• Two years ago last week, Mother Dear died. She was a writing mechanics zealot of the first order. If she were still living, last week’s unedited “Rethinking Work” post would’ve killed her. I’d like to blame my central Ohio editor for being asleep at the wheel, or the fake media, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, but I cannot. Live, learn, and edit more closely before pressing “publish”.
• For the last 45m I’ve been half listening to my wife talk to an Apple software tech about her laptop’s virus and malware. I’m guessing his name is Job. The wife, “You are very patient.” I couldn’t make out Job’s reply, but it was something to the effect of “Well, I want to make sure you’re completely good to go.” This is what I imagine The Good Wife would say next if I wasn’t home. “Are you seeing anyone?” That would be understandable. I’m not very patient. There’s nothing to suggest this convo is anywhere close to ending. She’s finally going to leave me, isn’t she? I just cleaned the gutters, doesn’t that count for anything?
Postscript: The wife, on the clean gutters, “I could find someone else to do that.”