I came home from visiting my oldest at college to find my youngest — home alone for days — had cleaned the dishwasher filter.  I was gobsmacked. How did he know the dishwasher even has a filter to clean?  I mean, sure. I regularly tell him to scrape his dishes so the filter doesn’t get clogged with macaroni noodles. That it’s a gross job…

My physical therapy orders indicated I had a Colles fracture.   So I Googled it.  Fracture of the wrist, usually from falling on an outstretched hand.  You don’t say.  Colles fractures, my Google search said, can take three months to a year to heal.  Um, what?  Three months? To a year?  Each website I clicked through made the same prediction.  They also said…

I remember how disturbed I felt reading Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. The eponymous characters felt so untethered. With no real idea of why they were in Hamlet’s story, or how they came to be there, the question of their existence shifted the ground beneath my feet.  Yeah. I am now Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  Oh my…

We agreed we’d talk about showering with a broken arm.  Well, we agreed I’d talk, you’d read.  Yes, we did.  Let’s just get something — as Aaron Sorkin might say — out on the step for the cat to lick up.  I shower twice a day.  Yes, I know that’s bad for your skin and blah, blah, blah.  This is just the way it is. …

There is so much wisdom to be gained from a broken arm.  Refrain from breaking your arm chief among that wisdom.  I’m going to impart some of that wisdom to you, a spin on the grandmotherly adage to always wear clean underwear.   We’ll take it on a timeline because you really have to get crackin’ if you’re planning on breaking your arm there, my friend. …

I was in the doctor’s office, struggling to process the orthopedic surgeon’s declaration.  “I need surgery?” I said.  “Well, yes,” he said. “Without surgery, that fracture will give you problems for the rest of your life.”  I mean, if you’re going to be dramatic about it.  “I need surgery!” I texted my husband.  “You’re shocked?”…

Humphrey is a bad, bad boy.  And I never should have tempted fate with my jabs at the universe.  Humphrey was scheduled for removal on a Thursday. By Monday, he was quite bloody.  Humphrey bled everywhere. On the carpet and on the sofa. On Pete’s blankets and on Pete’s pillows. On my bed’s comforter and…

So, I flirted with the universe’s algorithm for disaster last week with full knowledge of two things.  One, it’s November. And we all know how my last few Decembers have gone.  Two, my dog, Pete, has a weird growth flopping from his mouth.  A few weeks ago, I was making my bed when I noticed…