Okay, I just wrote this HUGE essay on Why I Feel Like An Absolute Basketcase Tonight, and after covering my basic household needs, Maddie's school registration, my (anti)reproductive needs, Dad's cancer and how it relates to Thanksgiving, my battle to try to prevent my own cancer (i.e., trying, and failing miserably, to quit smoking), the return of the Freakishly Long Run-On Sentence and its subsequent signal for me to either Chill Out or Get On With the Prozac Already, I decided to forget all that shit, lay down, and read a book, because all of that stuff is such a temporary state of madness, which will be eliminated by my New Brilliant and Wonderful Plan, the Main Idea of which is that my love and I need a good stretch of hours to just BE. This week is going to be SO fucking busy for both of us, and I'm hoping that each of us will, in our spare moments, have time to individually decompress. And then...
This Saturday, so help me God, when Greg gets off of work, I am bringing him to my house, where I will be temporarily and for 24-hours-only instituting a few rules:
No County Clare.
No alcohol, whether for distribution or consumption.
No kids.
No Irish music.
No lists.
No unnecessary phone calls.
No computer.
No housework.
No bills.
Lots of laziness.
Lots of love.
Lots of smooching.
Lots of reading poetry.
Lots of exercise, if you know what I mean.
Lots of talking.
Lots of silence.
Lots of water.
Lots of love.
Lots of love.
Lots of love.