Ready or not, my Grandmother is back, and it’s really for real now.

Her house is sold; there’s no going back.

It’s strange. The things that I expected to be difficult have been relatively painless, while the things I never considered have been the most frustrating. (Speaker phone conversations between individuals who are hard of hearing but don’t have hearing aids? Although I usually see the humor–or at least the potential for humor–you can only hear someone repeat a phone number so many times before you just have to leave the room.)

Life is a funny thing–how it’s the little stuff that get you. If we were just able to live–live without having to worry about the details–would things be easier? Or would we just invent new things to worry about and plague our days and still keep us from enjoying the little moments?

I think the answer to that question is that I shouldn’t even consider writing when I’m over tired and it’s past my bedtime. (Yes. I’m a morning person. Wanna make something of it?)