I’m a personal assistant. Also a personal shopper, a house and pet sitter, bill payer, chauffeur, and troubleshooter. What it boils down to is that I’m a wife, without the perks.

At 54, I’m single again and live with my mother – AGAIN! That was Mom (Grace to her friends) pounding on my door before teetering down the hall on her not-so-sensible pumps. We are experts at driving each other crazy; you’d think we were related or something.

Toeing on well-worn, blue plaid mules, I made tracks to the bathroom. Under the fluorescent glow I resembled a raccoon. Shuddering, I climbed into the shower and basked in a stream of the hottest water I could stand for a good ten minutes. Later, I combed my fingers through shoulder-length, reddish waves in a futile effort to bring some order to the mess. Giving up on style, I opted for an impromptu bun and took a few minutes to slather on moisturizer along with a swipe of mascara. Hell, might as well balance the circles under my eyes.