Dread

I dread a fair number of things. Not so much my annual (yes, you lightweights, annual) colonoscopies (have you had one yet? my first colonoscopy saved my life) and various other medical intrusions reminiscent of close encounter stories. But emotional open heart surgeries, like the one coming up this weekend. We’re going to go through Mom’s stuff. The clothes will go to charity, I already have the jewelry, blah blah blah. Yada yada. But the wee things tucked in odd places. Things I saw last time I was there. Pre-addressed cards to me for holidays because she knew she would suffer more strokes and her vision and handwriting were failing. Tiny notebooks with sketches of birds and flowers. Every card or postcard I ever sent her–from time away in grad school in Greece to recent trips with husband. Things I can no longer identify, because I’m *cough* past forty and forgetting what they were, but they were important to some ancestor. Fanny Brice’s earrings. Yes, for some reason, my Irish Catholic greatgrandmother was friends with the Jewish comedienne/songstress. I do not want to do this.

More dread. We won a trip to Atlantic City. Yowza. Now this must sound absolutely thrilling to someone, but since we live about an hour away, don’t have enough money to have anyone treat us to anything, and the place is still as far as I know in New Jersey, this is not the trip I’ve been hoping for. Still, there’s a cute Irish pub (or something vaguely resembling one) on the pier, and I’ll be with Moose, and we have a room at the Trop. Warming up the rolls of quarters. If I win big, you’ll be the first to know. Ocean’s Fourteen, here I come.

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