I started out the day feeling quite ancient. Like maybe I should go look at retirement homes, reserve my cemetery plot and buy some Depends. Maybe I should begin writing my memoirs, before my memory gets any worse.

At the first sign of Spring, when mowing season begins, the neighbors immediately begin nailing plywood over their windows. Reports of Hubby's intent to mow are announced on the six o'clock news. Sometimes they interrupt the regularly scheduled programing for a lawnmower alert.

I miss my mind. I really do. I miss the old days when I could remember everything I needed to buy at the market without making a list.

Most humor writers are relatively happy people. They are well adjusted and they have learned to take the bad things in life and find a little humor in them.

I never claimed to be sane. I'm a writer. We don't need sanity to write. All we need is a keyboard and an idea. According to Mark Twain, "When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained." With that said, the issue of my mental state stands corrected. This Southern Belle has indeed cracked under the pressure.