14 July 2011


There comes a time every week or so when I literally must leave my children this instant.  It's like I develop a sudden allergy to them and to my home. My body rejects everything but solitude.  I try where possible to schedule at least a couple of hours of me time every week or so, even if it's something as engaging as going to get dog food or going to the doctor (a fellow mom I know was so excited because she has an optometry appointment and an obgyn appointment on the same day!)  If I don't plan a reprieve I hit a point where everything and every one starts to make me irate and I have like T-minus 15 minutes before I lose the will to live.

This happened to me yesterday.  My previous respite of brunch with the ladies was thwarted by Lula spiking a temperature of almost 105.  Prior to that I had hardly left for more than an hour since my birthday (when she also had a fever. Coincidence? I think not). Knowing in my mind that I would have my dad and Sam here I had been plotting my escape all day.  Sometimes this can backfire though because I panic that I won't exploit my freedom enough.  Feeling pressure to relax is a bit like rushing to yoga class.

Anyhow, I wound up going for a walk in Fort Greene Park, which was gloriously dusky. I listened to "This American Life" on a podcast and watched a bunch of guys playing soccer (or futbol).

The clouds suddenly came in, however, and there was a fantastic rain storm so I booked it to a nearby diner.  The light was remarkable, the combination of dark clouds on one side of the sky and sunset on the other.  I thought there might be a rainbow and sure enough, there it was:

I treated myself to a serious diner dinner, which was perfect.  I spent the better part of my formative years sitting in a booth in a diner, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and eating food that my internal organs shriek at in horror.  To this day nothing restores me quite like a tuna melt with fries and a vanilla shake.

I felt grossly overfull but a bit otherwise a bit calmer and clear of head.

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