sigh. drink. death.
I think that my difficulties with this journal have a lot to do with my drop in self-esteem. I'm having trouble with my morale lately (hate my body, hate my haircut, hate my social life) and I think that clearly spills into my enthusiasm for documenting the daily activities. I've been keeping this diary for so damn long that I know I need to write through the block – and that what is torture to produce isn't torture to read a few months down the line – and so all that's needed is mulish persistence and the energy to keep stringing the words together.
So here we go.
Today I had tea with Poppy in her house. We were supposed to get together over the March Break, but I was bad about calling and it never happened. This is the second of the make-up dates (third, if you count Lesbian Brunch), and it went off beautifully. Poppy was still feeling under the weather, so we eschewed a public café in favour of her living room. Fortunately, she and her wife are neat people, and the house didn't need to be cleaned frantically upon my arrival (unlike, say, when I entertain in my home). Poppy & I curled up in arm chairs while her very pregnant wife lay on the sofa, and we had tea and chatted. It was very civilized - I love to watch other married couples and judge myself by their example (it's just one more way to dislike myself). I also like seeing their house: I am beginning to see the possibilities of home ownership, and they are quite pleasant. (Before, I had trouble visualizing my life beyond the housewarming party.)
With that in mind, the Rocketfamily went on a brief post-prandial drive tonight through the price-appropriate areas of B-ton, so that the Boy & I could do some serious thinking about priorities. When we made our lists, we turned out to be pretty similar – the only major difference is that he's wary of repairs and gardens and I'm not. Our real-estate agent is taking us out on Sunday, so it looks like we'll be spending next month in other people's kitchens. Sounds like fun, n'est-ce pas?
The truth is, I'm really excited about this. Not only can we move out of the basement, but we can pay off our own damn mortgage rather than someone else's. Sure, it's not Toronto, but our old life is not ready to be resumed even if we were to live in Toronto. Most of our friends have fallen out of touch, and when you have to put too much effort into every gathering, it ceases to be fun. (Remember, I'm feeling pessimistic, so you may not want to take too much stock in what I'm saying now. Tomorrow I may have made dancing plans with Scherezade (yoo hoo!) and have recanted on this whole vein of sadness. That's the problem with me at present: I'm Too Damned Gloomy to be borne.)
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*