So I’ve had this exchange recently with my mother via email.  It’s not the sort of thing I want to share on this blog, but an offshoot of it is that we ended up discussing the fact that I am a big weepy crybaby.

It’s true.  I am.  Do you hear that?  I’M COMING OUT AS A CRYBABY.

I cry at stuff all the time.  It waxes and wanes with The Hormones a bit, but the underlying baseline is that if it will make someone cry, I will cry at it.  If it won’t necessarily make someone cry but might, I will cry at it.  If it will make only the most inveterate of wussy crybabies cry, I will cry at it.

I’m not saying I cry every single day, but sometimes it’s a crapshoot.

An excerpt from the email exchange:

Mother: You’re my sweet little crybaby!

Me: Delia has inherited this from me.  You know what else makes me cry?  Live music!  WHY!!!

Mother: It’s all my fault. Did I not tell you stories of my tear-filled childhood?

Grandma would send me into the store in Wood Dale, a town of microscopic size where everyone knew everyone, with a list of items to buy and even then, insulated by the list, attended to by someone who knew me, no conversation required, I would STILL cry.

Live music evidently falls into the category!

So there you have it.

And?  It’s the holiday season.  There are HALLMARK COMMERCIALS.  I cannot  watch television for the next 22 days.


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