Update of sorts

Well, I think that I am officially recovered from whatever rare tropical disease I had. I called Dorkface to make amends, or try to, and he said that I probably got sick from not washing my hands for over twenty-four hours after Puff died. He's not the kind to understand that I felt guilty over washing Puff off of my hands for the last time, so I didn't try to explain. I can't believe my sister told him that, though! Sigh. What happened to family loyalty? :-)

On a side note, Dorkface (ok, I need to think up a nicer name for him) said that his dream is twins, but he'll settle on a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model with a friend.

Sigh. Makes me wonder why I even asked. Maybe I'll try again later.

On another side note, while I wasn't washing my hands, I didn't do anything disgusting, like eat with them or anything. I mean, I know better than that.

Meg (I'm changing Paris' name to Meg, 'cos although she vehemently denies it, she acts *exactly* like Meg Ryan, especially Meg Ryan in French Kiss; I mean, it's like someone followed her around and took notes. Spooky. And Paris is a totally vacuous bimbette, which "Meg" is not...I just like to pretend that she is when I'm being sarcastic. I'd like to see Paris--the real Paris--get a PhD. In anything. Plus, Meg's real name--and mine too--is unusual enough that if anyone did Google her, they'd be *ploop* on this page in no time) is doing ok in Vegas. She's come in in the top five in the satellites she's played in, and won her money back already in the regular games in the poker room. Way to go, Meg!

Although as I predicted, Mom's driving her nuts. Record blood sugar high for this trip: 320. Record blood sugar low: 52. Ideal blood sugar range for her annoying ass: 80-120. And Mummers is avoiding the food because she doesn't want to get fat, because everyone knows that at Places Like These they serve fattening food only in the hopes that you'll fill up on that and go back to gambling. Meg-n-Dorkface had to force her to eat on Sunday; they took her to some seafood place, and she wanted to just have soup. Sigh.

Did I mention that Mom is like, 5' 2" and weighs I'm guessing 110-ish?

Sigh. If diabetes, cancer, and heart disease hadn't interfered with her plans, she'd be happily hanging out right now with a mimosa in one hand, cigarette in the other, having not eaten actual food for a week. She's not a drunk, she just has...peculiar ideas about nutrition. And everything else.

She (and my father) had me late. Very late. Meg, too. My brother also, for that matter. So Mom's like the prototypical mother of the sixties, I guess; senses of style and morals from the forties and fifties, and not a whole lot of common sense. But then, she wasn't supposed to have needed any; her husband was supposed to be there to take care of all of that.

And as god is my witness, I'm posilutely convinced that I probably had some obscene nickname when I was a child--assbreath, or dogface, or something like that. Someday I'll find her diary, filled with entries like, "It's Wednesday, and I'm already into my third bottle of Valium; Snotrocket has done nothing but cry since dawn and if she keeps it up much longer, I'm going to have to go in there, or something. Who'd have thought I would someday ruin my figure only to produce one shit factory after another? I'm half-tempted to just drape this one across the john and not go back in there until she's eighteen... Ah, damn. I think I've just figured it out: It's Thursday. Unless this calendar's broken. Oh, well; mystery solved. Hang in there, Snotrocket; Mummy's coming. In an hour or two at the very latest."

:-) Okay, I'm kidding. She wasn't that bad. Probably.

Well, I lived, right?

So Mom is mostly having fun, and they made her eat and all (on Sat., and Sun., and today, and probably tomorrow...), and her blood sugar tonight was 90. So all is well. And I'm still hoping Meg will get into...whatever it was she went there to get into. The game leading up to the final game, or however it works.

And I've offered to pay my son-friend to come over tomorrow and fix my back door. The doorknob is broken or something. Considering I've not changed any of the locks ever, I think it's just time for a whole new doorknob. Yay.

And I did have some good talks and had enough time for self-reflection and all, but that is going to have to wait for a later time. I have to get up at 5 a.m. to be at Eviljob, and I'm tired.