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born survivor, i usually work alone.

“Ain’t a cryin shame to eat it warm either”, i remind them, setting out the mustard based potato salad.  A time tested generational recipe (one of the few I have possession of) that I could definitely prepare in my sleep.

“What’s in it?” asks a shameless child from the table. 

“mustard, mayo, a half dozen eggs, pickles onion and relish”. 

She sniffs at the mention of pickles, and perhaps decides against it.  I feel the compulsion to qualify the mayo as Hellman’s/Best Foods (I’m not a savage you know) since hearing Tom Robbins read his own piece about a tomato sandwich, a la wonder bread (justifying himself on that choice); but resist explaining myself any further.  Much like my philosophy in every other aspect of life, I say you can take or leave my potato salad (all the sadder for you if the latter be your choice...) and I care not.

My nephew rounds the corner just in time and I exercise my auntie rights by video’ing and snapping as many pictures as possible with my new little LG (look at me, one foot in the twenty first century!) He is at that wonderful age, just short of Two, cruising about unaided and showing a distinct personality with every smile.  He is fluent in sign language apparently, and has limited his speaking to ‘doody’ I gather from our rather short encounter.  Of course, I disagree with the sign language thing (knowing well what smart and consequently lazy creatures children can be) having had it pushed on me much by therapizers past. 

It is father’s day.  I’ve hand written a love letter to my husband, reminiscent of our teenage years passing notes in senior english class.  A few steps away looms my 34th birthday (now just a few days...argh) and I stop to remind myself that it means little, and there is scant justification for my annual agonizing over the day due to the contentedness that radiates through me.  I’m happy with myself, from my outlook on life to my reflection in the mirror.  Though the schaudenfreude that’s brought me to this conclusion is shameful- the things that we’ve witnessed friends and acquaintances have been doing to each other lately; marriages of 15 and 25 years seemingly disintegrating over night, people drinking themselves into the hospital, snorting themselves into living out of their cars, pimping themselves into abandoning this beautiful state and chasing cross country pipe dreams.  Ack, at first I fear the despair may be catching, but moreso it makes me feel successful, to be where I am and who I am, to know that I’m living a high life (despite daily shortages of nothing more important than money) and feeling quite comfortable in my own skin.  Other slightly more innocuous events have contributed:  a 1200 mile car trip for the memorial service of a great-grandfather, expected but nonetheless heart wrenching (I did not know this amazing man as well as I would have liked to yet mourned him via my husband’s heartbreak).  And more recently a day of shared work, laboring next to my love and relishing every minute of it, breaking a much needed (and very rare) sweat in the process. 

We stop to admire a passing breeze through the trees, “Where else could a husband and wife work side by side all day?” and I correct him with “What other husband and wife could work side by side all day?” I am a lucky woman and he is my best friend.  Still.

plants