You know things have reached a new low when you forget your Wordpress login.

Hello friends. I’m alive, as it turns out, and have been delinquent. Not a deadbeat dad, but close enough, a blogger who doesn’t keep up. One who doesn’t pay her bills. Her hosting bills, the ones that keep her beloved site up and running on this here information superhighway. I’ve written nothing. Not a haiku, not a witty retort. Efforts at writing success are limited to Gchat and Twitter, forums in which I clearly delight others with my extensive knowledge of hairstyles of the Hills and run of the mill snark. I’m also delinquent in that I’ve overlooked at least four important life dates lately. They’re more than oversights; they’re reflective of complete friend delinquency. It pains me when I do such stupid things. Head, be reintroduced to desk. Thankfully the cats are fed and remain plump, pleasingly so, as does this writer. All carries on but I’m angry with self that such important details could be missed. Unacceptable.

Life has also turned upside down in the past month. Job, health, love. A close friend has had a bevy of health visitors lately, a very unwelcome crew that have demanded the bulk of her time and emotional power. Not one, but two (unrelated) diagnoses, one of which turned out to be a false positive. She’s the big winner, apparently, but trust when I say that she is taxed to a point at which I’d stop showering. And we all know that’s a pretty big statement.

I’m losing my job. And that’s all I will say about that.

I feel like I’m in a snow globe. I shared this with said friend, who believes our globes are filled with water alone. Water would be refreshing, actually, as would a few snowflakes on the tongue. Both are reminders that we’re alive, blood pumping, still participants in the beauty of this world. Instead, it feels like we’re skilled swimmers, trying to get from A to B, but it’s simple syrup all the way. Everyone will be ok, of course, and we’re not alone in all that is happening to us, children starving and all that. Still, I’d give my right arm to be at a point past resolution, where we clink glasses and chuckle about what life once tossed at us.

I need a vacation right now so badly I can feel it in my gums. I need sunning and sleeping until 11, just in case I’d like to. I need room service but not the kind that knocks too loudly and demands to put the tray someplace other than the space I’ve created on the desk. I need clean, crisp hotel sheets tucked under the mattress with considerable fervor and skill. Ice water should be plentiful, yet please don’t let the charming young desk clerk have booked me near the ice machine or the elevator. The pool water should be warm. Make it short of Gulf of Mexico warm, as I have an ample tub in which to soak in hot bubbles should I want to. The television gets A&E, TruTV, the History Channel and porn, and the menu screen doesn’t come up every time I press the remote’s On button. There’s a corkscrew in the mini bar and glassware in the room. A minimum of 20 hangers dangle in the closet. There are no upstairs neighbors, most certainly none taught to speak above dulcet tones, and college spring breaks ended weeks earlier. I have a balcony and an ashtray. The hotel supplies conditioner whether or not I use it. Or should I decide to stuff it into my carry on every morning. Bliss™.

My clothes fit and least one outfit makes me feel unstoppable. A white v-neck tee and pale skirt are staples. Sandals complete the week, one pair with heels. If beaching, I’m red on the nose and shoulders, and sleeping in the minimum feels at once mischievous and soothing. My one pair of sunglasses is never out of reach. As I’m prone to doing in the real world, I wear them mostly on my head, holding back bothersome curls brought on by humidity. The scent of the week is Coppertone. Beach towels are plentiful and they cover my entire body, not the unflattering patches that catch their fabric. Other vacationers care not how they look surfside. They’re intoxicated by the days of peacefulness, time with Uncle Joe and his second wife, and sand up to their knobby knees. iPods are charged and contain all the right playlists. Adults enjoy the sea as children might, splashing about and giggling, yet steer clear of all hazards so as to keep the lifeguard whistles at bay. The breeze blows but uproots not a single umbrella. I fall asleep in the shade at least once. I talk to strangers and return to my hotel tipsy and giddy with a full and suntanned belly at least twice.

I don’t care if I tour the hosting city or town until at least the third day. Make most of my daytime drinks margaritas on the rocks, extra salt, but only one before noon, and not in the sun. I have a book to read and at least three magazines, two of which rate awards show clothing, one of which does so with considerable snark. One of the hotel bars is dark and contemporary in design and is never packed. In late afternoon, the bartender leaves me be but keeps an eye on the liquid level in my glass. One evening, I wear black with bare legs and glossed lips. There’s a dive restaurant within walking distance, where regulars warm bar stools as they have for at least a few hours before my arrival. All tip well. Women may or may not dance barefoot there, sandals in one hand and a glass of something pale and chilled in the other. Cell phones don’t dot every table and there are no toddlers vying for my bubble of conversation. Food is never an issue; hush puppies are found on one menu and Stilton and wine flights on the next. And karaoke does not exist, unless it’s loud and raucous and someone past her prime is singing Blondie. If that’s the case, I’m hoping it’s you up there rather than me. And I’m hoping I remembered my camera.

The dance between adult parent and child is well practiced. Step forward, step back. On holidays it’s accentuated, heightened somehow, a series of more vibrant staccatos and denouements. I used to blame it on the gravy, but it’s been years since we’ve had traditional grub on any given Holiday, and Mother’s Day never seems to involve scraping tasty bits from a saucepan. I arrived at her apartment wearing business casual, carefully chosen to impress not only my mother but the women in her building who value such things. A skirt and dressy tank. Admittedly I went with flip flops, but it’s only because my dressy shoes just did not match. I had to talk myself through the moment. You’re fine the way you are. She won’t care about what you’re wearing. So instead I obsessed about my hair.

She had no fewer than six tasks listed for me to complete before we left for dinner. Carefully scripted on the back of an unopened bill. Cut cat’s nails. Call Comcast and restore sound to the widescreen. Cinderella, I felt, and huffed and puffed my way through my chores in anything other than glass slippers. I went horizontal with pliers to change the filter in the ice maker. I grimaced as she asked me to transfer pics from her digital camera to the computer, pictures yet to be taken despite an open morning, the PC transfer cord yet to be found. Check. Check. Check. I was so angry that we couldn’t just connect, just hang out like mothers and daughters are supposed to, as adults exchanging ideas and compliments over high tea, bonnets tilted only slightly, smiles forced but ever present. There was more. Old TV and VCR to be taken to the garbage bay, night stand she couldn’t bear in her space to be lodged precariously in my back seat. She beamed when the list was complete. We left for dinner.

At a small Greek diner we crafted a poem for a friend of hers recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She’ll love it, Mom said of our poorly rhymed stanzas and ridiculous word pairings. I brought up religion, God, and she told me what she believed. Hell does not exist, no, but there is another place, a better place, perhaps? No, I don’t know if I’ll see your father there; I don’t know if I’d recognize him. Yes, there are people I don’t think I’d want to see if I end up there. Which we will, because we’ve lived half decent lives, and we haven’t killed anyone. Yet. We talked about good grandparents, ones who didn’t seem to know how to parent but excelled with their next generation. There were giggles and details previously unrevealed and many an olive. She celebrated my current victory over hives. I paid the tab and beamed. I’d gotten to see my mother.

There is a reason we enjoyed Superbad. Well I didn’t, but I’m guessing there’s a reason gazillions of other people paid 10 bucks to see it. It definitely wasn’t for that period scene, which I’m pretty sure .05 percent of the population found amusing, but possibly for the inadvertent chuckle afforded by escapism. You know, the emotional hiding in the closet? When the closet has a pony keg on the coffee table and one of those awful hippie tapestries on the wall? Because when you’re witnessing teen film angst, you aren’t changing a crappy diaper or taking your 11th pregnancy test or wondering how the hell you wrap twine around a roast without feeling just a little like Buffalo Bill. We’re all dying here. TPS reports and flooding and unemployment and Comic Sans splashing it’s gross self on professional emails worldwide. Life is too much to stomach. Overload awaits us, and our exhaustion will manifest, dear friends, whether it be in the form of going postal or having an affair. Enough is enough is enough.

A boyfriend’s mother once confronted me on my state of mind. I remember her moving her lotioned elbows across the kitchen island as she spoke. If you don’t like your job, Kris, why don’t you just get another one? I shook her words off like snowflakes on a dry coat. What did this 40-something woman know that I did not? It wasn’t just about making change. Things what were they were. We are where we are. Her son was a lifeguard, now deceased, which I understand creates both an awkward and teaching moment for us all, and I, his wimpy girlfriend, was working at a nursing home during the day and at a day care during my evenings. Life wasn’t about paths and options and roads yet traveled, but absolutes. About SATs and oppressively bright college bed sheets. But even then, was it?

I am doing my damndest to seek joy everywhere these days, even when I see overemoting couples, the ones with the perfect faces and asses and life plans, likely to include a condo down payment from Mom and Dad and the Coach clutch I’d give my right ovary for. It’s in spicy curry licked from my fingers and occasionally my knuckles. Uniform silverware without a hint of gold. It’s in a multitude of things, and I decided to take on the task of listing one hundred of them. This is much harder than one would think, much more difficult for me at least, the optimist in retraining.

Here’s my list of joys, intact and meaningful, regardless of their distance from my reach at any given moment. Enjoy.