I have a much longer post written (in my head) tentatively titled “state of the Kauffmans,” but it will have to wait until a time when it’s not past my bedtime.
Until then, know that Cheryl’s recovery is going as planned, and she enjoyed a little get together with our parents to celebrate her birthday. (She was a little nervous about me wearing my Obama campaign shirt with her parents…
Cheryl posted a couple comments to the last posts, in reply to the thoughts, good wishes, and prayers sent her way. I’m reposting them here to give them the visibility they’re due (and because one reflects well on me).
Thank you all for your good wishes and virtual lasagna. I just got home and am already feeling better. I have discovered they don’t let you sleep in the hospital, so now I…
Naturally, the first song to pop up on a random play of the songs on my phone would be “Hymn to the Fallen.”
Hospitals have been a benign place most of my life. While not exactly money in the pocket of a forgotten pair of jeans, it hasn’t been the center for suffering and death it can be for others. Growing up I had my share of stitches, broken bones, and dislocated hips. The best was the…
Head over to FiveThirtyEight.com for a piece that touches on one of my pet peeves: the “Democrat Party” gibe.
Maybe both are (referring to the post title), but name calling is almost always a non-starter for serious discussion. As the author puts it: “Couples therapists know a thing or two about this one. Respect is a threshold condition for listening.”
I know my fellow Democrats aren’t…
You don’t want to read this post. Why am I writing it then?
Therapy.
I have a theory for why I’ve been feeling down lately, and the title to this post is a strong clue. Since it’s apparent no one else is ever at fault for things that go wrong, the logical conclusion is it must be my fault. When everything is your fault and you accept responsibility – even if it’s just a small part of…
I turned on the television this evening and was shocked. Then shock turned to panic. Then panic merged with anger and betrayal.
I rushed across the house.
“Cheryl, did you watch any television today?”
“No, why?”
Ignoring her question: “Do you know who was the last person to watch the television in the family room?”
“I can’t think of anyone right now, why?”
Ignoring her question…
A few years ago Cheryl and I talked about moving to Vermont. It wasn’t serious talk, just two people inspired by pictures of my mother’s family home in a small town just south of the Canadian border. (Actually, my mother was born in Massachusetts, but both of her parents were from Vermont.) I’ve only been there once, when my grandmother died, but the place has a hold on me… like a good…