I can’t handle small talk. I’ve long considered it an exhausting pageant of patience, and life is fleeting, so I’d rather spend what precious time we have left in this mortal realm discussing the things that really matter.
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My family has a love affair with SPAM. There isn’t a single memory of a childhood meal that does not somehow involve it. No occasion was too casual — or too fancy — for a slab of that porky goodness. I remember popping open my vinyl Care Bear lunchbox to find room-temperature SPAM in between two slices of wilting white bread…
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I said goodbye to Skyy in 2017, not long after her 14th birthday. Since that day, Jack often talks about her. Jack is on the autism spectrum. Why is that important to know? Because he is so wonderfully blunt every single time that he talks about Skyy.
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“How many siblings do you have?” My answer to that question prior to April 2017 was always pretty simple, “two sisters: one older, one younger.” Now when I’m asked that question, I grin and say, “Interesting story, actually. How much time do you have?”
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You’ve seen it a thousand times. On every sitcom there’s always the husband, hinting at sex while his wife feigns a headache or playfully brushes him off. That’s how it’s supposed to go, right? Not in my bedroom.
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In 2012, I left my husband for two weeks and fled to my parent’s house. When I left, I told him I wanted to discuss our issues and divorce. Initially, my parents welcomed me with open arms but were later much less supportive.
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When my husband lost his job in May of 2017, it was just eight months after we got married and just one month after my father died.
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“You’ll never have to wash another pair of panties in your life,” he quipped. Scott, my husband of 12 years was settling into our patio glider, glass of chenin blanc in hand.
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I was about three-quarters of the way through my first basic girls’ night skinny margarita when the woman sitting to my right, a friend of mine for several years, uttered seven words I doubt I’ll ever forget.
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