Hello Gentle Reader,

I think I'll open a bottle of red and kick back tonight. This week has proven to be so stressful that I doubt even yummy Sven couldn't relax me with a swedish massage. But it may be worth a try......

Why are some weeks easier to handle than others? Are there different limits to our tolerance? How come I can be in my office and handle clients calling about their declining account balances in the state of the stock market, and then freak out when I break a nail getting gas? Why can I tolerate a 4 year old kicking the back of my seat as we sit in traffic, but when my husband tries to snitch a slice of bacon while I'm cooking breakfast he's in danger of losing an arm from my wrath?

Is it a matter of importance? Your position on the "food chain" your rung on the ladder? I know we can't quabble over what we can't control. But I can control my emotions and speak in a calming manner when Mrs.-I-retired-in-1993-and-expect-my-retirement-account-to-carry-me-through-the-golden-years hits an all time market low. And I can say to Madeline, hey darling girl, can you stop kicking your feet, you're hitting aunt Sindy's seat with your feet and bumping my back, without sounding like the mistress of an orphanage in 1924.

But when my husband forgets a phone message or a co-worker twists my words you might think you were watching a remake of "Carrie".

Is it because I love my job and I LOVE LOVE LOVE children that I am more tolerant of them? But I love my husband, so why can he set my teeth on edge? Hmmmm. I think an educational grant may be in order. I'll apply for a few hundred thousand and then grab my best few girlfriends, a few bottles of pinot and a summer cottage by the beach and get right to work!

Maybe I should start an advice column? I love giving advice. And of course it would be free so anyone could write in. I wonder how one does that. I'll have to ask Fe.

Well, this wine isn't going to uncork itself, so I'll take a breather, let the wine breathe, and be back atcha.
xoxoxoxox Aunt Sindy

So I have this aunt. This Amazing Aunt. And she is 91 and starting to be a bit confused with things. Who am I kidding..... she started being confused what seems like forever ago, it's just hit home now that the "Assisted Living" capsule has been engaged. Boy that sucks. Why can't she live with me? Why am I not independently wealthy so I can stay with her? We talk all the time, we read the same books (ok, she can re-read hers more often but so what). She stays with me for weeks at a time for visits now that her son whisked her off to Fl to be near him. She was always closer to us anyway. He can keep the damn inheritance, just give me my aunt. I don't need her $. I need her. She taught me to ride my bike. I can walk with her to the mailbox. She taught to fish - and bait my own hook. I can show her the remote for the tv, even 1000 times a day. I know she won't understand it then or the next time. She won't need to, I'll put on the news, or Vanna White or Oprah. We'll have our happy hour. She doesn't know that her glass of wine is cut with so much water that you couldn't evn calculate the alcohol content. We sit and laugh and read and sweep the front walk and could have a very happy co-existence thank you very much. So why is she still in FL and not here with me I ask ya?