What with a birthday in November and Christmas the next month, the end of the year is usually characterized by the offspring demanding that I tell them something I want that they can wrap and put on the table/under the tree. At 73, and living in a house full of the accumulated stuff of 40 years, I don’t always find that easy. Usually I pick a couple of art books that I’d enjoy looking at but would feel guilty buying for myself.
But this year, my older daughter outdid herself with this coffee mug. (I’ve redacted most of a certain word on the off chance that anybody here still has sensibilities that can be outraged, but I expect y’all can fill in the blanks.) It’s the perfect present for a nitpicky writer mother. And while I’m enjoying my morning coffee, maybe it’ll remind me to stop fretting over things that I cannot change. Forget stolen elections; let’s fight apostrophe abuse.
Oh, wait. I can’t stop apostrophe abuse either, can I?