Just kidding, my favorite cousin has cancer.
That is so not funny!
(you're thinking, and I agree with you.) But then I harken back to a conversation I had with an Irish guy I used to bike to work with, years ago. He was explaining to me that the novel Angela's Ashes, is actually a comedy.
"What? How can this never ending stream of terrible events be a comedy?"
"Because it's never-ending, At some point you just have to laugh because if you take it too seriously you'll go insane."
Or something. I don't remember exactly what he said, but that was the gist of it. I think I lack the grace to embrace the absurdity, the ridiculousness of constant calamity. Additionally, I find I still don't understand Irish men. They're cute. They speak beautifully in their charming island accents. But... their minds are too foreign for my comprehension. Where is the humor on the ragged edge of disaster?
Meanwhile, it's true.
My favorite cousin, mother to 2 small boys I've never even met, and the only one of our grandfather's issue to produce red-headed boys (there was a special prize, my grandfather wanted a red-headed grandson), has some kind of leukemia. I don't know what kind. I don't know what stage. All I know is "university hospital" and "cancer".
OK. I also know that it was a beautiful day out, plum blossoms floated like snowflakes. But for the breeze, it was balmy.
And I also know that when it seems that a dog-bomb* has exploded under the wheels of a bus, calling trouble by its name, saying it out loud, makes me sane(r).
Soon, I will go to a party where almost all of my favorite people will be present. There I will practice the talking cure, and I will practice a poker face, and I will try to enjoy the immediate moment called now.
*dog bomb = Nasty prank.
Instructions: Place dog poo in plastic baggie with air. Knot baggie shut. Toss under the wheels of a moving vehicle. Witness poo explosion + loud bang noise.
And no, still no comments.