Okay, I’m going to type for five straight minutes and see what happens. At the end of five minutes, I’ll stop, no matter where I am. Ready….

So I’m a grinder. That’s right. I’ve been grinding my teeth since I was  kid. When I was 10, my dentist told me that I had the teeth of a 35-year-old. My molars were already flattened. Now that I’m actually nearing that mark (gasp, yawn, gasp) I’m wondering where they’re at.

My new dentist prescribed a night guard. So I’ve hired this guy to stand at the foot of the bed and watch over us.


Okay, so it’s actually a $600 piece of plastic that makes me sound like a fifth-grader. Wait – that’s full circle, isn’t it? Anyhoo, I pop this thing in at night and hopefully will have teeth in another 30 years.

Grinding is due to stress, right? Or anxiety? Or control or frustration or something deeply rooted in the psyche? No, I’ve not wikipidied “grinding.” I’m sure a lot of different things would come up. (that’s what she said.)

Last night I met with my weekly crafting group – we call ourselves “quilters” because that’s how we started – and we had a lovely evening. What baffles all of us is that we’ve been meeting once a week (save for a few concurrent vacations) for over a year. Over a year!!! In a city where flaky is de rigeur, we’ve managed to defy the odds and get together on a regular basis. Who knew that all it takes is a little thread and the promise of a finished product? Sidenote: I never finished my quilt. Sidenote 2: My quilt is about a foot and a half square. It