Charcoal Flakes Adrift

Time:

7:04 am.

I pulled "Belinda" from the shelf earlier, having finished another book, and needing something to fill in the time until the postman delivers several more. I'd thought of it the other day, so it felt like the right time. Visiting the mind of Jeremy Walker is more than just good fiction. It's validation. Anne Rice first published this one as Anne Rampling, and wrote it from the first person perspective, a first person who happened be male. She dedicated it to herself, and I wonder which self. The pseudonymistic Anne, or the one who wrote the ones she's more famous for. Or maybe neither.

I once bought a new copy, inscribed it, and gave it to Michael. Probably a waste, especially since I doubt he read it. It would have been happier and more appropriate in John's hands. Too bad I can't get it back. He would understand it, love it, and want more. That last part strikes me as aphoristic, when it comes to the dubious Mr. Chantos. He who owes me a substantial email.

So I got about six pages into the story and I stopped. I question whether reading this is healthy, considering how it will certainly feed my appetite, and I've nothing to munch on, so to speak. Dangerous. Or tricky, as Ms. Jones would say. Very tricky. The very fact that I've read it countless times, but not for a long time, and that I found myself reaching for it again, is telling.

Mostly, besides wishing for my own Jeremy Walker and a personal time/regression machine, I wish I could talk to Anne about it. I'm only a Google away from finding some information, no doubt she's quoted somewhere in reference to this book, and there must be fan sites. I've seen a television interview where she spoke about the "Beauty" trilogy, saying these were her fantasies, and I have assumed "Belinda" is, too. She and I share that inate understanding and appreciation of male homosexuality, too, so it all fits. How she could write from a male's perspective. The leap to that kind of situation, older male with young female, is short, at least in my mind, and apparently, hers.

I still find myself unhappy with the way Michael and I ended. At the time I was too selfish to consider what I was doing. I still ponder the question of what motivated him, ultimately, to completely shut me out. I had once been his princess, he'd adored me, and then he became so cold. I said for years that it was because I went home and broke his heart, but the fact that he shut me out completely, within six months, puzzles me to this day. I feel like Lars, wanting closure, forever wishing I had that hour, that explanation, that understanding. And a little hurt because I'd been a spoiled, contented kitten who was dumped out in the cold.

Now on to the thought I've had in my head the past few days. About love. Wanting it, craving it, seeking it. What it will do to a person who needs it, so badly. How life is just one long chain of people wanting people they can't have, and those people wanting someone else, and ad infinitum. I think it's hardwired. Michael wanted me, I wanted Lars, and Lars wanted Amanda. Who did Amanda want? Surely some guy who doesn't love her as much as she loves him. John gives me little attention these days, so I want it all the more. He's chasing someone else, no doubt, but is too smart to admit it. I can forgive him easily because of the distance, and he's nothing if not a "bird in the hand" kind of guy.

So I'm still wondering if I should go back in there and pick the book up again. Wondering if I could save myself some grief, but countering that argument with the "but what is life for if not to feel?". The poem quoted in the front of the story, written by Anne's husband, Stan Rice, is a plea, too. Against dread, for convincing one to do something. I never understood it until now. Give in, give in. When I die I will cease to exist completely, so what does it matter what I do in this life? Ah, but doesn't that cut both ways?

Enter my chinese fingercuffs life. I'm Chasing Amy, Lars is Chasing Amy. John is Chasing Amy too.

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Time:

7:51 am.

Melissa Robinson has become one of my favorite artists. She does a lot of whimsical work, and her web site is called Flying Girl. You have to visit to see why. There is a 2"x2" wooden block that I want, a blue sky landscape that covers five sides and to me it would be a totem against bad days. I mention her because last night a thought revisited me that reminds me of her depictions of floating women and the gleefully sprinting yellow elephant in "Winning". I see me, roller skating down the smooth-paved streets of my neighborhood under the streetlights at 3am, flying and free and with few if any witnesses. The idea came to me when I thought of what exercise I would most enjoy on a regular basis, and the impossibility of going to the skating rink. I can't run but I am one mean roller skater.

I was sick last night, the first time in a long time. I still feel bad this morning. Larry upset me, but in a way that I'm unable to express or prevent. We didn't argue. I'm still recovering from the Dr. Heinous Bitch, MD mess, and had hoped for a serene week, this week, to smooth my frazzled nerves and set my world right. I've been having trouble eating, no appetite and a general mistrust of food in general, since food makes me sick. Not sick sick, but my blood sugar levels are so easily knocked up and the fears of complications, while not phobic, are a healthy reason for staying healthy. It's just so hard and taxing and I keep wanting to just give in.

Anyway, feel achy and I can't think straight, I'm restless and can find no pleasure in anything. Something is wrong with the ducts in my right breast, and I have to go to the opthalmologist and the endo within the next 90 days because of referrals I didn't want, written up by guess who? Yep, Dr. Heinous Bitch, MD. She put me on Lipitor for cholesterol yesterday, but screw that. The last stuff I took was recalled and class-actioned. I'm doing the 1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon twice a day as an experiment, and we'll see if it works next month. I think a few months alone in a cottage in some remote location would be the best medicine. With a place to skate.

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Time:	9:52 pm.
Mood:	irritated.

This is a very bad, terrible, no good day.

I am PMS'ing. Didn't get PMS till I got older. It pisses me off, but then when you're PMS'ing it doesn't take much. I am having psychopathic thoughts involving knives and lots of blood. Only it would mean getting out of the house. Oh well, never mind.

See, I went to the doctor today. Not my usual, beloved, compassionate doctor, but one of his associates, because he was off today and I put off making an appointment until the day my Rx ran out. His substitute, Ms. Heinous Bitch, MD, managed to totally fuck my life up in less than half an hour.

I am Type 2 Diabetic, hand-in-hand with having PCOS and an underactive thyroid. Basically it means my endocrine system is being very uncooperative. Slugs could kick my ass. The nicest thing I can say is that all of this is unpleasant.

So I've been on Metformin, 2000mg a day (a LOT, it usually makes you sick at one-fourth the dose, but luckily not me after the first week) for blood sugar control and still have far above normal blood glucose levels. This means that it's time to change my medication. Stronger, yes, stronger. The Met is having no effect at all on regulating my blood sugar levels, in a nutshell.

So I quit eating. Almost. No breakfast, an Atkins shake for lunch, and meat and green beans for dinner. Less than 20 grams of carbs a day. I finally reached the 120-130 range, which is good, but I'm starving. I expected a medication change today, in light of the situation.

The stupid bitch halved my Metformin dose.

IMO gross negligence, but then she wouldn't even up my xanax script to standard therapeutic levels, or write one for testing supplies for the diabetes (expensive). Hence Dr. Heinous Bitch, MD.

I can't wait till my test results come in next week, and someone grabs my chart in alarm and finds her mistake. Then I'll go see my usual guy and get all this fixed, hopefully including disciplinary action against Ms HB.

Irate? Me? Oh yes :)

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Time:

10:49 pm.

I've been playing the A&E; presentation of "Pride and Prejudice" DVD's for the past week, almost solidly. Nothing else pleases me, except for the ten minutes I spend each morning watching MSNBC while drinking my coffee. Lars hasn't complained, thankfully. It's been helpful in immersing myself in a fantasy world of my own imagining.

Today is his bday. He's out with Sean, dinner and a movie, without me, because I just couldn't go. Last year we made a big deal out of it. The guilt from staying home is implied, but since we never make any sort of celebration for my own bdays, I refuse to give in to it. I hate holidays. The obligation of them, I suppose. Plus I'm waiting for next year, when he'll enter the same decade as me.

He's on vacation this week. He earned it. My fantasy world had us in first class on a non-stop flight to Las Vegas, where we'd play and spend money and live like royalty at the Venetian until Saturday. He would've loved it. If it's truly the thought that counts, I've given him the world. As good as he's given me, actually. Only his is real.

I've come up with a few inventions this past month, and I wish I knew how to both patent them and get them into production. This is where I frown, because it smells like money, the kind I don't have. My favorite two are practical and very useful and efficient. One cures sinus headaches, even the ones that over-the-counter sinus headache medicine won't cure. How much is that worth?

I'm gonna go now. I have spent the past hour browsing self-representing artists' work on eBay, and I need to look at something besides this monitor.

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Subject:	Growing Things
Time:	4:57 am.

The 40w bulb in my back porch light went out, so I replaced it with one of the 60w bulbs I use inside. Now, to my delight, I see frogs out there on the patio and back step every night. I'm delighted because they're cute at night, when their eyes open huge, shiny and black, and because they eat bugs. Spiders, mosquitos, moths, those scary buzzing beetle things, anything they can shove into their mouths. Soon they'll be singing, as mating time begins, and the sound is lovely. I'm still not sure if they're frogs or toads, but I'm leaning towards toads. There is no pool of water close by, this is a new development and this is the first spring I've seen more than one.

We're not mowing or using the weed-whacker against the back of the house, leaving a foot-deep tangle of weeds and grass, because that's where they live. No worries of spiders with the frog/toads there. I'm going to clear by hand around my surviving (much to my surprise & delight) peony bush, but that's it.

Since I'm on the topic of my back yard...My willow is growing visibly. The frequent and heavy rains of the last month have resulted in foot-long shoots of pale green growth from the tips of the branches. It's a foot taller already, too. Sometimes I go sit with the dog out there during the day, watching the limbs blow in the breeze, and imagine what it will be like in a few more years. I'll finally have my little girl's willow playhouse, but alas, no little girl to spread a blanket beneath it and play.

Another reminder, of a dream I had yesterday. The whole day was weird, because I slept from before noon to 8pm, after having slept a whole night, but the dreams were wonderful. Best of all was Sammi talking. I watched as she bumped into a girl ahead of her in a line, and apologized. I was amazed to hear her speak, and began a conversation with her, in which my wildest dream came true: she called me Mom and told me that she loved me. What a precious gift from my subconscious.

I owe people emails. K in particular. I have one for you in my Drafts folder. My social retardation makes it hard to express the way I feel in regard to your current situation. I want to lift you up and remind you of your successes. I see you measuring up all of the wonderful things that matter and counting them nothing next to the one thing you don't have. I was trying to explain what an illusion it all is, anyway, that and other things. At least in my case. Look with that 24-karat mind, not with your eyes. This journal is about loss and exchanges. I don't have anything you should want, and the words, they're only worth something if I share them, printed and bound.

Which brings me to my final thought. That my life inside my head is fertile and happy and busy, and the blank, lifeless external view hides the light of a thousand glowing ideas and dreams. I'm saying that I'm happy in complete earnest, and leaving the world to go about its own business, neither judging nor faulting my choice to be passive. I have everything I want, inside my head, and that's where I'm seeking happiness now. There's plenty to be had.

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Time:

4:06 pm.

Cloudy rainy Sunday. And a wicked frown.

Larry brought home a plastic bag full of dinner from Sean's last night. It had dessert in it. Evil. So around 2am and under the influence of xanax, which completely strips me of willpower and gives me evil munchies, I ate a small brownie and a piece of apple pie. I could smack him. That's only half the story. He also decimated 3/4 of a low-carb chicken casserole while I was asleep. It's gone and I only had one serving of it.

Good things from this past week: my peony came back up. The bermuda is gorgeous in the front yard and one of my trees is twelve feet high now. I lost five pounds. I got the lastest installment of "The Princess Diaries" on audio (only slight embarassment admitting that). Erm, dunno what else. Oh wait, I won $7 in Powerball last night. Ooh, let's go get that new car!

Speaking of, Larry and I sat in his room late last night and played "if we won the lottery". I keep saying that we would never be one of those couples who said that winning ruined our lives. We know exactly what we'd do and would slip easily into millionaire life.

I've got this old song in my head. I think it's early Earth Wind & Fire. Anyway the visuals I keep getting from it are Skateland and David H. He was one of my early bf's and we dated on and off all through junior high and high school. It started at the skating rink and those round carpeted tables in the back corner, and a few years later it was his van at the drive-in. We were never in love, we just had fun together and it was uncomplicated. A couple of years ago one of his REHS friends emailed me from classmates.com and said that he said hi. It ended there, thankfully. It's just fun remembering all the excitement of life when everything was new.

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Time:

8:34 pm.

I had a thought, a thought about filling the tub up with bubbles and yanking Larry's clothes off and dragging him into the tub with me. It was a good thought, it came from thinking about what I need to do to step up my game. I need to step it up for all the right reasons and because I've been sitting in the stands too much, so to speak.

I went to the place where any thought like this takes me: I'm not me anymore.

Not pretty,
not young,
not sexy,
and I don't know if I ever was.

Me naked in the tub, the lights on, my mind on my hair, my makeup, my expression, and how appealing do I look? Worrying that the steam and the heat will melt my beauty right off of my face, because all my beauty is contained in the pots and jars and tubes of my makeup case. I don't look like me until I apply that glossy veneer, so fragile, so fleeting, so fake.

I'm not me until I'm pinned beneath a man while he stuffs himself inside me. Really hard.

If you want me, you love me. If you love me, then I'm me.

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Time:	6:25 am.
Mood:	sleepy.

Check out Margaret Cho's Blog. Girl I am kissing your butt.

I haven't been to sleep yet. I am sipping coffee. John would say that Folger's instant with splenda and half a cup of International Flavors Low Carb French Vanilla creamer is NOT coffee, but it sure tastes like it to me. And sweet and vanilla-y.

I dunno why I'm manic. Oh yes I do. But I'm not telling you. I'll give you a hint: It's a holiday weekend.

I wrote an entry in my Outlook journal about wanting to buy stuff. And I really do want to buy stuff. No matter how many boxes of cool stuff I get, it's never enough. New stuff comes out every day that I don't have.

I am actually working my way through Sam's baby pictures, doing scrapbook page layouts that look pretty damned good. So I can justify the need for more supplies. Rebecca Bloomwood makes me ask: Why won't Lars buy me more lottery tickets with the winnings from the little scratch-off ticket? Just go in and tell them 10 quick-picks. Give them ten dollars. Come home. I am happy. If he could arrange to get the winning numbers that would help, too.

I have been thinking about Rhonda lately. She had this niche in my brain and it's empty now (it was actually more like a pedestal, but it's gone to sand now). Over 20 years knowing someone besides my family. Wow, 25 years. Wow. I always thought I'd watch Katie grow up, and we'd get close as she got older, and I'd be Aunt B and buy her stuff and be her fairy godmother. Since the abrupt end of our friendship was akin to a death, I guess I'm in whatever phase of grief. Acceptance? That's the last one, so who knows where I am. Go ask George.

I went back and read our emails and I still don't understand how or why she got so nasty. Okay, I think I know. It was like when I finally unloaded on Lisa about C. She'd been holding it in and finally let loose. It sucks being on this end of it. I hope she got some therapeutic benefit out of all that nasty language. The biggest thought I get from it is why did she stay in touch/as friends with me if she felt like that? All hating. Disapproving. Then there's also that attitude about what had I done for her or not done for her, when the whole fight was over the fact that she always expected me to drive to her house, and she couldn't find her way past the mall. I was the one who was insulted. Hello?

John said he read this whole journal. I wonder if that includes the old stuff. This thing has been up for like three years. I think I made all the old entries private or friends-only, anyway. I warned him about it not having any redeeming qualities. It's my journal, it's about me, and often makes no sense. I defend that. Lars used to read it. He might still.

I want you to know that this is not a window to my brain. Remember that it's distorted and obscured and selective. Like one of those pictures where it looks like one thing, and then you squint and see that it's also a picture of something else. It's both, and it's nothing at all. Sometimes when I type you are looking in the window like a peeping tom and I see you out of the corner of my eye, but sometimes the blinds are shut and I'm just typing it out in private. You can't tell the difference.

I discovered "Dead Like Me" on Showtime last night. Luckily it was the first episode being re-run before the second season begins this summer. Seeing it so close on the heels of reading "The Lovely Bones" is a little eerie. Like the book opened up that thought, and the series seems so normal because I've been in deadville for a while. I told Lars about it and he got excited, saying he only saw some of the episodes and missed this first one. He'd already seen it and shared my excitement. I summed it up: It is so hard to find anything I like on tv, so when something I really like comes on, I really get excited. So, um. Cool.

He bought the last Matrix movie Thursday night, and I've tried to watch it twice, but got interrupted. I forgot most of it so my dumb moocow brain is acting like it's the first time. I look over at my moocow self and ask "why are you acting like you've never seen this?" and my moocow brain scowls at me for a split second before glancing back at the television. Those stupid cows.

The coffee is almost gone and it's now four minutes till seven in the morning. I am getting very sleepy. lovely. Acid reflux and sleep or lunacy and consciousness. What a choice. Where's my door number three, Monte? Or did he spell it Monty? Mr. Hall.

I don't want to light another cig so I have to go to bed. There are people that I remember, some that I miss. I don't hold anything against you. Seriously.

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Time:

12:31 am.

I could pretend that my life is so busy that I just don't have ten minutes to post an entry. Well, to my standards I've been busy, but it's a slug's life compared to the pace of the big wide world. I have been keeping a journal in Outlook, and that's the biggest reason I haven't posted much.

For a couple of weeks I was sleeping all the time. I still don't know what that was about. I snapped out of it today. It wasn't a mental urge, but a physical one and there was no fighting it. I kept having dreams about building houses. Wishful HGTV Dream Home Sweepstakes thinking. I also dreamed about M, wanting to talk to him, so badly I cried, but that was a manifestation of a need to glam and have sex with my husband. That's the interpretation that I can live with.

I experimented with paint today, working out how I'm going to paint my room. I used acrylics on a sheet of varnished white cardstock. It's very embarassing, but I want pink. A room that sings girl, creativity, whimsy, made-by-hand, gardens and happiness. What I came up with are random vertical stripes of deep candy pink and white, overlapping in wide strokes, and then after that dries, tiny vertical stripes of leaves in medium sage green with pale yellow flower buds. I hung it over my scrapbooking table and every time I see it I feel good. I want a trompe l'oeil window looking out on a garden, too. I could try to paint it but you can buy them from wallpaper stores ready-made.

I finally played with the landscaping software that Lars bought for me last year. I wish it was as easy and point and click. I wish everything was as easy as point and click. Like the song says, "I want money". And for everything to be open 24/7 with delivery service.

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Time:

7:06 pm.

Friday night in our house: Chili simmering on the stove, a loud and constant flow of excited Japanese from Lars' room (he's addicted to anime right now), a female British voice coming from my computer speakers (Sophie Kinsella on audible.com) and the dog barking whenever he hears a bell or a knock from Lars' room, which is often. As for Lars himself, he's asleep on the loveseat in there. He hasn't been sleeping this week because he's been watching anime non-stop. He conked out soon after he got home, while I was preparing the chili and watering my violets.

This is a 3-paycheck month so there's a surplus and I'm so sorely tempted to have a spree. I fell in love with the K & Company Chelsea line of scrapbooking stuff and I could have the whole collection for around fifty bucks. Oh yeaaaaah, another box full of unused supplies. Just what I need. I'm seriously trying to convince myself that I have enough art stuff (three full-height shelf units and half a dozen boxes plus one huge rubbermaid tote and two file boxes of cardstock). But daddy, baby wants.

I heard from Wench today and I wasn't surprised. She must've been feeling the vibes too. She's one person who never needs an explanation. We're both having a low-social week. For us that's pretty much hermit-in-cave. I'm embarassed to say why I'm feeling so weird. It's just so Freudian. Ugh.

Okay, so it's my mom. Flashbacks to abuse and the ugly, dawning realization that she's a selfish, shallow bitch and just doesn't have compassion or real love in her operating system. She comes from a long line of hard-hearted women who abandon their children. That part isn't her fault, and I know she got the shaft from her mom. Hopefully she'll meet a guy soon and go about her usual routine of ignoring me again.

I really don't want to deal with a re-hash of this since I believed that I was issue-free with her. I want to switch tracks and move on. I'm living so passively that there hasn't been an event to force that change, so I guess I'm going to have to make one. Do something positive and happy, something really good. My first choice is dinner at Texas de Brazil with D and his new wife, and getting tipsy on Asti. Hmmmm, I wonder.

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Subject:	To Wench
Time:	10:56 pm.

I'm not afraid of being bad, I just don't want to bare that darkest place in my mind to anyone except my lover, or someone who has been there with me. You are secretive too, so I suspect I don't have to explain that too deeply. Realizing I am hetero came in part because I knew I couldn't go there with a woman. And my dark side is like binge eating, you hide it and do it alone, and the very fact that it's private is inherent. Okay, bad example. Anyway...

Back when we first met, I loved to show the veneer, project an aura, and I got off on exhibiting to anyone who'd look, but I wasn't going to let the viewer inside. Now that I can't even look the part, it feels like another life.

My marriage presented some problems, more a collision between who I was before and who I was becoming. I am still not sure if I'm like this because of Larry or the assault or because it was just the next phase in my evolving life, but my sex life is virtually all mental. I often blame Lars for the stagnation of my physical sex life, and not resentfully really, but after a certain point the paxil came in to play, too. At least in response. He would allow the open arrangement up to a certain point because we have some different needs, but once my feelings got involved he'd tug hard on that leash and yank me back home. As if anyone could compete with my feelings for him. So I learned to sit at home and remain detached from the sexual person inside of me.

But you know, I can talk to John in KC and I'm still that person, and interested in the same things, and he is emphatic that he still sees me that way, despite the physical changes. The difference now is that I don't need "it" (meaning a multitude of things) in the flesh now. Mental is and always was the best, and like I always say, "Fantasy kicks Reality's butt every time".

I will tell you the big secret, though.

I would rather cut my arm off than lose what I've got with Lars. If it means never having sex again, it's worth it.

Sex was rain, sex was my heart pumping hard and singing through my skull, flying out of the galaxy and back again, total release and satisfaction. Penetration was when I felt the most alive, and sometimes I ache to feel it again. More than sometimes. But it's worth it.

You can't offer wine to an alcoholic.

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Subject:	PCOS - Diabetes - Old doctors suck
Time:	12:30 pm.

I was going to post this on the low carb pcos list but it's just a whine, so here it is.

I had a hemoglobin test to measure my average blood sugar when I went to the doctor last week, and today I get a call saying I am urgently requested to both come back in and to lose weight. I had to see another, older, physician because my usual guy wasn't going to be in that day, the only day Larry had off when the office was open. I doubt seriously if this old guy has even heard about PCOS, and I don't want to see him again.

I was feeling about a 6 or 7 on the anxiety scale by the time we were led into an exam room. We had to wait nearly two hours to be seen, and I conspired with Larry, who had the same appointment time with the same doctor, to say as little or ask as few questions as possible so that we could get out of there quickly. I was stressing because I didn't want to be there in the first place, on top of the pseudo "force"; making me stay until I had the necessary prescriptions in my hot little hands. It worked and we got out of there with six month's worth of drugs. We hoped into the car with big smiles on our faces and a weight lifted from my shoulders.

Today the nurse on the telephone delivered the shock and awe of my test results. She was emphatic about the need for me to come back in. She said the doctor was going to discuss treatment of my diabetes as well as a plan for me to lose weight. The flashing red sign in the front of my brain was saying "WARNING!! LECTURE!! Blow to self-esteem is imminent!!". Like I'm clueless about how much I weigh or how I got this way and they're going to enlighten my dummy mind.

How can I teach an old doctor about PCOS? About indefinite but highly probable links between genetics and the endocrine system and body type? Like he's going to listen to me. My regular doc knows about all of this stuff, and has never made a single sound of blame. He positions himself on my side, against this disorder, and we're a team working to resolve all my health issues. He's what I would consider an ideal physician. Jeni hates him but he and I hit it off from our very first meeting. Now if I go see this old guy I'll walk in already frustrated and stressed. No way. So I called back and switched my appointment to Monday so I can see my regular guy. Whew!

* * *

I am making a resolution to completely stop consumption of any artificial sweetener with filler ingredients that can affect blood sugar. This includes just about everything in packets. Splenda has so far refused to introduce any form of their sweetener without these filler ingredients to the consumer, so my choice will have to be Splenda-sweetened flavored syrups. Considering that the only thing I need a sweetener for is tea and coffee, this should work out okay. It will knock off anywhere from ten to thirty carbs a day, easily. See, I DO have a plan, you old fart.

There are only two more things I have to do: walk every day and stay away from white food and corn. The white food includes sugar and wheat products, as well as potatoes, rice, pasta, and things that were white before they were cooked, but whole-fat dairy is fair game. Doing this will drop my weight and blood sugar in one fell swoop, and decrease the symptoms of Diabetes, PCOS and systemic yeast. I know this intellectually as well as personally.

For some of us, sugar truly is poison.

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Time:

3:11 pm.

Today is wet, cold, and gloomy, so it's taking some effort to assume a cheerful holiday atmosphere. More so because we're broke, which I didn't learn until I was trying to pay for a cart of groceries yesterday. It wasn't embarassment but anger that rose up in me when the card was declined. There was no use in getting upset. Several must-pay bills went through and the extra purchases we've made ate up his paycheck. Luckily we've got most of our gifts paid for, and enough wrapping supplies to get them ready for giving. We have enough left to get a pared-down grocery list filled, and for the doctor co-pay on Friday.

I have a very long list of reasons to smile and celebrate. The bills got paid, after all, and we're warm and dry in this wonderful house. Sammi will be here tomorrow afternoon, and I've got a new warm coat for her, along with clothes and a couple of toys. We'll have a quiet evening together, and I've got Mythmas Eve dinner planned for the three of us. I have holiday candles ready to light and fill the house with yummy smells. The lights decorating the house say "Merry Christmas" to everyone who passes by, and the enormous red bows on the coach lights on either side of the garage lend something grand to this little house.

I have cinnamon & orange rolls for Mythmas morning, and there are presents for all of us to open. We'll spend the afternoon at Lars' parents in a house full of children I adore, bearing gifts for them, and eating Mythmas dinner too. We're spending the evening at Mom's, just us family, with another holiday meal and Larry will probably hook up the Web TV system we got for her.

I have a small list of things to get done: finish wrapping the gifts, clean the kitchen, vacuum, laundry, color my hair, make the sausage balls, but it will be better because Lars is home until next week.

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Time:

2:08 pm.

Bubble of anxiety floating from my stomach up my chest to my throat. Just a little tightness, making it harder to breathe, having to push past it to think clearly. I keep cycling from batting it out of the way, around to poking at it to determine its origin.

Upon close inspection it is a knot of several worries. Getting gifts purchased and wrapped, the strategy for maneuvering Sammi around for two days, visiting his parents, the checking account balance, laundry, open enrollment for health insurance and finding a new doctor, settling the Flex account and getting new glasses before New Year's. Oh, and I have to keep smiling till then so that my stress isn't contagious.

Is it any wonder that I hate this month?

My mind tries to shut down via sleep, but I get so cranky when I spend too much time unconscious. I count the days left in this month and see light in the tunnel pouring in come January 2. The 1st is a holiday so it's no help at all. Perhaps instead of celebrating a new year I can celebrate the lack of holidays in the rest of the winter.

* * *

I opened my Dremel, which hadn't been wrapped yet, and used it this weekend. I was making a little framed art piece for Liz's Mythmas present, with her initial in deep pink and edged with gilt over a background of pink and white diamonds edged in tiny roses and more gilt, and I couldn't get the hanger screwed into the back of the gold frame. It's a tiny frame, 3x3, so it was a delicate operation, but the engraver bit was perfect for boring a pilot hole, and the end result is wonderful. I added a bit of gold ribbon to disguise the hanger and I wish I could sell these locally or on eBay. I'd buy one with my initial for twelve bucks, it'd look good in a wall grouping, or on a book shelf or cubicle wall.

I'm off to do the endlessly demanding chore of laundry. I think I've mentioned laundry more often than any other subject here on LJ. Boring? Maybe, but it's nice when it's the most pressing thing in my day. Could be worse, and all that, and it will be before the month is over, but today it's just laundry.

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Time:

11:35 am.

Restless.

I've been in the kitchen, cleaning, arranging my African violets for optimum sunlight exposure, and I just cleaned the big oval window in my front door. I had missed the sunlight, and I didn't even know it.

November is my perfect month, and I loved the cool days when the sky was one enormous gray blanket, but there should be balance in all things. December has been a kaleidoscope of variations in the cycle from unseasonably warm to unseasonable cold and windy and raining, with too many of the latter. I felt the attraction to the big bay window in the kitchen this morning and did chores in there as an excuse to stay in the sunshine.

Right now I feel healing. A sense of it, proof of it, optimism, contentment, resolution.

* * *

I want a section of the roof to be mounted on rails and controlled by a motor, so it rolls back and reveals an enormous sheet of clear glass that allows the sun to shine in. Or the stars to twinkle through. I'd lay on the carpet face-up and just watch and feel the seasons full blast.

* * *

I'm finally reading "Pillars of the Earth" by Ken Follett. Everyone who has recommended it can finally feel the flush of accomplishment for leading me to this literary water hole. I'm drinking it in and it's most delicious and satisfying. Lucky me, he's written lots of books and they're all available used. A new author to collect, and just in the nick of time.

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Time:

8:18 am.

Mythmas is rolling towards us faster than a speeding bullet, and the spirit of the season; peace on earth and goodwill towards man, has been shot multiple times and lies under bloody sheets on a gurney in ICU.

Larry and I butted heads on shopping, and it's still an unresolved issue. He was supposed to go buy the tree last night but when I woke up this morning there was still no tree. I thought he was going to WalMart in the middle of the night to avoid crowds. For all I know he went and couldn't find anything, or it's still in the trunk or something.

He was mad because I was picking out all of my presents, but he'd already done that for himself, so why was I wrong? I ended up putting tons of items on my Amazon wish list so he could have the shopping experience. I was adamant about two things, the ring and the Margaret Cho dvd's. He had half a dozen rings to choose from, so that will be a surprise, too.

He has an annoying habit of buying baseball glove presents. You know, "Merry Mythmas Mom, I got you this baseball glove". Only his are tech items or computer parts or whatever, that I usually don't need.

He was furious that I picked the Dremel model that I preferred when we were in Home Depot. I wanted to get the biggest bang for the buck and I got it. I'll go buy additional accessories and bits as needed. I guess since the thing is considered a guy tool he believed I was stepping over into his territory, but I've been wanting a Dremel for ages and I have my first project lined up.

I've bought the majority of the things on my gift list and they're either on the way or sitting in bags waiting to be wrapped. On one hand it's a huge outlay on non-essentials when we need other things (tires, for instance), but I *am* looking forward to a traditional Mythmas with family and food and gifts. Just the fact that I've been out shopping three times this past week is a Christmas Miracle. My biggest wish would be complete recovery.

I'm contemplating a nap. Lars is still asleep and the dog woke me up just before 7am. It's Sunday, a day for rest. ZZZZzzzzzzzz

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Time:

7:56 pm.

I almost hate to compose a happy entry. Partly due to my fear of jinxing myself, and partly because happiness on paper is so boring and peppy. I hate peppy. There is no good plot without the dramatic climax. Mine just keeps going, and going, and going...

But not today.

I dug out the Mythmas decorations from the garage earlier. I wanted to hang the lights outside but it's been raining all day. The only other thing I've wanted to do is spend money. On more Mythmas stuff, and presents. I have to come up with six gifts for his co-workers, and something for my brother and Lars' parents. We're buying mom a WebTV system because her computer needs parts that are more expensive than the whole set of stuff for hooking it up through her television. She didn't need a computer anyway, but we'd really hoped to get her the DVD player.

I'm wanting another day like yesterday, shopping till I drop. I guess alone, though, since I want to stay down in this area. All I need is the dough. I don't yet know how much money he's going to allot for me to decorate and to spend on presents and wrappings. Most stuff is coming through Amazon, but I don't want to lose out on the mortar retail experience entirely.

I told John about this journal but unless he wrote it down he's probably forgotten my user name. I told him that he was mentioned quite frequently but I looked back and it's been awhile since the times when I spoke of him often. He has to dodge the wife and get his surfing in when he can so there's no telling if or when he'll get here. I know Larry does the same thing because we share a few folders and I've seen that his porn collection is pretty extensive. I guess he waits till I'm asleep. It's funny to me, now, and I don't mind it.

* * *

Santa, I've been a good girl this year, and I want a Dremel tool set with the flex shaft and lots of bits. I also want the diamond ring. While you're here, do a little brain surgery and wipe out the part of my mind that craves sugar.

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