I received alleged email in my alleged in box from my alleged brother. I am at the stage of OH CRAP I HAVEN'T CHECKED MY EMAIL IN SO LONG I CAN'T EVER CHECK IT NOW! I have decided that my only recourse is to change my name to Petunia Gladiolous Frangipan and moving to Point Barrow, Alaska. And start fresh with a new email address. Or perhaps no email address. I can't explain why it is stressing me out-- it is irrational, but there it is. Very very sad on this morning. I spent many worthless moments convincing myself that I was a horrible person for:
While very sad I decided to bake two pies. The one I was most excited about was a rhubarb pie. I had picked Giant Rhubarb from the neighbor's yard. I made a lovely crust. But I also felt like my brain was not working. Or working in S L O W M O T I O N. I found myself many times standing in the middle of a room wondering what I was doing. Forgetting the names for things. Not knowing what I was doing next. I had zero capacity for dealing with the squabbling children. It was storming outside. i had not cleaned the house (having made no plans with brother/mother for the day) so when they showed up the house was somewhat ashambles. Rather than entertaining these guests I hid in the kitchen and continued to make the pie. How Rude. I needed to rely on the brain of spouse to figure out that the best plan was for me to leave with brother and mother to have a meal and then come back to eat the pie. So we did. I sent us to two closed restaurants before we found an open one. When we got home and I sliced the pie, it looked lovely. But the rhubarb pie was so sour it tasted like I had not added any sugar. I'm pretty sure I did. But instead of measuring it I threw in a few handfuls of it-- and I think I estimated the amount that I would use fore strawberry rhubarb pie which uses less sugar. It Was Terrible. Sigh. I think I need to see about my meds. My brain feels cottony. I described my mood (to myself) yesterday as "desperately sad." And the idea of leaving the house caused me a wee little moment of anxiety. Comments are closed.
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K. BuchananQuaker, teacher, parent, |