Burberry Brit

I had to try the scent, fully expecting to say enough with the plaid already. But I really like it. It's fresh and crisp, without citrus (which I like) or musk (which I don't). Why the order form said, "assorted colors" I'll never know. The computer must have issues with plaid. Smart computer.

I Miss My Brain

Today I tried to open the office door with my car unlock button. I know there is a more efficient name for the car unlock button fob thing, but I don't have it right now. I had trouble driving without unnecessary impact. I showed up with my daughter for ballet at the wrong time. And the wrong day.

I used the suddenly vacant space of time to take the dog and the never-to-be-professional ballet dancing daughter to the sub-freezing dusk "no dogs allowed" park, instead. We ran from one end of the frozen tundra golf course and back, with a 4 month old puppy running circles around us. The air was biting, the light was low. It was hard to see the white puppy in the white snow. It felt wonderful. My daughter and I looked at each other from across a space of field, knowing that we had done the dog good. There was a big stone, the size of a resting cow, that I had never seen up close before. The inscription on the side said something about in memory for all the solders of the war of 1812 who died in hospital, or camp, or something like that, "and are buried here." I think I am going back tomorrow with the dog and reading it again. I saw the placard and year, but thought Teddy Roosevelt and wondered why folks from the Spanish American War infirmaries would be brought up this far north and put in the middle of the golf course. I decided that there must be a reason, and then ran after the dog.

See, I miss my brain.

I am giving up all my cookbooks except for an old Martha Stewart comfort food soft bound. I keep it on display, near a picture of me in a vase full of deep pink pebbles, no water, no plant. The stones keep my small, incredibly photoshopped smiling face pushed up against the vase wall. It's the only picture of me in the house, and it sets beside Martha because I think it is funny to have us together. She is pre-indictment. I am in a vase full of stones. It's perfect.

The cookbooks are unnecessary. I will never understand food like Nigella, or be a vegetarian as all kind folks. The Four-Ingredient Cookbook gift is too sad to open. I have a cookbook from Marlboro, something about chili and carne. It's called Evening Lights, which is even sadder commentary than the Four-Ingredient number.

Fill 'Er Up

I seem to be holding out, at twice a year for Botox, but I can't say that I need less as time goes on. That's gotta be a suburban myth. Maybe I've just given up so much hope of accomplishing anything in my short life, that I've lost all expression inside. Soooo, nothing shows up on my face.

Right, I know the routine. Don't lay down for a few hours and if anybody asks, those needle marks in the forehead are all about doping. Or heroin. Something respectable.

Hi Tech Hair

With all the noise over straighteners (I've been getting press releases for $300 units), I thought why not see what the noise is all about.

I look like a Disney character.

Because first you straighten your hair and it gets all shiny and glow-y. But then because my hair is layered and thinner at the bottom, it looked kind of low rent and trampy, so I curled it with a curling iron - as I was told to try.

You'd think someone put a Sleeping Beauty wig on this 40+ face. Charming. Just charming.

Next I'll have to chop it all off from all the damage. I'll play around with it some more. I do like that shine thing. It last until I was my hair and the fuzz look returns.

Off Center

I walked into the DMV, looking for the eldest child who had called me to come in and sign the "It's ok" papers for the middle child to get her driving permit. The eldest was standing in the test-taking area, and I yelled out, "Did she win?"

We awoke pre-dawn to take the eldest to the airport. My brain was foggy, my eyes were tearing up from shear computer exhaustion from the night before. I turned the corner near a highway and spotted the lone house on the block with a thoroughly adorned front yard. Icicles, snowmen, Santa, candy canes. You know those kind of houses. The place grabbed my face, and what came out of my mouth was, "It is beautiful!"

Well, technically, no, but kind of wowy in a "wish I were a kid" way.

The steroids are supposed to reduce inflammation in the brain. I thought by day four I had made some progress, but no. No wine, plenty of sleep, clear system, and still, things are the same. I have never been diagnosed right the first time, for anything in my life, and I suspect that this will be no different. It will be fun. Anyway, instead of continuing my assaults on the automatic spell check, I am going to clean the house out to bare bones. I figure if there is less in, there is less to lose, less to miss, and less to screw up.