Random.

I've mentally written a hundred or so posts. But there is self editing issues, time issues, am-I-prepared-for-disagreement? issues, and I-hate-effexor issues.


So, for now, I've hidden myself away in my room to the smells of Brian cooking, and the strains of my trademark Kenny Rogers Christmas in Kentucky cassette tape. I've nauseated myself on that tape every Christmas for a pretty long stretch now.


Christmas elicits a lot of stuff. Good stuff, fattening stuff, emotional stuff, exhausting stuff, messy stuff. So much processed (that would be the fattening stuff) and ever-so-much UN-processed.(mostly deposits inside the cranial space). Hence, the fear of writing at all.

But writing is so helpful. It's like getting some great shelving in big-old-house closet. You know those weird, badly designed after-thought-closets that can only be made useful with some splendid shelving idea? Well, that's kind of how I see writing. You lay out all the stuff, then you figure out what stays, what goes, and what cubby hole to tuck some other things into until a relevant time. Messy, though.

Lets begin with family life. When my anxiety/irritability index is on the higher end of the scale, I tend to perceive my immediate family with mild to moderate and then into finger-nail-off-ripping panic. I berate myself for all the better parenting I should have known about and practised starting from 13.5 years ago and into the present. I wonder about my current parenting status- what am I right now screwing up or missing that I'll be beating myself up for 13.5 years from now when one or two of my adult children are living off of frozen pizza pops and cheezies in my basement? What important questions am I neglecting to ask them right now? What investments of time, energy, listening... whatever am I currently too preoccupied or selfish or lazy to put into play? Why do my children appear to be bored and have no apparent clue of how to occupy themselves within 25 hours of a fullblown, generous, exciting Christmas?! Why does my son have roughly ten billion lego sets in his room, yet wander from fridge to couch to microwave to computer screen, even if he knows that he can not log on until 2:00 pm? Is his brain so completely mushified that he is content to do the boredom wander for five hours for one blessed hour of computer time?!

I think I need to talk about hemmorroids or hairy nipples for a while. This offspring topic is really stressing me out.

Or, we could indulge ourselves in the other hot topic that's about to get a tonne of air time. FAT. Are you ready? You are about to get hit with a barage of propoganda, yes, even more than usual. Because after a few weeks of overindulging anybody with so much as a "D" in marketing knows that we want to listen to 23.5 hours a day of information on how to lose weight, look like you spend all your time working out, and never ever be hungry or sad or lonely or needy or confused again. And this begs the question(s). Which "team" are we on? Are we going to get sucked into that giant vortex? Are we going to snivel around guiltily bemoaning all those pots of gold, birdies with cranberry, deeply fried fondues, and all the gloriously lazing sitting about we did over the Christmas break? Are we going to follow stupidly behind every exercise guru who prompts us to sculpt and lipo and flex and sweat?

Are we going to look around for permission to be lumpy? chubby? saggy?

ooh, boy. Who knows another topic?
Thoughts, anyone on too-much-thinking-at-Christmas? how about this question: What is preoccupying your brain these days? Give me three. And if you are one of those gals or fellas who doesn't over analyze to hemoraging proportions, then do me a favour and fake it.

Throw me a bone.