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Last night, I dreamed about dating Stephen Colbert.   It was sexy in a very farcical kind-of way.  I was disappointed that we didn’t make love.

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Amityville?  Maybe.

Deranged husband?  Not so nice.

Especially when he left little sticky notes around the house saying things like “Write.  Read.  Garden.  Relax.”  Now I’m a real schmuck.

In other words, I am sitting in the glider brought from Silas’ room to our room watching our son asleep in our bed.  (It was Daddy night as I was off performing in my first improv show in months.)  He’s gorgeous and it is hard to imagine that he once lived inside my body.  Plus, he’s such a ball of peace when he’s sleeping. 

My improv show went well.  I’m tired.  I really just wanted to state my, uh, apology, and make sure I was on my blog today.  Off to a novel and some beddie bye…

First let me not recommend The Other Boleyn Girl—novel or film.

That said, it is garden time again.  Thank God.  The lilacs are blooming and I’ve got kale in the ground.  Life seems good.  Or, at least better.

Recently, in couple’s therapy, I stated, with no humor in my voice, that living in our house is like living in Amityville.    This house that seems to be constantly mutating but never really improving,  this house that seems to have possessed my husband with a deranged adderal-driven handyman who cannot finish what he’s started, this house in which the evil stifles me as me walk through the front door and holds me in its depressive clutches until I leave again.

At least, it lets me leave.

For now.

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About a month ago, I spent a good 24 hours detoxing in the most primitive of ways: vomiting every last nutritive (and non-nutritive) fiber stored, however temporarily, in my upper digestive system while simultaneously (well almost simultaneously praise the lord!) urinating out my behind.

It was a lovely, lonely, humbling experience.

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The studio formerly known as “my yoga studio” which is certainly now someone else’s yoga studio has a cute little framed picture of a dancing bear above the toilet.  I don’t usually go for the dancing-bear-in-frame motif, but above this this particular teddy (one might have once referred to it as “my teddy”) are the words: Remember to use positive affirmations.  I am not a dork is not one of them. 

I always chuckled at this little ha-ha because “I am not a dork” is my kind of affirmation. Along with:  I am not a loser.  I am not a cow.  And, I am not destined to be another slug popped and gutted under the iron heel of mediocrity.

When I try on phrases such as: I am hip.  I am sexy.  I am both intelligent and talented and am a virtual giant of creativity.  I just sound like a fraud.

(Yeah, I should also try on the phrase “Even though I’m a language arts teacher, I don’t know a good goddamn about grammar.”  Yes, that explains the odd jumble of colons and periods and the lack of quotation marks or whatever.)

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