Dear me, It is someday, somewhere, sometimes. That day, that where, that time, I happen to be staring blankly at a TV screen. It is the...

Dear me, One of the sisters and I are talking [but really, I am ranting and the sister is listening with equal parts amusement and annoyance]. The subject of my rant is air travel. I am a bad flier. I can't sleep on airplanes. Using the tiny loo irks the germaphobe in me. Bumping elbows with row-mates during meals is too much intimacy - in what is already too many people in too close proximity - with nowhere to run for space (save the aforementioned loo). But what irks me the

To hurt is to know that pain is real.