Ain't No Sunshine

When I don’t talk to my dad for a long time, he starts popping into my dreams. Not in a portentious tarot vision kind of way — it’s just my brain serving something back up to me that’s important, that I’ve gone too long without. “Hello, remember me?” After one of those dreams I’ll call him the next day for a dad chat, and he’ll tell me about the weather in Colorado. 

Speaking of “going without” … hello from the new world. We’re all processing this shit in a very public way, online, via plentiful platforms. We’re humans. A social beast. I’ve been over-hugging my dog, coming at her all sideways when she’s deep sleeping on her side like a little dead horse, and I’ll pounce and force snuggle her, which she allows amidst figurative eye rolls. 

I can’t do the news. I do not want to know more. Unearthing the latest dire update or critical analysis is not a pastime for me. The static is already swarming my brain. Calming things: Wearing old beanies. My husband walking in the backdoor. Texts from mom and Melissa. Filling up the yard-waste bin. Walking and walking and walking under flowering trees in the fresh spring.

I have watched episodes of I Am Not Ok With This on the Flix and like the scenery (or should I say greenery) and dig the music. I sat through He’s Just Not That Into You, a Jennifer Aniston joint from 2009 (but seems much older than that? Like maybe 30 or 300 years older? Full of caveman-era gender-normative diarrhea). I made a cocktail out of Espolon Blanco and lime juice and apricot La Croix, because those were all the liquids I had. And I recommend it.

How are you?