Whaaa
The Boy is home sick again today. He�s rarely off work three days in a row, so you have to know it�s semi-serious. I�m guessing it�s a sinus infection, but as far as he�s concerned, it�s nothing to bother his doctor about. Bloody rotten, stubborn, pigheaded���MAN. I swear, if he winds up giving me his infectious germs, the ringing in his ears isn�t going to be his only trouble. I will grab his mucus-filled head and twist it right off his neck.

I wouldn�t really. I would consider it, making little films about the beheading in my brain and playing them over and over but never following through. Yes, you would be right to worry about me and my grasp on the sanity issue. I�m about to lose it lately, for any number of reasons, all of which aren�t much of anything by themselves. Once you glom them all together, however, they rise up and form a monster of such magnitude I want to curl up under the duvet (alone!) and wait for the circle of life to revolve around to where my existence consists of sunshine, weight loss and people who love me unconditionally.

Part of my crabbiness revolves around the fact that our 53 year old war house has virtually zilch in the way of storage. The closets are barely wide enough to place a hanger, the washroom has a pitiful excuse for a closet and the linen closet doesn�t hold half of my sheets and towels. I�ve not even gotten started on the lack of shelving for anything else. See, we both have multiple and varied hobbies. I also have a side business. All of these ventures require �stuff�, stuff that has spent the last number of years in my pretty purple totes from the grocery store, shuffling like nomads from room to room depending on what we�re doing or who�s invited over for dinner. The totes are a good start, but I would like to create a habitat for the totes, one where they would sit, quietly talking amongst themselves and collecting dust. Out of the way. One of my greatest fears is the arrival of the day my Mother makes an impromptu visit and I have nowhere for her to sit. Seriously.

As I type this, I�m rereading it. Some days I truly feel sorry for those of you out there that are forming an opinion of me without knowing me in real life. I mean, it�s a known fact that the large majority of hack writers out there in Journal Land use their journals to try to anonymously vent their frustrations, saving those they have to look in the eye in everyday life the grief of listening to the wailing and the gnashing of teeth. I knew full well when I started this journal years ago that there would be some pity partying going down, but as I read I realize the scales are tipping toward train wreck, and that concerns me. Maybe it�s just the season; possibly it�s the poisonous people in my life at the moment, I�m not sure.

All I know is I would really like 2004 to be The Year of Me. I want to get my shit together, succeed in business and maybe have a child. I want to sleep the sleep of someone who is content with the hand they�ve been dealt this time around. I want the strength to put the past exactly where it belongs.

Posted at 9:37 a.m.