My dog has a condition that makes his trachea collapse when he gets excited. Like… Say… When the mailman comes. Probably to murder us. All dogs know that mailmen are evil and have a freak out but mine does that and then spends fifteen minutes trying to get air back in his lungs without sounding like a Harley Davidson.
Once or twice a day, no biggie. Halloween? Nightmare on Elm Street. (There are a lot of elm trees on my street, but that’s not really what it’s called.)
So I’m opting out. I feel badly about it. Sort of. But this is what I’m doing this year. Candy is candy, right? Getting me to open the door is the least fun part.
I think that I can say with confidence that if you put a binder together and it looks like this, you do not have ENOUGH of an obsessive compulsive disorder, and you deserve to be punched in the gums. But not by me, because I don’t have the time. I’ll be spending all day scanning this document and then putting it back in this binder, one page at a time. You unnatural, anencephalic animal.
Whenever I travel internationally (which is not often), I come home feeling like I’ve expanded. And getting back to my “real” life becomes a process of tucking myself back in. This return has been no different.
Provence was beautiful. The people I met at the writing workshop were fabulous; I miss them already. And I miss the food. Oh God, how I miss the food.