A funny story that's part of a sad one
I'm watching Gordon Ramsay, right, and he's in the kitchen, so there's lots of dishes clinking and clanking.
Only the clinking continues into the commercials. Well, nobody's going to break in and load our dishwasher. Mum stayed home today.
. . .
They're teetering on the fence between divorce and staying together. It is no easier to watch when you are 26 than when you are 16 or 6. At least when you are 6, you don't know or wonder whether you'll have a roof over your head when all's said and done. Nobody expects you to be strong.
I tried to be strong. I fell on my face. I had a massive panic attack which sort of alerted them to the whole "cannot cope" part. Then I cried, finally, over the change to my happy-ish home. When I cry, it's a bloody torrent. I honk into my handkerchief and boaters on Canandaigua Lake look around for the foghorn.
Nobody's been entirely healthy physically, either. Mum got sick first, then Dad (his wasn't as miserable). I'm trying not to get it. I get flu, I can't move, and I have to be able to see Jessica at St Joseph's tomorrow. This appointment is the key to so many doors: to employment I can manage (love you, VESID), to disability payments, to a psychiatrist costing under $150/appointment. I miss this one and I'm screwed.
So I just won't miss it. Even if I'm drugged to the gills and come in with a piece of paper listing everything I need (in case I am incoherent), by God I'll see this woman and be damned to any flu.
. . .
About the most stable part of my life is the poly. We're living proof that poly/poly/mono works in a V formation. Sure, I'm secondary by practicalities, but love? No, I mean plenty to CdM, and M likes me well enough that her problems are only with the poly side of my existence. So if I'm dull, it's because we're fine.
We're the part that works.