I talked to two money women today: one, a rep from the credit union, another from Fidelity. I can't really remember the last time I talked to such types, let alone two in one day.
Their tone was kind gentle sympathetic. The way funeral directors softened their eyes and gently lead you to view the body. I'm so sorry. I'm just so so sorry.
They expressed their concern and empathy for the decisions and losses that needed to be handled.
"Hey, we are all rowing this boat in the same direction," I shrugged into the phone.
So to make myself feel better, I made soup. Not just soup, but bean soup. I even made the friggin stock. I used the carcass of a rotisserie chicken and ends and bits and choppings of every vegetable in the house.
My kids hate my bean soup. I tried to make it all romantic and tell the story about how if it weren't for "seven bean with barley," they wouldn't even be here. But that is another post, I suppose.
My house and the economy is a mess and the laundry. Oh the laundry. I had four loads folded all over the family room. Three more added today. At the bottom of the washing machine were three plump shiny raisins and a dime. My payment for a day's work. And a snack.
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