The Half-Life of Hope

Okay, so my hope that this flesh-and-blood man would call me lasted 48 hours.

I think the older one gets, the more relationship roller-coasters one has been on, the shorter the amount of time one is willing or able to hold on to hope that something wonderful is about to happen.

Frank came over this morning to fix my porch light. (It was a bad bulb, which I had just replaced. I am not a dumb blonde!) I took him to breakfast with the babies as a payment. (You've eaten out in restaurants with five- and three-year-olds, right? Not sure that was payment or punishment!)

He may not be emotionally reliable, but I enjoy his company enormously.

Ho hum. Hope hum.