Mom always said we’d never know when a bus might hit us and paramedics would have to check out our underwear.

She neglected to mention that most medical emergencies don’t need paramedics, much less require them to examine your underwear. It’s your outerwear getting scrutinized during all those crises unattended by fire trucks. (Read the rest of “Thanks a Lot, Mom”)

It’d been a bad day.

“Didi,” I said, holding my head in my hands, “I think I need to go on Prozac.”

“You? On Prozac?” She snorted, wiping a speck of dust from her spotless kitchen island. “Honey, if anybody needs Prozac, it’s me.”

She pointed her thumb at her chest and then used it to scrape something microscopic off the counter.

“Hell,” she added, flicking the mote into the trash, “even my mother tells me I need Prozac.” (Read the rest of “Prozac Summer”)