I do realize that I was loosing it. I am aware I said some kind of wacky things. No sleep. No food. No anti-psychotics. Psychotic episode. Not severe. I think I drove Kelli crazy, though. She’s not answering my text. That’s cool. She’s really been there for me this week. I just want to know I have Latuda swimming through my blood and brain and I’m okay. She sounded really concerned last night. I didn’t mean to worry her.
And Doc had no idea it was going on. All he knew is that I was taking care of him and the animals and the plants and the house. He had no idea I wasn’t taking care of myself. I don’t do that well on my own. I can take care of anyone. Just not myself. Tonight I will clean the kitchen and take a shower and change my clothes. Pity to give up this shirt, I really like it. I’ll wash it tonight, then I can wear it next week.
Telling Doc that I wasn’t putting up the Christmas Tree until he cleaned off the dining room table (the tree stands in front of the sliding glass door to the patio, on the border of the living room/dining room). I need the table for rolling out cookies. I’m making ginger ornaments to hang on a table top tree that is kind of bare of branches, which turns out to be very Scandinavian, so I’m making Scandinavian ornaments to hang on it. You can also hang little toys and bits and bobs on Swedish trees. They are very open with their tree decorating, but one thing that is consistent, is a tree very bare of branches.
The presents are piling up. They’re all Doc’s. His cast iron grill pan broke through the side of the shipping box, so I’m going to wrap his pans individually, so it’s silly looking.
I can’t seem to get any work done, so I’m going to art tonight. After I clean. I think I might start the Christmas cards and get the logistics of those figured and the paper cut. I have such visions for them, there is no way I am putting them off. And the assemblage of gifts has begun. I am sad that I can’t make cookies for my friend, Lilliane. I have no experience with gluten-free baking, and I would never experiment on her. But I am going to make candy. The first of the holiday grocery ads comes out Tuesday. I can’t wait. I need nuts. Lots of nuts. Pecans, walnuts, hazelnuts. And I need plain popcorn. I’m stringing some for the small tree, and I’m making white chocolate drizzled, candy sprinkled popcorn.
Then there’s the big tree, if it ever goes up. I found in my studio, a roll of three inch wide gold ribbon with tiny wires sewn into the edges. That is getting draped around the big tree after the Victorian replica ornaments go on. I know it isn’t true Victorian, the ribbon, but if they had it, they would have wrapped the tree loosely with it, trust me. My issue is the top of the tree. Usually I weaken and put up a mid-century spire/orb kind of thing. I have three different ones, they are German blown glass, so Googie. I think this year, we will do the big silver snowflake to counter the gold ribbon. And only white lights. The small tree goes against tradition and gets colored lights, because that is what I have.
See? Totally thinking clearly now. Though I have been alone for so long . . . between work and sleep, Doc and I are never up at the same time. I try to sleep when he is up so he can have alone time, because I can’t seem to shut up when I’m around him, and I’ve been frantic the last few days, as we’ve noticed.
Penguins don’t wear watches! Stupid Christmas commercials. They are shameless. They have so fucked up all the legends, I doubt any children today even know the origins of Santa, or care. I know that he’s not called Santa in Sweden (I’ll have to look up what he is called), and he is WAY cooler looking. He’s tall, kind of Gandalf-y in festive robes. With a big, red sack, but it is never full to bursting like American Santa. Just a sack with some things in it, over his shoulder. Long white beard, wizened face. Not at all scary like the morbidly obese red giant of a fake beard of curly hair coming at you to smother you . . . . right. I don’t like American Santa, never did. Always preferred the underfed, wrinkled old European Fathers of Christmas, or Yule.
And I have pine cones to paint and glitter. I hope they opened back up after their trip through the oven to kill unseen critters. They don’t tell you about that in the tutorials. Put the pine cones in the oven and bake them to kill the critters, they tell you that, but they don’t tell you that the pine cones will close up once you take them out. And presumably open back up once they cool and cure. Then you can paint just the tips red and green. Or, you can hold them by their stems, and spin them while you apply spray adhesive, and then lightly glitter them with red and green micro-glitter. Those are going under the small tree. I think I have a skirt for the big one. I think, after three and a half years, I have found all of the xmas stuff. I know, unbelievable. And if my parents weren’t the incarnations of Evil, I would have another box of ornaments from my childhood that I could put on the medium tree. As it is, I don’t think I’m putting the medium tree up this year. I have to figure out where to put the stockings. Maybe I’ll hang some from the desk, maybe some from the speakers. We have three sets. One from my family, one from his, and one we bought each other. We, of course, have to have them all out. We stash new tools, and candy, and little things in them, cat toys, dog treats, something to go through and have fun with.
And as much as he hates xmas, even though we claimed it as our own three years ago so that we could enjoy it with our new family. Us. We’re weird. We hold onto stuff. So, Thanksgiving was a bust, but we have plans for xmas. He is finding me some ham. And I am making him quiches. Real, in the quiche pan, quiches. And the cookies and candies and nibbles for him for work, for the endless potlucks and celebrations. And the general just having a stash of home made cookies in your desk drawer so everyone is all over you all night. Doc’s popular. Especially now that he is staying home with me less and going to work more, they are getting to know him. He’s been there 6 years, but they have a moderate turnover, so he doesn’t really get to know people well. Every so often he gets a nice crew around him. He’s got one now.
I remember when I could go to work and interact with other people. But at the end, I mostly went for the food. And do you know what I was doing on the weekends? Toast Station. Yes, we were so busy every weekend for breakfast (lines out the door) that making toast required the full attention of one classically trained human being. And people liked my toast. They commented on my toast. They noticed when I did not do the toast. Because I like toast, but I like my toast buttered to the edges, not the lame restaurant schmear in the middle crap. And I will only make food the quality that I would eat it, so I buttered all that fucking toast to the edges, every nook and cranny of every English muffin. I took pride in my toast. And when I tried to explain it to people, it sounded silly. But in that kitchen, on that line on weekend mornings, that toast was all that mattered in my life.
I guess it’s like anything you do. You can take pride in it, no matter how silly, if you look at it right.