. There was an immediate reply of thanks. I let it go at that. 

Our friends are our “framily.”

Around five that afternoon, I stopped by Sally and Andy’s house for a glass of wine, a regular practice of mine. 

By now, I was sure they knew, “Did you hear Sal died?”

“No,” they both said, saddened. 

Over the years, we have all enjoyed great times with John’s dad, Sal – a gregarious and fun guy.

Andy reached for his phone, “I’ll text John.”

He typed a similar message. Moments later, Andy received a simple thanks.

“I better tell the guys,” Andy texted their guy-group, who at the time were together at a city event planning meeting. “God, remember when he would cheer at the kids’ games?”

“He loved to talk sports.”

“Those days at the racetrack.”

“That laugh.”

An hour passed when suddenly all three of our phones dinged alerting us to a message.

Andy reached for his phone, while Sally reached for a fresh bottle of wine. “This must be the official announcement from John,” Andy said, glancing down at his phone. “Crap! He’s not dead!”

“What?”

“Sal is not dead!”

John’s text message was to inform everyone that his father was being moved to a facility.

Immediately Andy started calling, “Jim, never mind.”

Pause.

“What?” he turned towards us, “They bought food.”

Sally yelped, “They can’t take it there.” 

“You can’t take it there. He’s not dead,” Andy shouted into his phone, “How should I know how long chicken keeps?”

Andy turned to us, “They’re on John’s street.”

“NO!” We shouted.

“ABORT! ABORT!”

Minutes later, the door flew open and in barged a framily mob.

“Who said he was dead?” they demanded.

It was then that my vermillion-toned face revealed the culprit. Moi.

“Lindsay said, Beth…”

“You’re a rumor monger.”

“Maybe a little bit.” 

They spread grease-stained buckets and bags of fried chicken, fries and coleslaw across the island. 

Suddenly, the room went silent. Listening.

Michelle asked, “Do you hear something? Moaning?”

“Is that a bagpipe?” Andy questioned.

The haunting sound grew louder until Ron strolled in, playing the bagpipe. Once inside, he pushed the mouthpiece to his left, “When are we going over?”

Jim pulled the decorative trumpet off the wall and played taps.

“We’re not!”

Mary, John’s wife arrived, “I hear there’s some fried chicken for us?” she smiled.

Right behind her came Lindsay, “I’m so sorry,” she declared.

Mary wrapped her arms around her, “It’s okay, an honest mistake, it was her last goodbye… before she goes to college.”

“To Sal, the best guy ever, we’re gonna miss you – someday.” 

The thing about framily is that they’re always there for you. Sometimes prematurely.

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Lucky Rabbit’s Tale

“Socrates, you haven’t played with that toy in forever,” I said, bending down to pet my Jack Russel mix dog. He shook his head violently from side to side, flapping the large, gray, stuffed animal around. “Wait a minute! You don’t have toys with batteries! Why is this one moving? Oh no!”

The mistaken toy was, in fact, a real rabbit. Not a bunny, like one would think, based on the dog’s size; this was a sizable, wild rabbit that Socrates caught and now secured in his clutches. It looked like he was wearing an old-fashioned, lady’s fur wrap that still had the head attached. Upon my scream, Socrates took off running out the back door, full steam ahead, with me close at his paws. 

“Drop it!” I shouted to no avail, swinging at him with a broom I picked up along the way.

Socrates looked up at me with his abnormally large, brown ears drooped over his white fur and serious expression, resembling Elmer Fudd, “Scwewy wabbit.” 

With lightning speed, I chased him around the pool, up the hill, down the hill and back around the pool, until he tuckered himself out. Within the confines of the pool equipment and a bush, he dropped the rabbit to the ground. 

What was he planning on making, a stew? Socrates caught his breath before I could catch him and hoisted the rabbit back up and took off. God, that little guy can run!

“Sam! Lindsay! I need help!”

They joined in on the chase around the pool. A new reality show was in the making, The Keystone Cops on the Wild Kingdom.

“Don’t let him back inside the house,” I ordered, but it was too late.

He ran back inside the kitchen. I aimed and swung the broom, missing him but clearing an entire row of wine glasses hanging from the ceiling rack, shattering them to the ground. He ran through the dining room, then up the stairs. 

“NOT UP THE STAIRS!”

Inside my bedroom, the jostled rabbit’s head bobbed up and down. Another swing and a miss on my part, and the curtain rod hit the ground. 

“NOT IN MY CLOSET!” 

He ran in, then immediately out, but not before sending the precariously stacked, T-shirt-and-socks-filled plastic bins crashing to the floor. Sam was ready, and as soon as Socrates entered the hallway, Sam reached down, scooped them up, and shook Socrates hard enough that he dropped the rabbit with a lifeless thud.

“Naughty Socrates. Poor rabbit,” I scolded.

Suddenly, the rabbit lifted his head, jumped up, and made a hop for it. 

“Quick, open the front door!” I instructed Lindsay.

She flung open the door and the rabbit sprang into action, landing a few feet outside.

Wanting in on the action, Mae, our cat, pounced. The rabbit leaped through the fence into Mr. McGregor’s yard with the cat in hot pursuit. A wild Jay dive bombed, pecking at Mae’s head. 

“Mom, do something!”

I motioned, “Lindsay, grab that rock – try to scare Mae off.”

Using her skilled water polo shooting arm, she pulled back and shot with perfect precision, scoring a direct hit and throwing the stunned Mae off the hunt.

Happily, the rabbit made a clean, if terrifying, getaway. 

Do cats and rabbits share in the “nine lives” legend?

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The Glider

I love it when treasures appear. 

At five o’clock in the afternoon, every day, my dogs bring me their leashes and demand their walk. Their sense of time is more precise than Big Ben. Dutifully, I acquiesce to their demands. 

Our route is the same – down our street, right on Lemon Street, left on Hope Avenue, and then… Hold Up! 

In the front yard of a house was a glider. Not a sailplane, but an old-fashioned swinging couch on a metal rack. It needed a little love, but I was in love. The handwritten sign taped to the metal railing carried one word: FREE! 

For the remainder of our walk, I focused on that glider. I could paint it a fun color and make matching orange and white cushions. When the dogs and I circled back, the glider was still there. 

That night I tried to convince myself to pass on it; you don’t need another project. 

The next day at five o’clock, the dogs gave me my marching orders. I tethered them to their leashes and off we went. Down our street, right on Lemon, left on Hope – it was still there. In the last twenty-four hours, no one had taken it. That was a sign. This time the dogs and I sat on it and gently rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I had to jump off before I fell asleep.

Where would I put it? My backyard was starting to look like a used car lot with all its mismatched furniture. But this piece spoke to me. I dashed home.

“Kids!” I burst into the house with the zeal of someone who had won the lottery, “Come with me.” 

We pulled up next to the curb and popped open the back of my SUV. It was lightweight but cumbersome, unwieldy. The top was reaching up at least five feet, the width even more. We tried to fold it down, push it up, glide it in, half in and half out. No luck. Back to the house and the drawing board.

When we arrived back home, the kids hopped out, “Where are you going?” I asked.

“We have homework,” the said abandoning me.

The next day the FREE sign was gone, but the glider remained. I put my two dogs on the seat and pulled it off the curb. I dragged it 50 feet up Hope Avenue, making a horrible rattling and scraping sound, with the seat flying back and forth like a rickety Ferris wheel seat in the wind. That wasn’t going to work either. Disappointment glided over me.

The following morning, my dear friend, Michelle, called me. “Can you do me a big favor? I borrowed a truck, and I’m just down your street, can you help me load in this…”

“NOT THE GLIDER! THAT’S MINE,” I shouted.

Shocked, she asked, “What? So, you know about it?”

“Know about it? Intimately! I’ve wrapped my body around it in every position imaginable.”

“Do you want me to bring it up to your house?”

Her offer was more than generous. Tempting.

“No, it was meant for you, but I refuse to help you load it in the truck.”

“Understandable.”

My treasure vanished.

A week later she called, “Will you help me paint the glider?”

I did – orange with matching pillows. It looks perfect… in her yard.

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Rat-at-phooey

After a long day, I was ready for a relaxing evening at home, all alone for the first time in months. I poured myself a large glass of wine, warmed up a piece of leftover pizza, took hold of the TV remote, and settled in for the night. Wait, red pepper flakes would be the perfect accent on my pizza. I skipped to the pantry and pulled aside the rice in search of the pepper. 

“Oh no!” I said, spotting that signature pile of raisins. I was playing a game of Jenga. Slowly, nervously, I removed a cereal box, a hot chocolate box, then the granola box. 

FREEZE! The RAT, tucked in the corner with a Cheerio in his mouth, looked at me! I slammed the pantry door shut with a clap. Panic seared through my veins. The cat – I will throw her into the pantry, close the door and let nature take its course. “Miss Mae,” I called out.

A ruckus erupted upstairs. Banging, barking, meowing and yelping came out from Lindsay’s room. Before my daughter had left for the evening, she let the cat into her room and left his door open. The dogs seized upon this opportunity. Mayhem. 

Miss Mae ran from the bed to the bookcase and across the desk – up high, down low, paws up, paws down – scrambling to escape. I lunged to catch the computer before it hit the ground. Miss Mae doubled back and landed on the floor. Quickly it became a Wile E. Coyote vs. Roadrunner encounter. One giant ball of fur with legs flailing. I wrestled the dog, and the cat took off. 

“Stupid dog,” I grumbled, “I needed that cat.”

Now, what was I going to do? I couldn’t very well grab the rat and toss it. I was hyperventilating. I began texting friends. No response. I called, Lindsay, who was with her good friend, Paige. 

“The rat is back in the pantry,” I yelled into the phone, trying not to use expletives.

Paige jumped in, “My dad can help.”

“Is he home? We. Have. An. Emergency!”

Minutes later, Paige’s parents were in my kitchen, equipped with rat paraphernalia. 

Looking at the dog’s scratched-up nose, Greg asked, “What happened?”

“Let’s just say you were not my first call.”

Carelessly, they opened up the pantry, “Yep, there he is. Cute little guy, but gotta kill him.”

I protested, “I can’t! I built him an altar!” 

Lindsay interrupted, “Mom! We can’t have a rat living in the kitchen!”

“You make it sound like we live in urban squaller.”

That rat had been harassing us for weeks. Now, it was taking advantage of my hospitality. Yep, it had to go.

Greg started assembling the trap, “They like peanut butter. Do you have any?” He asked looking like Christopher Walken in Mouse Hunt.

“Yes, in the pantry. Shall I ask the rat to hand it to you?”

“Cheese will do.”

He placed the trap in front of the rat. Sarah Jane, Greg, the girls, and I waited for the snap. We passed the time telling rat trapping stories and drank beers, like medieval executioners. It wasn’t until morning that I discovered the remains from the dastardly deed.

I telephoned my, trusted friend when it comes to these matters. “Eric,” I have a situation. Clean up on aisle 1. Dare I say it put up a fight.”

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Uncharted Territory

What do a sock puppet, and Stuart Little have in common? They both like their snacks at ten o’clock at night.

“AAAHHH!” my daughter screamed hysterically – so loud in fact that I had to pause Bridgerton, which, given its dicey content, was a Godsend.

“What?” I asked her.

“RAT!”

I’m not sure which one jumped first or highest since it happened simultaneously. Immediately, the rat stopped gnawing the granola bag, catapulted itself from the fourth shelf, landed safely on the kitchen floor and scurried outside. Upon further investigation of the granola bag, I noticed a pile of raisins next to it – yes, raisins. Maybe another thing they had in common, a dislike of dried grapes.

Recently, my son embarked on an Incredible Journey. He drove from Los Angeles to Milwaukee to spend time with friends. I was very proud of his bravery, yet as his mother, I felt such trepidation. He was making this cross-country drive at the height of the Polar Vortex. 

Why not travel to the North Pole? The same thing! He is a California boy! Californians don’t drive in snow. But Daniel Boone was determined and could not be stopped. Nor should he. It was all fitting together. 

He was driving his Explorer SUV, the one that bears his name on the license plate because I bought that SUV when he was born, twenty-four years ago. Now logging in two hundred thousand miles, it’s barely short of being a covered wagon.

The temperature in the Midwest had dropped below zero, when I got a call,

“Mom, the heater doesn’t work. It’s fine. I’m wearing all my clothes and my ski gloves.”

His resourcefulness gave me pause, “So, you’re driving to Wisconsin during a blizzard in an old car without a heater or snow tires. Have fun, honey.” 

At the same time, my other son was embarking on an adventure of his own. “Mom, can you help me with Valentine’s Day?”

Please let it be he’s making a card for me, using a doily and construction paper, and needs glue. No, my baby had a valentine. Normal for a teenager, and the girl is lovely, but I’m fretting. He is putting his heart in grave danger.

That gets us back to Stuart Little. I’m confident he has a mother who is fretting over him. What bravery to venture out to our pantry in the dead of night. What if those raisins were a Valentine’s Day gift? I bought a box of raisins in case Stuart Little returned after discovering our neighbors had a cat. I made a small pile by the front door as an offering, “If I take care of this rodent’s body and heart, please take care of my boys.” 

Jack made it home safe and happy. “Mom, there is a pile of rat poop by the front door,” he said.

I didn’t dare tell him it was an alter I had made for his safe travel. That would have sounded weird.

“No, those are raisins.”

“No, this is definitely rat poop. The raisins are gone.”

“Oh, thank you,” I whispered with a sigh of relief.

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Tutorial

Something startling has come to my attention. Maybe I’ve been in denial all this time, but the truth is, I have let my children down – once again proving that common sense is not that common.

I have gone out of my way to teach my children the important things in life: 

  • Be kind 
  • Do your best
  • Napkin on your lap

Apparently, there are some things they don’t know. I assumed they would absorb it. Even ducklings figure things out intuitively! 

I gathered my ducklings, Sam and Lindsay, for a family meeting.

“There seem to be some basic things you need to know how to do, based on the fact that you don’t do them. Follow me; we are about to have a tutorial on basic household tasks.  Our first stop is the bathroom.” I guided them.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to toilet train us?” Sam asked with his sly grin.

“Very funny – no, but this is called a toilet paper roll, and this is a holder. Look, this part is spring-loaded. Just slide it through the tube part of the roll, push the ends in, then release it into this holder. Anyone want to try and do it on your own?”

Lindsay sighed, “Mom, really? I’m busy.”

“Don’t worry, this won’t take long. Volunteers?” I asked again.

They glared at me.

“Now, some people care which way the paper on the roll is situated, pulling down in the front or the back. I do not. Just put it on the holder, not on the ground or the counter.”

They rolled their eyes and nodded at the same time, hoping that would hurry this along.

“Next, this is a toilet seat. Simple enough: up for boys, down for girls. Universally left down when done. 

This,” I reached down to the floor, “is a wet towel. Hang it up. Very simple, fold it in half and sling it over this rod. Questions?”

Sam shrugged, “How long is this going to take?”

“A while. Volunteers? No? Alrighty then, follow me to the hall closet.”

The five-foot walk seemed like a hike up Kilimanjaro with all their huffing and puffing.

I opened the closet door and pulled out the plastic tub, “This is a laundry hamper. Dirty clothes go INside the tub, not outside on the floor in front of this convenient door used to hide the dirty clothes. In other words, no more dirty underwear for all to see, please. Additionally, it is not a depository for clean clothes instead of hanging them up. Questions? Good. Follow me.”

I led them, well, pushed them into the kitchen.

“This is a dishwasher, not me. You load it with your dirty dishes. Yes, you can do it, it’s very easy. Some of you have ventured out enough to put your dirty dishes in the sink, this is just one more added step. The tricky part is lining the plates up on the bottom, cups and glasses on top. Don’t just throw them in and hope the plates line up. Look, here are these little guideposts to help you. Anyone want to try?”

“Thanks, Mom, we get the message,” Lindsay said.

“Good, next week is personal hygiene.” I had a malicious grin.

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Cursed Morning

At sunrise this morning, my alarm-dog Socrates, a Jack Russel-Rooster mix, woke me up. When I opened the door to the yard, he bolted, sounding his alarming high-pitched bark.    

“Stop barking!” I barked, to no avail.

I hadn’t even had my coffee, yet there I was marching up my hill. “Stop barking! Socrates!”

He had wiggled his way under the fence that separates my property with my neighbors to have a playdate with his new friend, their dachshund, Charlie. I watched Socrates run up to their windows, barking, barking, barking. I had no choice but to hop the fence in my pink robe and fuzzy slippers, landing like a caped crusader, just shy of their pool. 

“Get over here!” I demanded in a loud whisper chasing him around their yard, hoping not to get caught because, honestly, no one needs to see their neighbors this early in the morning. 

Suddenly, Socrates was nowhere to be found. As stealthily as possible, I searched using sonar techniques to hear him out, basically echolocation. He had gotten himself wedged in their pool equipment.

“Ugh!” I tucked him inside my robe and snuck out through their gate.

“Let’s start all over. Breathe in. Breathe out,” I said to the dog.

The sound of the coffee maker grinding the beans was soothing, until I realized I was holding the empty coffee pot. I watched the coffee pour from the machine all over the counter and floor. 

Last night in the dimly lit living room, I had painted over water stains created by a leaky roof with the ceiling paint the painters had left behind – or so I thought. 

What I had done was paint the ceiling with the light gray paint of the adjacent wall. Now the ceiling had an eight-foot-wide cloud.

I changed into clothes and went through every can of white in my garage. I was filling the flimsy tray with paint, rolling on coat after coat of the wrong white, while balancing myself on the back of the black leather couch, turning this quickly into 50 Shades of Grayish Whites. 

Wobbling precariously, I reached up high enough to touch the ceiling, when the roller got the best of me. While rolling paint to one side and sending me to another, the rinkydink, insert paint tray went flying from my hand and landed with a splat all over the couch.

It was then that I realized that I had a curse. I needed sage to burn, it was my only hope.

At Home Depot, I discovered what interesting people go shopping early in the morning. Apparently, me included – now covered in paint.

I approached the “Your Paint Expert,” and began, “I have a unique situation. I had to cover up some spots on my ceiling, which I did, but I can’t find whatever white paint my painters used when they painted my ceiling. Is there some kind of standard paint that painters use on ceilings?”

After patiently listening to me ramble for a good ten minutes, he decided to give me his expert advice, “Turn around.” 

I was standing in front of the wall of paint cans labeled: Interior Ceiling Flat White.

“Perfect,” I said, “Yes, that’s it. Now, how about chicken wire, leather cleaner, plastic tarp, matches and sage?  I’m asking for a friend.”

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Believe

I pride myself on getting that perfect gift…The Santa gift. 

If you want to receive, you have to believe, is my motto.

It was December 20th 2002, when Jack revealed to me the secret gift he had whispered in Santa’s ear – a Buzz Lightyear Pinball Machine. 

Sick or well, rain or shine, I was a determined elf, not about to not let this six-year-old down. But, I faced two problems: I had the flu and that toy was sold out everywhere. Armed with plenty of tissues, I staggered like Blitzen from one store to another, until I bagged the last one. 

Fast forward 18 years, my daughter Lindsay and I were out shopping in my favorite store, when we spotted a beautiful velvet blouse. 

“I love it, but not at $100,” I winced, returning it to the rack. “Just wait, it will go on sale.”

This Christmas ornament doesn’t fall far from the tree. “Maybe Santa will bring it,” Lindsay winked.

Just after Thanksgiving, Lindsay and I were holiday shopping and as we came to that very store, we spied the sign: ENTIRE STORE SALE. Alas, the rack of velvet blouses was empty. 

Lindsay teared up, “That was your present. I’ve been coming here every day to catch it on sale.”

“We’ll ask someone,” I said, now wanting it as much for her as for me.

The manager pulled it up on the computer, “You’re in luck! There’s one left and believe it or not it’s your size – and, on sale for $80.”

“We’ll buy it!” I declared.

When we walked out of the store, receipt in hand, the manager warned us, “hope it doesn’t get canceled if the system hasn’t updated itself.”

On the sidewalk, I took the extra precaution and began to order it online. One left in stock. Immediately, into my cart. I reached for my wallet only to return to “SOLD OUT” brazened across the screen.

“You know what that means?” I said, “We got the last one! Lindsay, there is a Santa, and he’s a bargain hunter.”

I could hardly wait till Christmas. But, on December 23rd that warning came to fruition with the cancelation email from the store.

“C’mon Santa! Mama needs a fancy shirt!” I yelled at my computer.

On Christmas morning, Lindsay handed me an envelope that I opened, feigning surprise. 

“Oh my God, you got it!” 

“Mom you’re not going to believe this but right after you told me about the cancelation I went online and there it was so I ordered it, again, you should get it in a few days.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell Lindsay, but on Christmas Eve I got the cancelation for that order.

December 26th, I checked online hoping to find one, ship it, and no one would be the wiser. But no one had returned one – of course not. 

While shopping on the 27th, I came clean about the cancellation.

Lindsay moaned, “Santa Schmanta! They did it to us twice! Maybe someone returned one.” 

“Doubtful,” I said. I was right.

Again, the manager pulled it up on the computer. I’d seen this movie before. 

“I’ll check other stores. They have 4 in San Diego,” she said very matter-of-factly.

“ARE YOU SURE?” I screamed.

“Yes, would you like me to order one for you? Oh look, it’s on sale for $50.”

“You just gotta believe, Mom,” beamed Lindsay.

“I’ll take two at that price,” I declared.

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The Virus That Stole 2020

Every Being on Earth liked being a lot,

but the Covid virus floating about did not!

Covid hated people, during every season,

don’t ask why, there’s not a good reason.

Their loud, raucous sounds always rattled its cage,

only their quieted slumber could soothe its rage.

“I’m tired of beings doing whatever they please,”

Covid pondered a plot and said with a wheeze.

“Birthdays, weddings, graduations, parades large and small,

those humans gather around and celebrate them all.

Watching sports and concerts, oh they do draw a crowd,

all that cheering and singing, this must not be allowed.

“The abundance of gatherings must come to an end

churches, temples, schools, even time with a friend.

“Always merrily going, they’re moving so fast,

I must stop that with a plan, a plan that will last.

“And then! Oh the Noise! Oh the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!

There’s one thing I hate! All the NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

“It’s been 100 years since my last try, but now,

I must stop 2020 from coming! But how?”

Then it got an idea. A harmful, horrible idea,

Covid got a wonderful, insidious idea.

“They will breath me in, with my poison so bold,

I will make them all sick the young and the old.

“Germs will be carried on droplets of spit,

an inconvenience could save them, but most won’t commit.

“Out for themselves, they won’t wear a mask,

that’s the perfect solution,” Covid thought with a gasp.

As spring rolled around, his plan put in place,

up to the first being, it blew right in their face.

With a cough and a sneeze, the scheme was in play,

the spread of this virus was well on its way.

Covid took over Asia, Europe, continents all,

heading near winter, conquering summer and fall.

No contact with others, that will shut them all down,

Financial ruin will travel from city to town.

Stay at home orders, their tempers were baited,

They’ll turn on each other, Covid felt elated.

“Then, only then, can silence infuse the air,

with nothing to do, feeling fear and despair.”

Covid floated about, waited and waited,

their own self-centered demise had just been slated.

And then a voice, a voice tender and small,

it came from a girl less than forty inches tall.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?”

She wore a mask, handed out one after one,

they passed the masks along until there were none.

Beings went to the hospitals, and handed out more,

they sewed masks at home, when none were in store.

They handed out masks to parents and grand,

they handed out masks to all in the land.

One at a time until every face got covered,

the message was hope, fear had been smothered.

“How could I have made such a blunder?

Do they really care?” Covid did wonder.

All over the world united beings sang so clear,

their voices burst through their masks for all to hear.

“I care for you and you care for me,” They say.

LOVE saved their planet at the end of the day.

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne,
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For days of auld lang syne.

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Tritus of Workitus

I had to talk my dear friend off the ledge today. She suffers from a serious mental condition that lowers one’s desire to work, Tritus of Workitus. With her permission, I’m revealing her condition because I know many suffer in silence.

Years ago, once our children were in school all day, she and I were forced to go back to work. To our spouses it seemed like a perfect opportunity to fill the time previously spent on our children. Time now better spent bringing money into the household instead of the constant outpouring of funds for their entertainment. How inconsiderate. It didn’t take long, maybe only a few weeks before we suffered our first bouts of Tritus of Workitus.

Of course, everyone says, “Just pull yourself up by your bootstraps, you’ll be fine.” It doesn’t work like that. Suddenly, as working girls, we were being forced to comply with rules, boring jobs to do, answering to bosses and schedules to keep – none of which was of any interest to us. 

We muddled through it together, bemoaning our fate over wine glasses filled with clear liquids. We kept our condition in check, dreaming of the days when we could be bored again at our own leisurely pace.

I am currently in full remission from Tritus of Workitus due to Covid-19 and the lack of employment. Alas, my friend is not so lucky. After being quarantined for months, she had grown accustomed to a lifestyle that was enjoyable, comfortable not being part of the rat race.  

Then, out of the blue, she received the call requesting her to return to her job full time. Full time! She wasn’t even given the consideration of her mental condition to allow her to slide back into the work force slowly – part time at first. 

How do they expect her to start getting up at 7 AM when she’s been sleeping in until ten every morning? And be showered and dressed, well at least from the waist up. It just seemed like her employer was asking quite a lot.

Because of this job-related stress her Tritus of Workitus flared up. She tried reaching out to me for a support call. Sadly, I missed her call, because I was reading my current edition of People magazine out in the garden, while sipping a lovely gin and tonic for medicinal purposes.

At any given moment she may have to take a mental health day and go shopping, if only the malls were open, again. Although, it is possible that she’ll throw herself back into her job. She’ll enjoy what she does with only momentary lapses which occur usually on a warm afternoon.

I am sorry to say there is no cure to date. My advice is to stay the course. You can do this.  Work to get that last kid through college, pay off that overpriced SUV, or install those new hardwood floors you’ve been dreaming about. Then, in no time at all, with any luck, you will be asked to leave your job because of your poor work ethic.

Most importantly drink plenty of clear liquids.

Live with waffletude