Otherwise known as the upcoming Holidays. With a capital H. I just returned from a nice vacay down south where I was determined not to think about the big H. Much easier to do when it’s warm and sunny and not pouring cold rain. Historically, I’ve kept my stress level to a minimum (sure sure that’s what she said) by repeating ‘it’s only one meal, it’s only one day’ or some such other trash. How’s that working for you, Sis? I know this stuff is Very Important to lots-oh-people, so I’ve deferred to them. Buttttt, there are just wayyyy too many of those these days. And it’s jangling my nerves. Somehow, I always seem to be the mediator and that is Not where I want/need to be. I just want to be fed and perhaps a nice gift. NOT a robe. Saturday Night Live has the best skit about Mom always getting a robe so it’s not just me. Even the local shelter where I donate clothes gives them back to me. Not really because I would nevvvvver part with a beautiful robe. Never. Fortunately, Manfriend always gets me lovely gifts and big underwear. Which I like. Until he folds the laundry and holds them up while trying not to smile. Which he does not succeed at. When I called him out on it last time he knew he was busted, and was trying not to laugh. I like him anyway. For now. PTSD. It’s a thing. I don’t want to make light of it because it is a serious disorder, but sometimes you can be haunted when least expected. Damn ghosts. Charles Dickens isn’t the only one who gets visits. I’m sure it will all be fine (it won’t), and no feeling will be hurt (they will), but I guess there will be a fascinating blogue for another day. BTW…you are what you eat. Hence, the large undies. #andthismankeepsmecalm #sodoeschocolate