Wednesday, January 2, 2013

The New Year Drear

We haz it.  I got up around 6:30 this morning and I've been waiting since then for the sun to rise.  Evidently it's off today.  Someone tootsed up the rheostat so it's kind of light out there and small snowflakes are drifting down, but it's not what you'd call "light" outside.  It isn't quite as bone-chilling cold out today, that's a good thing, but we pay for the warmer with lack of light.  *sigh*  We won't have warm and light together until sometime in April or May.  I don't want to wish the year away, it's only day 2 of 2013 after all, but I need the light.  Need it.  Yesterday's lunch with DD was lovely.  It was a treat for both of us to spend an hour alone together.  Those times are rare anymore.  I have renewed understanding of how Mom felt about me and the twins.  I yearn for my kids to be with me.  I hanker for the days when I was the center of their worlds.  Not that I don't love their partners, I do, really, I'm so proud of the adults they've become and I know that they love me and all that, but I want them on my lap, just one more time.  Maybe I would have savored those long-gone days a little more if I'd known how swiftly they'd fly... probably not because I can't count the times that Mom told me to pay attention, to memorize those days because they're over too soon, and I didn't.  I wished them more grown, more independent... bah.  Look at me sitting here all misty-eyed and snuffly.  (Oh for the love of god, get over yourself, Barbara.)  Caffeine has suddenly decided that it doesn't like me after all.  The last week or so I've felt extra-jittery with a little heart palpitations thrown in.  I don't like that one bit.  Yesterday I realized about halfway through my cup (only 1 per day) of morning coffee that the bad jitters were kicking in so I'm drinking tea, decaf tea, this morning and, poof, no jitters.  Dammit.  I love my one cup.  Oh well, back to decaf, I guess.  *sigh*

January 2--Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, The Seated Clowness.  She sat there, spraddle-legged, airing out her bits between shows.  It was hot in the nightclub and even hotter on stage.  Her cleavage glistened in the glow of the streetlight at the end of the alley.  Anyone who passed her was assailed by the scent of sweat and sex.  Close up her costume was darned and frayed.  Her face showed similar wear and years of doing eight shows a week had taken their toll on her.  "Hey, Lydie," the boys called, "we'll give you a kiss for a quarter."  "Go to hell," she said, and flicked her lit cigarette butt in their direction.

Well.  More snowflakes have decided to join the party.  Great.

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