Week in Review

On Wednesday, I got an email from my friend Braja telling me that she was leaving for the airport in half an hour. On Friday morning, I came across the terrible news that she was in a horrifying car accident on the way to the airport. From the updates, it appears that her prognosis is positive, although she still has to undergo several surgeries, but her husband has more extensive injuries. I've been thinking of Braja all day. How lives can change in an instant. How much people that we've never met in the flesh mean to us and how fucking fragile life is. It's almost unbearable. Well, it is unbearable, but I didn't want to get all cliche on you. Please do whatever it is you do--pray, send good thoughts, have a martini, watch Rock of Love Bus. The latest update is that it will be six days before Braja is out of the ICU. I suppose it's too much to ask for the hospital to have WiFi.

* * *

Disclaimer: I never know when to start these weeks. On the one hand, I'm doing the post on Saturday, so I should start it on Friday and take it through Saturday. On the other hand, I'm actually writing the post on Friday, so maybe I should do it from last Thursday to today (Friday?) And yet (I refuse to say "on the third hand" for moral and political reasons. Don't ask. It's too painful), who can remember what happened last Thursday? So I'll start on Sunday:

Sunday: I can't remember that far back.

Monday: Young ladrinka tells me that he had "a really weird dream". I feign interest and ask him to tell me about it. "It was that my friend Psycho married his butt." "That doesn't make any sense," I break every parenting rule to raising well-nurtured children. "Yeah," he tells me, "that's because it's a dream."

Tuesday: I pick up my daughter from school and we go bathing suit shopping. For some reason, the bikinis at Old Navy have padded tops. Yes, children's bikinis. Because what 10 year old doesn't need cleavage?

Wednesday: Husbandrinka has a sore throat. Will it develop into strep? I'm on edge of seat. Also on window ledge.

Thursday: Papa stays at home with the kids while they have a piano lesson with a new teacher. "It went well," he told me. "I think the teacher is, well, the same as your friend Sandy."
"My friend Sandy? You mean the piano teacher is a dermatologist?" "No," he says and looks over to where the children are a few feet away from us. "I don't want to say the word, but I think she is like your friend Sandy. And her friend Molly." He opens his eyes extra wide and suddenly looks a lot like Ramona on Real Housewives of New York. Oh, I get it. He doesn't want to say "gay" in front of the children! I'm very tempted to keep feigning ignorance to see if I can actually get him to spell it out more without saying "gay", like "Your friend Sandy and her friend Molly, and how they perform cunnilingus on each other" because that would super fun. And not just for Sandy and Molly.

Friday: I'm writing this post! What, that's not enough? You need something else to happen on Friday? Ok, selfish. In response to my post about ruffled shirts,this was emailed to me:



So now, apparently I'm unpatriotic and an enemy of the people. I'll be preparing for my stay at Gitmo.