It is a matter of time, they say—yours and mine, and someone else's who doesn't even realize it at the moment.

I have been in Arkansas since early Sunday morning. How early, exactly? I don't remember; I don't remember when I crossed the Mississippi River, but I do remember that I was sobbing when I did.

We spent Saturday in Nashville with Dan, who was in from Michigan to help the UMich lacrosse team out (he videotapes their games). We spent an absolutely wonderful day there with him, and drove back in the early evening.

Jeff, Dan, Amy
by domesticat.
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I can already tell that this particular entry is probably going to get me in trouble. So, let me sit down with a cup of hot chocolate and my comfortable Friday-night-slobbing-around-the-house clothing and just tell you like it is. You know, the kind of talks your mother used to have with you when you were too young and too stupid to understand that just because Aunt Bertha was really really fat didn't mean that you were allowed to come right up to her in front of her and her thirteen grandchildren to tell her that she was fat. On her birthday, no less.

I wonder if I just come out and say it, will it make it any easier? My sister called me this evening, not ten minutes before we were supposed to leave for Sean's birthday party.

(Recent lesson, well learned: no call whose caller ID number starts with "501" is a call that brings good news. If a family member has something to say that can't wait until one of my regular calls, it can't be good news.)Today's was the news that Dad did not recognize my sister or my nephew—his grandchild.

My father adores that red-headed grandson of his, and has since the moment he was born. Today he asked my mother who the boy was.

When my sister told me, I cried. Then dried my eyes and went to Sean's birthday party. Because some things have to be done, and friends cannot be walked away from, birthdays left uncelebrated. I cried on the way home. I went to the bathroom and shook out two aspirins for my rapidly-worsening tension headache and just…squalled.

Spring is coming. I can feel it at the genetic level: the domestic genes I inherited from my mother have activated themselves in the past three days. Normal thoughts of house maintenance have given way to dreams of spring cleaning, rearranging, and item-tossing. As a result I've caught myself resembling my cats, prowling around the house and looking for a mess to dip my hands into.

I hung new things in the hallway. Finally moved my bits of clothing from the bureau to the dresser, so as to give Jeff more room. (How odd is it that he needs more room for clothing than I do?) Started working on excavating the kitchen table. Day two of working on the kitchen.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll tackle the horrid mess that is the reading room. I'm still pondering painting the master bedroom blue. I want to—desperately—but the bedroom needs more work before that can happen.

Yet another recipe from Heather that's been sitting in my inbox for ages and ages, waiting to see the light of day from a post.

…home.

Pajamas. Your own shower. No more driving. Kitties. Spouse. Did I mention pajamas? Oh, yes, the worn and faded cotton set I've had since high school, with long sleeves and buttons that I've had to re-sew onto the shirt a couple of times.

I told Eleanor that I was going to get up at 6:30, and that I'd be on my way home within just a few minutes. I'm not entirely certain that she believed me, but she said to tap on her door before I left.I thought about things before I curled up on her couch last night (weighing options like showers and pajamas and drive time and such), and decided to sleep in my clothes. The alarm woke me up at 6:30. I made sure everything was in my bag, transferred everything out to my car, and tapped on her door at 6:35.