I have to lower my expectations. The suspense is killing me and apparently not slowly. Since last summer, the gray hair count has risen to a fever pitch, so I don’t even bother anymore. I’ve switched to ammoniated salvation in a bottle—Clairol’s Nice-and-Easy in Burnt Umber.

Here are my top “dead and dying” expectations:

1. Fame—not happening. Definitely not happening by 2012, the doomsday year I accepted by age seven.

2. Infamy—not yet but a lingering possibility.

3. You fixing things—the antique headboard, shattered in a drunken rage; the leaky/clogged tub; the rusted toilet chain from hell; the blown out bulbs; the dysfunctional laptop, etc.

4. Your phone call—I should know better by now.

5. Your lunch date—see above comment.

6. Riches—see above above comment.

7. Pain free heels—so sexy they hurt.

8. The booty my momma should’ve given me—lunges, crunches, squats, pelvic thrusts for what?

Well, the list isn’t too long.


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