Hey! You! Put my brain back where you found it!

sliding the brain back under the baby detritus in the corner.

Sorry. I thought it was an extra. Might not happen again.

glrmphm.

I'm going to find time to write today. I did some yesterday (newest novel Matty Groves, not fanfic; I'm waiting on end of season to do third leg of Amanda trilogy) and I was so sick and out of it that I'm having to find nerve to go back and see how badly it stunk. Stunk? Stank?

stank.

I'm sure it didn't.

I'm sure you'll find new and exciting things to write, however, and that you'll be all energized and happy and feeling fulfilled and accomplished by the end of the day.

At least, that's what I'm rooting for.

Deena, there are three things going against this being that kind of day:

1. it's Monday.

2. It's Sant patrick's Day (hockey game in San Jose tonight, and everyon will be drunk aand attitudinous).

3. Any day that starts out with Commander Bunnypants wanting to Address the Nation has trauma written all over it.

Still, we can but try.

3. Any day that starts out with Commander Bunnypants wanting to Address the Nation has trauma written all over it.

Yogurt almost flew out of my nose.

Commander *Bunnypants*?

What Plei said, except substitute lemonade for yogurt.

Yup. Bunnypants.

Also:

El Commandante Fuckwit, the Xanax Cowboy, Shrub the Magic Dickwad.....

The list, she goes on.

El Commande Fuckwit, the Xanax Cowboy, Shrub the Magic Dickwad.....

The list, she goes on.

The list, she should probably be COMMed. Or YorLOMMed.

I have no sense of humor this morning. I smirked. I recognized it as funny. I'm feeling a sick dread, wondering what I've brought my children into.

Monday's are bad for me because Greg's weekend is Sunday/Monday. That means he's home, and he's messing with my routine. I like having him home, but sometimes he just gets in the way. Nick is also out of school today because it's a non-instructional day. I don't know what that means except that I've been inflicted with an extra day of teenagery goodness. He's in his bedroom playing mournful guitar music. I'm not wearing green. Kara is learning her colors. The color I'm wearing now is prepoul in her language.

You're right Deb. Trying is good, though. Prepoul makes me smile. It's pitty.

Prepoul. This is good.

When Joanna (24 in June) was small, she had one of the great portmanteau words ever: Yesternight.

There was no such thing as a timeline, you see, not in her four-year-old head. Everything that had ever happened was done, past, together in a vast moving ballroom of mythos, human tragedy, divine comedy, sex, war, love, death, all of it. It all happened yesternight. The Titanic hit an iceberg and went down. When? Yesternight. Mom, I finished my cereal and gave Gadabout the rest of the milk to lick. When? Yesternight. The first ancestors of man crawled out of the primordial ooze and lay in warm sunlight. When? You got it, babe. Yesternight.

I adored the gestalt of that, the Zen behind it, and I still do. Today, this morning, it's almost unbearably poignant. Yesternight, I had no multiple sclerosis. Yesternight, this country was a democracy and the rest of the world, while occasionally pissy, was something we were a part of. So many things, so many so many so many, all gone and changed and ruined.

Yesternight. I'd like it back.