ARGH

"There is always room for improvement - in my case, that is all the room there is."


I had such grand intentions for this space. I know the internet is wide-open (at least for now) and that I can't really be wasting space, but I still feel like I am. I have so many things to say, but the procrastination and perfectionism get in the way.

I have a friend (at least I consider her a friend) who blogs deeply personal and powerful things. She writes of her inner struggle, her awakening and how it changes her and her life. To top it off it's intertwined with yoga that I can only pretend to dream of, much less imagine doing.

I read a blog by one of my favorite authors, who not only finds time to write her books/memoirs (who has that kind of memory?) and live a dynamic and interesting life, but she blogs regularly about said life and it's always funny and interesting.

I can barely find time to keep up with Fark.com, much less find the words to interest even myself. (and no Duckie, this isn't one of the blogs I promised).

I've been sick this past week, which would be a great excuse if I hadn't been silent for months. It's the first big illness I've had since the Nibblet was born. So I've been wretched and mean and snarky and flying off the handle at the slightest thing. Oh, you want dinner? Well, I hope your appetite survives after I've slammed every pan in the house and broken two plates. Oh, there are no clean clothes? Enjoy the ones I finally managed to do, because I'll be an awful bitch about folding them and then I won't even put them away, just leave them on the bed accusingly. Oh, you're going to be nice and forgiving and helpful? Good luck keeping that up as I snipe and moan and cough very pointedly in your direction.
Gods, I am terrible. I don't even know what I want, I just know that I don't have it. The worst part is that Indy has been an angel, even as he fights off the bubonic plague I'm trying to spread.

The Nibblet is showing her personality, and at eight months old she's already a better person than I am. On my worst day she would sympathy cough with me, curl up on the sofa while I stole naps, and I swear she's been reading to me instead of the other way around. Unfortunately she caught whatever I have (something about proximity between mother & child is fraught with shared germs). I don't know what we have, but we cough and snot and basically make each other miserable. I can't keep up with her schedule - is she hungry? tired? just sick? bored? She comes and pats my face while I cry at the hopelessness of it, and coos at me. At her worst she cries for comfort, and I barely provide it. Bad mother? I'm gonna go with yes.

Indy tries to fulfill desires that change more than Democrats. He cooks, he cleans, he takes care of the Nib, he gives me time to sleep or read or play WOW (what?). He hovers over me, and I curse. He leaves the room and I grouse. He couldn't win if he were George Bush. The fact that he sticks around and put up with me over and over again should prove something to those who doubted this relationship working. Or maybe they just knew me too well.

So I finally get an evening free to write and think deep thoughts, or at least wonder why the fuck Amy Winehouse doesn't fix her shit, and I spend it whinging. Hence the Argh.

Cross your fingers for me, because I do have things to say about the Landmark program, the movie Lions for Lambs, the worst part of being a parent, and the newsflash that I'm strongly certain about who I'm going to vote for in the primaries (I think).

Until another significant moment,