I left work at 8:00 this morning instead of 9:00, and since I knew I’d finished the last of my coffee and cream yesterday, I figured I’d stop by the bank and then Three Rivers on my way home.  Neither opened until 9:00, which I knew but had forgotten, so I wasted fifteen minutes driving around like a moron.  Considering the fact that my phone just rang—didn’t recognize the number—and I didn’t pick up, my day may be ruined already.

“Didn’t you just get celebrated?  Didn’t you just get your boyfriend kneeling & begging you to spend eternity with him?  Why are you such a Negative Nancy?” you may be asking, secretly.  Or, you may choose to post these comments, and more, right here on my public blog.  The answer: I don’t have any new clothes.  And I don’t have coffee, or cream, or a job, at the end of next week.  Also, I’m hooked on crack and there’s a pea under my mattress that I never have been able to get out.  This is why.

I.e., I’m a brat.

So, I will strive to emulate Positive Paula today, and remember.  I’m reading Frederick Beuchner’s collection of essays The Room Called Remember, and although his writing style is a bit gushy at times, I can’t read and not be steered forcibly, by the elbow, into gratitude.  Sometimes, awe.  His first essay lays out the huge mantle of memory, of intentional recall, and I want to take it up: today, I’m remembering where I’ve come from.  This includes people, places, states of mind … and, oddly, the memory of a particular friend who left abruptly and never sent word.  How blessed I was by her, how revisiting her absence is not so painful as it once was.

Also, I’m re-dyeing the streaks in my hair, today.  Talking with Casey.  Thinking about how close my quilt is to being done.  Showing her the first pencil sketches I’ve done in probably two and half years.  And then Matt will buy me and Marshall drinks, tonight.  I’m having, I’m telling you, cabernet.