In the event I haven't lost my entire readership, I suppose I'll resume posting, for now, unless I get another bee in my bonnet and decide to purchase a business about which I know alarmingly little, move my family across (kind of) the country and in with my parents, and adopt a lifestyle similar to that of the Amish, but with more jewelry. Nutshell: VERY spotty internet, minimal options in the caffeine department, but lots of baked goods, gardening, and fresh air. Despite the apple fritters and healthy glow, however, the past month has been a doozy of epic proportions. To label it drama seems cliche in the worst possible way, the gum-cracking, tight-tee-shirt-and-gym shorts with-juicy-across-the-butt-wearing way, with an eye-roll as the cherry on top. But drama it was, complete with teeth-gnashing, injustices, and the writing of large checks, sometimes bitterly. And, in case you wondered, bitterly is the worst spirit in which to part with money. Ruefully is a close second. Better to pay your debts (even the illegitimate ones) with something akin to reckless abandon, preferably while riding shotgun in a convertible up coastal Highway One toward your friend Oprah Winfrey's house where she has undoubtedly assembled a think tank who are, at that very moment, charting the course which will guarantee certain fame and fortune for not just you, but your ENTIRE FAMILY. Fine, take it all, you'd say, whilst your Hermes scarf dances in the salty air and you laugh gaily.
Transition. My mother, when given the opportunity, will spin her labor and delivery tales so that everything rises and falls around the word. And then I was in transition, she'll say with a mix of awe, horror, and knowing. As a child, "transition" was so mysterious and strange that it could have been the part where the mommy grows a third eye and gives birth to a litter of unicorns while Strawberry Fields plays in the background for all I knew. Of course now I understand it's just a REALLY difficult, albeit short, phase of labor in which women curse their husbands, Eve, the baby, and ask for a leather strap to bite down on, or as we say in America, drugs. Not that I've done any of these things, at least not in that order and certainly not as part of childbirth, as both my children arrived via c-section-HOWEVER, the transition we went through as the business changed hands and we closed out the season really had me yearning for an epidural of the emotional variety. Ice chips would have been lovely, perhaps a casserole. Sigh. We made it, though. We're afloat. Despite the...okay, I'll say it: DRAMA, we came out the transitional woods on the other side and we're gathering ourselves; taking stock. We're remembering all the small moments of victory and seeming coincidences and every single kindness shown, which is more than I can count and you can bet I'm forgetting at least half. Thank you for being patient, if you're reading this, all 12 of you. I AM alive; there is news to report. Think of it this way: I made it through the rough part. I had the baby, and it wasn't a unicorn THANK GOD. Life goes on, slowly. It's still me-I'm just not up to putting on my skinny jeans yet.