Well, I hear that there's some big awards show on tonight. That's the rumor, anyway.
I really have no idea who should win anything because I'm not sure I've seen but two of the movies nominated in any way. Grand Budapest Hotel and, well- was St. Vincent's nominated for anything?
I'm sure I could find out the answer in about two seconds if I only cared to look.
One of my favorite things about awards shows is the running commentary my friend Billy makes on Facebook. It's usually far more entertaining than the actual events. But honestly- I'll be lucky if I watch more than an hour of the show or read all of Billy's commentaries tonight.
It's been a bit of a difficult day for me and I have withdrawn into myself quite tightly and the idea of going to bed and sleeping under my covers even with the crazy bad dreams I've been having is a pretty enticing thought.
Until then, I'm cooking a big pot of greens from the garden with tomatoes and onions and I'm going to make a meatloaf and bake some potatoes. Food which is easy to make, easy to eat.
It was cathartic for me to today to read that article by Matt Haig and I read another article which made me laugh quite literally out loud. It is by Dave Barry and is about Fifty Shades of Gray, which I have not read.
I laughed. I cried. I cried some more.
I potted up a few of my rooted giant begonias today. I swept porches and watered plants. I spoke on the phone to Lily, to May, to Sarcastic Bastard. I spoke in person to my neighbor and of course, to my husband who really does not know what to do with me in this state. He is so kind and asks over and over if I need him to do anything. To take me somewhere for an outing, to stick close. I tell him no, I am fine, and I am. That I only need him to come home when he is done running errands and I am telling the truth and he does.
Last night I kept waking up and it was such a comfort to me to hear his soft snoring. I am the monster snorer in this house and I admit it, his snores more gentle. Maurice slept on my feet all night and I would hope she does so again. Night before last she stayed out until two when she knocked on the window above where I sleep and meowed and I let her in and fussed at her as if she'd been a teenager, out past curfew, worrying her mama.
The meatloaf and the potatoes are in the oven. The greens are simmering on the back of the stove. Tomorrow I have to go to my nurse practitioner to get bloodwork done for my hormone replacement thingees. She is trying out a new form of delivery for them, a grain inserted under the skin. I may try it. Who knows? But of course any visit to a medical practitioner makes me hugely anxious. And I have to call the dermatologist about two little places on my shoulder which are really nothing but don't go away. Are these tiny things the source of the anxiety I feel? Or is it just an accumulation of it all? Perhaps it is nothing but the time of year, the pull of the moon, the exact distance the sun measures from the earth. Perhaps it is the anniversary of the deaths of so many people I love. The hangover of worry about Mr. Moon's surgery. My fear that I am not taking enough care, spending enough attention on each of my beloved children. Dovey's death? Being at Kathleen's yesterday to do a little animal tending while Bug is out of town?
I just know that it will pass.
The little anoles are skittering about again. The frogs are calling again. In LA the limos are lining up to deliver our own unique American form of royalty to walk down the red carpet to be judged on dress, on jewelry, on hair, on thinness.
Shit. I'll probably have to get on a scale tomorrow. I will be told that it is time to repeat all of my bloodwork. That is time to get another colonoscopy. Oh, to be eighty and know that none of these things is really necessary any more. Which is a very sad thing to say, if you think about it.
Perhaps one of these days I will find a practitioner with whom I can feel comfortable. Compassionate and who really listens and does not suggest that all of my problems could be solved with supplements and perhaps hypnosis by an eighty-something year old man who creeps the shit out of me.
Is this too much to ask?
Perhaps it is.
At least I will see my boys again tomorrow which is such a pure and perfect thing. And May might possibly come out to visit. And of course there is bed and my husband and my cat and the sweet balmy air which I will open the window to tonight.
Let us have sweet dreams, dreams that represent the sweetness in our hearts and minds which is, despite all evidence to the contrary, very much still there, no matter what.