Unexpected Proof that I Am Old

"What time are you picking me up for the orthodontist?"

"A quarter to 9. Your appointment's at 9."

"Does anyone SAY that? 'A quarter to'? What is that, like 8:45? Why don't you just say '8:45'?"

Fiddlin' Writer confirms that her sons also ride her about "a quarter to" and "a quarter after". Apparently you have to have a mental visual of an analog clock to have that make sense.

Sonny, bring me my pills. And hush, I don't want to miss my stories.

The nicest thing anyone said to me, all weekend

"If your ass gets any smaller, I'm going to print up signs saying 'Christine is a bitch.'"

Fiddlin' Writer, you know EXACTLY what to say.

Up is down, black is white, the election is coming

Fiddlin' Writer and I are at a loss. As the wildest Republican and most conservative hippie Democrat in existence, we have managed an uneasy truce on the political thing. Basically, we don't discuss it. No big deal, we have plenty of other stuff to discuss. She and I could talk allllllll day. And have.

During the last election, all we managed to say to each other on the political front was, "I am losing sleep, terrified that your candidate will win."

But this time, it is odd.

Her "rabid Republican" father is planning to vote for Hillary, "because it's about damn time we had a woman in the White House."

And my "crazy-liberal" mother-in-law supports Guiliani, because she is still amazed at the transformation he wreaked on her beloved hometown of NYC. "Everyone was polite. No one cursed. The streets were clean and there was no graffiti. I felt absolutely safe, wherever I went. It...just wasn't like home."

It is official. I have NO FLIPPIN' IDEA who will win. Heck, at this point, I am not even sure who's got MY vote.