Every weekend, when J is home, he buys copious quantities of bread which no-one eats. Guilt sets in when I start passing off half-mouldy bread as chicken food, so this morning I made french toast with challah for Minks, who is STILL sick. I still prefer eggy bread made with salt and pepper and lots of butter and isn't sweet at all, but she likes it sweet and vanilla-y and drenched in maple syrup. Despite enormous amounts of cold medicine, she is still with fever and miserable, her hair in two long braids to prevent it from knotting. I am pretty good at bring her ice water and salt water nasal spray and little bowls of orange and blueberries. Last night we had lamb chops and parsnips and watercress salad. For lunch today, wild mushroom soup. But I'm pretty crap at this full-time care. I haven't exercised since Friday when I fell off the horse and the dogs are staring me down to go for a walk. When she sleeps I rush to catch up with work, but today the sun is with us, so I must go out before my head explodes. My sense of humor has evaporated entirely, not helped I'm sure by not sleeping (3:38am reveille ce matin). I lay in the tub earlier, before Minks was up and after Ned had left for school, experimenting with how scorching the water could be before I could no longer bear it but I'd forgotten to let the dogs in so they were scratching and mewling at the door rendering the whole experience somewhat unrelaxing.
I read a very depressing article this morning entitled something like "It's true - middle age is depressing; the worst hits at 44". I almost posted it on Facebook but then I thought, OMG everyone's going to realize I am middle-aged when I do such a good job of covering it up with clever hairstyles and slimming dresses! The entire article is here. What a ninny!
Monica was here yesterday so I had breakfast with my friend BW (ha ha, there's three of us in this club, me, her and the lovely bart walker) at Le Pain Quotidien on Santa Monica. All three of her children are away at college and she tells me she gets very lonely in the canyon (she's two canyons west of us) with her ill-behaved corgis and husband who's away working all the time. I guess there's something to be said for having to go to an office every day. Certainly gets your Qi flowing.
People used to ask me "why do you blog" or "how can you be so honest when you know other people are reading it." I say, first, that I forget other people read this. It just becomes a dumping ground for everything going on in my head and I still don't edit it. And second, it helps me sort stuff out and makes me feel better. I know that it's more interesting or better written on some days and that on some days it just sucks, but because I think of it just for myself, I suppose, I think that's okay. It's a weird form of self-love or being okay with yourself I suppose. I pity people who stumble upon this and think it's this kind of self-indulgent crapazola every day.
It's time to take Minky to the doctor, poor little baby. More later (I feel better already!)
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