TERMINATION!

Terminate: To bring to an end in space or time; form the end or conclusion of.

Exterminate: To destroy entirely; wipe out; annihilate.

So I've been trying to get my arms around the fact that SuperK was TERMINATED from her job. I'm sure it's a lot harder on her than it is on me but really, I'm mostly concerned about how it affects me. I wish her well all the while hoping that she's worried about how I'm doing. After all, something happened to her that's affecting me. Hardly fair to me.

To add fuel to the fire her mother is in the hospital and she's been in the middle of a Mexican Standout with her at best moderately dysfunctional siblings. Everyone is trying to avoid doing any work or spending any money while simultaneously trying to guilt and manipulate anyone else into doing the work and spending the money. If you don't think your drinking affects your kids you should watch a group of middle aged adults with well honed manipulation skills trying to run the show. It's quite a dance.


Finally, my mother has been in rare form trying to get the world to run her way irregardless of the wishes of others. I made the mistake of filling her in on SuperK's drama and had to listen to a steady stream of totally inappropriate advice, most of it geared to dealing with sane and reasonable people, which is not the case here. It's so bad that SuperK's the most normal of the bunch. Think about that for a minute.

Do I sound a little bitchy? I don't mean to. I think for the most part I've been pretty even-tempered handling all of this low grade chaos. When we really try to live the Program we do get better. We don't get great but we do get better.

Yesterday, however, I felt a little pissy all day long. I get home from my swim -- during which I had long, furious mental arguments with someone who had posted a comment on a social networking site that SuperK belongs to. It's not even my page; it's her page. I had no business sticking my nose in her business, long and big as it may be. A very stick-able nose.

I reread the aggravating post and sat down at her desk.

"May I?" I said politely.

"Be my guest," she replied, backing out of the room, making the sign of the cross.

20 minutes later I'm finishing up a brilliant, sarcastic, anger-driven grouch of a brainstorm of a reply to this individual on someone else's web page. I'm responding to someone I've never liked about a subject I can't do anything about that doesn't really affect me directly. I'm shaking with self-satisfied scorn. I post my reply while my wife is gone, just in case she objects to what I've written under her name.

I got up and walked around the room a minute.

"Good grief," I thought. "What in the hell?" I added.


Just like that, it can sneak up on you.