I’m trying to get my writing life back on track, but I’m done making promises I can’t keep about how, or when, or how frequently, or in what quantity that’s going to happen. If you’ve followed me at all over the past several years, you know by now that inconsistency is my hallmark, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. Expect more of the same.
“Adulting,” to employ a noun-as-verb abomination in vogue at the moment, hit me like a ton of bricks this year. Granted, I’ve been an adult a long, long, long while now, but there are times I feel it more than usual, and those times tend to run, like wolves, in packs.
A couple of weeks ago, my middle son married his beautiful, brilliant, and extraordinarily patient fiancée, who I am certain reigns beneficently over some tiny European principality as their much-loved Princess in several parallel universes. The event was absolutely joyful, but should you have the privilege of managing one side or the other of a modern nuptial ritual, you’ll find yourself living in interesting times.
The Darling Daughter moved to a new apartment without crazy roommates (plus), we had to move her ourselves (minus), we got a great deal on a rental truck (plus), her new apartment is on the third floor of a very tall structure (plus for her, minus for me), and her college town is a 13-hour drive from my house via some of the most barren Interstate highways imaginable (minus-minus). I have concluded my daughter is Rapunzel in several parallel universes.
Yes, I’m surrounded by princesses.
Speaking of princesses, My Lovely Wife recently had another round of knee surgery to correct a problem caused in part by an injury last year on the other leg. It seems they travel in pairs. She’s mending both well and quickly, though many of our conversations at the moment go like this:
LW: “Farm Boy, there’s a hole in my icepack. Fetch me another.”
Me: “As you wish.”
Josie the Weekly Weimaraner, whose photogenicality (photogeneity? photogeniusness? ability to look good on camera?) is exceeded only by her lack of coordination, went in for ACL surgery that turned into excision of a mass which was discovered to be malignant. She’s now undergoing doggie chemotherapy, which makes her hungry, thirsty, and hyperactive 24/7. Her prognosis is excellent, but it may be several months before I sleep through the night again.
A couple of close relatives are also dealing with serious health issues. I guess I’m getting to that age where everybody in my circle seems to have some sort of physical problem. I used to be annoyed when people would go on and on…and on about their medical status, but I’m beginning to understand it a little better now.
I won’t burden you with my issues. Suffice it to say my alien symbiote is reasonably satisfied with its current accommodations, though we have an odd craving for cranberry limeades and Australian television mysteries.
I do wonder sometimes if our current political class isn’t operating under the influence of some pernicious mind-altering parasites from beyond space. Or maybe Tammany Hall, the Know-Nothings, and the Weather Underground all decided to come out of hibernation together this year. Hmm. It seems there’s no need for anyone to plan weddings in order to live in interesting times after all.
Oh, and we refinanced our house, which wasn’t as difficult as I expected, but was a ball that demanded 100% attention until it ceased bouncing.
Things could be worse. It could, for example, be Normal Tuesday Night for Shia LaBeouf. Anyhow, this is why I’ve been silent for another long while on this blog and otherwise haven’t been doing much reading, writing, critiquing pop culture, debating ignoramuses on the Internet, leveling-up on Overwatch, or tweeting witty zingers. Adulting, like mogwai, requires great responsibility.
Time for another cranberry limeade.