I was flipping through the pages of a magazine earlier tonight and thinking about the bliss of thumbing pages. The internet is good and fun besides being a convenient necessity but I still like the allure of pages between my fingers. I like lounging in a chair with a good gossip rag across my lap. Slick pages and filthy lies are a perfect complement to one another. The only thing about the rags is, they have all those stupid subscription cards in em. It’s annoying to flip through there and every other page is this thick, glaring advert for the magazine you’re already reading. It’s the magazine equivalent of spam and guess what? I don’t click there either. Enough! Do away with that garbage already. Save a frickin’ tree or ten.

Now that that’s off my chest, let me just tell you: things are a-changing around here. It’s too bad my therapist has taken a dive and the only head shrinker I’m seeing these days is for duets cause it’s hitting the fan & and I have no clue what to do. I can’t say anything except, you know, I’m not dying. No one’s dying. At least, I don’t think so. It’s just work-related, career changing kind of stuff. I mean, I’m not really changing careers either. I’m just — oh stuffit. I can’t say anything because then I’d be saying something! See why I need my therapist back? A person like me shouldn’t be out roaming the streets without close supervision.

Tonight I was worrying while making dinner that if I somehow didn’t cook the rice long enough the kids could get sick and die from it. I know this is true of meat. I reasoned that if it could happen with one food group, why not all of them? This niggling little doubt consumed me the entire time I was otherwise engaged in preparing an otherwise healthy and delicious meal of carne asada and tacos. I tried desperately to conceal my guilt and horror while chopping garlic and simmering tomatoes. I cursed myself silently for attempting to make Spanish rice in the first place. I labored over their eventual deaths in my head, even through the warming of tortillas and setting of the table. It wasn’t until they were tucked safely in bed tonight that I felt I had dodged the bullet. Maybe. I’m not a hundred percent on that one though. There’s always a possibility that undercooked rice takes a little longer than undercooked meat. I didn’t write the book on this one. Anything’s possible.

So you see? A sane person doesn’t think those things. I really should have my therapist back. I should make some calls. Someone should probably ought to call someone.

I have stress.