Whassup.

Wednesday was Madeleine's Christmas show/ Sam's funeral/ Sam's post-funeral potluck - slash - family reunion / Madeleine's 7th birthday party / an unscheduled playdate with the most difficult party guest whose mom was late picking her up at our house after the party and Jim had to carry her upside-down out to her mom's car because the little fuck wouldn't put her stuff on and we were ready to go to bed. And that's pretty much what this month has been like so far.

What do you say when your mouth is full of Safeway cold-cuts and your great-aunt-in-law comes up and gives you a hug, squishing your paper plate loaded with macaroni salad and fudge against your sweater, and says, "How are you doing?" My standard: "Pretty good, considering. How are you?"

I wish you could say "I'm sad, but also pretty stressed and confused about why Catholics sit in a silent room for hours on end with their dead loved ones laid out in front of them until their throat hurts from crying and they get eye infections from the bleeding 3-year-old mascara which has coated their retinas." That's what I'd like to say to one of the 45-or-so aunts/cousins/friends that have hugged me in the last three days. First off, Sam is not my son, so I've grieved mostly for his dad (our really good friend) and Sam's mom (Jim's cousin). I'm really really sad, and that's it. I'm sad. But really? I've got two pretty awesome kids that need a bunch of stuff (including a mom that's not all wigged out and talking about dying and bringing them to wakes to see the corpse of their dead cousin), I've got three birthdays to juggle, I've got other random and asundry holiday preparations to manage. I'm fucking busy, yo.

So that's how I'm doing. If you were wondering.