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My mother called me on my birthday. While in ordinary life this may not seem like anything to be worried or feel awkward about, to me, ten days later, thinking about it still gives me a stomach-ache. It was the slight pleading in her voice that bothered me so much. I love you and I miss you, baby.

What do you love, though, and what do you miss. When I left I was very small. When I returned to you five years later, you were making potato salad and I desperately wanted you to notice how much I had done and where I was. Now it is almost another five years past that, and earlier this year I swore that I would never be the first to contact you again. I don't know what to do.

I have one more day off on my vacation. Today I will register the puppy (where are those papers, again?) and get some cleaning done. 

I look more and more like my mother every day.  She appears most forcefully in flashes, when the lights turn on or off, in transitions, days where I feel that I'm ready to conquer the world.  She also comes out when I'm feeling indescribably down, because that is one of the ways that I most see her as, that I remember clearly.
 
I miss her, for reasons that I understand intellectually but abhor emotionally.  It is now that I am quilting together the rituals and rituals and habits that will follow me throughout all of the things I Feel That I Must Do In My Life that I really feel like I could use the words that a mother gives to her child.  I'm not even asking for them to be important, but I'd like them to have more weight than 'can I call you sometime next week?'
 
I'd like to quit waiting for the phone to ring as I was promised.  I want to know stories about when I was small, about the places my parents went when she was near bursting with me, about grandfatherly faces and tiny shoes.  Maybe I can blame this sudden desire on all of the newborn little ones that are suddenly an amazingly new force in my life.
 
My sister will be in an airport on Christmas Eve.  The thought of this saddens me to the bottom of my feet.  I miss her already and it is only November!  She begins her many holiday journeys next month.
 
I'm not getting a tree, either.  I do not feel it enough to make the effort.
 
If this year's x-mas even is going to be sister-less, I might as well go without.  Not to mention that Apollo eats anything he can wrap his little teeth around (tin foil, bluetooth headsets, science fiction book sets) and I do not even want to deal with pine needles in his little dog tummy. 

Quoting Atlas Shrugged for business ethics paper.

I think I've been listening to too much Rush lately.

Good response from my instructor on my paper about Detroit Rock City.  Take that, mean accounting comment!

Today I emailed someone from dad's graduating class to see if they happen to know the true name of one of his best friends from high school.  I watched a dvd grandpa Fencl sent to me of all of us up at Yosemite, him playing guitar, and then his service in Idaho. 

It is probably the best gift he could have ever given us.  Every time I watch it I completely lose it but for a few brief moments I'm back to being seventeen and when I need advice he is right there. 

2 gala apples
3 large strawberries
two handfuls arugula
2 tbsp banana-strawberry yogurt
small handful ice

verdict: ugly, but tasty.  more liquid than smoothie-like, very filling.

2 small gala apples apples
3 tbsp strawberry banana yogurt
handful of arugula
honey

verdict: great texture, very colorful.  the extra yogurt made it the perfect creamy consistency.  very tasty.

I’ve been listening to nothing but Journey for about three days straight. 

For the record, my favorite song is Lights, because it makes me think about all of the wonderful people I’ve been blessed enough to meet, about pairs of pictures, massive hunts for photobooths, and the indelible stamps left on my heart by these individuals that I’ve had the good fortune to encounter.

I mean, I understand my classic rock fetish.  I do.  It’s easily traced to my family, to falling asleep to the comforting sounds  of my dad playing guitar until the early hours of the morning, to when I lived with my uncle and he would play it after he got home from work, from midnight until about seven a.m., so I would go to bed to it, wake up with it.  I get it.  It makes sense, it’s reassuring, and it is pretty rocking.

day three of my vacation.  today i've written two papers, written 2000 words for nanowrimo, listened to two albums for the work music project, drank two sodas, and signed up for that mog music tracking service (on account of a certain author that i've a crush on).

now for more goldfinger and writing--seven pages of historical fiction for a class that i can't wait to be out of.  might try to cheat and work it in to my nano novel.  though i'm not sure where adultery in the 1830s fits in with a magical shipwreck.  i have enough words to write to make it work, though.

old punk rock makes me mopey, and makes me want to start a band so i can cover goldfinger. -serious nod-  i'll have to settle for bouncing around my bedroom (!) in my silver mary janes for the moment, though.

back to work. 

watching out for dangling modifiers,
-breezy
 

History class. The humors. If this was the seventeenth century they would have bled me by now. Leeched the melancholy right out of me.

I feel so bad when half the class leaves at the first break. Three hours of lecture is too much for some, but i've come to enjoy tangents and historical nonsense factoids.