Hey you! Yeah, you. The one nervously walking by me while I guard the sidewalk with my long-necked attitude. You think if you veer around me at an undignified trot, I’m not going to honk like a 1970s New York City cabdriver? Think again, my non-feathered friend.

It was bad enough when my watch would vibrate and tell me to stand. I long for the days of that simplicity. One tap would allow me to ignore it and resume watching a reality show about people who fold towels on a yacht, consume copious amounts of alcohol, and sleep with one another.

Much of my parental direction during the decade of my preteen and teen years was focused on saving as much money as possible on life’s daily routines. My parents’ cost-saving and oft-puzzling directives sometimes gave rise to adolescent angst, but, in retrospect, were generally harmless.

Today, several decades later (six decades later for the benefit of full disclosure), these directives still resonate. Some elicit smiles, some trigger nostalgic memories, some prompt wonderment. In fairness to all parties, they were meant to be in the best interest of the entire family long-term, and not intended as punishment (at least that’s what I want to believe!).

Dear Megan,

Hi. It’s me, Sharon. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been invited to my estate, but that’s what bitches like you who insult my swamp villa deserve. Anyway. I’m not writing this out of the goodness of my heart. Oh, no. My husband (Devon) wanted to invite you to some big get-together he’s hosting, and seeing as he’s illiterate, he asked me (begged me) to write it for him.

A year after my son died I found myself in a property dispute about a bench I paid for.

Specifically, about eighteen inches of that bench was currently sitting on my son.

This is not where I expected grief to take me.