No matter what I do is wrong where my daughter is concerned. I just mailed her a package and taped a cartoon strip to the package from the "Pearls Before Swine" comic strip. In this cartoon, Goat is holding a suitcase and telling his pals he's gonna fly out to see his family he hasn't seen in 12 years. One of them asks "How long are you going to stay?"
Goat replies "45 minutes." "I don't want to press my luck."
(I'm laughing now. I think that's funny--esp. considering our family dynamics.)

So my daughter phones and frostily tells me she got the package. Oh my. I've done something to offend her again.
I'm also not on speaking terms with "friend" Dottie right now. She called me a hypochondriac. That's like the pot calling the kettle black.
Over the years I've listened to her complain about every single thing on and in her body, from the hair on top of her head down to her tonails and every organ internal and extrernal in between. I know her adult kids and sister don't give a d*mn what color her sputum is when she has a cold. Yeck. But I listen, you know, because I consider her a friend. But nooooo, let me say something and she calls me a hypochondriac.

Well, right now I'm here by my little ole self and the phone isn't ringing, but se la vie. That's okay.
Like Greta Garbo, it's a good thing "I vant to be alone" because it's like Siberia here!

susil