Monday, Dec. 29, 2003
Dear Diary:

I have been feeling melancholy.

Yes, picture a middle-aged woman with the back of her hand dramatically resting on her forehead and you pretty much have my current mood. Shut up. It's my journal and I'll drama if I want to.

I don't know what brings it on. It's probably a mix of my general dislike of Christmas coupled with ever shorter days and a severe light deficit. Whenever I'm in this mood I play Joni Mitchell's album "Blue" with the song "River" set on repeat because it is the Saddest Christmas Song Ever and perfectly suits what I'm feeling.

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

A lyric quote! Oh, I may be 52 and perimenopausal, but I have an Inner 16-Year-Old that I can unleash in a heartbeat.

Be very, very grateful that mostly I keep her in chains behind the fridge.

The daughter is back home in Montreal now. The spousal unit drove her and her sweetie back in Sunday and I spent the day cleaning up and having a quiet little weep. I am so very much my father's daughter. Neither one of us show our feelings to our children, especially feelings of sadness or vulnerability.

Tears Bad. No like tears.

Someday, I sweartogawd, I will grow up enough to feel comfortable showing all my feelings. I think we can all agree that right about that time whole troops of monkeys will also fly out of my butt and world peace will also be achieved. It will be A Very, Very Special Day.

One of the high points of the holidays was Saturday when I got to have lunch down in Vermont with Clare and Jen, two women who truly crack me up. I hadn't thought to come bearing gifts and was truly touched when they showered upon me a bodice ripper novel about the settlement of Australia, a wide assortment of teas including a very suspect tea made from twigs, AND their incredible home made brownies.

I want to state for the record that when Jen and Clare gave me those brownies they were a thing of beauty. They were on a very pretty pink plate, cut into tasteful squares, protected with foil.

Notice the past tense?

Well, I was walking the quarter mile uphill home with them and lost my footing. The bag containing the plateful of delicious homemade brownies hit the snow and I hit the snow on top of it.

Uh oh.

The cow pat brownie fiasco of 2004When I got home and unwrapped them after Their Tragic Accident they looked like ... they looked like ... well, they looked like what polite company would call a cow patty.

It has been a source of much hilarity for the spousal unit. Questionable jokes have been made. Not that their general appearance has stopped him from consuming them or anything. Oh, no, not him. After all, this is a man who has endured nearly 30 years of my cooking. He Has Seen Worse, Eaten Worse and is Still Alive To Tell The Tale.

As I write this, only one small corner of the, uh, mound o' brownies is still extant. They have been a big hit.

He has asked me to get the recipe.

He better not ask me to fall on top of every batch I make, eh?

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 558.93 miles (899.5 kilometers)
met goal Nov. 7
Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Half way smoochTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.