I don't get to talk about what I do for a living. Confidentiality rules. Sometimes, though, I really want to talk about it. I really want to tell everyone about the lives of others.
The timer rang just now. My double batch of lemon bars is done. Daughter, gorgeous and 15 next month, will be picked up in 45 minutes from her one-day dance camp. It cost a pretty penny. Or at least it was a pretty penny to me. Pretty pretty pretty. But she's a dancer, and she loves to dance, and so she does.
Youngest and I saw Monsters University today. We bought the refillable popcorn. And gummy bears to accompany the popcorn. (It would have been Dots, but the stupid Cinemark no longer carries Dots. What fresh hell is that?) We paid another $3 for the promotional soda refill. We pay $3 each time because I bought the cup in January. It's good all year.
Eldest weed-whacked two-thirds of the neighbor's yard. He'll finish the remaining third tomorrow. On Monday, he'll accompany the gent to San Francisco to a Brit-sponsored get-together and schmooze and try to get the neighbor more clients. He'll get paid to do that.
Pete rode his expensive bike around and stopped at Safeway for ribs. He's slow-cooking them on the grill. He made mango salsa and bought chips to accompany them. He invited the Brits next door to come for dinner, along with the most adorable 3-year-old girl I've met since Daughter was that age.
Blessed beyond belief, today and every day.
Oh, sure, I bitch about my issues.
And in a farming town in another part of California, a new mom, suffering from postpartum depression or God-knows-what, leaves a message that she's going to kill herself. And I toss all confidentiality to the wind to try to save someone in such peril.
And the lemon bars here smell really good.
And my life is filled with blessings.