Oktoberfest is gonna kill me. All (!) I’m doing this year is handling the signs and banners, and still…it’s going to kill me.

Scheduling appointments for Debbie is gonna kill me. I now have a part-time job (yes, because business had become that bad) working for my friend Debbie, and she has a lot of client appointments. And each one of them takes around four hours, eleven emails, three phone calls and half a pint of my blood to schedule.

Generic picture of a heaping dirty clothes hamper from somewhere. It’s certainly NOT a picture from my bathroom!

Trying to keep up with the house is gonna kill me. I’m not a great housekeeper. I’m a very good cook, but not exactly dedicated to keeping the home clean & tidy. (Except for the bed. I do like a neatly made bed.) And when I get busy—like now—things slide. My standards are appropriately low but, still. We kind of need to be able to walk around and stuff. If nothing else, I’m in imminent danger of being crushed by the freakin’ mountain of dirty laundry in the master bathroom.

Turning 58 is gonna kill me. Just, well…because, you know?

And I think I might have a kidney stone. That won’t kill me, but (if past experience is anything to go by) it’ll be a literal nagging pain in my side for a week or so.

Oh! And have I mentioned that I hate it when people complain?