New Clear Day (Actually, A Great Day)

This has been a horrible 10 days. Financial disasters -- the last gasp of the Insane Ex's fiscal irresponsibility -- have been a part of my life this month, getting worse toward the end. There's a light at the end of the tunnel, although small and weak, but this month has been horrible in terms of blasts from the past, revelations, and regrets (except for the existence of DestructoGirl, who makes it all worth it) that I did not pull the plug on the Insane Ex much, much sooner than I did. FoilMormor's beloved (by her, by me, by everyone else who knew him, except possibly his not very big-hearted son-in-law, a religious true believer who is a total asshole)Second Mate died last weekend. TigerGrrl (as well as FoilMormor and me) is brokenhearted. Other niggly little things have been afflicting me, but nothing as serious as the death of the Second Mate.

So recent history has been craptastic.

However, today was a turning point. Two things.

First, I walked (1.5 miles) to the church (not really a church in the traditional religious sense: think Ethical Society) I have recently joined and the sermon was basically "Religious People Are Damned Idiots If They Don't Find Scientific Knowledge Liberating and Spiritually Uplifting, So For Fuck's Sake, Teach Evolution and Stop Whining" followed by a big plate of pasta puttanesca and thanks given to her divinity, the Flying Spagetti Monster.* I spoke with the director of religious education, and TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl will be learning about: evolution, the Civil Rights movement, science, the almost infinite capacity for human beings to learn and evolve, and how great the world is, no matter who made it, and even if it made itself.

I don't have the girls this weekend, so I hung out with the other members of the "congregation" and, walking home, walked past everyone's cars. Not that many (many walk or bike to church) and even fewer SUVs (because burning fossil fuel unnecessarily really is worse than many things despised by traditional religions, at least in this group, and I wholeheartedly agree), but those that were there, more than a third sported the fish growing legs with "Darwin" typed in the fish's body. I just love that emblem.

Second, after I had walked home (1 mile, I found a great shortcut/bike trail, that I'll have to check out, once I tune up the bike with some WD40) in beautiful clear and sunny weather, Innana arrived to go on a Sunday drive** and we headed out toward the Catoctin Mountains (Camp David's there somewhere, but fortunately Our Fearless Leader didn't cross paths with us and we were able to enjoy ourselves). We sat by a "mountain" (the Catoctin's aren't very high) lake and had a picnic and just enjoyed each other's company.

The girls come home tomorrow, which will be good, now that I've slept some. And tomorrow will be nice, allowing for good pool time. FoilMormor has already issued a MormorUkase (or possibly declared by fiat or whatever) that TigerGrrl, DestructoGirl, and I would be spending the Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanzaa/New Year/Winter Solstice/Pick-your-own-craptastic-but-deeply-significant holiday in New England (and bought the tickets to back up the declaration, making it a ukase, because I, sure as shit, am not saying no to my recently bereaved over-seventy mother) which makes me feel happy for me and her: if she's back to herself again enough to be that controlling, she's doing well, all things considered. And I'll love being up in New England, making marzipan, vanille kranse, klejner, finsk brod and weinerbrod in the winter, giving the kids the opportunity to sled, skate, ski and be little winter snow demons, just the same as they are summer swimming demons.

Even though I still have plenty to worry about (for example: if the young men in my complex don't figure out how to ask the young women in this very same complex*** out on dates, will the human race die out? See the previous post), life seems good again.

*Remember your Italian and Spanish: "pasta" is a feminine word.
**Old people take Sunday drives, but really, they're great, especially since Innana has a car that gets over 30 miles to the gallon, so with two in the car, we didn't feel even remotely guilty.
***That's the women in their 20s and 30s, not me. I'm so too old for that nonsense.

Envy (I Wish I Were a Bigger Person on the Inside)

Bronze John has been one of my favorite bloggers since almost before the dawn of time, or 2005, whichever came first (my long-term memory sucks, okay?). One of the reasons I love his blog is his ability to transform the dramas in his life (and others, since, as a medical professional, he can see a lot of other people's dramas, particularly in drug and alcohol treatment) into insightful prose. Also, he has a mental illness -- he's bipolar or manic depressive, whichever term is more appropriate.

I have a much less drama-filled job, and while I have mental illness, it's boring depression* with ADD/ADHD and insomnia thrown in just to make things interesting. Depression just, well, depresses stuff, it doesn't add drama. And ADHD just means that I have to write these posts quickly. If I don't, I'll lose interest. I'm still stunned that I have been writing this blog, awash with typos, since 2005. Of course, the early years, marriage flushing down the toilet, were pretty drama filled. But, no, I cannot write about the death of someone I love, or even his memorial service, without feeling like I'm doing something wrong. So I just have to leave large pieces of the things that I think about unwritten. That's not bad. Not every thought needs to be expressed. Unfortunately, it's my deeper, better thoughts that I feel the need to suppress.

I worry whenever I have a writing drought that I will lose interest and stop. To me, continuity is such a wonderful thing. But I'm definitely still finding the writing of things that puzzle me, irritate me, amuse me, or just catch my wandering eye helpful in mentally organizing my life.

The drama right now is the character of the pool in my complex (I told you, my deeper, better thoughts are suppressed: sorry about that). It used to be kid central, which was noisy and fun. Now, my girls are away this weekend, but apparently so are everyone else's children as well. The pool is now EuroDude/Military Beefcake central.

Don't get me wrong. This late forties woman sits back, relaxes, and enjoys the sights.

But these guys . . . . Somethings just wrong. They cluster together in little covens or whatever and watch the women at the pool, but generally act like adolescent females in the 1970s. Lots of posing, lots of positioning, absolutely no action whatsoever.

It's against all the laws of god and man, I tell you. These guys are heterosexual (yeah, Gaydar and Hetdar really don't work, but just trust me, these young men are straight) and there are plenty of attractive, same age women cavorting. I should be able to see at least one romance and one hot-and-heavy affair if this is just 90210 in DC at the pool. But no. Everyone's circumspect.

The saving grace is DestructoGirl. There's a young man (abolutely fine: he spends way too much time at the gym so clearly hasn't a thought in his head, but he doesn't need to talk, I'll just watch the six-pack) who has a Big Bird towel. Now that's a macho statement, to have a Big Bird towel. He lets DestructoGirl sit on it and chat with him (they discuss the virtues of Big Bird). There's another guy, who for reasons unknown to me, DestructoGirl likes. She sees him walk into the pool area and jumps up, throws herself into the water, and thrashes her way across the pool to greet him, screaming his name.

Maybe that's the level of reaction from the grown women (who are a bit more self-regulated than DestructoGirl, after all) these men seek? Newsflash, boys: it ain't happening. Get off your chaise longue and walk up to the Ukrainian doc in the polka dot swimsuit and, hey, ask her how she's liking DC or something. So guys, if the only woman at your pool who you're not scared to talk to (because shes (1) three, (2) totally lacking in judgment, and (3) often incomprehensible) is my daughter, we need to work on your game. If I hadn't provided for our species' future by giving the world DestructoGirl and TigerGrrl, I'd be worried. But since I have done so (provided for the world's future), I'll just watch you hapless louts and remember how hard dating was in my twenties, and have a clearer understanding of why.

Who says you don't live and learn?

*Trust me, no-one wants to read about not being able to get out of bed or not enjoying chocolate.

No Insights

I've got nothing here. I'm not in a terrible mood or anything, just sad for the Second Mate, sad for FoilMormor, and generally uninclined to write. Nothing I seem to write seems to have much meaning. Additionally, there's too much other stuff going on -- financial, friends, simple exhaustion, start of school -- that even stopping to reflect seems to strenuous and stressful. I am turning into such a wimp.

It's Over

It wasn't even days, it was hours. The Second Mate died this morning. I'd barely finished my post about him heading to the hospice when I got the call from my mother. She's holding up quite well. She wants me there, so I won't be posting for a few days. Again, I feel awful about looking forward to the trip, but I'll get to see Aunt Elsebet, Cousin Roland, Jensaman, LOS and other relatives of whom I am very fond but who I see infrequently. However, I don't think being miserable does anyone any good, so I am going to attend the service and enjoy being in the midst of my family.

TigerGrrl impressed me immensely. We were making French toast (not freedom toast) this morning when FoilMormor called with the sad news. As we sat down for breakfast, TigerGrrl asked us to be silent and think of the Second Mate. DestructoGirl took a less solemn tack and announced that she was going to get a new grandfather (three-year olds -- you really can't count on them for the mood-appropriate comment). Probably not. But at age three, death is just an abstraction, not a reality.

That Good Night

LOS called me yesterday to let me know: Second Mate has been moved to hospice. He's lost control of bodily functions and is basically struggling for breath. Days, not weeks now. Only one of his kids is there -- the other two are arriving today. I'm not sure he's aware to see them and really can't talk, even if his mind is lucid (I'm not sure).

I hope his kids get a chance to sit with him and see him and take some comfort from that and I hope this isn't too drawn out. Struggling to breathe seems like an awful way to die. FoilMormor is using the telephone tree method: one phone call to one person, that person notifies everyone else. We're instructed not to call.

Eavesdropping

Yesterday, I had the day off work due to an annoying medical proceeding (uterine biopsy, removal of a small growth, general female stuff that's gross) and stayed in town at a park, doing some good knitting. I listened in on a number of conversations, including a bunch of police officers hanging out at the Soho coffee shop on P Street near Dupont Circle. Apparently MS-13, Crips, and Bloods are taking over Adams Morgan. Except it sounded like lots of "we're so tough" talk, rather than an actual analysis of what's going on. Although they would know better than I would. The toughest talking of the bunch was a very slight young women, who may have felt she had something to prove.

Next, I listened in on a pair of young women disparaging another one for, gasp, cutting her own hair. Imagine that. Not paying $50 (or more), but saving the money and doing it yourself. Oops, it's late and I have to run.

Annoyingly Self-Referential Post About Blogging

I'm not driven to write about my life as much as I was in 2005-2006 -- I've survived the divorce. Picking up the pieces just isn't as satisfying to write about as pulling myself out of full mutual assured destruction/global thermonuclear war of divorce with a truly insane man. There are still plenty of challenges -- until DestructoGirl is in school full-time, my child care costs are going to be almost impossible to survive (I'll manage) and my budget is going to be tight, tight, tight. But those challenges just aren't as interesting to write or read about.

Perhaps that's a challenge for me as a writer: to make quotidian survial crap interesting to read about. Most women writing about the challenges of mothering are writing from a fairly lofty upper-middle class perch -- their challenges just don't resonate with me.

However, in the last few weeks, my readership (as demonstrated by StatCounter and Sitemeter) has gone up to 2005-2006 levels. I had settled into to a daily readership of 40-70 readers a day, half of whom I recognized. Not a big number, but fine for a personal blog of me nattering on about my life and life in PowerTown from a non-power perspective (i.e., I'm not a mover and shaker here: I'm a middle-management person who is not on anyone's A-list). Now, there are well over 100 readers a day, most of whom are strangers to me. It can't be the thrill of the posts. And it's not. It's an illustration I used back in 2007 (I won't link to it, as that would probably just increase the traffic and that's not fair). I'm not sure why, all of a sudden an illustration from then is driving Google images hits, but it's just odd. Also odd is that the majority of the new readers are from Canada. What's up with that, eh?

At least I'm not getting oodles of those weird hits from men seeking "shoe fetish diary" or "bossy woman sex" or whatever. Those people really need to work on their search term logic.

Winding Down

I spoke with FoilMormor on Sunday and Monday. The Second Mate isn't getting energy now when he receives platelets or whole blood. His spleen pain is back, so he's not eating. He's sleeping most of the time. Obviously, that's not good news.

Trios

After noon yesterday, DestructoGirl and I were alone together as TigerGrrl headed off with Innana to drop NiQ to DOL. (To any new readers: sorry about all the acronyms, but check out the who's who list on the side bar.) Because of the long car ride ahead of her, I had TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl carry boxes (small, non-breakable, in DestructoGirl's case) for a neighbor moving from one unit to another prior to Innana's arrival. After Innana arrived (and NiQ allowed DestructoGirl several hugs, including a jump hug, and was generally polite to me -- she didn't flinch when I hugged her and kissed her goodbye) and absconded with my eldest, DestructoGirl and I went to the pool. It was a beautiful sunny day, if a tad cool for DC in August (it felt like a New England summer day), but DestructoGirl was the only child at the pool for the three hours we were there.

DestructoGirl kept asking about a little buddy of hers named (for purposes of this blog) Deirdre who normally plays with DestructoGirl everyday. Lately there has been another, older (five or six) girl at the pool who seems to prefer Deirdre to DestructoGirl and likes to pair off. So Deirdre and this Mean Older Girl (MOG) tell my lovely DestructoGirl that she can't be their friend. When MOG isn't around, of course, Deirdre is all over DestructoGirl like white on rice, but still.

At first, I thought DestructoGirl was oblivious, but that is obviously not the case. Today, Deirdre and her family were off doing something, and DestructoGirl asked me if Deirdre was going to be her friend. She didn't look sad when asking this, just curious. But still. There's going to be more of that in the future, and I need a plan of action.

Snobbery

I can be a bit of a snob about things, but I try to suppress that tendency. I have a colleague who outranks me who is proud of being a snob. He thinks the neighborhood where he lives, the house of worship he attends, his rank in our organization make him better than others.

The sad thing is that if he didn't spend so much time trying to convince people of his superiority, we might actually admire him. He's smart, hardworking, and, most of the time, capable.** Unfortunately he's an asshole. He bullies people. He doesn't appreciate work done for him. You never get the feeling you're building up chits -- he just wants more. Most subordinates and colleagues loathe him.

A recently departed colleague said of him: "He's the guy looking in the mirror and crying his own name when he comes to orgasm." That's the perfect description. He also loves the sound of his own voice. He is incapable of saying: "I want X, by Y. Can you please help me?" The request will be couched in 27 lengthy paragraphs (without breath taken) of explanation of how, why, and where. It's a miracle he gets any work done at all when one considers how much of his waking day is spent bloviating.

However, he actually is smart and capable, if annoying as hell. Given how I've been feeling lately, and the fact that I have several joint projects with him, he really should be saying his prayers. I might sic NiQ on him. His ego needs so much reinforcing that one eye-roll and a yeah would leave him unmanned. Not that that's a job he hasn't really done to himself already.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: anyone who spends most conversations talking about how great a man (or she/woman***) he is has real adequacy issues. More than adequate people don't have to tell you how competent they are. You'll tell them, when you thank them for whatever chore with which they assisted you.

*This post was inspired by a recent post of Wunelle's about ego and accomplishment and how the normal connection between the two didn't work for Abraham Lincoln, based on a review of Doris Kearns Goodwin's biography of the man.

**He can do that learned incompetence thing to a T when he really doesn't want to do something. Ain't foolin' me.

***However, most people I've met with the constant need to publicly reinforce their egos (as attractive and appropriate as public masturbation) have been men. Or aiming toward manhood from the boyhood they occupy.

Take Your Victories Where You Find Them

Almost an impossibility of late: I went to bed, exhausted at 11:30 p.m. and was asleep by midnight. I slept until 5:50 a.m. Almost six hours of sleep, without nightmares or whatever waking me up at 2 or 3 a.m. That just feels fantastic.

When life is troubling me, I've always had very vivid and scary nightmares, particularly with large animals chasing. As a little child it was a crocodile, inspired by the crocodile in Peter Pan. The FoilDad would have to check under the bed and announce the complete lack of alligators to me. In my twenties, it was always a bear, climbing through the house, as I climbed higher and higher. Not a friendly black bear, but a disgruntled grizzly. Now I've got a tyrannosaurus. Despite Juanita's kind suggestion to use logic to defeat the tyrannosaurus, now, in my forties, I have a very large (larger than a crocodile, even an Australian saltwater croc) and it really is terrifying.

But last night I had no such dream, and slept well, even if it wasn't the seven or eight hours I would have liked.

Now, just to stop worrying about the Second Mate, FoilMormor, finances, debt, the girls' college fund, global warming, genocide in Darfur, the dictatorship in Myanmar (Burma to me), Zimbabwe's botched democracy, actually all of Africa, violence against women, homelessness, the lack of health care for many here in the U.S., the increasing rate of extinction, the economic crisis, especially inflation with stagnant wage growth (I really can't cut any more from the budget), typos, rising crime in DC . . . oh shit, I've got to stop reading all news now and become ignorant in my current state of mind or I'll never sleep again.

Sometimes, You Succeed

Amazingly, since the big teen terrorization day, NiQ has been cheerful and polite to Innana. No idea how she'll behave toward me when she sees me next, but she is being enthusiastic and appreciative to her Aunt. Again, she's going to skewer me with a spork, but if she's nice to Innana while doing so I'll die happy.

Homeless Women

Are there really that many more homeless men than women? When I'm wandering around the city the homeless man:homeless woman ratio seems to be about 10:1. Do I just not see them? Are they better at masking their homelessness?

The other night, walking from Adams Morgan to the Metro* at Woodley Park (yup, that's the closest one) I saw fourteen obviously homeless people, all guys. They were all visibly homeless. The shopping cart personal possession transportation device is a clue, as are, in some combination: (1) a surfeit of plastic bags, (2) heavy clothing in midsummer (filthy) and corresponding stench, and (3) visible scars and/or unhealed injuries. The talking to oneself isn't a giveaway, as it might just be yuppie scum with a phone with an earpiece who simply can't bear to not tell someone what he's doing right now.**

Are there fewer homeless women, or are they just better at masking? The few homeless women I see really have "let themselves go" in exactly the same way as the men. Are there others who just aren't visible? Or does the city provide better housing, daytime shelter, etc., for women? Or do women just avail themselves of more services.

Of course, it's not yet six, I've been up for over an hour and my mind is just wandering. I had a terrible nightmare about a tyrannosaurus stalking my home (really, and it was horrible, not funny) and since then (3 a.m.) sleep eluded me except for intermittently, and at 4:30 I gave up. So I'm sitting here thinking about the homeless population.

I really need to put my brain to better use.

*As an aside, I was approached by a runner who asked how to get to the Columbia Heights Metro. Now Adams Morgan may contain Columbia Road, but Woodley Park is lots closer, and when I walk (not run) to the Metro at night from Adams Morgan, it's the Woodley Park one I pick. Now this middle-aged man (fortunately wearing a shirt) was already completely soaked from sweat. People of the universe: you do not use the Metro during exercise. You use it after exercise, with possible exceptions for the Marine Corps Marathon. Would you want to sit next to this man? Apparently, he thinks doing a full workout, then running to Columbia Heights, then getting on the train drenched with sweat is appropriate urban behavior. Buddy: remember the social compact! Shower first, then subway.

** "Hi, Joe. How are you. Yeah, I'm looking forward to drinks tomorrow. I'm crossing the Duke Ellington Bridge. Talk to you later." As a rule, overheard cellphone conversations are (1) loud, (2) boring, and (3) not proof, as the speakers seem to think, of the speakers' vital social lives but conversely of the speakers' totally barren interior life. Live with your own thoughts, FFS. Really. Walk in silence and hear the birds since. Or observe other people. Of course, most of them are just as boring, but still. Try. And don't try and make the community at large overhear your social life just for the sake of it. You can still talk on the phone in public, but modulate your voice just a smidge.

Guys: Go Away Now (You've Been Warned. This Is a Female Trouble Post)

Since the late, not-so-great Guy, I haven't been doing anything approaching dating. I've gotten together with people I already know, most of whom are women, and have had an active (for a single mother of a three year-old and nine year old) social life, but I haven't had the inclination to pursue sex or have men pursue me (not that it's been raining men or anything, but I've been keeping to myself, avoiding eye contact, and not chatting back when men reach out, and I certainly haven't been doing any outreach myself).

Partly, this is just exhaustion, partly focusing on FoilMormor, the FoilKids, the Second Mate, NiQ, Innana, and other friends. Partly, it's a little bruised ego (not very bruised, but still) and wondering about my judgment and my ability to perceive where others are coming from. Travelling wears me out, work has been busy (and more stressful than usual), and life in general has seemed a bit much.

But I've also been feeling run down. Guys, this is where you should flee the post, you squeamish little bastards. Pretend you're the stronger sex and run off to a belching contest somewhere. I'm not sure if it's menopause (I'm 47) or just general female trouble, but I've been grumpy, crampy, and spotting for six weeks without an actual period, which is really kind of gross in a D.C. summer if you stop and think about it. Let's all just give thanks that no one but absolute morons wears hosiery in the summer any more. I don't.

But I've been bloated, hormonal, crampy, cranky, and eternally, but lightly bleeding. I don't like that shit. I've had an IUD in place since 2004 when DestructoGirl was born, and definitely, cramping,s potting, discharge, and all that lovely stuff is "enhanced" with an IUD. So finally, I got off my duff and called my very nice gynecologist, Dr. Julian Safran (he's governed by HIPAA, so he can't identify me -- however, this is a rave review, so I don't feel the least bit bad about identifying this man -- he's a good guy, good doctor, and he actually meets you at the time of the appointment -- I've seen him six times -- he's been my doctor since DestructoGirl -- and he's never kept me waiting, which means I'm not in a foul stressed out mood when I see him -- it's a nice trick to keep your schedule when delivering babies, but hey, it's a gift) and saw him Friday.

I'm feeling ever so much better now that the IUD is history. Also, Julie (not what I call him, but he's super respectful and calls me Ms. Foil, so I call him Dr. Safran) commended my common sense. I told him: "I'm 47. Now that the sponge is back, I want to deem men spongeworthy or not, and, of course, they need to use a condom. Of course, this is presuming I ever want to get laid again -- I blame the IUD and insomnia for my complete lack of interest -- and have the opportunity to do so." Julie told me that it might not be the IUD, but it could be. I have to go back in a few weeks for a minor growth removal (somehow, him telling me I need a biopsy didn't freak me out like the dermatologist telling me that TigerGrrl's mole needed a biopsy) and sonogram, but supposedly, it's unlikely that there's anything to worry about.

I agree. 48 hours after IUD ejection (pain-free, btw, I didn't even know it had been yanked, so more kudos for the lovely Dr. Safran), I'm feeling great. Still some hormones (because, with the last date of my last period being June 16, apparently yanking the miserable contraption got everything moving again, and yes, Aunt Flo is visiting), but nothing like before. I feel like a new, less hateful and less likely to kill fellow commuters, woman. And that's a good thing.

Why I'm an atheist: I don't begrudge childbirth or periods. I never had penis envy: I'm pretty clear that the guys missed out (hey, being able to squirt sperm just doesn't rate up there with growing a new life -- especially the two amazing ones I've managed to create -- or having multiple orgasms, but I really, really want birth control as a burden to fall on men. Fortunately, with the diminished fertility of the perimenopausal and the ability to speak up for myself which I continue to cultivate, I may or may not deem men spongeworthy (at some point in the hypothetical, nowhere close to now future), but they'd still damn well better bring the raincoat. Diminished sensation? Cry me a river. Tell me about it when you're having a contraction and I'll give you an epidural.

Okay, some crankiness still remains.

Complete Lack of Ennui, Angst and Weltschmertz (Also: Complete Lack of Action, Whatsoever)

Yup, I'm in a great mood. Doing absolutely nothing. This weekend, my first weekend without girls or familial responsibilities in a month, I have done . . . zippola. And it feels great. There's plenty I could have done, but I didn't do it. And I don't feel guilty.

Also, I slept 12 hours on Friday night and about 6 hours last night (re Friday night: thank you, Ambien).

Things I accomplished this weekend: I have finishe the knitting portion of Big Bob's sweater, so I will be able to give it to him when I visit him in the country (after car repairs are accomplished) this fall. I knitted a whole bunch of patters from Barbara Waker's Treasury of Knitting Patterns, mostly eyelet and lace work (more interesting than straight knitting). I sat by the pool and chatted with a neighbor I've seen and known for over a year, but actually listened to her without constantly paying attention to my children's death-defying feats (largely because they weren't here) and it just felt good to pay attention to someone else without interruption. I got a phone call from an acquaintance who was in my neck of the woods who asked me to join him for a coffee and I had a pleasant coffee (I don't think this was a date -- the guy seems gay, or at least not the least bit attracted to me, to me) with a long-time acquaintance who I haven't seen in over a year. My friend then went to buy bread at a bakery, right near my home (less than two miles), and the bread was delicious and not exhorbitant. I bought a loaf. Last night, I had brie on toast for dinner, and it was delicious. Tonight, a veggie omelet on toast, and I made a spare so I'll be having a veggie omelet sandwich for lunch tomorrow.

I sorted through bills. Don't be shocked, I didn't go so far as to pay any, due to complete absence of funds, but I do have everything lined up for the next paycheck, and I have money set aside for this weeks groceries, and feel reasonably in control.

I practiced crocheting (I don't, as a rule crochet, having never learned, but I am teaching myself, and am practicing, between knitting practice). I handwashed all my outstanding dry-cleaning (no, I spend no money on that crap) and will be ironing things shortly on the new ironing board.*

I finished reading one light read, and have started a second one (science fiction, now mystery). I'm not reading anything substantive right now, but hey, I've had (including the last two nights totalling 18 hours) about 25 hours of sleep in the last week. Having not strangled anyone or tortured them and left them for dead when irritating me -- particularly Metro riders -- seems like and amazing act of self-control. I'll tackle literature tommorrow if I get more than 6 hours of sleep tonight.

For someone's who's done nothing, I feel like I've accomplished a lot.


*I have a small one I bought at Target in the In-the-Middle-Of Divorce-Time-of-Separation-and-Trauma, but recently found a fully functional full-sized ironing board in the recycling section of the trash. Needless to say, I've recycled it.