New Year, New Underwear

I started out writing a really depressing post the other day but you are in luck: I cannot find it. I think it’s on my phone somewhere but we will let it drift into the eternal draft neverland, because oh ye gods, yeah, life is depressing, I’m fucking depressed, you’re probably depressed and what else is new? There is just not all that much I can say about it except, well, yeah, I would also like to sleep for a hundred years in a castle made of thorns or, failing that, fuck the pain away. Both seem equally unlikely, although the second – you heard it here first – is basically my New Year’s resolution. Yes, I’m looking to resurrect my inner slut. She’s been out of commission for years and years and enough. I’m not looking for a boyfriend; I fear that train has sailed. Oh well! But there has to be some middle ground here. So introduce me to your single male heterosexual friends, please. If there are any of those rare creatures in Asheville, which I doubt. Preferably the ones with poor eyesight and little discretion.

In other news, we had a surprisingly lovely Christmas. I started dreading the holidays last June but both Thanksgiving and Christmas went off without any huge enormous glaring hitches. The kids gave me a DVD player – yay! My goal of lying on the couch watching movies draws nigh! – and took me shopping later – I bought a pair of electric purple flocked leggings I am calling the Psychotic Break at Ross Dress for Less pants – and we had a super day all in all and consumed roughly our own body weights in cheese. Cheese! Cheese! I am going back on a diet. Someday. I gave them socks and underwear because I am one of THOSE moms, yes, and a variety of other useful items such as fancy sunglasses and breathalyzers and plaid flannel shirts they hated. Miles and his girlfriend gave me an Amazon gift card I have not yet even begun to figure out how to spend – maybe on flannel, I like it – and so, all good and cheer and goodwill reigned in the household . . .

Until New Years Day when all hell broke loose. I could wax darkly hilarious about that but in the interests of preserving the tiny, tiny margin of friendliness that is left in this house, I won’t. Suffice it to say that we don’t often fight around here, but when my family decides to fight, hoo boy, we really decide to fight. They don’t want me to sell the house and leave town and I don’t want to stay here, or maybe I do, but not like this, and I feel unloved and unappreciated and they think I’m an idiot and so on and so on and so on, ad fucking literal nauseam for several days. Just now an uneasy peace is reigning but that’s pretty much because we’re all mostly avoiding each other. It sucks. I suppose the happy Christmas elves had to have their revenge. Bastards.

Well. I think this proves that my plan of leaving is actually a good one, although my heart quails within me and I get all verklampt when I think about my garden and my tree. I don’t think I mind selling the house so much but the garden, argh. I have however been looking at RVs and camper vans and so on and reading up on it and I think my plan, while still hideously financially irresponsible, is doable. More or less doable, but then I think, leaving Asheville? For parts unknown? After 15 years? Are you crazy? Don’t answer that.

Well, at any rate 2015 will I think be very different than 2014 and that’s a good thing: it is time and beyond time for changes. In that spirit let me report that the two gallery pages are COMPLETE, yes, FINISHED, I took a picture Every. Damn. Day. in 2014 (except on November 9 when I made a small ArtRage painting out of an old photo instead and December 18 when I just forgot and ended up taking a selfie after midnight so technically not the 18th but oh well what the hell.) And now that it is done I feel proud and also, I don’t know what the hell to do with myself. It’s weird, I feel strangely incomplete now that the little voice in the back of my head isn’t saying “Don’t forget the photo of the day! Photo of the day!” 24/7. Actually it is still saying it – and then I have to keep saying shut UP, it’s 2015 now. And changes are afoot. I think. And then I think, oh gods, I can’t deal with it, and then I think, is there any Valium left?  Ah the holidays – the decorations are gone but the indelible psychic scars linger on.

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