When I was going through a particularly manic phase about ten years ago, I was at the press club everyday chatting up the regulars, spending aimless afternoons playing shuffleboard. Then, like that, I was gone for weeks. During my hiatus periods, I would get frantic calls from my buds. They would leave urgent messages on my answering machine wondering where I was. Had I put my car in a ditch somewhere? Was I lying in a pool of my own vomit in the upstairs bathroom? It was never that glamorous. Usually, I was working. My pat answer to them when I finally went back to the club was this. "You don't have to worry about me when you don't see me. You only have to worry about me when you do see me." The sight of a Rose cut in the afternoon was a sign of trouble. I was trying to outrun my problems. Being a single mother is a tough road, fraught with potholes and detours. The schools are against you. The banks are against you. Your ex-husband is against you. And...
More than a million served!