Recurrance

A recurring theme in my efforts to escape the echo chamber is that when I finally pull myself out of my waiting stance, the ? ? ? bum's rush ? ? ? begins. I am still looking for the term for ^it^. I booked this room in Marshal, Michigan for two nights, planning to use today to investigate the oil spill and tonight to process the day's discoveries. I'll worry about Friday when it gets here. I was stillnae fully settled in the room when I found the text from Hubs which had arrived while I was checking in and my dumb phone was still in its dashboard niche. YS is in the hospital again. Maybe. Awaiting updates.

I have been attempting to keep momentum going toward the oil spill investigation while I await updates, but that hasn't been going so well. YS is 33 with a wife, etc., but those maternal heart strings still tug. Where'd I leave my pumps and pearls? Are my roots showing?

Sigh. . . Half a century of "Non-traditional" work and that shift from oil pipelines to mommy is still painful and confusing beyond socially acceptable words, even when the "Kids" are middle-aged.