Mood:  irritated

Yesterday I bugged Mike about his daughter's mail.  I said to him, "Are you trying to teach her a lesson?  Do you want her to experience bills unpaid or perhaps go into debt?"

Mike said no, and he got the phone and called her that very minute.  The phone call did not go well.  Sometimes while she ranted and raved Mike held the phone away from his head, not wanting to hear what she had to say.  After the phone call he said, "See, this is why I don't call her."

Apparently this semester in school there is a repeat of an incident that happened last semester.  A teacher pulls Mike's daughter out of the classroom to have a private chat.  The teacher tells the daughter that she is not doing the classwork the way that the teacher wants or that she is not participating enough in class.  The daughter tells the teacher that the class is boring, she already knows everything, and that the teacher is wasting the money she paid to take the class.  Recently she also told the teacher that the teacher is teaching the class the wrong way.

Teachers don't like to be insulted.  The last time she did this the teacher gave her a "C" despite her perfect attendence and having done all the classwork.  Mike suggested that his daughter do the classwork the way the teacher asks and take an easy "A".  That advice made his daughter very angry.  She said it was bad advice.

Mike said that it is a mistake to view a relationship with his daughter as anything more than the process of "cutting the apron strings".  He said that his Dad gave him good advise that he didn't want to listen to either.  Mike sees conversations like the one he had with his daughter as important to her becoming a separate, independent adult.  "She isn't an adversary" he says.   

Her behavior with the teacher is puzzling.  I think something more than immaturity is at work here.  I see an over inflated ego probably compensating for low self esteem.  Is that what immaturity is?  Or is this behavior genetic?  Does Mike's daughter have no choice but to act this way given the personalities of her parents at her own age?  Is the drive to disagree with authority built in?  Ah.  I know.  Both these teachers that she is picking fights with are females and she had a very poor relationship with a former step mother when she was young.  She is transfering her aggression toward the step mother onto an older female with authority.  It is rebellion 10 years too late.

I'm curious what her grade in this class will be.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:58 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, 11 March 2007 4:51 AM EST

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Mood:  quizzical

It is sometimes hard to be a stepmother.

Mike's daughter has not been over to our house to pick up her mail in a long time.  She temporarily went to live with her boyfriend.  I certainly haven't opened up any of her mail but there are bills and what looks like official state business.

I told Mike last weekend that he needed to call his daughter and tell her that it looks like she has some important mail waiting for her.  Mike told me then that he wants a divorce from his daughter.  He wants them to part ways and that she go live her life separate from him living his life.  It was his decision as a parent not to call her and to let her suffer the consequences of not picking up her mail.  I have to abide by his decision and not call her myself, it wouldn't be my place to do that.

So I worry that she isn't getting her mail and what might be the consequence of that.  I am worrying far more than her father is worrying.  I wish I could quit worrying.  Obviously her father isn't worrying.  The reluctance to calling my own flesh n' blood isn't the kind of relationship I would want to have with my own daughter.  But her father makes up the rules of how we are going to interact with her.  Apparently at this time he feels the need for distance more than I do.

We joke that we will hear from her when her car breaks down and she needs money to fix it.  It isn't a funny joke, it is a sad joke. 

This spring Mike and I are going to fix up a car that was given to us by my sister.  It has sat in a garage for over eight years.  It has very low mileage and we are going to offer it to his daughter for her to buy.  We had an episode where she owed us money and was paying it back bit by bit when suddenly she stopped paying.  She was expecting a baby and wanted to save her money instead of paying back Mike and I what she owed.  The decision was never discussed, we just stopped getting money.  Eventually we dismissed her debt, losing $800.  Now, because of that experience we will request that she get a car loan from the bank if she wants the car.  The irony is that because she is young and earns little probably Mike will have to co-sign the loan.  But the important thing is that she will be obligated to the bank and not us.  Mike is betting that she won't want the car because it doesn't have four wheel drive and isn't cool looking enough.  I think that having his daughter come live with us has damaged his opinion of her.  I don't know about Mike, but I certainly had a better relationship with his daughter before we became close.  The closeness ended up in her saying hurtful things to me that I can't forget.  Does the past sometimes keep me up at night?  Yes.  I get a shot of adrenalin re-living memories of the last fight.  I don't doubt that the daughter has moved on and spares little thought about me.  I hope time heals wounds.

Posted by dignifyme at 1:13 PM EST

Updated: Thursday, 8 March 2007 1:43 PM EST

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Mood:  chillin'

This last weekend with great joy Mike and I walked to the post office to mail a packet of information to a literary agent concerning his book, "Memories of Ghenna".  We chose a literary agency in New York City out of the Writer's Market and then investigated the individual people within the agency on the internet.  Mike addressed his query letter to a specific person, he even talked about a past book that she had help get published.  The literary agency wanted a query letter, an outline or synopsis of the book, and one sample chapter.  This was the packet we mailed.

Currently I have suspended work on my book to finish a short story that I want to try to get published in the literary magazine called "Creative Nonfiction".  My story is true, it is about several days when I was psychotic right before I went into a mental institution.  When, one day, I send out a query letter for my book I want to be able to list magazines that my work has been accepted and published in.  I'm building up a resume.

Other than these projects Mike and I have been watching movies and taking walks.  The weather is going to turn bitterly cold over the next few days with a strong wind.  Instead of going for walks in this weather I am going to stay at home and dance to some music.  I can work up a sweat dancing.  I'll time myself to dance for exactly 1/2 of an hour.  The room I'm dancing in has no heat, so that alone is motivation to get my body moving. 

I have a favorite skirt that I've never worn in public before.  It looks like a denim ball gown.  It is Ralph Lauren and was bought in Lord N' Taylors back when I had money from my divorce settlement.  I want to wear my denim ball gown this spring once the snows have melted but it is exactly one size smaller than what I currently am.  So I am being careful what I eat and trying to exercize every day.

Posted by dignifyme at 1:04 PM EST

Updated: Monday, 5 March 2007 1:05 PM EST

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Mood:  chillin'

I take a glass measuring cup and put a small amount of red wine in it.  I break open a 40mg Prozac capsule and pour white powder into the wine.  At first the white powder wants to clump together.  But as I swirl the measuring cup the white powder begins to dissolve into the red wine until the red wine turns from clear to cloudy because of the suspended particles of Prozac.  Sometimes a bit of alcholol is added to over the counter medication syrups to keep the medication dissolved in the syrup.  Alchohol is a dissolver.

I heat water in a tea kettle.  In a coffee mug I pour the boiling water over a tea bag.  I dunk the tea bag several times, watching for the brown tea to stain the water.  Once the hot water has colored I pour exactly 1 cup worth of tea into the glass measuring cup.  Stir with a spoon to mix the Prozac laden wine evenly into the tea.  Then over a sink I pour off 1/4 of the liquid, leaving 3/4 cup in the measuring cup.  I pour the 3/4 cup of tea measurment into an empty coffee mug and drink it.  After the mug is empty I pour some water in it, swirl, and then drink the water, to wash away any residue of the Prozac tea that has been left in the mug. 

This is the way to reduce a 40mg capsule dose of prozac to a 30mg dose.  My therapist is reducing my prozac prescription but I recently bought a 90 day supply of 40mg capsules.  I don't want that medication to go to waste.  The capsules can't be cut into quarters the way a tablet can.  You have to find a way of separating 10mg of the powerder away from 30mg.  The answer is my Prozac tea.

Prozac tea tastes bitter.  The tea is bitter, the wine is tart, and the Prozac powder is bitter.  However the flavor of the tea and the wine over powers the Prozac powder.  I like to drink my tea bitter anyway.  Once the measurement of Prozac tea is perfect I could add sugar or milk but I don't.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:40 PM EST

Updated: Monday, 5 March 2007 1:06 PM EST

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Mood:  cool

I am waiting for warmer weather.  Yesterday it was bitterly cold but today's high is 40 degrees.

The big thing to accomplish today is taking a walk with Plum Pudding.  I have typed up several pages of my book and eaten breakfast.  I have to keep my objective clear in my mind's eye, try to psych myself into the behavior.  Taking a walk is never an impulsive thing, it is planned behavior.  The natural tendency because of my illness and isolation is to just lie in bed.

Yesterday I helped Mike prepare part of his book proposal for an agent.  The agent he is submitting to wants a synopsis of his book.  Mike went through his entire manuscript chapter by chapter and created this long list of events.  The trouble he ran into is that some information that seemed self evident to the author never made it into the synopsis, and other information that was trivial was added to the synopsis.  In the author's eyes no part of their book is trivial.  What I did was take his chapter breakdown and create a three page story.  A synopsis should read like an easy flowing story I think.  Now Mike saw his book through my eyes.  He is going to take my synopsis and re-write it.  But the fat has been trimmed and the holes in the plot are glaringly self evident.

Today work on my own book continued.  Now I have a game plan for how to continue.  First I finish typing the manuscript into the computer.  Then I finish the manuscript, add an ending on to it.  I should be ready to start writing new material in about a month's time.  Probably it will take me six months to nine months to finish the book.  Then I take the book manuscript and start a re-write at the beginning.  So far I am telling the story as if it were my story, with all the correct details and honest facts and honest reactions.  But when I re-write it I want the narrator to become a character who is not me.  It will become Isabelle's story, a work of fiction, and stop being Karen's story, a work of non-fiction.  I want to take at least a year re-writing the book into a work of fiction.

Meanwhile I have a new policy about reading books.  I went to the library last Saturday.  I got one fiction book by a dead author and one fiction book by a living author.  From now on there will always be that ratio, my natural tendency is only to read dead authors.  I guess I don't feel threatened by them.  They aren't the competition and they are removed from my experience of contemporary society.  But if I'm going to become a contemporary author I need to immerse myself in contemporary literature.  I need to know as many ways as possible of what can be, instead of what was.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:05 PM EST

Updated: Tuesday, 20 February 2007 12:08 PM EST

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Mood:  crushed out

The card Michael gave to me was addressed, "Beloved".  I can't be quite as mushy so I addressed my valentine card to "Mike".  Both cards said similar things although Mike's was longer and far more sentimental.  I am very lucky that I have married a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.  My heart is more hidden.  Along with the card came a package of eight large strawberries dipped in chocolate.  I have never eatten a strawberry dipped in chocolate before.  The crunch of the coating (the chocolate was hard from being refridgerated) and the cold mush of the strawberry inside is a very strange combination.  It was a bit painful eatting the strawberries because my teeth on one side are sensitive to hot and cold and the gums around the teeth on the other side had been burned by eating a hot cheese sandwich.  They looked beautiful, all had a long stem attached and green leaves.  The dark chocolate had been drizzled with swirls of white chocolate.  I bought Mike two bags of his favorite candy but now that I think about it I wish I had bought a traditional red valentine box of chocolates for him, it would have been more romantic.

I get taken care of so well that there is the danger of becoming lazy.  Mike cooks me dinner every night.  Last night he served it to me in bed.  For the last month he has been doing the dishes as well.  He never ever complains.  I think I married a caretaker.  Sometimes I think about what would happen to me if Mike died.  I would be lost.  It isn't just what he does for me, it is the spirit of the fact, that I am being nurtured by someone who loves me.  The loss of his nurturing would turn the world into a very cold, hard place to live.  I could do my own dishes and cook my own meals.  I've lived alone before.  What I've come to be dependent on is a man who loves me.  That love is manifested in all sorts of ways, caring comforting words, companionship, and sex.  But put these things together and you have the one fact that you are not alone.  In my marriage I never feel alone.  If Mike died I would feel horribly alone.

Right before I go to sleep is a strange time for me and some nights I get feeling waves of fear.  I tell Mike, "I am afraid" and snuggle close and clutch him.  Last time I did this Mike told me that the worst thing that could happen is that I die, and death in his eyes is not an ending.  He believes that you die and become part of Gaea, the Mother Earth Goddess.  The afterlife is a union with a much greater power that is big and beautiful and peaceful.  It is something that he is certain of, a true believer.  It is hard to remember my fear now, this morning, because I only feel it late at night.  It could be because I an tired and vulnerable after a long day or it could be because my medication is wearing thin and it is too soon to feel the affects of my evening dose taken with dinner.  All the things I fear, and it is hard to assign objects to this vague feeling, are listed below.

1. My teeth going bad.  I have expensive caps on my front teeth.  The teeth under these caps have been whittled down to tiny pieces of bone.  I fear that we won't be able to afford future dental work and I will have to have my teeth pulled and wear false dentures.  Right now a back tooth is rotten and I have to find a dentist and make an appointment.  This task weighs on my mind every day.  I am afraid to go to the dentist.

2. That I will accomplish nothing exceptional during my lifetime.  I will be a part-time artist and part-time writer and never have a steady career as one or the other.  I will spend years writing my book but after all that effort it won't be good enough to be published.  I will live my entire life never knowing what it feels like to make money and to be recognized as doing something good.

3. The illness has reduced me to something less than a half person.  I am a quarter person, a fifth or sixth of a person and no matter how hard I try I cannot compete any artistic field against people who have gone to school for their craft or who can work for hours upon hours every day.  My little efforts can never achieve greatness because greatness comes only after long hours of work.  I can do my bit every day and hope that the bits add up to something important but perhaps this is not the way it works.

4. I will lose Michael and in the process of going mad from grief all my creativity will dry up.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:56 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, 14 February 2007 1:05 PM EST

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Mood:  energetic

This morning I thought that I was doing everything right.  I woke at 8:30am and had to be at the museum for my volunteer job at 11am.  Plenty of time to get ready.  Had to be careful though, with that little bit of free time I had to concider the state of my brain.  There are certain activities that I do not do before my volunteer job.  I do not read, write or make art.  These activities are delightful and engaging.  However, I'm going to have to be at my best during the three hours I sit in the museum at the information desk and I can't "peak" ahead of time.  Carefully I orchestrate my morning activities so that I don't exhaust myself before I exhaust myself at my job.  Activities that are acceptable to do before my job are light cleaning, like doing the dishes or grooming my dog, or watching television.  These activities are not intellectually stimulating and at the most involve simple, repetative behavior.  This morning I watched the movie "Evita".  I like watching Madonna.  I like looking at her arm and neck muscles.

All my clothing was color co-ordinated.  The dog was taken outside to go to the bathroom.  A fresh pot of coffee was brewed and poured in a thermus.  Put make-up on and brushed my teeth and hair.  But I forgot to eat breakfast and I forgot to take my morning medication.

Reality got pretty weird by the third hour I was at the museum.  My palms were sweating.  Time was going by very slowly, as if I were anxious about something.  I felt like I was shaking even though I don't think I was shaking.  And I had quite a bit of energy, I had woken up to a reality that was more off my medication then I was used to.  Objects seemed sharply defined and I noticed color and texture more than usual.  When the gallery was empty took a stroll around to look at the artwork.  I'm used to the exhibit that was there but I definely saw more details in the art then I had ever seen before, it was like looking with a fresh pair of eyes.  Leaving the museum I was afraid that I might trip and fall in the parking lot.  By then I was definately shakey and my legs felt wobbly.  Could have been low blood sugar but it also could have been withdrawl from my prescribed narcotic.  As long as I take it on time I don't notice that I am addicted to it.

It is now evening and I still feel weird.  London and Mike were talking and I kept wringing my hands. I think I got stressed out from being off my medication schedual by six hours, and now, I am going to finally settle down by taking a pinch more narcotic.  And maybe eating some ice cream.

Posted by dignifyme at 6:44 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, 14 February 2007 1:02 PM EST

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Mood:  not sure

Mike came home from work yesterday with an interesting story.  Aparently two co-workers are giving off signals that they are an item.  The girl has started wearing make-up to work.  The guy is clearly enamoured with her.  I pressed Mike for details.  How do you know that they want to sleep together or already have slept together?  He said it was all there in the body language.

The girl is single and Mike said that on a scale of 1 to 10 she is a 9.  One of the prettiest girls in the shop.  The guy is married and has three kids.  His last son was born just several months ago.  Mike wants to say the the guy, "Opps, I tripped and fell and my penis just happened to slide into her" or some other dirty remark (which he delivered with a cheerful grin, obviously he thinks it is very funny).

But the fact that this man is messing up his home and life Mike doesn't find funny at all.  I got a passionate lecture about the dangers of having an affair.  Since Mike has never had an affair I guess this is a rule that he lives by.  Mike said that he could imagine having sex with the pretty girl for "recreation".  I take it from his manner of speaking that men like to look around and think what fun it would be to have sex with this one or that.  It is, Mike said once, the temptations of variety.  The fun of the experience of a new body.  But Mike would never want to risk losing the most important thing in his life, that is, me.  No "recreational activity" is worth the price of his marriage.  He believes that the two love birds in his shop are underestimating the consequences of their behavior.  She could fall in love with him, or he could fall in love with her.  The wife could find out.  Mike says he knows my body smell, and he bets that another man's oder would be obvious to him.  There are the excuses the man is giving to his wife to make time for his tryst.  And then there is the fact that everyone in the shop seems to know that they are having an affair.  Yes, there must be signs for the wife to see.

I asked Mike if he felt like living in a marriage was like living in a cage.  He admitted that there are things he just doesn't do anymore and isn't likely to do in the future because he is married to me.  Sky diving and hang gliding and riding horses was his list.  (But I would be happy to go ride a horse!)  Those are things he did decades ago before his daughter was born, while he was in the air force and still single.  Marriage seems a bit like an exuse for youth that has passed you by.  If he were single would he be doing these things?  I doubt it.  One never knows.

Frankly, I keep Mike pretty busy.  I always know where he is not because I am the jealous type but because our lives are so entwined that there are no secrets and free time is usually spent in one another's company.  He and I, we are little folk living a little life where we derive much of the satisfaction of our days from ordinary companionship.  When we watch a movie in bed we hold hands.  When we walk into a grocery store we walk across the parking lot holding hands.  When Mike comes home from work the first thing he does is come into the bedroom where I am resting and tell me about the day's events.  I have come to know the names and personalities of all his co-workers and even details about the paperwork he fills out.  As far as I am concerned there is never enough play time in the bedroom.  The only limit he knows is his body's limit!  As he gets older that is something I need to be gracious about.

I am enjoying my marriage more and more all the time.  For a time I really missed the money that my first husband gave me.  I actually resented Mike for taking me away from him!  "I wish I had never met you" I said while we were on a walk during the summer.  "I had everything I needed, all the money in the world and then you came and tempted me away from it."  It was a phase I went through, part of my adjustment period after I was married last January.  Now the weight of my creative work is growing and I am more satisfied outside of the marriage.  That is what shopping and spending money is, something you do outside of the marriage.  I have a purpose right now that fills my free time.  It pits me against myself, a gigantic struggle, all true creative work comes out of a struggle with the self.  I wouldn't be so satisfied with myself if the struggle were any easier.  Yes, strange as it may seem, the fact that I have work that consumes me adds to the strength of the marriage.  I must have a goal I am working toward or else I take out my boredom on my husband.  Poor man!  But I suppose if he were bored he might be more tempted by that "recreational" activity of having an affair. 

What makes our marriage really strong is that we both have individual creative pursuits.  Private struggles that fill our free time.  And we both like to read books.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:01 PM EST

Updated: Friday, 9 February 2007 12:21 PM EST

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Mood:  hug me

It is cold here in Vermont.  The only room heated during the day is our small bedroom with an electric heater.  I lie in bed and write my book and read the Fountainhead and watch old movies.  My butt gets numb.  My back is propped up by pillows.

It's funny how hard it is in the morning to start writing.  I really have to push myself.  You would think that a person would go eagerly toward something that their ego is so dependent on.  I need an accomplishment every day or else I don't feel good about myself.  When I was painting I couldn't wait to get started in the morning.  Sometimes I wanted to work so badly that I would forget to eat.  Writing is simply more painful than painting.  There is a little nasty shock to my system every time I try to pull a sentence out of me.  The consolation is that after I've acheived a paragraph that flows smoothly I get pleasure in re-reading it.

I listened last night to the Director's commentary to the movie "Little Miss Sunshine".  It took them six years to make.  That makes me feel better.  My book might take six years to make but I think I can do it in less.  The road is long before me but it has been long before other creative people as well.  One of the things the directors talked a lot about was how much was taken out of the movie.  They had chunks of dialogue between actors that never made it to the final cut.  And the directors (a husband and wife team) felt certain that the movie was better because of the strict editing.  Today I was re-writing old text and it felt very good throwing away a word here or a phrase there.  The writing became more streamlined and the voice more powerful.

Reading The Fountainhead gives me a good sense of Ayn Rand's genius.  The words seem to pour out of her.  It seems to me that she started the process with definite characters, that would have certain strengths and weaknesses.  Once the characters were established in her mind their dialogue came naturally.  There is a lot of dialogue in The Fountainhead and it seems to have been prodigiously created.  These characters all talk ideas and they do so passionately.  I can imagine how she "heard" the voices of her characters and then simply typed what she was hearing.  The next novel I will read after The Fountainhead is Anna Karenina by Tolstoy.  I want to compare his characters with Ayn Rand's characters.  Not what they stand for, good or evil, strong or weak, but to try to guess if the author had a similar process of starting the novel with a character and then driving the action through that character's personality and voice.

Whether or not my first novel gets published I plan for a second novel.  I am trying to imagine a creative process.  Mike says that when he is writing he gets to a point where the characters take over and write the book for him.  It must be so much fun to have characters in your head.  I'll live someone else's life.  It is what happens with paint and canvass, I carry the image and colors around with me all day long.

Now I have written and blogged and the morning is over.  I think I will get dressed and walk to the bank.  Funds have to be transfered out of savings to cover the cost of the couch we bought last weekend.  I need to take out of savings some money for curtains as well.  I am going down to Connecticut soon and want to buy new green curtains for the one window in our bedroom.  Since we painted the room green the old curtains are now too weak in color, they are washed out by the new vibrancy of the room.  There are more stores in Connecticut than Vermont.

With my old husband all I did with my free time was shop.  I miss it sometimes, having all that money.  But with the current husband and the isolation of where we live there is more emphasis on my creative pursuits.  It seems a more wholesome way of living, creating rather than shopping.

Posted by dignifyme at 1:17 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, 7 February 2007 1:40 PM EST

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Mood:  happy

Yesterday I watched the old black and white movie, "The Fountainhead".  It was based on the book by Ayn Rand and the screenplay was written by Rand.  The characters were so stiff and everything coming out of the character's mouths was the core thoughts of her philosophic movement.  As a writer Rand was passionate and focused on her ideals.  The whole plot of the movie and the book came straight from her view of life.

So it got me thinking, what is my view of life?  Do I have any ideals?  I am what happens to a person when they are trying to survive one day at a time.  There isn't any fat.  There isn't any spare time to work oneself into a systems of beliefs, wether that is beliefs that are already established or beliefs that are new to the world.  You become instead a sort of sensualist, where immediate experience and immediate gradification fullfill all your needs.  I don't mean that you live a life of debouchery.  You simply live in the moment, whether that moment is full of pain or pleasure.

I am sitting on our new couch.  I gave me pause when Mike said, "That is three days worth of work", meaning it would take him three days of work to pay for it.  I absolutely wanted a used couch.  We looked in an antique store and found a mediocre couch, we looked in a used furniture shop and they only had three couches to choose from.  Two had patterned fabric and would have not gone so well in my work room.  My work room is already swimming in colors and pattern.  The third couch was golden yellow and seems to be from the 1950's or 60's.  I would have prefered a blue or green or dark red couch but when you buy something used you can only get what you find.  I said that the gold couch had my name written on it but Mike said, humor me, let's go to a new furniture store.  They were having an end of year cleareance sale but the prices were still shocking.  The couches were beautiful and they could all be made to order with the exact fabric you chose.  But as we walked through the store I was rather horrified thinking of spending so much for a couch for my work room, a room that is created for a woman who can't work and bring in any income of her own.  That thought is never far from my mind, that if I want anything it comes from Mike's earnings.  Of course I do make things in my work room, artwork and writings like this post.  Mike has his library room and I have my work room, separate places where we each pursue our creative projects and decorate as we please.  If I made a lot of money then I might buy a new couch.  But since I don't make money and only spend Mike's money it was essential that the couch be used.  It is a matter of dignity.  Some women would only be pleased if their couch was new.  I would only be pleased if my couch was used.

We put the yellow couch in the back of our car, hanging out the hatch door.  All down the street to our house while I held onto the arm of the couch I pleaded and prayed to God that a policecar would not cruise by.  I didn't want to pay the extra $20 for the seller to deliver with his truck.  Happily the used furniture store is only one long block from our house.

Today is a day off from writing my book.  Mike and I cleaned but we ran out of paper towels so I still have dusting to do.  My big chore was to change the cat litter, Mike vacumed.  My next big chore is to take a shower and go to the grocery store for more paper towels.  I might also putter around my work room, we have just converted it from a bedroom.  The house was in disaray when London moved out and Mike and I moved back into her bedroom where we had started from.   My greatest thrill is that I have my work table under the window with eastern light.  It had been sitting with a southern exposure and the light there was too harsh for me to use.  The eastern window lets in a difuse light, it illuminates but never is blindingly bright.

My first project in my work room is going to be some painting on glass.  I am very excited.  My mornings are to be used to write my book and my evenings are to be used to work on glass painting and blogging.

Hurah for my work room now back in working order.

Posted by dignifyme at 12:59 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, 4 February 2007 1:27 PM EST

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