So my sisters and mother and I all email just about every single day. We fondly called it the “listserv” when it began a few years ago, and it has kept up ever since. Mom updates on the errands she’s running, how Grandma’s doing, and what lunch dates she has coming up. And my sisters keep us posted on the eating and pooping habits of their babies and toddler. From time to time I get a rather amusing email that really should be shared with the world, so on Friday’s I’m going to give you a little nugget from this week’s discussion.

From my sister:
“last night i asked mom if she would hold a snake for 5 minutes if dad were being held hostage and she needed to do it to have him released. she would not. she then proceeded to accuse me of getting this idea from reality tv. i then asked if she had ever watched any reality tv by which to make that judgment. and she replied, no.”

Every morning I walk down to the bus stop, hop it, and head to the T station. My whole commute takes about a half an hour at the longest which generally includes waiting for a bus and waiting for the T. But taking public transportation is hardly predictable as I witnessed this morning. And it brings out the worst in everybody, especially me.

Waiting twenty minutes for the bus is one thing, but waiting in the rain first thing in the morning with a very chatty companion is an entirely different beast. I’m no morning person, and I do not want to talk to you about the FOOT OF SNOW you heard fell on New Hampshire last night. I’m sure. A FOOT during the last week of March. Sure, buddy.

When the bus finally arrived, I quickly closed up my umbrella only to wait in the rain another five minutes as a mother disembarked with her toddler riding in a stroller. Thanks for taking your kid and your SUV STROLLER on public transportation in the middle of rush-hour. Really great idea. I was, at this point, officially the world’s worst person.

Between every stop, my chatty companion kept walking to the front to discuss with the bus driver why his CharlieCard appeared to be charged twice. The overly-friendly driver kept calmly reassuring him that he could fix the problem at the next T station and repeating over and over “there’s really no reason to swear, sir.” He muttered to himself and walked back to his seat stepping on the tail of the adorable golden retriever seeing eye dog of the young lady who had just boarded. He realized his error and squatted down to pet the dog, which we all know you are not supposed to do while it’s on duty. The dog calmly ignored Chattster and curled up on the floor of the bus directly across from me for the sole purpose of testing my ability to refrain from snookering him and speaking to him in my small-adorable-soft-animal voice. He was the cutest thing I had ever seen and I was quickly running out of self-control.

Next to board was a whole hoard of people dripping rain and pushing to get on to the wet and smelly bus. An Asian lady stood in front of me holding on for dear life as we careened towards the T station, now 25 minutes late. Perhaps it was accidental, but I think I saw a glimmer of evil in her eye as she dropped her arm and stabbed the aforementioned pup with the sharp tip of her umbrella. This was almost more than I could bear as my mind reeled with visions of drop-kicking her to the sidewalk and stabbing her in her left pinky with that same vicious implement of death that she had used on the sweet service dog.

I also wondered if the blind lady would notice if I accidentally slipped off with her golden? Surely she could get another, right? This dog NEEDED me. I was the only one who could single-handedly protect him from bus-riding ruffians!

I contemplated my life’s worth as I arrived at the station and boarded the next orange line train. Is this what I’ve become? The type of person who is so desperate to have a dog of my own that I contemplate stealing service dogs? A man with a T uniform and a very thick Russian accent eyed me as though I was a terrorist. I might as well be. I try to steal service dogs. Take me away to a maximum security prison where I cannot endanger people who take their puppy to the curb for a momentary bathroom break.

Next time the bus is late I’m just going to catch a cab. It’s really better for all of us.

Holidays are always an interesting time in the life of a marriage. Generally we spend these days with our families which is pretty easy because on both sides our parents are still together, our siblings are fun and have wicked cute kids, and we don’t have to travel very far. Plus we owe it to them because we’re both youngest children and we were spoiled during those high school years.

Traveling of any kind, even if short distances, can do a number on a relationship. Our road trips generally result in last minute angst because Matt usually forgets his sunglasses, and I need to stop at Dunkin Donuts for an iced coffee even though we don’t have time. Stopping for the coffee will, of course, mean that we’ll need to stop 45 minutes later for me to pee, and that need usually arises somewhere in the middle of the George Washington Bridge. In traffic. During rush hour.

We had some friends in Philly, Courtney and Chad, who had once mentioned they were going to spend Christmas alone instead of with their families. I became acutely jealous thinking that would be wonderful, romantic, and memory-building - creating our own traditions for our own little family. So that’s exactly what I intended for our first Easter alone. I had pictured us coming home from church in our cute little Easter-wear, pulling a small ham out of the oven and sitting at the dining room table covered in lilies and stuffing our faces with decorated hard-boiled eggs.

However, on Saturday night we made the mistake of having our friend Peter over which meant making music until 1:30 in the morning. Poor downstairs neighbors.

No lilies, no ham, no chocolate bunnies… instead we hit Bertuccis for a quick lunch and went home to sleep until 6pm. When dinnertime rolled around we raided the kitchen and wound up eating bread and butter in front of Oprah’s Big Give, and then called it a night.

I don’t know about Matt, but it actually kinda rocked my socks off.

And by the way, today’s his birthday. What do you want to do to celebrate, baby? We’ve still got the rest of that rye loaf!

I start off this post readily recognizing that my complaint here is unusual, and that I should actually be pretty thankful. However, when it comes to cash flow I’m a bit anal retentive and want to have all of my ducks in a row. So is any wonder that I find myself gnashing my teeth around the twenty-fourth of each month? NINE DAYS after my rent was due and PAID? And my darling landlord still hasn’t cashed the check?

It frustrates me because I’m wary to move money into the savings account until this large sum has cleared. I also start running through the many things that could have happened to that check while taking the treacherous ride through the US Postal Service. And I’m a bit of a control freak. OK, the problem is mostly in relation to that last one…

But this fear is truly grounded. When we were first married and made the move from Ohio to New Jersey, Matt ran into a bit of a snafu with a previous employer. It seemed the previous employer had overpaid him, and requested that Matt cut a check for the difference. He, being the world’s nicest person, went ahead and did just that while I snarled in the corner about how if they were going to be so stupid as to let money flow out of their pockets without looking they should have to reap the consequences, and we should keep it and do something fun! Like go on vacation! But the moral compass of the family cut the check and months and months went by.

We completely forgot about the check that was floating around somewhere in south central Ohio in the haste of oh, you know, the usual… a wedding, honeymoon, new jobs, moving across the country. And then we went to close out our bank accounts in Ohio only to be hit a week later with ENORMOUS bank fees because ex-employer decided to finally cash the check and we had closed out our bank account.

We somehow wrangled our way out of that extremely expensive situation with only a few financial scratches. But can a price be put on my increased paranoia? I think not.

I had trouble sleeping last night. I’ve never in my life suffered from insomnia, so in the one night every 8 months that it occurs, I’m at a complete loss as to a solution.

I’ve read all about what you’re supposed to do in these circumstances, not out of need, but out of concern for my mom and sister who suffer extensively from the co-morbidity of worry and insomnia. Whenever one or the other emailed me about such things as how they were up until 3 worrying that the six month old babies will fall through the crack between the ship and the pier while embarking on our family cruise, I was always able to combat it with quick and easy solutions like, “Did you get up for a glass of water? Try doing a crossword puzzle. Call Mom, she’s probably awake.”

And yet in the clutch last night, none of these options were top of mind. I tossed and turned and kicked Matt hopelessly as I contemplated my life, so different than the life I had imagined I’d be living at age twenty-five. As I half flopped onto my (growling) belly it struck me that this was a quarter-life crisis and a most severe one at that.

I weighed my options which included everything from moving to Montana soon (Yippy-Ty-O-Ty-Ay!) to attending Harvard law school and wound up with the only obvious answer. I needed to start a new blog.