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The heat is on and it is quarter-to-three in the morning.  I am in my red-and-black checked flannel nightgown and am wearing some knitted socks with jingly wreaths on the side of them.   And, I’m about to make some friggin’ hot cocoa.

Yeah, it’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

(Don’t vomit.  I know it’s not even Halloween yet!  But, we are on that holly jolly slippery slope to Merryland!!!)

(I am a Christmas freak by the way.)

In the spirit of almost-Christmas and in my new attempts to look at the light at the end of the tunnel, I am going to talk about our kitchen as if I were to actually like it.

The new and improved look. (more…)

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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Yeah, I wish I were writing this because I did, indeed, demolish something.  A junk car, perhaps.  With a can a kerosene and a hot match.  A pile of sexist propaganda.  The smile off of Sporticus of Lazytown’s too-handsome superhero face.  (Even though I did catch myself in the middle of a fairly indecent display of my inner groove-thang during the ‘Let’s Bake a Cake’ song as I searched for the remote so I could –reluctantly???-turn the creepy show off.)  Or, even better, maybe I could take claim for the demolition of our kitchen using only my two practiced hands, a hammer, and a putty knife.

But, no.

Instead, this evening, I ate dinner out of a Zoo Pals turtle bowl cross-legged in a pile of mashed flax flakes on the Oriental rug on the living room floor.  And, yeah, I was drinking organic french wine from a Burt and Ernie cup.

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