It has been a slow and quiet day for me. My hips have been flaring with pain and I, in my innate and powerful wisdom, decided that a four-mile walk would be the best thing for that.
Well. Maybe not.
I do not, however, have a cold. I think I just have a whatever-it-is that comes upon me sometimes and makes my body hurt and my eyes ache and my mind melancholy and most apt to eat itself with doubt.
I think it's a virus. I swear. I think I have a mental illness virus. There is really no other explanation.
Whatever. I have made soup. Too, too much soup. Of course. Would you be surprised if I hadn't?
And bread. And too much of that, too. The soup is chicken and carrots and celery and bay leaf and four kinds of peppers and tomatoes and garlic and more garlic and onions and more onions and wild rice and brown rice and if that doesn't do it, then just dig a hole and shove me in.
The bread is oatmeal, whole wheat, and white. It is rising into pretty loaves.
I've read today. A book with my eyes. And am still listening to the John Irving thing. After I finish it (and I will finish it) I am going to have to reread Terms Of Endearment or Duane's Depressed or some other Larry McMurtry book to bring me back to myself. Thank god I have that option. Mr. Moon and I are leaving on Thursday for a little anniversary trip to a beach, perhaps, or somewhere, at least and as he drives, I think I will actually read him Duane's Depressed because he has finished Texasville and DD is next in the series. I love this book. It's about a middle-aged man whose children and grandchildren and wife and old lovers and oil business and debts and friends and community are all pressing down on him so heavily and so steadily that he has to slip out and away and he puts his truck keys in a dish on a high shelf and he begins to walk everywhere he goes and he goes to a cabin way out of town and he gets a therapist who advises him to read Proust.
I mean really- have you ever in your life heard of a better plot line than that?
I think not.
I've probably read that book five times already. I can't wait to read it again.
So. That's it. I really am wearing blue linen and tomorrow I'm pretty sure that my boys are coming here before dawn so I won't have time to be achy or melancholy. I will be doing puzzles and changing diapers and having deep and solemn discussions about poop. I will be nuzzling and smooching. I will be slicing apples and perhaps we shall even make muffins.
I will be taking Ibuprofen. If I need it. And I may not even need it.
Did you hear Obama explain submarines to Mitt Romney last night? Did you hear Mitt say that he wanted to promote gender equality in the middle east?
Okay. That's all. I have a viral mental illness. Let's just leave it at that.
Talk to you tomorrow.