Saturday, September 22, 2018


Work seems to have tipped me over the edge into a vortex of anxiety, and that anxiety has kicked up some voilent and debilitating insomnia, which has in turn rendered me spectacularly and endemically anxious.  At least I'll probably lose weight?

Now I'm struggling against a cycle in which I'm terrified not to sleep, so I watch myself trying, so I don't sleep, etc.

But honestly I think this began as dread of the kind of busy I've been for the past few years, then busy in which there is no mental space to write or think, and in which I react to any interruption or thieving of my time with the viciousness of a cornered ferret.  (Why are vicious and viscous so close in spelling?  It's like a booby trap for tired writers.)

In heading back to my speech job, plus another child, I worry I'm headed there again, and it appears to have tipped me over a particularly nasty edge.

Nevertheless, life goes on.  

Friday, September 14, 2018

Suit Up

I'm back to work full time next week.  I've been back part time for about six weeks, and, truth be told, it's lovely.  I wish everyone had the means to work 20 or 25 hours a week- it's the sweet spot in which I feel most like a human being.  But few people are able to afford that kind of schedule. And, alas, I'm not one of them, at least not long-term.

 So Hi Ho, Hi Ho, etc.  I remember how strapped for time I felt in the spring (and, to be honest, for at least half a decade prior), and anticipate how strapped I'll feel soon. Being short on time makes me jealous of it, and exceptionally angry at people and tasks who take up mine.  That's not the happiest place to live, though it is (I speak from experience) better than having nothing to do.

Back on the horse.

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Om Nom Nom

I have fallen in love.  The object of my affection is, I'll grant you, a trifle more cerulean than my usual crushes.  He's got more fur and fewer pronouns.  His sock puppet physique and lurching gait  distinguish him in the panoply of my unrequited tendres.

Oh, Cookie Monster.  It's you.  

As a child, I found Cookie Monster terrifying.  I much preferred Big Bird, whose dutiful monologues mirrored my own conscientiousness, or Bert and Ernie, whose gentle yet unremitting conflict, as eternal as the tangling of night and day, echoed my family life.

Cookie monster's untrammeled appetite disturbed me.  His frenzy was too close to my experience of childhood, the way feelings like sadness and fear and especially rage would devour me, roaring and gobbling, until there were only crumbs.

As a preschooler, you struggle to control your emotions.  As an adult, loss of control is a luxury you cannot afford.

I think this is why, as I approach middle age, I find Cookie Monster thrilling.  He arrives.  He eats.  He vamooses.  His life is a paean to unchecked desire at a time when my own life, as working parent of small children, is a giant to-do list.  Cookie monster does not interrogate or modulate or dissemble or temper or reflect.  He does not take deep breaths or put on his game face or do what he has to do. He simply shows up and eats all the cookies. It's dynamite!

In my real life, I'm on a diet.  No cookies or alcohol or sweets of any kind as I attempt to shed post-pregnancy weight.  But in my heart- oh, in my heart, I'm devouring.

Tuesday, September 11, 2018


I've learned I'm grinding my teeth at night.  The behavior has consequences- the tension in my jaw radiates down my neck and back and up into my forehead, and apparently my teeth are slowly being destroyed.

I'd get more worked up about this if I weren't generally hurtling toward death and debility at an ever-increasing rate.

Still, I wish there were some way we could excise the parts of ourselves that do us no good, cutting away the rot so the rest could heal. 

Monday, September 10, 2018


You really can't ever rest.  Yesterday was puke and mold and wet carpet and snot, and this will cost me worry and cash, outlays I don't particularly wish to afford.

On the other hand, the sky is a deep, autumnal blue.

Saturday, September 8, 2018


Rain coming, buckets and basins and bathtubs full.  I vacillate, as I always do, between excitement and dread.  There's a piquancy to experiencing adverse weather from within the shelter of human habitation- it's a manageable thrill like, a mystery novel or a defanged snake.  But there's also the grind of being penned in with small and busy children when all you want to do is adjourn to bed with coffee and a book.


Six Words

One of the last slow days.