“I can’t process this,” I tell the social worker who is sitting at my kitchen table. “I am unable to write a single word.”

I need to grocery shop, I continue. Also, the Cubs won the World Series. Rob is in Arkansas. And for some reason, I can’t get Shakira’s name out of my head; it is like an unwanted mantra, a roadblock to every cohesive thought. I blame Scarlett, and Zootopia, which she watched on both plane rides last weekend.

The social worker has short white hair. It is kind of curly and kind of spiky, and I think she looks cool in her cat glasses. She waves her hand in my direction. “So you’ll do it next week,” she says, without concern.

But when I woke up this morning, the sky was so blue and the ocean out my back door so calm, that I felt sure today was the day. Yes, I’m still exhausted from our trip to Boston, which was followed by a Diwali celebration, and Halloween. But all I have to do is bring words together into sentences, and surely I can make that happen without…Shakira. Shit. Read More>