Left to my own devices, my weekend would have been uneventful (a part from the problems with the cars), but I am part of a family that lives for drama. I'll relay the whole saga sometime. It is guaranteed to make you feel better about your own origins. It involves my mother, her (crazy dangerous) landlord, all five of her children--myself included to a lesser degree--my mother's beloved rose bed, the division of aging and the sheriff's department. Think southern redneck, sans Confederate flag and no guns. Okay, well, maybe just one . . . Parts of it are funny. Mostly it was just embarrassing.
I adore my family (especially my mother) and the color they add to my life, but there are times (and I suspect we all ponder this occasionally) when I wonder if I was switched at birth or if there's something they aren't telling me about myself that involves genetic mutations and/or reincarnation and/or alien sperm.
No. Wait. My mother would have shared that . . .