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It’s just maddening to have so little time to sit and think. Or type. Or knit. I’m feeling unhappy about it.

The best thing that happened is that the Neighborhood Watch big meeting is over and it was easy. I screwed up by not getting the post cards printed and I feel bad about that. But I just can’t handle everything and expect something to not fall through the cracks.

This weekend was filled with cool things. I only wish I’d not been sick so I could appreciate them more.

It was my youngest daughter’s birthday and I was able to bake her a lovely yellow layer cake with lemon frosting. She had pizza and a slumber party. They were well behaved for the most part. It was a lot of energy and hullabaloo for me.

Sunday we went out to distribute flyers for the Neighborhood watch meeting. It was a lovely day. Spent sometime with friends having coffee and I made lasagna in my slow cooker – really – I did.

Now I am exhausted. I’m thinking I need a restorative weekend. I’m going to have to work on that.

I other knitting news – there isn’t any. I haven’t picked up needles in over a week, bewteen the cold and the colonoscopy and Marc’s visit. But it’s OK. I’ll pick them up soon. Instead I used my water color pencils to draw some of the oregano I’d bought for the lasagna. It was fun. It takes a lot of time and observation that deep takes energy. Something I’m very low on right now.

I’ll get home early today and maybe nap.

OK, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m speaking metaphorically here, about slipping the bonds of spiritual and emotional captivity. That wet sloggy feeling I’ve been having, due almost entirely to my whoremones. I feel as though I’ve been shipwrecked on Skull Island from the latest remake of King Kong – or the Pacific Northwest, they look a lot alike this time of year.

Eventually I return to my sunnier self who regains an interest in conversation outside of monosyllabic grunts. I stop eating in a manner that more closely resembles a rabid monkey who has discovered, after being locked in a cage foodless for a week, a cache of potato chips, bon bons and layer cake whose icing has been applied with a mason’s trowel. I can restrain myself from rolling my eyes at the foolish and irritating things people say, such as Can I take you to lunch? or I love you Mom.

Those whores can moan – um I mean sing. They rap to me about my imminent firing for being the worst employee ever. Complete with driving beats, misogynistic lyrics and crotch grabbing. They warble endlessly about the wonders of sugar, or fat or salt as a food group. They perform an aria of exquisite beauty about the lack of affection and proper respect I receive from my progeny. Carmen would be proud.

As if all of this bounty wasn’t reward enough my face begins to pump out enough oil to rival all of OPEC. I woke this morning to a chin which more resembles a high school freshman classmate who had the nickname Pizza Face.

As suddenly as it comes, it goes. The clouds break, my children love me again. I’m no longer a workplace pariah. I deal with wrinkles instead of wrinkles AND pimples and I stop looking like Gollum over my 50 lb sack of chocolate chips, whispering My Precious…

They are coming back next month whether I invite them or not. The good news is I’ve survived my week of whoremone hell without happy pills and lived to tell the tale.

Life over here does not suck. Let me set that out there. I live in a warm home, we have plenty to eat. My children are healthy. My parents are still alive. Why does life seem so hard right now?

I feel barely human.

Once I head out to the different blogs I read, I see that I’m not alone. I have plenty of company. It’s a grey, dark, miserable time and I’m so thankful to have a warm place to hang and not be out on the street.

Hormones are doing a number on me, and I’m worried about the colonoscopy, not because I’ll be in pain, because I’ll be out. Because I don’t want to have to stop taking my vitamins that make me feel better and because there are dietary restrictions for a week. And the whole prep of taking a nuclear laxative is just unappealing to me.

I’m hoping I can wax poetic about the “clean ans a whistle” feeling I ‘ll have once I’ve shat my brains out.