Monday, June 9, 2008

good morning?

I feel like crap. But it's all in my head -- physically, I feel a little fat, but otherwise just fine. There are so many things running in circles in my head, leaving me kind of anxious and bothered.

For one, there's Sarah. She was born one month from today. Brittany just had her baby a couple of days ago. I watched Juno for the first time on Saturday. I emailed Philip and Janet two or three days ago and haven't heard back from them yet. ...The movie was good, by the way. I watched it by myself (Matt had to go to his brother's faux bachelor party), and the only way you'd understand how I cried is if you had been there. I mean, thinking about the end of the movie yesterday as I was wiping down tables at work almost had me in tears again. Seventy percent of the young women in Belle Meade seem to always be pregnant, and I want to tell them how lucky they are...to be able to love and care for and raise their children. (Of course, I don't think those Belle Meade people should be reproducing with the zeal that they do, but that's not my point at all.)

It's so, so terrible. I don't like going through all of this again. It it because of the weather? Is it because of Brittany? Is it because she's my daughter and I'll never get over her?

Maybe I'll try to visit again. I wish I had a car that I could trust to drive up there.

I'm noticing myself getting mad at customers lately. I mean, that's not any good. I want to be compassionate and patient with them -- not angry! I can't figure out what's changed, either. Except the weather. Oh God, I hate summer.

1 comment:

Katie said...

I loved your letters! and THEN I got to read a blog, which was like a continuation of the letters. My goodness! I have no idea how you feel about Sarah and such, but if there's EVER anything I can do you better let me know. I haven't seen Juno yet, but I want to. I would have watched it with you if I was there.

What's in My Journal (by William Stafford)

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beautify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't f ind them. Somebody's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.