Yesterday.

Today was a better day even though my Satanic guitar still lurks in the corner of my room. It doesn't even hurt to see it anymore; I am past mourning, past even having a feeling of sadness. It has just turned into a looming pressure to get the new one and fast. It just sits there reminding me that it has not been replaced and someone's gotta do it, not me.

So---yesterday I did not run but schooled the kids and got a ton of stuff done. I ironed (again---that is THREE times this month!) and put up my daughter's curtains that have been waiting for me to stitch them up and hang them. I just did loads. And once that was all done I found myself going nuts: I made dinner, two in fact. One for me, one for the rest of the crew, and it was great. At least mine was. I made linguine in some white wine sauce (I couldn't find a recipe so I just made it up) and it was like I was in a restaurant. Better, actually. I should be a flipping chef. I forget that I have cooking abilities, warming up meat and vegetables that sit in the freezer, or chopping up lettuce. Like you all know, my family is sort of picky, and oftentimes I find myself just eating a bowl of oatmeal because I don't want to eat a piece of chicken again or another frozen green bean. How lively.

Anyway---after dinner, the Girl and I finished reading book 2 of the Narnia series, and started on book 3. We played a game of Skip-Bo, and then the point of doom came.

Dear Sir about lost his mind looking at the Girl's room. I was beyond losing it, I was even getting used to it a little, just filled with a tad of dread at what could be under the bed or maybe the dresser. "Cleaning up", I have discovered, for the Girl, consists of pushing more stuff in corners, handbags, drawers, etc. If you were to look at her room you would immediately think, "junky." So while my daughter wept (at eight thirty at night) I helped her clean up. I upturned stuff and piled it all on the floor. Change, dirty clothes, crap everywhere, it was a complete disaster. I remember earlier when I was ironing, I felt so faint that I thought I was going to actually fall down, but I just held on and kept going. I was TIRED. It took me a good hour, but I got it all squared away and even vacuumed the place because the bits of paper and garbage on the floor was getting under my skin. By the time nine thirty hit we were done, and Dear Sir sat and watched King of the Hill on his mac. I almost felt bitter but then I remembered that he is sick and boy do I get all whinny when I am sick, and he was smiling, so I thought better of slugging the guy. In fact, if people are just out of my way when I am cleaning, all the better. I flip out and go on a rampage. I even yell, to my utter shame, "get out of my way!" People scurry, flee, even yelp in terror when I walk by. Dear Sir, the other adult, just stands back and watches, amazed at what I can get done in a split second because furry has become me.

"You're crazy," he says.