So I'm contemplating a day of boring nothingness, if not discomfort, as opposed to the best birthday I ever had, which was last year.
I've got something going on with my eyes, allergies or conjunctivitis or something. If feels like my eyelids are holding random specks of hot sand. It could just be eyelashes in there, but I can't see well enough without my glasses to tell, and when I keep my glasses on, the reflection interferes with looking. So tomorrow I'm thinking a visit to some medical professional, which means maybe canceling my regular therapy if the time interferes, which I had wanted to do anyway, because who wants to go to therapy on your birthday?
Yes, let's look at that one. So far today, I've been very bummed because I never heard from my sister (even though I did call about 11:30 and tell her not to call back), but when I tried her for a couple of hours after going out shopping with R with my burning eyes, she didn't pick up the phone. This is a person who often does not answer her phone, and yet rarely checks her messages. How did I know she would actually check her messages today? And she went for her second sleep study last night, so of course I was concerned. She could have been in the hospital all day for all I knew; what if they found something acute and dreadful in the sleep study? She was all freaked out about going, all I wanted was to hear that she was okay.
And in other news, in case you just stumbled across my diary today and haven't seen this before about a million times, my father's dead. It's my first birthday without either of my parents. So what do you think, do I need therapy or not? I feel like a freaking basket case at the moment; the only good thing here is that if I actually cry real tears, it does make my eyes feel better.
And 51 is so ... nothing. It's not cool, like 50. 50 is good. 51 is boring. The only thing I can tell you about 51 is that it's not a prime number. 17 x 3 = 51. This may well be the only bit of mathematical trivia I know, or have ever known. I don't even know if it qualifies as trivia.
Ah well. Writing is good, writing makes me feel better. I am better now. Really, I am. So let me tell you about my haircut.
I got my hair cut yesterday. I was chatting happily with my haircut guy, of whom I'm very fond, and who, by the by, may be on Queer Eye sometime this season! His shop, I mean. I overheard his partner on the phone -- she wasn't being especially secretive -- and then she told me that the show may be coming to film in the shop in the next few weeks. How cool is that! I'll let you know. But I digress. I was chatting along and when he was done I looked in the mirror and thought "Hmm, I wonder who that is?"
Yes, I knew it was me, and I did have short hair to start with, but heavens. Let me describe it this way: if I had the cheekbones of Judi Dench, it would be fine. If I were the most beautiful woman in the world like Halle Berry, it would be better. Alas. I am without both cheekbones and incredible beauty. (It would also be fine if I were thirty years younger and thirty pounds lighter. Those ships too have sailed.) Well, whatever. I know it's a good haircut, and hair grows. It will be fine in a couple of weeks. If only I hadn't put that sculpting paste in this morning, and had dabbed a bit of blush on, I probably wouldn't look like the aged, overweight waif I've been resembling all day. The red and swollen eyes did nothing to dispel this image either.
So there you have it, erev me. Erev, by the by, is the Yiddish word for "on the evening of", or just "eve". As in Christmas Eve would be Erev Christmas. Although usually you hear it more with holidays like Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur.
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I'm watching DeGrassi
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