Monday, January 2, 2017

Pug, feet, Megan.

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Jeremy took some photos of me and a pug (Margaret) at last night's family dinner.  I want nothing more in life (uh, I guess in death rather) to be reincarnated as a suburban dog.  I'd get to nap a lot, I'd get to eat a lot and people will love me for ME.  Even if I become deaf, hairless, bark at unseeable things incessantly and fart a lot.

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I'm slowly coming to the realization that I think I'm going to miss the Women's March on the 21st.  I think it might be a big deal but we are suppose to be away on a big weekend get-away, just us grown-ups.  These weekend get-aways are not easily planned, I made child care arrangements way before the election completely forgetting about inauguration weekend, probably thinking then that it would be a NBD weekend, though if the whole thing had gone the other way, it totally would have been a Women's March with a different tone.   As the Women's March edges closer in the calendar, I'm hearing more & more chatter about marching in it from my various liberal media sources and then I think I should go, that I shouldn't miss it.  Blah.

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Edda's feet make me sad everyday.  I think this one, the right one, is deformed past pretending it's not deformed or that it'll get better or that it won't get worse.  Flared out like a comma from the ankle. Poor thing.  Sometimes I'm overcome by panic that the foot will become deformed so much that she won't be able to walk anymore.  Then I have to consciously release that panic before it possesses me with an unrelenting grip.  I made these beautiful feet (and spine) in my belly and now I'm powerless to watch it all fall apart in front of me.  Ah, Edda!  I'm trying.  I'm trying.

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My mom gave me this sweater for Christmas and I tried it on today.  I think I need to find an ice rink and learn to do a triple Salchow.

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Megan came by to visit in the afternoon.  She's home for a bit from travels abroad.  She used to work closely with Jeremy, but now she does other things.

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