I know because I voluntarily went out in the truck with Todd on a dark, soggy night last night with questionable visibility and I wasn’t driving and I was three heartbeats away from a full-on panic attack. I’ve never had a panic attack before but I think that is what it would feel like just moments before little white crystals dance before my eyes and I can’t get enough oxygen. But he was driving and I wanted to jump out of the truck because I was sure we were going to be in an accident. I don’t know why but there are times when we’re driving and there’s a rising anxiety that clutches at my stomach and pushes my pulse rate to levels I’m fairly certain aren’t healthy for a 54-year old woman.

Anyway, so if I’m feeling like like I’m scared of being in an accident and dying, then I wouldn’t really want to die, right? Of course this is when Todd gets offended that I don’t trust his driving but really when he keeps veering over the white lines and I feel like we’re getting up close and personal with strangers’ mailboxes it’s not so much about trust as it is honey I don’t think your night vision is as good as it used to be.

I’m feeling a bit insecure about my judgement lately anyhow. I sent a text to a friend this morning who may or may not be having a good day at work saying I hoped she was having a good morning and added: “just remember” with a meme that said: Silence is golden. Duct tape is silver. And, since she has not responded, I started thinking what if she didn’t go to work today? What if the reason she didn’t go is because a family member was found tied up with duct tape after being kidnapped for ransom and I had no idea and just texted her the absolute worst, most insensitive thing a person could send?

But of course that wouldn’t really happen because she eventually responded with a laughing emoji and a “you’re bad.” The real irony is that she is one of those friends who always has a medical horror story to “make you feel better” when really it does the exact opposite so the fact that I could think the worst even for a second suggests she has finally rubbed off on me. Like, oh, you’re having a colonoscopy? I know somebody who had one and the camera malfunctioned and they had to perform emergency rectal surgery to remove it and then they needed a blood transfusion because of all the blood loss and that’s not even the worst part. They needed a rectum transplant.

While we’re on the subject – I’d like to talk about hemorrhoids. Well, not all of them. Just one. Mine. I remember the day I discovered I had one. Actually it was early evening, and I was at the restaurant and I just remember running to my mother (who was in the kitchen) like MOM THERE’S A GRAPE ON MY ASS and she was all, oh, that sounds like a hemorrhoid, like she was pointing out a variety of salad greens. WHAT THE FUCK, MOM!

Facts. Sill it lingers like a houseguest who has overstayed their welcome by, oh, I don’t know, TWELVE YEARS. It comes and goes, like our internet connection. Just this week I decided, among a host of other things, to embrace my hemorrhoid. Like a pet. Not a cute furry pet you want to squeeze and love on, but rather a reptilian pet that isn’t petable (is pet-able a word?) and yet you feed it and admire its determination to thrive with a sort of morbid fascination.

So we went out to dinner with a friend the night after I thought I might die in a car accident because I’m slow to learn lessons. A local Italian restaurant and reservations were early so it was just us and another table for a half hour before they all starting pouring in like five-seventeen in Grand Central.

A family of eight arrived a few at a time and, as they were seated at this large oval, conference-sized table in the middle of the room, I had a perfect view. Couple comes in – let’s assume the parents – followed by an old man with a cane. Three girls come in after, about college age. One, with a mask on and a vintage-style overcoat, turns out to be wearing that whole denim jumpsuit thing that looks like Rosie-the-Riveter. The “dad” person is wearing a leather motorcycle jacket and is slowly walking around the dining room like a washed-up supermodel as if that jacket is his whole identity. Sidebar: he will never take that jacket off the entire meal.

Then there’s another dad-age guy who joins them, wearing a knit cap – which he never takes off the entire meal – and also shorts and flip flops because. Because. I have no idea why. It’s cold and damp outside but maybe he’s the California-laidback yin to his older brother’s uptight-New Yorker yang. Except I have a tip for “dad.” Lose the faded diarrhea-colored loafers. Both of these guys made me kinda testy.

The grandmother arrives with him pushing a walker and she approaches the old man and he takes her hand and kisses it in greeting. So they’re not a couple. But they are seated together and after everyone is settled I note with not a little bit of sadness that the old folks are probably always seated at the far end of the table just by virtue of age and now I wonder how often my grandparents were in my shadow.

The girls are circling the older folks for pictures and it’s hard not to miss the beaming face of grandma among these fresh-faced beautiful girls. The girls love her and have no idea how fleeting this moment will be. Grandma knows. She’s just so proud and happy to be there. Family is everything.

Table to the right of them is seated another family with a teenaged girl who caught my eye because her cell phone was propped against her water glass with a moving picture on it. I focused in on it and realized she was using the camera to see herself as she applied lip gloss. I watched this scene for probably too long as she inserted the swab into the tube over and over, applying the gloss to her lips like it was evaporating instantaneously.

Todd and Karen were chatting about work and restaurants and people they knew and she suddenly looked at me apologetically and, we’re boring you with work stories and I suddenly felt bad because I hadn’t heard a word they were saying because – read the above. I told her I was people-watching and started to describe the young lady I was watching. I said, she is all of 15 years old and look at her. She’s petite and rail thin and like so many teenage girls she’s obsessed with preening and looking perfect and what she doesn’t yet know is that she already IS perfect. That it’ll take another 30 or 40 years before she sees photos of herself in a size 2 dress and thinks, damn! I looked fucking amazing and I wish I had known it then.

It’s two days later and today is bathroom renovation day 2. Neph rolled in about two hours ago while Todd was out picking up the vanity and toilets I’d chosen. (Toilets is not a typo, FYI, but I’m not elaborating right now.) He had some food because he’s always hungry when he gets here and we talked real fast and loud at each other for a while before he went and fell asleep on the couch.

I’m texting my friend and telling her I need to clean the carpets today and I’m thinking of evil ways to wake him up besides running the vacuum cleaner. Bucket of water? she says. More, spoon meets metal pot, I tell her. She doesn’t know that I’ve done this before – to Nephtoo and O – the morning we left for the beach. Had to scrape O off the ceiling and it was so hilarious, but in retrospect I’m thinking what kind of mother disturbs their child’s sleep in such a violent way and writes about it seven years later with a sentimental smile? It never occurred to me that it could scar him for life – forever sleeping on edge for fear of being Metallica’ed out of bed every morning and therefore never full rested. No wonder he stayed in bed half the day on weekends.

There ya go, Opac. Another unforgiveable crime you can add to your growing list of Mom’s Crimes Against Humanity.

^^^ Sarcasm, folks. I’m okay, you’re okay. Just remember to duck once in a while.

Happy New Year, Mother Fuckers!!

*Mwah!*