I think that the drawback of having a messy house (and office and anyplace I work for a prolonged period of time) is that important things sometimes disappear. Or, when I actually start to straighten up, I inadvertently throw important things out.

Like the front tooth my daughter lost today while eating ice cream in the park. We wrapped it in a napkin and she carried it home. She set it on the table, which is covered with little notes, sleeves full of negatives, unread periodicals, a plastic bag of zine-binding stuff, a camera I have yet to test, one lone baby sock...you get the idea. It's a cluttered mess. So what's one more item on it?

In a crazy spurt of energy, I decided I was going to (once again) try to tackle the table. It would be nice to have a clear surface to work. I started to go through pile one, pulling things out. I grabbed a napkin and wiped the dust off my computer screen. Sure I noticed that inside the napkin was a little pink and gooey. But did I notice that there was a baby tooth in it?

No.

Did it occur to me that maybe it was pink and gooey because it was holding a baby tooth?

No.

So into the trash it went.

Luckily, the bag was pretty full and, after the napkin went in, I tied it up and took it out while dd brushed her remaining teeth.

After that, I told her to get her tooth so we could put it under the pillow. She walked up to the table and muttered to herself (do I do that?), "Let's see...It was in a piece of paper..." She lifted this item and that, looking for it.

Suddenly I realized what had happened to it. I threw it out.

I told her that. "That's okay," she said.

It wasn't okay with me.

"Do you want to go see if we can find it in the garbage?" I asked.

She nodded. Apparently it actually *wasn't* okay, but either she hadn't thought to suggest digging in the trash or thought I'd blow up at the idea.

So outside we went. The crustie punk on our stoop on his phone seemed perplexed about mother and daughter pulling a bag out of the trash and opening it. Luckily it was at the top and I pulled it out, opened it, then handed it to dd with the instructions NOT to put it on the table this time.

"She lost a tooth," I explained to the punk, probably bewildered that anyone would bother going through *my* building's trash. "I accidentally threw it out."

He grinned at dd. "Lost a tooth, huh? First lost tooth?"

We went inside and dd took a piece of colored paper, wrapped her tooth in it and then, for good measure, wrote "TOOTH" on it so that there was no way that, in the 2 minutes between the table and bed, it would get mistaken for garbage again.

Then she climbed into bed and asked me to tuck her in, wrapped her arm around the dolphin/whale that a neighbor had given her and fell asleep.

I attended my first meeting with local area artists at the coffee shop. It's informal, but they're serious. They were sharing info about shows, and about starting a small business selling art. It wasn't as informative for me, because I'm not that serious (it probably wouldn't hurt for me to take myself a little more seriously) and because mostly I write, rather than make art.

Freaked me right out -- I'm such a shrinking violet. Mary asked if she could see my blog, and asked if she could send out the url. I suggested that she read it and see what she thinks, first. Ack. What if everyone thinks it's trivial? At least I don't think they'll think it's juvenile. But all of a sudden I'm thinking terribly serious thoughts about what I do and don't put up. Will this be up to scratch? What will people think? Right now, my readers are few, casual, and friendly. What will new people think?

All right. Relax. It's a *blog*, not high literature. Maybe having some serious artists look at it will push me to take myself a little more seriously. It should be good.

I think I'll like the group, if I can relax to it. Maybe I should pay some more attention to putting together my zine, which is currently nothing but a collection of Word files. That intimidates me, too, but maybe I should belly up to the bar and down my shot.

That's a good phrase, that one about bellying up to the bar. I think I'll start dragging my sketchbook -- okay, *carrying* my sketchbook -- and putting ideas in it again. Phrases that occur to me. Images. Make it back into the resource I have always used it as.

I promised Mary that I would look through my stuff and print out something for the group to read next month. I wonder if I can find a copy of "Grandmother's Scissors"?

Packed weekend. Where to start? I've stopped writing in my journal, but I still carry it around.

Sunday night/Monday morning, I sat on the steps of the Brooklyn Public Library and shivered as I waited for J'ouvert to start. I ate doubles to calm the growling in my stomach and looked at the people waiting around me. A crew with yellow hardhats and mallets made of tinfoil paraded down the narrow sidewalk, past the drunks blowing whistles that glowed-in-the-dark as they shrieked, and stood at the corner. I wanted to walk over and ask if I could take their photo. I didn't.

The friends I had come with, after sending books to prisoners till 1 in the morning, were tired and cold. They left. I told them that I would take pictures and send them to our mutual friend, who is in prison. We could all write him letters, I joked. Theirs could start, "Dear so-and-so, We are no longer speaking to V. She dragged us out to Grand Army Plaza in the middle of the night promising us a step-off of numerous steel drum bands on their way to the huge West Indian Day Parade." Mine could start, "Dear so-and-so, Our two mutual friends are no longer speaking to me. But here are pictures of the pre-parade of the WEst Indian Day Parade."

Once they left, I got up and walked around. I started stopping people and asking if I could take their photo. Having a flash attached to a camera made me feel more nervous. I couldn't do my usual thing of just taking pictures and not interacting with my subjects. I had to suck in my shyness and ask them. No one said no. One trio of women, all dressed like the 1950s Hollywood version of Indian princesses (read: brown faux-Buckskin dresses and colorful feathers in the back of their heads) said "Sure, but we're not stopping" as they strode along. So I jogged backwards and clicked, hopefully catching two of the three. They smiled and kept going.

I saw a man painted white and another color (black? My memory is fading in places). He strode along with a big Japanese flag over his shoulder. I wanted to take his photo, waited for him to stop and sit like everyone else. He kept going, down the narrow sidewalk connecting the library, the botanic gardens and the Brooklyn Museum. Hours later, I saw him playing the drums on a float. It wasn't even dawn yet, but he whaled away with a crazy energy that would have to last him till dusk that night.

I stood on the sidelines and took pictures. Occasionally men dancing alongside the float would come over to dance with me, and I danced for a short time before they went back to following the float. With the first one, I snapped his photo.

"You gonna give me money for that?" he asked with an accent so thick I had to ask him to repeat himself several times before I understood what he was saying.

When I said no, he asked me to give him some wine. Wiiiine, he said, drawing out the word and trying to grind his crotch into me.

"Don't got no wine," I replied after he had repeated himself several times and I finally (sort of) understood what he meant. So he danced off and I shook my head and went back to watching the floats and the dancers and, lesson unlearned, taking pictures.

No one else seemed to mind. So I kept snapping. The streetlights often created halos behind people's heads and seemed to obscure their faces as they turned towards me. I snapped anyway, hoping the flash would illuminate them and that I could figure out enough either under the enlarger or in Photoshop to rectify whatever it hadn't.

As the sky began to lighten, I told myself that I should go home, go to sleep. I was supposed to take dd to Coney Island later that day for the last day of the season and to see Circus Amok. I would be dead all day if I didn't get at least a few hours of sleep and there was no way I would make it through the day if I tried to stay up the entire time. The areas around the first few floats were getting more and more crowded, as if everyone were walking towards the front which wasn't moving. I started to head back towards the library and came across all new floats and people wearing costumes I hadn't seen before--space aliens, women in silver gowns and cone-shaped headdresses, some sort of alien space spider, a crew wearing hospital scrubs and hairpieces...I wondered how often the trains would be running and whether I would spend an hour waiting below the sidewalk, missing the festivities.

I decided to get one last doubles (how does one say the singular of doubles?) from the guys at the cart. Someone else came along and complained that there was no more salt fish.

"We been here since 10 last night," the vendor retorted. "Next time get here early!"

Another person asked for hot sauce. "Liberal," he said, holding out the open sandwich. "George Bush," he added. "Y'know, bomb it all over." Both he and the vendor laughed.

Ran into another friend who had a map. She figured out how we could get to the train we needed and we set off, walking through Park Slope as the sun rose and then beat down on us.

Got home and slept for about 3 hours. Then the alarm went off and I turned on the coffeemaker and lay in bed, trying to will myself to wake up each time the alarm sounded. I sipped my coffee and really wanted to go back to bed, knowing that I really couldn't. I finally dragged myself over to ddd's house, stopping to buy a bag of frozen Tatertots along the way so that I could have *something* in my stomach even though I wasn't hungry.

WE met up with dd's best friend and her mom and took the train out to Coney Island. dd tried to read a fairy story to her friend, who wasn't paying attention. Then her friend played Gameboy while dd watched but then the train went aboveground and they amused themselves by looking out the window and playing some version of "I spy."

The circus was great. I saw an old friend who had come to the city for the summer to go to clown school. We hung out a bit on the beach later with her friend and her two kids. The friend remembered me from when dd was small. She said that what amazed her was that dd was still young enough to nurse but old enough to eat wasabi peas.

"She doesn't do either now," I replied, still not remembering her.

My clown school friend told me that the circus almost didn't have enough money this year to perform. I don't know what happened to make funding so tight, but the only reason they were able to perform at all was because someone who had gotten kicked in the face by a cop finally got her settlement money. And, with that money, she financed the free political circus for this season.

We laughed that perhaps the programs should have read "This circus [with all its anti-war and anti-oppression content] is made possibly by the NYPD."

On our way off the boardwalk, we ran into one of the band members from the circus. He was the person who had told me about J'ouvert. There was a big splatter of green paint on the front of his shirt.

"Haha, they got you last night," I said.

"That wasn't last night! That was this morning," he replied. He said that he and his friends had been sitting and a bunch of kids had thrown baby powder at them. Then a kid had walked up to him and put his hand, dripping with green paint, on the front of his shirt.

My friend watched dd and her friend while ddd and I rode the Cyclone. After we bought the tickets I had a mild panic attack. HOly shit, why did I agree to go on this? I thought. But we'd already paid the six whopping dollars each and there aren't any refunds and so we had to go. I clung on for dear life as the ride barreled down, each time worried that either I would go flying out of the seat or else I would lose my shoes.

My heart was still thudding in my chest after we got to the subway and were standing on the platform waiting for the train.

I want another baby. I want to feel the life grow and move inside of me. I want to smell the head of a newborn I helped create. I want another baby. I am 43.
I am 43 and that is only one reason why I should think twice about having another baby. I already have two sons. My youngest son has developmental delays. We can’t afford another child and I suffer from Major Depression for which I take medication. I shouldn’t have another baby.
My husband wants another baby too “in theory” he says but not in reality. He could add to the list of reasons why another baby is just not the right choice. I don’t know if I could even handle three children as most of the time I can’t handle two. We have a small two bedroom NYC apartment. We can’t afford anything bigger. We can’t afford another baby. We can’t afford it.
So why do I so desperately want one? My fertility is dying and that is natural but it makes me sad. Fertility has a life span. Everything has a life span and mine is reaching dusk.
I don’t like growing older. I don’t mind being wiser it is just the age thing that gets me. I want to create another person again. Just one more. Really, just one.

Regina
"Karma is a boomerang"

My head is in a very strange space. Yesterday I was just absent. Today I was sleepy and absent. B commented that I couldn't have been totally unproductive, because I got F to her class, which is in fact true. I also updated and balanced the checkbook. I cooked dinner all by myself. So I was present in some form or another, but I just feel so disconnected.

I am disproportionately upset by some nonsense with our bloody internet provider. We're having them pick up our phone and getting cable, since the package all together is less than we pay for internet and phone right now. No problem, when can they come to do the install? Someone, and I honestly can't remember whether it was me or not, scheduled it for this afternoon, between 2 and 4.

Then I got F all signed up for her gymnastics class, which started this afternoon at 3, meaning we had to leave at 2:30. I would have missed the conflict entirely, but B caught it last night, and went online to change our appointment date to Friday, when he will be here. He knows how much I hate dealing with workers and technicians. I hate having my space invaded.

The only trouble was that we got a phone call at around 2 this afternoon saying that the installer was on his way. Instant freak on my part. I couldn't have P let them in, even if he was going to be at home. For one thing, I don't want strange adults in my house with my children and no parent. For another, the company's own rules say that there has to be someone over the age of eighteen to let them in. P called B, who told him that when the installer arrived, he should just tell him that we had rescheduled and would he please check with his supervisors.

That is exactly what happened, and we are now properly rescheduled for Friday, if much earlier than before. Get this. They claim that the reason the installer didn't know about the rescheduling was because "it didn't make it into the computer." Excuse me? Do they mean that when you schedule *online* it doesn't go straight into their computer? If that's what they mean, it's the damn stupidest system in the world. Hello? Computers? Convenience? Houston, are you there?

Apparently not.

Okay, enough. It's well past ten, and I was sleepy and out of it today. Time for bed, bed, bed.

So I've now thrown out just about all of the artwork that I've ever made. Dumpsters full of stuff, ideas that once were alive but now just seem to be moldy heaps of garbage. Strange. I thought I would feel sadder about it but I just feel sort of empty. I kept a couple of things that were in good shape but for the most part I got rid of all of it. Thousands and thousands of hours worth of work. I take it back, I guess I am sad. But it was all getting ruined in the musty basement anyway. And who wants it either? Besides me at least. I figured I better get rid of it all. I have this picture in my head of myself as an old woman, buried under a mountain of stuff I have made. Swallowed whole by my sculpture, unable to escape.
So, moving on. It is always about the idea anyway, rather than the product. It seems wierd to make a product though, that is completely useless aside from the idea behind it. Something zen about it. Or anti-zen, I'm not quite sure. In any case, here's a big shout out to the gods to bring on some new ideas.

Today I got off the couch and went out.

I went all the way to the local scrap of prairie with V and F.

I learned something.

I learned that the prairie, especially right where it borders the woods, is absolutely loaded with mosquitos in late August.

So much for getting out.

With B starting a new job in September, our health insurance is temporarily up in the air. I can't order new meds, which isn't an issue, yet -- I don't need to reorder anything until the middle of September at the earliest. B, on the other hand, is suddenly experiencing bouts of pretty awful nausea. He's afraid it's his gallbladder. He may be right. If it is, he'd like to get it dealt with as quickly as possible, but he either gets it done before Wednesday or waits until we're online with the new insurance. He doesn't want to wait, but the truth of the matter is that I will be absolutely stunned if anything happens by Wednesday.

I don't know yet whether any of our doctors participate under the new insurance, because I don't know the name of the plan and can't check yet. I hope they all participate. I like our doctors, and heaven knows I do not want to have to put together another wellness team for the damned bipolar. I'm settled with this team, we're good, I don't want to change. My psychiatrist, especially, is a real, live, human being, and actually treats me like a partner instead of a patient. I'd like to stay with her, please.

I need to do something about my spider plant. The saucer for the bottom of the pot disappeared mysteriously, and now it's impossible to water it without getting water all over the place. I can't just replace the saucer, because it's a hanging pot and the saucer was attached. (This really leaves me wondering what on earth happened to it.) I'll probably have to repot the thing, but I haven't had a lot of luck finding decent hanging pots, and I definitely want this to be a hanging plant. *sigh*

B and P left early this morning for P's choir retreat; B is chaperoning. I hope he has a good time -- he had another attack of nausea last night, and unlike last time, this one wasn't gone by morning. He took along some stuff that he figured he could eat without too much trouble, and he sounded some better when he called. At least, he wasn't talking about coming home, the way he was when he left this morning.

I hope P does the same thing he did last year -- made a point of asking B to come sit with him for one meal. It made B feel good that P wanted to spend time with him. I should push the two of them to make a date to go out, though -- more time together never hurts. The girls need dates, too, though.

I'm waiting for F's blanket to come out of the wash. I insisted that Djibba go in this afternoon when I noticed that she was a little stinky, but then neither F nor I remembered to change the wash over, so at nine o'clock we still hadn't remembered to get the blanket into the dryer. So F is in my bed, waiting until her beloved blanket comes out. And I'm stuck waiting up until it does. I'm usually bad about getting to bed on time when B is out, but I really had been planning to be good about it tonight. I was up late last night and up early with B this morning, and I need, need, need to play catch-up. I don't do well without my sleep. But I'm just going to have to be patient.

It is about time to check on Djibba, though, so maybe I'll get out of here and do that.

I haven't been writing much lately. Perhaps it is the depression. I am submitting even less and I am getting a lot of rejection. I know that comes with the territory but I am feeling so defeated these days. I feel like there is not a lot for me to say. I could write about this depression and anxiety but there is no end to it. The story has no finish yet. I would like to try to write my way through it but that has been difficult too. I want to give myself an assignment. I have never been a disciplined writer so maybe creating a theme to write about would help. For awhile I would find myself getting inspired often. Now I rarely feel any inspiration.
Rough days........

Regina
"Karma is a boomerang"

You know what I hate most about trolls on this site? I'll look at the active forum events list and think, Oooh, lots of new stuff -- the site must have been really active! Then I start clicking on topics and discover that some fool has been spreading garbage all over the forums.

The kids are listening to The Age of Napoleon for history right now. I was worried that they wouldn't like it, not because it's on an adult level (they love listening to history on an adult level) but because it's Will and Ariel Durant, and the Durants can be dry. But P tossed it in to listen to during math (he'll move through the tapes the quickest, so he gets them first, and the other two in turn) and V came in and joined him and they both seemed to be very engaged. When it came time to flip the tape, V hopped up immediately to do it, exclaiming, "I love this tape!" Whew. I'm thankful.

I'm still reading A Small Corner of Hell. Right now, she's done with the descriptions of the sheer insanity of the war crimes in Chechnya itself, and has gone on to the weirdness that is the Russian government dealing with its own people. When a soldier is killed, it can be difficult or impossible to get the government to agree to release the body. Sometimes, the family isn't sure that they body they get back is their child.

Sometimes they refuse to admit that a soldier has been killed. In one case, soldiers who were supposed to be demobbed back to Russia were being held by officers who were trying to force them to split their extra pay in exchange for being allowed to go home.

There are descriptions of ex-soldiers committing Chechnya-style insanities on Russian citizens in Moscow. But no one in the government will admit it or do anything about it. Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.

Some of it makes me wonder exactly what is going on in Iraq that we don't know about. In theory we investigate and punish war crimes. In practice? I don't know what's being swept under the rug, although at least US reporters are allowed pretty freely into Iraq, something that is not true of Chechnya.

In a way, it's funny that I'm reading all of this in 2007. The book was published in 2002, I think. So it isn't recent. But I've flipped quickly through a Wikipedia article on the subject, and the war is still going on. The problem of returning soldiers is becoming bigger. The Russian government is still doing its best to keep a lid on things -- they don't want the outside world to know.

One terrible thing that I hadn't known. The fighting has moved out of Chechnya into neighboring regions, including Ingushetia. Ingushetia was the only republic to accept Chechen refugees, in spite of the fact that the Russian government refused to send the humanitarian aid that they theoretically promised. (By sheltering Chechen refugees, they were engaging in "anti-Russian activity." No aid in dealing with the refugees. Oy.) The refugees nearly doubled the population, and in spite of their best efforts, Ingushetia couldn't feed them. But they refused to force them back into the war zone in Chechnya. The Russian government eventually engaged in forced resettlement back into Chechnya, back into bombed out rubble, with bombing still going on. It's terrible that Ingushetia has been invaded by the war; they're the only ones in the whole damned mess who have acted with even a shred of compassion.

I have now watched lots and lots of bits and scraps of Ghostrider. Highly edifying. No, really. It's distracting. I should either watch it or go upstairs where I won't be looking up constantly.

Upon thinking about it, I'm interested in leading a slightly less fluffy life. Upon thinking about it some more, I'm not sure what I mean by that. Time to do some more thinking.

I have a lot of self-educating to do. I also have, I don't know, can I quote Bye, Bye, Birdie here? I need to live a little more. Not to party, but to get *out*, off of my couch, away from my computer. I need something to write *about*.

Gods damn it, I am scared to death by the very thought.

Fear frustrates me. In theory, things don't frighten me (except for the possibility of getting into trouble), but when I start contemplating putting theory into practice, the fear sets in. It doesn't take too much thought of practice to set me on edge.

I think I'll stop thinking about practice for a while, and think about theory. What has it got in its pocketses? What would it like to do?

I was walking up the stairs to the third floor tonight and in the darkness I reached out for the old newel posts. They aren't there anymore. We changed them last year- S built a whole new custom rail because the old was a strange mix of Victorian oak and tacky 80's casino style metal. In any case, in the darkness I reached for the old oak post and was surprised not to find it. Next week I may wake to find myself in another old house with entirely different parts and pieces. This year has been surreal. We moved into a rental a year ago for reasons I can't talk about. Then six months later we were back in our old house against our will. Then the hard battle to sell and the even harder battle to buy a new house. We knew the sell would be hard but who knew the buy would be even harder. First we had an accepted offer on a cool warehouse space but after a huge runaround with the (divorced) owners they renigged on the deal. Then we found another space-- that fell through. Then another-- we got outbid and lost. Finally we found a fantastic old rowhouse that we loved and got an accepted offer and went into contract and yes, oh yes-oh no- there is a problem first with city violations that have to be cleared and then problems with the title that have taken 7 months to clear up. But finally! Here we are and we may have a double closing on the same day. Months of pure frustration will suddenly be over. It will be good to close a bad chapter and move on.
I am crossing my fingers double triple quadruple. Cause if the lawyers call us Monday and tell us there is some other problem- that the title company has changed their mind again or some such nonsense I will seriously stab myself. Well not really, but there is only so much patience one person can have.
Oh yeah, and I think I started having hot flashes. I thought at first that I was just having anxiety attacks while I was simultaneously really freaking hot. Which actually could be the case; but it is quite strange and I'm wondering if it could actally be possible that I'm having some peri or pre or whatever early symptoms of menopause. Sigh.

I'm awfully sluggy. Didn't get a damned thing done today except for cooking dinner and supervising packing.

Well, actually, that's not bad, all things considered, but I don't like the fact that I'm feeling sleepy when I shouldn't.

Tomorrow should be interesting. We leave for Minneapolis in the morning. I'll get up fine, but I'll leave the first driving stint to B, because I'm not going to be too with-it. I would just go buy a big ol' slug of coffee and jack myself up, but coffee has exactly no effect on me. I could drink coffee until my eyeballs floated and I would still be sitting around sleepy. That's probably just as well, seeing as how caffeine is one of the things they warn us off of, but it is a nuisance when I really need to wake up.

The last couple of times we went up, we spent time with all sorts of people. This time, it's just family and Nicole's family. We're only going to be there for three days, and I haven't had much time with M's and his family; the two days in Pa. didn't count, because we were surrounded by legions of family both days.

I wouldn't skip Nicole unless I really had to, either. I love spending time with her, her husband likes B, the kids all adore each other. Plus, it would reallly hurt her feelings if we didn't get out there. What with the chronic migraines and the meds she's on, she doesn't get out a whole lot, and there are a lot of people who get impatient with the fact that you pretty much always have to go to her rather than the other way around, and that if she's sick enough, she'll cancel at the last minute if she has to. I, on the other hand, know what it's like to be chronicly ill, and I know how much every little human contact means. I'll make it out to Nicole's come hell or high water. Besides, she's had a bunch of work done on her sleeve since the last time I saw her, and I want to get a look at it! Can't see the ink over the phone.

I wonder what we'll spend the weekend doing? There's some kind of craft fair out where Nicole lives, so that takes care of Saturday (that, and hanging out). Friday and Sunday belong to the family, and since they know Minneapolis better than we do, they should have some good ideas. They're the kind of folk who will make plans and get up and go, too.

It has just occurred to me that at some point I have to write down phone numbers and print out directions. I hope we don't have to get to Nicole's place via the 35W bridge, but I don't think so. Better deal with that now.

Two days & I don't know if they'll renew our contingency again. No buyers yet. No offers even. A "we'll get back to you sometime this week" -- that doesn't sound like anything to bank on.

I don't want to lose the house we have an offer on. I wanted this all done & us moved, or at least us moving, by now. I don't know what to do. Keep the house on the market & just move whenever we sell? Take the house off the market & face the potential of a slower season next spring? I don't know. I really just want it over & done. So badly. So very very badly. In time for M1 to start school at her new school in September. The whole thing is very discouraging.

"Do not forget. Remember and warn."
-- Plaque fixed to the hollow shell of Sarajevo's National Library

My baby boy is growing up. He has a job, pending getting his working papers.

Actually, I don't care whether my "baby boy" is growing up. I'm glad he's growing up, and I enjoy watching him mature and take on more responsibility. But I'm not thinking of him being tiny and being sentimental. He hasn't been my "baby boy" in a very long time. He's just who he is. I'm pleased that he has a job -- there are things he wants to do that we aren't going to, or can't, pay for, and it would be good if he saved something for college. I'm pleased that he's becoming increasingly mature.

I am also having a minor panic.

For one thing, I okayed him working on Saturdays. They don't need him during the day, and he can't work evenings during the week. If he wants the job, it's Saturdays or nothing. Usually, we try to keep Saturday free. It's clean-the-house day, and we like to be able to use our weekends as we please, without having to worry about missing something. I didn't have a chance to consult B about it, so I'm hoping he'll be okay with that. He won't be home until about 10:30 tonight, so I have to wait until forever to talk with him.

That's not really why I'm panicking, although I'm not sure Saturdays will work. I figure we can try it out, and if it doesn't work, he can quit.

Actually, what's really causing me upset is the fact that we have to get him working papers. For most people, that means going to the high school with the appropriate documents and getting the appropriate signatures.

That's what it means for us, too, but we're homeschoolers. I don't know anyone homeschooling in this area who has a working teen, so I don't know how cooperative the local school is with homeschoolers. The whole reason for going through the schools in the first place is that the schools have to give the okay to the academics, but that doesn't apply to homeschoolers. There is no requirement that homeschoolers in Illinois account for their kids' education, so there is no way to indicate that he is keeping up academically. Our family doesn't give grades, and we don't worry too much about what the kids did last week. We are concerned with what the kids are doing this week. The idea that they may require some proof that he's been "properly educated" flips me out.

If I stop and look at it logically, I can calm down. For one thing, the worst that can happen is he doesn't get his working papers and can't take the job. If that happens, we can decide whether to let it slide or to call Illinois HOUSE and consult. We'd probably contact the State Department of Education, because in effect, refusing to give him working papers would be discrimination against homeschoolers. But it won't affect our ability to homeschool.

So would my insides please, please quiet down.

B and I will fill out the working papers applications tonight. I will go to the bank and get the appropriate papers out of the safe deposit box tomorrow. I will call the school district to find out where to take the application. I will take P down to his hopefully employer so that he can fill out his paperwork and get a letter of intention to employ. I will take him to drop his paperwork off with the school district. I will, in fact, be just fine.

Just writing it out and looking at it with a little more distance helps.

But I'm still a little agitated, and I will continue to be agitated until my part is all taken care of.

It may make me a coward, but I really, really wish that B could be the one to tackle the school district. I'm not sure I'll know what to say if they want some documentation for his academics.

I could say, "Well, he's studying algebra. He's reading War and Peace in conjunction with studying Napoleon." (It would be interesting to see if the appropriate official knows why someone would read War and Peace while studying Napoleon.) "Every week he has to write a brief summary of what he's learned in history. He'll be studying science through a special program for homeschoolers at the local college." That covers the bases as far as the Illinois homeschooling law is concerned; as for how he's doing, do you think they would accept, "Trust me, the only reason we're even considering this is because he's a good student, and if his work slips, he'll be out of there so fast his head will spin!"?

Gonna go make some freezer meals.

I keep thinking that we ought to shop and spend a couple of hours some Saturday making up meals, but we never get to it, and frankly, these days I'm finding our meal choices to be most uninspiring. We're going to one of those assemble-your-own places. We've tried it before, and the food was good, different, really easy to put together (just think, meal prep with no shopping, no chopping, and, best of all, no cleanup) and not too expensive. Definitely less expensive than eating out.

Turns out that there's a second place in town that does the same thing; I found out about it when I got a gift certificate for three entrees from the library reading program. I guess we'll be trying them out, too. Their menu sounds good.

I really, really need to do some more thinking about food. Recently it's been increasingly middle American around here, and I am incredibly bored. I'd just suck it up if it weren't for the fact that food makes such a difference to how I feel. Boring food causes me trouble. A couple of times I've had trouble choking it down, but I know that I have to eat, or trouble is next on the menu.

Maybe I need to page through some of the zillion magazines that have recipes in them and keep my eyes out for some relatively simple recipes. I was flipping through Real Simple in the doctor's waiting room, and while the whole concept of the magazine cracks me up, they had some really easy, very tasty sounding recipes. Recipes designed not to involve cooking. Maybe I need to ask the secretary if she'll photocopy a couple of them, or if I can borrow the issue to copy the recipes.

We have whole wheat pasta around, and peaches are in season. We have lime juice. Maybe it's time to make the peach/chicken pasta salad, if I can find the recipe. Just, please gods, no more tuna casserole. It's good stuff, the way F makes it, but so dense. Not right for this weather at all.

Maybe I just need to look through my own recipe books and see what they say.

Part of what is going on is that I'm feeling limited by the whole triglycerides thing. There are so many things I can't eat. I get tired of trying to figure it out, and worrying that I might be eating something I shouldn't. And there are things I'd like to eat, like Chinese dumplings, that I can make with lots of veg in them and will eat under almost any circumstances, that I can't eat because as near as I can tell, there is no such thing as a whole wheat wonton wrapper. And so it goes.

We need eggs anyway; I should make sure we get to the farmer's market tomorrow. (I might try the one in the next town over next Thursday, if I think of it. Some of the vendors are the same, but some of them aren't. And that market doesn't allow stuff brought in from truck farms and so forth, so everything's local.) There's usually some stuff to keep me amused at the farmer's market. And we could get some corn. I wonder if it's okay for me to eat sweet corn?

I'm whining again, but for some reason, I can't seem to shake the self-pity where food is concerned. For heaven's sake, at least I *have* food, and good, healthy food. I don't have to pinch to feed the family. I can afford fresh food. I'm acting like a spoiled child, but I can't seem to *stop*. I have to figure out a solution and implement it, because I'm not going to be able to stand myself for much longer.

Right now, I'd love to go sit outside in the shade and have iced tea lemonade. Statement to self: then get off your but and make some Berry Zinger iced tea, at least. I'm starting to get tired of you.

Zach is away for 3 weeks. He is with my sister and will be going to Cape Cod then on a cruise to Bermuda with my mother. Zach is 11 and his independence cushioned inside his 11 year old vulnerability brings tears to my eyes. He is growing up quickly and slowly and I wonder where I am through it much of the time.
His brother is home. Sam is 6 and runs in circles and still talks gibberish to remind us of his equivocal diagnosis of PDD. He misses his brother and so do I.
Zach's absence leaves me reflecting on what it is to be a parent. Particularly a parent with depression. I have gotten in touch with enormous guilt. I feel I am passing on a terrible torch to my children - one that was passed on to me. I wonder if I am not active enough, not involved enough, not effusive enough. Just not enough. I love my sons to the point that it scares me but I am frightened of them too. They rely on me and I don't know if I am up for the job. Some days I come home from work emotionally exhausted from just being and all I want to do is sleep. They want more than that and I want to be more than that. How does one accept one's flaws as a parent and find the courage to change where change is needed?
Zach is gone for three weeks and one week has almost passed. I miss him more than I can say.

Regina
"Karma is a boomerang"

Conversely, once the deadline has passed, I'm dry.

In the weeks leading up to this deadline, I've written two other pieces. I've done 4 interviews unrelated to the big deadline (and one long interview that *was* related). I typed up, laid out and started xeroxing the latest issue of "Tenacious" (although the black cover isn't going to work for sending to inmate subscribers, so I had to redo it in white today). I caught up on my backlog of mail from women in prison and even managed to finally put together my package of radical parenting stuff for my papa-to-be friend squatting in Europe.

The last time I didn't feel like working on this article, I did the punks and poets zine, tracking down long-gone volunteers and hassling them to dredge up 15-year-old memories.

I think my article is done. I'm sick of looking at it and it's finally at the word count it needs to be (unless my editors tell me that endnotes count towards the word count. Then I'm screwed). The official deadline isn't until next Wednesday and not only are my eyeballs going to fall out if I have to look at it anymore, but I think I've burned out China on it by this point as well.

But, since the deadline isn't till Wednesday, I figured I'd set it aside until Monday and *then* look at it again. With fresh(er) eyes. Fix anything that seems grammatically problematic or just doesn't need to be there and send it off. Done done done. Two years of work finally sent off.

I should be relieved. Now I can turn my eye towards that book proposal idea, reread the two chapters I chose as sample chapters and get that ready to send off. (I remember last month, around this time, I was mulling over whether I should start revamping those chapters or if I should concentrate on finishing this article or if I should start a whole new project. I did the second and third and now can turn my attention to the first. This one has no deadline though since the publisher I'm looking at has no idea that I even exist yet. But I should give myself a deadline and get cracking on it)

I guess that's what I can do at work tomorrow, assuming it's not unsufferably hot and humid or that workmen aren't coming in and out making a racket behind my head. This afternoon, as I was leaving, the air conditioner in the room next to me started making a rattling noise. Then a giant cloud of white smoke blew out of a vent into the airshaft, floating past my office window. I went and found the office manager and we opened the door to the air conditioning unit. It smelled a little burned, but we couldn't find a fire or anything hot inside. We turned it off anyway and she called the repairpeople.

But that might mean that tomorrow is a day with folks walking in and out of my office, making a lot of noise and carrying lots of stuff that's going to make the place seem even more claustrophobic.

on the brighter side, I could always take my manuscript and retreat to the library next door where there *is* air-conditioning even if it means putting up with someone trying to surreptitiously talk on their cellphone while messing around on their laptop or someone unsurreptitiously snoring over a newspaper.

In any case, I should put the sample chapter that I want to work on into my bag *now* so that I don't forget in the morning.

Sometimes paper is the only thing that will listen to you.

I'm living in a land before time. Living in and LOVING Telluride Colorado. I'm working in the personel office for the Telluride Film Festival.
I LOVE IT!
I am going to take over payroll soon, love my job, have a sweet ass condo situation, surrounded by very cool peeps: The 2007 Dog Team.
www.vespuccidogs.blogspot.com
I will have the opportunity to help with projection during the pre-festival staff screenings! I may have a chance to learn film inspection!
This is the dream. THE DREAM.
And here I am kidless for 7 weeks...5 and a half more to go, and damn it I am loving this.
But, I don't have much to say right now....
My brain is calm and quiet.

Yesterday was not good. The weekend was good, Monday was excellent, and reality came back home to roost yesterday. I spent half the day asleep, and the other half in a fog. I hate it when that happens. I am stable, damnit. Why do I still sometimes have to go through this?

Today is better. I didn't get up right away, but I'm up, and while I'm not getting anything in particular done, I'm not lying on the couch asleep, either.

I should probably do my research and talk to my psychiatrist about another visit to the sleep lab. The neurologist she recommended doesn't participate with my insurance (I am getting very tired of that phrase), so I need to find out where I *can* go. I have a bad feeling that it will mean traveling some ridiculous distance, rather than fifteen minutes to the doctor my psych recommended.

I still can't get up consistently in the mornings. I wake all right to the alarm, but I still feel tired, and if I don't go back to bed for some more time, I tend to crash later in the day, unless something very stimulating is going on. If something is going on, I'll pay for it later. I suspect that's what happened yesterday. So I think that something is happening when I sleep to prevent me from getting decently rested.

I know that I wake in the night, sometimes two or three times. Of course, it could be grogginess from the sleep med that's keeping me in bed in the morning -- once or twice, when I've forgotten it, I've woken up pretty perky -- but I don't sleep much at all without the sleep med. No matter how good I feel in the morning, more than one night of that and I'm terminal.

It's frustrating. I've never been one to fall asleep the moment my head hits this pillow, but I used to sleep through the night and get up at a decent hour in the morning. I want to say to whatever runs the universe, "Why is this happening to me?" Of course, I don't much think that there's anything running the universe, so my question is addressed more to myself than to anything else.

Recently I've been waking up with an uncomfortably dry mouth and needing a drink of water before I can go back to sleep. I've also been waking up in the morning with a headache that feels like a hangover. (At least, I think that's what a hangover feels like. Never been hung over.) I'm told that hangovers result at least in part from dehydration, so I'm wondering if I need to drink more water.

*sigh* I get tired of "I need to." I need to make a commitment on this one, though, the same as I made a commitment to the no-sugar thing. It's a little harder, though -- giving up sugar is a matter of refusing it when it pops up, and we don't keep it around the house. Drinking water is a matter of constantly remembering to get it and then to drink it. It's a little harder. I learned to do it with meds, though, so I should be able to do it with water if I decide I want it.

I think B was disappointed when he called at lunch time and asked what was going on today. I filled him in on the girls -- they have a friend over -- and then said, "Nothing," for me. He knows that if I'm doing things, it's a good sign. He knows yesterday wasn't good, although I rather carefully didn't tell him how groggy I was, and I suspect he was hoping that I'd be having a day more like Monday.

I have to go get my driver's license renewed. B's birthday is the day after mine, so he needed to renew his, too. I mentioned that I wasn't looking forward to having to drag myself into the driver's center, and he said I could renew online. I was relieved; I don't like dealing with things face-to-face if I can avoid it.

Turns out, however, that since I had a chargeable ticket from the accident a couple of years back, I have to go in and renew in person. You only get to renew online if you've been good for four years. Poof on that. I'll gather up my shreds of courage and go do it tomorrow if I can. The sooner, the better, or I'll brood myself into misery over it. Gotta remember to clean my glasses, too -- I have to take a vision test.

We spent the early afternoon at the big annual picnic for the kids' martial arts federation. It was blazing hot and so humid that I dripped even though I was standing still, and I panted enough in the heat that I actively entertained fearful fantasies of collapsing with a heart attack.

It was still fun watching practically every kid in the place tackle the climbing walls, and they had good kimchee and bulgogi. (When the founding Grand Master of the style is Korean, still alive and living in your area, you have an excellent chance of getting food beyond the traditional hamburgers and hotdogs.) I love kimchee, although I'll admit that the kimchee I love isn't as hot as more traditional kimchee probably is. But I'd be surprised to get really hot kimchee out here in Bland Land anyway.

It shocked me when our own sensei's wife told me they had "hot" Italian sausage and it turned out to be really, truly hot. Usually, "hot" Italian sausage around here is a little spicy, but really not particularly zippy. P will usually eat "hot" sausage here, but he took one bite of this and put it down, looking very unhappy. I'd managed to get mild, more or less randomly because they were mixed together (he would not have deliberately taken hot given the mild option), so I swapped, and everybody was happy.

We've finally, finally managed to get in touch with my big brother and make arrangements for our trip to visit him and his family. It's been phone tag all the way. To be honest, I was surprised when my sister-in-law answered the phone this afternoon, because I'd begun to suspect that we were fated never to arrange this trip. But we're good to go.

Yesterday was a really long day. I got up first thing in the morning, which I never, ever do, because we were planning to have a bunch of people over for a picnic. B was planning to cook ribs, but he'd originally said he'd boil them Friday and roast them Saturday morning. He spent all day Friday doing other things, including several hours Friday evening watching the girls test in judo. I had a feeling that his brain had done a bunk on this one, so I got up early and sure enough, he'd forgotten. That's unusual. Usually it's me with the scrambled memory, not him.

I don't know quite how to describe this, but I was so competent all day. I chopped ribs and wiped counters and directed kids and you name it. By the time the guests arrived, everything was done, and B hadn't had to scramble around trying to keep up, because for once I was keeping up. It was the same when everybody left. B started cleaning up, and I just joined him, and shooed the kids off to bed with no trauma, and everything was just so completely stress-free compared to what I'm usually like when we have a group of people over that I'm still not sure I believe it. I was with it and motivated in spite of not really having any more energy than I usually do. It was practically miraculous. But I sure am tired today. I guess that the rule of "pay for a good day with a bad day" is still in force, although it sure is a lot milder than it used to be. I'm just tired, not miserable.

I'm craving more kimchee. I didn't have enough available to drink at the picnic, so I didn't have as much salty kimchee as I would have liked. It's a shame, since there was extra.

Actually, I'm craving having someone who is good with vegetables and spices and cooking food that isn't just same old same old come cook for me. If I lived in a more diverse area, I might go out and pick up food, but around here, practically everything is chain. I could go get Thai later, if I'm still hungry and get motivated. I can't eat it over white rice, but there's nothing to say I can't cook brown and eat it over that. The rest of the family will eventually eat the white rice -- they all enjoy the change.

I wonder if I need to start digging through the cookbooks again. Time to dig out Cooking the Whole Foods Way, maybe -- I don't feel like eating vegetables and grain with cheese. No cheese. I want milk with tea, maybe, but no cheese. It might be time to go hit the specialty market for more interesting vegetables, too. I've missed the farmer's market for the week, but the specialty store, while it's more expensive for practically everything else, is very inexpensive for veggies, and has all sorts of interesting stuff.

Or maybe there's a ripe tomato in the yard. There are green tomatoes everywhere, but the ripe ones are trickling in one at a time, the little tiny Fourth of Julys only, none of the bigger tomatoes. And no yellow pear tomatoes, either. A handful of nice, ripe yellow pears would be nice right about now. So different from supermarket tomatoes.

Given that I have had plenty to eat today, there is no reason for me to be this obsessed with food right now. But I might go look for something veggie to eat. I've been feeling a little sorry for myself, deprived because it can be so darned hard finding food that I can eat with the no-sugar, no-refined carbs thing. And no hard cider. I'm feeling all wounded about that, too. Mostly, I wish I knew whether this was accomplishing anything, but I won't know for more than six months, when we do the next set of blood tests. If I'm doing all of this for nothing, I'm going to be very sulky about it. Not worried about the health results, which is what I should be thinking about, but sulky that I've made sacrifices for nothing.

Goodness. I wonder if whine is low-carb? I hope so, because I certainly have a lot of it today.