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I have thought about it and worried about it and conferred with close friends and have now come to the conclusion that

I am afraid of journalling.

Not afeared of the blogging because hello, here I am. Blogger isn't sitting there keeping statistics, telling me with each passing day (24 at last count) how I'm falling down as a writer. Luckily, I am able to foist the blame where it belongs.

I found a cool new portal and I can't even sign up because of my inability to update with interesting and timely entries at least four times a week.

The content on said portal is great and I've been growing my Bookmarks file on a scale not seen since the early days of the love of my UBB life. Far and away the best of the bunch are Pauly and Meme & Co. Go, read, enjoy, bookmark.

Their writing is such high quality stuff (come on, "No, You May Not Suck My Toe", or, "If I Was a Pirate Psychologist"?) that mine seems more akin to reading the back of the cereal box. I've appealed to my notify kids for prompts and have received a number of excellent suggestions but it's that first step being the doozy that's stumping me.

I think I used to be funny. I know I used to be verbose.

Auntie? Pick up!

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"Where were you?"
"Far from the phone."
"But where?"
"In your uncle's wingchair, pushed all the way back."
"It took you way too long to get to the phone."
"Can we start this conversation now please?"
"Okay, but man, you're slow. Do you know that?"
"Hanging up now."
"Are you sick or stiff or something? It shouldn't take that long to cross a room."
"So, thanks for calling!"
"No, wait! What are you doing?"
"I think we've been over this."
"Okay, what are the dogs doing?"
"Watching me eat and praying for crumbs."
"What's uncle doing?"
"Working."
"He works a lot. Are you poor? Do you need money, because you can have what's in my piggy bank if you want. Not my bank account, though."
"Thanks, babe. We'll manage."
"So, I want to come over. On Saturday. I'll have Mom call and tell you what time to come and get me. Do you have Kraft Dinner or should I bring my own? And don't forget to fix up my bed."
"..."
"Okay? I'm coming over Saturday, okay?"
"Okay, then. Call me as soon as you have a time for me to come and collect you."
"'Kay. Should I say an earlier time than I want, in case you take longer than I think to drive over here? Because, you know how slow you are."
"Good NIGHT."

Forty-six days ago: I put in an order for some imps. The novelty of rushing home after work each day to find nothing is wearing thin.

Thirty-nine days ago: I began this temp gig, a new diet (way of eating, not way of starving) and The Great Austerity Program of 2005. My assignment has been extended for two more weeks because they have great love for me and my mad skillz, the cherry tomatoes, seedless green grapes and water have been helping my squishy waistline and my bank account is finally getting some colour in its cheeks. TGAP is only in effect until Labour Day (according to The Boy, who sets the rules insofar as household cash is concerned), so I'm patiently counting down to my Am@zon, L'Occitane and Merrell orders.

Fourteen days ago: I was sitting at my desk not bothering anyone when this odd sensation of hot stabbing knives hit me right in the throat. It didn't waste any time splitting in two, moving from throat to head and chest. My cotton head lasted about three days and actually saved me from having to do some filing grunt work since the ladies in the office knew my equalibrium was off. Huzzah! Let the 18-year-old work study peon do that shit, I say. However, possibly as karmic retribution, the chest/bronchitis/phlegm thing settled in for the duration and lingers to this day. I've tried various and sundry remedies, none of which have chased away the goo sad to say. What's interesting is that, not unlike hiccup cures, everyone seems to want to put in their two penneth.

Grain alcohol tops the list, interestingly. The Boy's mother heard my moose-calls last Sunday and as we were leaving she pulled me aside and thrust a pint jar of something dark into my bag.

"One shot glass of this will let you get some well-needed rest. If you must, you can dilute it with some hot water." Translation: if you're going to be a wuss about the whole thing I can't stop you.

Anyone who has been reading me from way back over at the journal knows she makes this heinous blackcurrent liquor concoction in her back room. Lots of gin, apparently. And boy-howdy, does that stuff pack a punch! I had to throw back the shot with my nose plugged, and it's a damn good thing I was already parked on the chesterfield since I was out like the proverbial light within in minutes. This stuff works better than NeoCitran!

Today I am only coughing sporadically, which is good since my throat cannot take much more trauma. Also, I've finally discerned the path this virus wants to take from my body. It seems to be looking for sun and surf, since it's decided to go south.

I don't think there's a liquor in the world that'll help me with that one.

Secrets (no Lies)

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For as long as I can remember, my Mother has tried to act as my role model for all things appropriate. Thank you cards, the correct way to answer the phone, levels of obligation for the attendance of certain social functions, she was the Go To Lady. She also served as my personal stylist for the first 29 years of my life, bless her. That woman could sit at the kitchen table having her breakfast and reading the morning paper, look up to see me whip around the corner in some thrown-together ensemble and shoot it down with a facial twitch or one eyebrow. She was good.

If she knew what was happening today, her entire face would go into spasm.

I don't have a lot of clothing lately, what with the destitution and the fat and all. I don't feel like shopping and that's good because I don't have the means anyway. I hate my body and my pores and the fact that I get about one good week out of a hair appointment before the cursed silver strands peek out from my skull and ruin what was a very very good look for me. It's all rather disheartening.

So, I must be rather clever in the way I put together a week's outfits. I try not to duplicate colours two days in a row, to dress in accordance with the weather and weed out those articles that are shrinking ohmygodwhat'swrongwiththewashingmachineit's shrinkingeverying!

This morning I opened the door to the armoire to see if through the night any lovely faeries had made me anything new, left on scented hangers and tied up with pretty bows to make me smile. Hmmm, nope; guess I have to deal with all the tired stuff I had yesterday. So, bottom: my swingy black crepe dress pants. On top: tomato red shirt with daring neckline? Nah, long sleeved, not good for sickening heat. Green boatneck? Nah, I'm wearing khakis and green tomorrow. Hey, what's this? My cool safari bowling shirt, complete with zebras and leopards and giraffes (oh my)? Seriously, it's demure. It is. It IS. They're all lazing in the tall grass and it's all muted colours and I love it. So good, choice made. It even looked good.

While standing up.

Once I hopped into Pepe and started to back out of the laneway I noticed some pretty serious tugging around the backs of my arms. I glanced down and saw huge gaping holes, dramatically showing off my very attractive belly fat here, there and everywhere. A quick time check told me there was no way to go back and rectify the situation without being late for work. I would have to spend the rest of the day paying close attention to my posture, lest I gross out my colleagues.

At work, I skittered into the washroom and considered my options. Then it hit me: this strapless bra is one size bigger than I am now; maybe it's just too much fabric? I ducked into a stall and removed the offending item. I felt much better and things didn't seem to be straining so much. I stepped out of the stall and timidly checked the mirror: better. Marginally. Then I saw that the pattern of the blouse didn't quite cover up the fact that the air conditioning was very effective in this part of the building. Bandaids? Maybe, but I'll have to find them later, I have to get back to my office.

So here I sit, my bra in my bag, the girls forced to be Out There and Vulnerable. The one saving grace in all this is that I'm slated to go directly to my Mom's after work tomorrow. And tomorrow kids, I'm going to be wearing some seriously boobie-appropriate clothing. Trust me.

Pop, pop, snort, snort, oh what a relief it is!

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Isn't it amazing that the breadth and width of our world view narrows so much when we are ill that the mere popping of one's ear or the sudden ability to breathe out of one's right nostril is cause for tears? And maybe a parade?

So, it's just me then?

Enough

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I don't know if it's this oppressive heat or the fact that so many things in my life right now are obstacles to be overcome instead of welcoming, open doors with smiling happy people inside but I've had enough. Enough of rude people, enough of poor grammar, enough of people who don't care that they're being rude or have poor grammar. Enough.

This applies in its most pronounced form to my Bookmarks list. Really well-known, talented writers of journals and blogs whom I have read in some cases for many years are getting on my last nerve. I think it's a basic consideration when you're publishing for the masses that you should stop and think, even if it's for a second, about what you're saying. Your words represent you to hundreds, maybe thousands of people who will probably never meet you in person. Your 3-dimensional personality and character radiates quite differently when you're being sarcastic, flip, ironic or even eloquent. Anyone who's ever participated in a real-time online chat session knows that typing as fast as your mouth would speak in a face to face conversation (sans editing) will one day come back to bite you in the ass, hard.

Now it's possible the heat has addled them to an extent and they're just mouthing off in a comfortable and secure forum they feel is their own and should therefore be filled with their thoughts and feelings of the moment. Justifiably so, I say. I'm well aware that my choosing to pass them over during the Parade of Bookmarks each morning doesn't make a tiny rat's ass of difference to them. Still, I can't help but feel let down by some of the crap I've been reading lately. It's like the internet got collectively lazy over the past month or so; entries for entries' sake if you will.

It's also possible that everything is cyclical and I will come around to reading them again in a few months after my state of disgruntlement has passed.

Time to get down from my high horse and continue my day. Thank you for your time and consideration.