Oh hai. It's me, 3 months late.

I thought I could write about the past 3 months in Arizona.

I thought I would talk about being home with my nutty but wonderful family with the mommy blog vibe that aging lonely working women find so addicting.

I thought I could write about the struggles I never expected to have.

I thought you'd all want to know how it felt to watch my 17-year-old sister get hit on by a man older than myself at the New Years Eve party.

I thought I could jest about walking into receptions nakedly alone, and sitting out on slow dances. How it's not so bad when you think, "Hey, it's 90% my family here anyway. That'd be gross." Plus grandma doesn't want to sit alone, so.

I thought I could write about Valentines Day. About how I essentially flirted with a really, really hott 17-year-old young man since my sister couldn't handle it on her own. How I, via my sister, pretty much kinda almost got a corny red bear and a balloon, since I was the one who did all the heavy lifting in that pseudo-not-really relationship, anyway.

I thought I could write about the ups and downs of trying to be a strict vegan. How difficult it still is to turn down McDonalds, even though I never really liked it to begin with and the food tastes double awful to me now.

And my triumphs too.  I thought I could write about my triumphs.

I thought you might want to read about teaching my grandpa about vegetables and watching that old dog learn new tricks. Becoming his friend. Falling in love with truth over and over again.

I thought you might want to read about the satisfaction of becoming more aware of what type of friend I am, want to be, and will continue to be in the future. Biting my tongue and quelling my anger when anger is the only reaction that makes sense.

Getting angry at the right things. Some things deserve more anger than others.

I thought I could write about the rewards of being the family chauffeur (a job I despise), and how much I love being  someone my siblings talk to. How on Valentines Day I had the most mature conversation with my 12-year-old sister to date. A conversation I'd accept an award for were there an award to give.

I thought I could write about my most hilarious pseudo-secret to date. And one day I will.

I'm learning, though, that some times in our lives merit a measure of privacy until the chapter closes.