Music Monday: Morrissey (because Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now)

This is almost a standard Music Monday post, but with added whining. Fanfuckingtastic.

In the past week I've found myself in a place I haven't been in quite a few months. If I wasn't a registered, card-carrying infertile who doesn't have sex, I'd think I was pregnant considering how emotional I've been. Mornings have been difficult - I've felt hopeless and at a low point which I've been lucky enough to avoid for awhile. I don't want to speak to anyone, which proves to be a bit of a struggle when faced with an 8 hour work day, nor is The Dude very pleased by this. The only light in my day is P.

Only a couple of weeks ago I talked about how I relish my working days, as I need that time away from her. Apparently things change when you're in a bad place and I find myself needing to be around P all the time. I want to keep her close to me, and I have cried every morning when leaving her with my Mom. I have every confidence that she will be fine and have enormous amounts of fun, I just want to be with her. When thinking in ideal terms when trying to lift my spirits, the scenario I come up with is just P and me huddled together under a big, soft duvet all day, every day. Clearly, I'm a realist.

To add a further kick to the head, my iPod is missing. I had it going into my MIL's house today, but lost it in the short journey up the six steps leading into her house. Under ordinary circumstances I'd be disappointed, but get over it in 10 minutes. These things can be replaced. Under the new mood regime, this event sequestered me to my bedroom. For three hours. All this drama for such a middle-class, materialistic concern. I feel pathetic for even spending a moment lamenting its loss. I cried about it. Then I cried some more this evening because I feel like I've failed my Mom in this visit. I cried again because I failed P when I had nothing to make her for dinner, leaving the poor kid to eat a mixture of rice, tuna, and cheese. I cried five minutes ago watching a mum on TV talk about the pain her young daughter must go through due to a severe disability. I'm about to go to bed in a moment, and I will likely cry about setting the alarm for 7am.

I'm hoping this week will be better. I'm also enough of a realist to know it won't.

So, in honour of depressed miserabilists everywhere, I give you Morrissey, one of my very favourite performers. For the purist depressed miserabilists, I'm aware some of the songs are actually Smiths songs. Beat you to it.

Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now:

Irish Blood, English Heart:

Late Night, Maudlin Street:

Reel Around the Fountain:



I am the centre of my own universe

I could write about how I am struggling, really struggling, not to shout at my mom for telling me how to raise my kid. I could also write about my current anxiety levels about everything, a situation not made better by my mom's revelation that P's left foot turns in significantly when she walks. Instead, I'm going to focus on a meme, because at least that's light and jolly. I don't have to worry about people dying, or my child's seemingly gimpy foot.

Becky, a woman fond of thick black eyeliner, Berlin Wall-sized bangs, and acid-washed jeans (KIDDING), tagged me for this meme awhile ago, or at least it seems like awhile ago but probably isn't because she writes about 3 posts per day. Run-on sentence. I seem to think I've done it before as well, so I do apologise if I'm going overboard on the whole I'm-so-fucking-quirky-it-hurts thing.

The rules:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

I'm not so much for tagging, because it makes me feel like it's a popularity contest - who do I pick, and what if they don't know I tagged them because they don't read me anymore? I can't take the crushing blow of rejection, particularly at the moment. I'll just get all teary and listen to even more Iron & Wine, and my husband will blame all of you. I'll ponder the tagging aspect as I write.

On with the meme already, jesus...

1) Thanks to childhood fears, I still cannot expose my bare feet from underneath a blanket, nor can I allow my bare feet to venture even slightly under the bed. I do know nothing is likely to bite them, tear them off, or even lick them, but it still ain't happening.

2) Growing up, I had a deep fascination with the paranormal. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that I read every single in-print book on the subject. It was less about aliens and crop circles, more about ghosts. I even made my parents drive 2 hours out of the way during a driving trip through New England so I see a haunted theatre in Maine, a building I read about in my bible of the time, The Ghostly Gazetteer. Oddly, this interest didn't extend to actually wanting to be involved at all with ghosts, I was terrified of the notion. I used to get stomach cramps from nervousness whenever a Ouija board was produced at a party. To this day I enjoy reading ghost stories and watching programmes about them, but show me a Ouija and I'll throw up in your lap.

3) I briefly dated a guy in high school who had a threesome with one of my good friends and a girl two years younger than us. He apologised profusely as if that would do any good, and my friend cried and told me it "just happened", a likely excuse. You can see how people accidentally find themselves in the midst of a threesome with no clue as to how his penis got inside her, or how you ended up making out with some skank. I don't know about you, but I hate it when that happens.

4) I'm a major curtain twitcher. P's window provides the best view of the street, so I can regularly be seen peering out, just being a nosy bitch. During my maternity leave a guy in one of the flats opposite killed himself, and I spent two and a half hours standing at the window watching all of the relevant parties filter in and out. I see fights often after the clubs let out, drunk men glassed, and police with TV crews arresting the inebriated. Whatever will I do when I no longer live in a city?

5) I'm a realty addict. I spend hours perusing real estate websites and looking at pictures. I spend most of my time on www.mls.ca given the eventual move to America's Hat (again, kidding, I just love that expression), and, no lie, can spend at least 4 hours looking at hours. I also look locally, as well as the area around my hometown, just for fun. No, I really did say fun. Laugh if you must, but I have a cracking idea of the real estate market in Ontario, the south of England, and southcentral Pennsylvania. These are qualities which can get you far in life.

6) I don't drink, and won't get near The Dude after he's had a drink because I can't tolerate the breath of someone who has been drinking. My Dad is a recovering alcoholic, and when I smell stale alcohol on someone's breath I flash back to being young and in denial of my Dad's problem. I can't think of a smell worse than that of alcohol on someone's breath.

I'm going to break the rules and not tag anyone. I'm sure it will all keep going without me.

I'm off to spread my joy now.


Music Monday: Great Lake Swimmers

Before I launch into love talk about my Music Monday choice, the Great Lake Swimmers, I wanted to mention two things:

1) I was awakened at 5am today by some serious boinking going on in the neighbour's bedroom, which apparently shares a wall with ours. In fact, it appears the headboard mirrors our own, as my OWN BED WAS SHAKING due to the extreme thrusting. Add to that the female moans and occasional pleads to god, and I was without sleep for quite awhile. Seriously, who gets laid at 5am? I sure as hell never have, between the morning breath and the whole wanting-to-sleep thing, I could never be asked.

I watched the young lady's walk of shame to the waiting taxi later this morning, eagle-eyed, nosy neighbour that I am. I hope he at least made her breakfast.

2) You know that post I wrote about my Mom last week? Know how I mentioned the (thankful) lack of an r&b "If I Had a Hammer"? I just picked that song out of nowhere to make a point, and what bloody song do you think came on the radio at my in-laws' yesterday? Only, "If I Had a Hammer"! What are the odds? There was no booty dance, but because god hates me there was a sofa jive performed, which I could have totally done without. This just proves I am never safe. Where there's music, there will be a boogie. I'm fucked.

As it's Monday, onto the music, as promised. I've chosen one of my most favourite contemporary bands, the Great Lake Swimmers. I discovered them via Pandora.com (check it out if you reside in the US - the rest of you are screwed), which played their lush, gorgeous song, "I Could Be Nothing". That was it for me. I bought their first two albums and I couldn't adore them more if they were Morrissey. I love the lead singer's voice so much, I'd drop my panties for just one line of singing.

I don't think they sound like any other current musicians, but think along the lines of Iron & Wine or Will Oldham.


Your Rocky Spine -

Moving Pictures, Silent Films -

Various Stages -

I can't find videos for two of my favourites - the previously mentioned "I Could Be Nothing", and "I Saw You in the Wild". If you like what you've heard above, I can always send you some mp3s. I'm all about spreading the good word. GLS tour like it's going out of style, and they regularly play on the East Coast of the US. At the moment, they are opening for everyone's favourite Canadian - Feist.

To study up on GLS:





The trade-off

Am I right in thinking that many of you poor American saps have to work both today (Good Friday) and Easter Monday? Shiiiiiiit. What a raw deal. Come to England, land of 30 days of annual leave WHICH DOESN'T EVEN INCLUDE sick leave or standard/bank holidays.

As The Dude and I had a lovely, possibly relaxing four day weekend to look forward to, we went to the movies last night. My Mom's visit has its distinct advantages, I won't deny that. The Dude's panties are all in a bunch now because I refused to go see Rambo with him, but I allegedly expect him to go see the Sex and the City movie with me when it comes out in May.

I don't recall saying I would see Rambo with him, so deep runs my hatred for Sylvester Stallone. The violence, I could handle. I like good action movies, and I have a fondness for zombie movies, I can take it. Sylvester Stallone, on the other hand, I cannot stomach. I cannot believe people would willingly see any movie with a 30 year old Stallone, let alone 60 year old Stallone in his current state. Gross.

We saw Semi-Pro instead, and I'll just come right out and say it. I like Will Ferrell. There. I liked him back in the SNL days, and though I didn't dig Talledega Nights, I have enjoyed Anchorman, Old School, and Elf. So there.

So, I am now in a pickle. Yesterday was Rambo's last night in local theatres (oops), so I've screwed myself over in the SATC stakes. I suspect I could still get him to go with me in May, as all I would really need to do is have sex with him, and I would totally have hand. This is the simple option. However, if any of you find yourselves in the South of England in May, spare a thought for me. I could go see it with a person who actually liked the series and wouldn't give me drama over being dragged to see it, and I wouldn't have to have sex with my husband. We're all winners here. Hell, I'll even travel. I suppose sex in exchange for Sex and the City is a fair enough deal, but let's hope it doesn't come to that.


Here we go again

First of all, I know that survey might have been a bit of a struggle. I did it myself via another blog, and lord knows I suffered. It's a lengthy tome of a survey, so a big, wet, slobbery e-kiss to anyone who soldiered on and did it upon my request. Yes, that one person can sit down now.

The time has come again. The mother, she descends upon this fair isle tomorrow morning in a whirlwind of eccentricity, plum-coloured hair, and joie de vivre. Fruitbat will be here until the first of April, and, god willing, I will survive the duration of this visit. Matricide is a possibility, though as I have a kid now I shall try and stave off any murderous inclinations.

Do I have any wagers as to how long it will be until my flat ass is mentioned? My bet is that my Friday we will have established, for at least the fiftieth time, that my ass is indeed flat. We will then no doubt confirm that this is clearly not a genetic trait, as my Mom has "junk in the trunk", "draggin' a wagon", "got back", or some equally disturbing slang phrase that your mother should never utter in your presence. I can only hope that this will not then be paired with booty dances to a Usher/Ludacris song playing on the radio. The plans are to keep the internet radio on Folk Alley at all times. It is unlikely that there will be funky, R & B remixes of "If I Had a Hammer" which one can get down to.

I'm also betting on some clashes regarding the way I parent. P's lack of ability to tidily drink from an open cup is much maligned, and very few phone calls occur between Open Cup Shunner and the grandmother without this being mentioned. In my Mom's eyes, P's usage of Satan in the form of molded plastic with a lid is setting her up for a life of laziness and heavy reliance on others. Sippy cup = expecting Mom and Dad to clean your bedroom and do your laundry at the age of 32. It's a slippery slope, can't you tell?

I've already warned P that she needs to buck up in preparation for Granny Boot Camp, as my Mom takes no prisoners when it comes to toddler development. You either shape up and get with the 20 month old programme, or get to steppin'. Thankfully P is an able walker, runner, and climber. She has a rather large vocabulary, and her usage of eating utensils is increasingly refined by the day. I'm hoping this will save her from the wrath of Granny, thus avoiding any grueling sessions in which P has to wipe sweat from her fair brow as she runs up hills wearing a backpack loaded with 35lbs of weights. I've been having flashbacks to the visit of Christmas 2006, when I thought poor little P was going to hire an attorney and try to get emancipated. I spent many nights trying to convince her that it was all Evil Granny's doing, but you just can't reason with a six month old, you know?

Wish me luck. My flat ass and I hope to be able to escape with the laptop every once in awhile to catch up on blogs, and maybe even write. Godspeed to me.


Music Monday

My Mom comes on Wednesday, so to prepare myself I decided I'd need to pick some music to rock to. Now despite a brief flirtation with hair metal in the early 90s, I'm not a hard rock kind of girl. It's all too screamy and loud for me; I need some musicality in my...music.

System of a Down manages to be music you can headbang to (if you're a lame ass non-"real" metal listener like me that is), but it also is properly good music. It makes me want to drive really fast, so, note to self once I can actually drive again.

So turn your speakers up loud and start your Monday good and proper.

And if you like things a toucher lighter, like The Dude, who usually draws the line at hardcore shit like Erasure (but likes this song):

Also, between you and me, I kinda have a crush on the lead singer, Serj. Shut up. I like his beard.


Housekeeping: See that little ad over there asking you to take a survey? I know all the cool kids have been asking you to do it too, but if you could take a moment or ten to just click on it and take the survey, I would be most appreciative. You can win shit too, which is always a reason to do stuff if you ask me.



It was suggested recently that I write a post about parental confessions, opening the floor to anyone who wanted to chime in. Oddly enough, I'd been planning to do this as soon as I had a moment to scrape brain remnants off the floor to mold a coherent thought or two.

Lord knows I could start a new blog chock full of my bad parenting moments rather than a single post, even at this early stage of my job as a shaper of a young mind. However, I'll have a go and it will no doubt be equal parts appalling and arresting.

-Floor food: P is a thrower. Our kitchen is painted in what is surely 50% matt paint, 50% smeared foods. The ratio has perhaps shifted in favour of Miscellaneous Food after tonight's dinner of mashed potato and Ham and Emmenthal slice was added to the wall, you know, to mix it up a bit.

I work full-time and as a person not particularly fond of large amounts of housework, things may get a bit untidy at times. Food, may, hypothetically, sit on the floor for a good 24 hours. Child may, hypothetically, eat said food every once in awhile. In fact, the child may actually prefer floor food at times. Whilst chewing on a crusty lump of the previous night's dinner, P often ruminates on her love of day-old food, preferring its slightly crunchier/bendier/congealed texture. There are times when she will purposefully throw her food on the floor and refuse to eat, then, an hour or two later, go back to said (now) floor food and consume it happily. I don't stop her. In fact, I will usually just ask her if the floor food tastes good. It's tremendously unhygenienic and I'm far too casual about it, so no doubt she'll spend the rest of her life trawling through dumpsters for rancid meat and black bananas. It brings to mind one of David Sedaris' tales about his father Lou, a man who favoured rotten food. God I love Sedaris. Anyway...

-TV is my saving grace. P isn't in front of the TV every hour in which she is home with me, but I'll confess I put it on some evenings when I'm trying to make dinner, and I almost always put it on first thing on a Sunday morning when I get up with her. I blame all of you, because if it wasn't for reading blogs, I'd spend more quality time with my kid. Fuckers. Tearing a loving mother away from her darling child who needs to be nurtured and taught many exciting things each day...for shame!

-We get down to Jay Z. So he says things like, "You're now tuned to the motherfucking greatest" and "I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one", but damn, that stuff is catchy and I cannot give up my Jigga, not even for the fruit of my loins. I tell myself that she can't possibly pick up any swearing when the words are being sung or rapped, but I'm sure I am deluding myself. In case any of you are particularly worried about poor P's ears being bombarded with swearing, I am strictly Disney around the kid. I don't even say "crap". Look at that restraint.

-I sometimes laugh when she cries. Not only do I laugh, I take pictures. With flash. I then laugh at the picture and her at the same time. The proof is in the sadistic, day-old pudding:

-I sometimes wish P could sprout some hair on the sides of her head to banish the mullet for good. It's beyond lame, but I do think to myself how she would look so much cuter if she could grow a full head of hair, rather than 60% of it. Could I be any more shallow? If I was smart, I'd confess such things anonymously in my own comments section.

-Despite confining P to a nursery all day, every day, I have quite a few evenings during which her bedtime couldn't come fast enough. This means I have spent a grand total of about 2 hours with her and I still want her to be in bed so I can have some time to myself. I blame the constant teething for making her an evil hellbeast, thus forcing my hand. Not my actual hand, as in I hit her, because I don't. The metaphorical hand. Hey, this is a confessions thread, I didn't want you to get the wrong idea!

-Last but not least, the confession which would banish me from the company of most mums, at least the ones I know - I don't want to spend every waking hour with her. In fact, I could quite happily go away for a week or so and not spend all of my time pining for my daughter. That is not to say I'd miss her, because I would. Tremendously. Would I spend most hours of those days wishing I could leave my vacation so I could be home with her again? No. Every mother I know seems to feel the complete opposite, to the point that I wonder if I love P enough. I think I do, but maybe my love is more finite than theirs, I don't know. I can't tell you how many times I have heard the expression, "I just can't bear to be away from ::insert child's name here::!" from some gushing mother. It happens in real life, and it happens in bloglandia. I don't feel this way, and I haven't since she was born. I spend a significant part of my working day thinking about her - wondering what she's doing, revelling in her assured brilliance, smiling at the amazing little girl she has become, but during none of this time do I think that I simply must be with her.

I would feel guilty enough feeling this way if I was home with her all the time, but I'm not. I work 40 hour weeks so I'm separated from her a lot, but I still feel like this. One of the hardest things for me to cope with immediately after P's birth was my (our) complete lack of freedom. Our lives were not our own, which, after all, is the basic premise of parenting. I really struggled, and obviously still do, with this notion. When I am given this time to be me rather than someone's mother, I take it. I need to not always be identified as Mummy. I need to sometimes be Pru.

So that's my sad tale of shite parenting. Please, add your own comments, anonymously if you wish. Though I have a stats counter, I hardly have the time nor inclination to match ISPs up with trails and times, or what have you, so anonymous means anonymous. I will make this post a permanent link in my sidebar, so that anyone can leave a comment there at any point and not need to trawl through my archives. I don't think this needs to be limited to current parents either. I think there are plenty of guilt-inducing confessions which can arise from the whole trying-to-get-pregnant scene as well. In my case it would have been my distinct lack of maternal feelings even in the midst of years of fertility treatment. Going through the emotional and physical rigors of treatment all the while disliking children could be perceived as a slight conflict of interests. It was always the pink elephant in the room for me, and even today I like my own kid, but the list almost ends there.

Tell us your confessions and fears. NO JUDGING!


Quick whoring moment - I have been avoiding actually doing any work at work lately, so I hang out doing the Google chat thing in Gmail with my Cheese Hand to make the hours melt away. I would love to mix it up a bit and talk to other people as well, so please, indulge me sometime and message me (BarrenAlbion). I'll probably be frightfully dull and you'll regret it always.


Music Monday

I'm mixing it up a bit folks. This week we're taking a trip back to the early/mid 1990s to visit one of my favourite bands of all time, Pulp. I know some of you are Pulp fans, which pleases me to no end. If you search hard enough on this here internet machine, you may even find 10 year old biographies of me blabbing about Pulp and talking of dreams I had about the lead singer, Jarvis Cocker. I look hot in the picture too, so I'm quite happy for that picture to remain up pretty much forever.

For the one who cares (anyone, anyone?), I met Jarvis Cocker once. I stood next to him, wrapped my arm around his skinny little waist and had my picture taken with him. I was all excited beforehand as I idolised him, but found him rather disappointing in the flesh. It was in this period of Jarvis fashion aesthetic (which is sadly ongoing all these years later):

Yeah. Not so cool. I don't really dig the 70s flea market paedo thing. I preferred old school, suave Jarvis:

If you're not familiar with Pulp but you think you might like some Britpop music with fabulous songwriting, Pulp are the band for you. Just listen to the lyrics, they are some of the most clever, witty lines you will ever hear in music. Anyone who disagrees will be punched in the eye until it turns to jelly. So there.

Without further ado...PULP!

Something Changed:

This is Hardcore: (incidentally, this is on my Songs to Sex To CD. TMI? Oh well.)


As is always the offer, if you happen to like anything I feature on here enough to check it out independently, I'm more than happy to offer album/song suggestions. I love you that much.


Bled dry

Since I had P nearly 20 months ago (who the what the frick), my blogging mojo has packed its bags, shit on my bed, and written a "Dear Pru" letter in blood. I get really excited about a blog post idea, but then complacency and my baby-lobotomised half-brain set in and I give up, instead choosing to curl up and watch television of varying quality. The inspiration is there, it just doesn't translate to actually sitting down at the laptop and typing. Even now I'm pausing between words, hazily trying to recall the mere gist of what I was trying to say. Fucking brains.

I had grand plans of a thoughtful post on the NHS, or the post I've been dying to do for months on the appalling gender stereotyping which pops up in the media. I have been stockpiling material for this post, but if I wrote it now it would sound like a ninth-grader's ruminations on her burgeoning feminism. That is to say, cliche and melodramatic. Brain, come back! All is forgiven. You know your weird desire to convince me that I genuinely love Beyonce? Swept under the rug. Beyonce who? Just come back and work for me again. I think even P has a bigger vocabulary than I do. It's probably quite telling that I spend far too much of my day saying "poop".

I need something. Some kind of pill, a stiff drink. Any suggestions as to rid yourself of fuzzy, post-baby brain? Wasn't this to fade after pregnancy? Fuck.


Music Monday

Much as I like Bishi, how I did not make Johnny Cash the chosen artist of my inaugural Music Monday, I'll never know. My love for Johnny Cash is fairly recent; until five or six years ago my knowledge of his music was scant. I was steadfast in my hatred of country music, and then, something changed.

Not only do I adore him as a musician, but he was a true rock and roll badass. Witness:

Johnny Cash, San Quentin

If you're resistant to this era of Johnny Cash (silly buggers), how about Hurt?:

If this song and video doesn't break your heart into a million tiny pieces, you're lacking a soul. It's originally a NIN song, which is interesting since Trent Reznor wrote it about heroin addiction, yet as sung by Cash it becomes a lamentation on aging, watching your life ebb away as you sit by unable to stop the passing of time.

My grandpa died right after the song and video were released, and the first time I watched it I cried for an hour. I can't watch it now without tearing up, seeing my grandpa's experience reflected in the voice of Johnny Cash. A former WWII soldier, he hated how age rendered him physically useless. In his eyes, he was 30 one day, and 89 the next. He went from 13 hour days spent working on railroads to not being able to climb a small stepladder to pick an orange from the tree in his backyard, all within the blink of an eye.

So thank you Johnny Cash - for being one of the first true embodiments of rock & roll, and giving me the opportunity to memorialise my grandpa with a song whose words so resonated with you as well.

"If I could start again/A million miles away/I would keep myself/I would find a way"


Drama, bloody drama

I feel like I shouldn't even put this in words here, but I suppose I can take it down at some stage if I feel I've said too much.

Do any of you ever wonder if you've made the right decision in choosing to be with your spouse or partner? Admittedly, it is largely post-fight that this thought pops into my head, but that has to do with the fact that so many of our arguments centre around, or are exacerbated by The Dude's inflexibility, stubbornness, and my fear of his anger.

When referring to his anger, I don't mean that he lashes out and abuses me in any way. He is very short-tempered and is inclined to get upset very quickly, and stay that way for an age. I find that in our relationship I tiptoe around certain issues such as money and family, so as not to upset him. I don't know why I do this, aside from the desire for an easy life. I'm not a feeble woman who yearns to please her man at all times, but it is so draining to deal with the repercussions of a fight. I have so little energy to do much beyond what is expected of me day to day, I can't be asked to assuage the rage of the hypersensitive and melodramatic amongst us.

The Dude is very financially responsible. He monitors our bank accounts with eagle-eyed awareness, and makes most of the money-related decisions. This happens for two reasons: he's left-brained, type A, and deals with numbers for a living, and I am very right-brained, type B, and allergic to anything resembling a digit. We are comfortable, both of us are on good salaries, and for the most part we agree on how we like to spend our money.

I feel as if I need to run most money-spending plans by him. I think this is because of his tendency to fly off the handle too easily, hence I avoid anything which may lead to that happening. He seems to think I do this because I know he has a better idea of bank balances than I do. This has been discussed ad nauseum, but we forever remain deadlocked. He thinks it's odd that I go through such efforts to keep him from getting upset, as he apparently views himself as some sort of laid-back, wherever-the-wind-may-take-me kind of guy, which is beyond hilarious to me. I am defeated by his intractibility, a barrier to ever admitting that he may be wrong. Please spare me any trite, "Well, that's men for you!" comments. I feel so beyond that right now.

In happy times, we joke about his short fuse and my tiptoe-ing. When it's exhibited, I wonder how I will endure this for a lifetime. Presumably money is always going to be the tender which makes the world go round, and my Mom, the other direct path to marital disagreements, will hopefully be with us for awhile, so I have a long time in which I will have to feel the way I do now. I do wonder sometimes how wise it was to marry someone so completely opposite to myself. My stomach hurts writing that, and the stark reality of that statement is something I don't like to dwell on.

Sorry to resort to the melodrama that occasionally plagues this blog. I can't get in the car and just drive for a couple of hours like I used to, so I'm afraid you are my replacement. My apologies.