3 Generations of people who AREN’T still here.  Left to right:  Great grandmother, grandmother, uncle Bob,  I have no idea, my mother’s best friend (who married some English guy) and lastly–my mom (who should have been a model).  Taken in 1941 somewhere near Phoenix, Arizona.

It’s 3 o’clock in the frigging morning and the dogs are having a bark-a-thon.  Why?  It’s raining.  A light rain is such a terrible threat to us all, don’t you know.  It’s right up there with dinosaurs, demons and roaches.  Will they go outside to get their dainty doggie feet wet?  Unless it’s mud mixed with the worst smells in history–no. 

The 3am pseudo-philosophical  question on my mind isn’t the age-old, “Why am I here?”–it’s the old age, “Why am I still here?”    There could be  several answers to choose; from the obvious cliche to the ludicrous:

  • The more I complain the longer God lets me live
  • The more you complain the longer God lets me nag (Didn’t I just say that?)
  • Karma:  God isn’t through with me yet.  Being a professional nag is still useful.
  • Another person’s Karma:  God isn’t through with someone else yet (probably my sister) and I’m the implement used to enact his/her suffering.
  • Tiny Leprechauns hitched a ride on the boat from Ireland with my paternal great grandfather and they’re the ones who aren’t through with me yet.
  • The Irish, French, English, Dutch, French Canadian and Neanderthal parts of me haven’t finished fighting with each other yet.
  • I’m too ornery to die.

Whether it’s to be an example to others as to what not to do in life, or the occasional word-diamond thrown someone’s way at just the right time, or an old-fashioned kick in the ass when they need it the most–I’m still here.

It’s not a bad thing, really, just strange.