How's that for a convoluted sentence? I'm rather proud of it myself. But I could just have easily written:

Physically I feel okay, mentally I may be deteriorating.

But I've been practicing my "getting paid by the word" technique, like Dickens and the wordy opening sentence would fetch 34 more pence than the short one. One has to pay the scullery maid after all, even if it is a pitance. We'll give her a new ribbon, there's a good girl, and send her on her way.

(Perhaps THIS is the reason the dirty dishes are still sitting on the kitchen counter at 11:48 on a Friday morning...) No, it's Friday here. We are running like crazy to catch up to at least half of you on DD, but we don't seem to be making any headway.

Reminds me of that place that Alice visited where they ran and ran and didn't get anywhere. And to tell you the truth, some parts of the day, I think I AM in Wonderland. And I prove it by engaging in some rather odd behavior. I would fit right in at the Mad Tea Party. I have been carefully making cups of tea, taking a sip, making a face, and hollering, "Clean cup, clean cup!. Move down, move down!"

Red Tea made from something called "Rooibos Herb" was the latest reject in the Tea Quest. "Ick" is my only comment. Thank goodness I only bought two teabags for a quarter at the grocery. They had a little display and I thought, "Perfect. Just what I need to taste test." and bought the little blighters. I have one left, anyone want it? I'll mail it to you.

ANYWAY, what I really wanted to write about, nay feel compelled to write about is a habit I have developed over the last many nights of writing in my big red journal with a variety of different pens. The actual content of this writing is questionable and involves a lot of fretting about what might be concluded about my sanity, should any (as yet to be born) relatives read my scribbles. I have a feeling that my own sons will be frightened to death to read my journals and I wouldn't blame them. But some great granddaughter might find them amusing. Maybe.

In any case, I am trying out calligraphy pens, fountain pens and rollerball pens, in all shades of ink and generally making myself miserable over the fact that my big red journal, that at first glance is a fair approximation of books seen in Harry Potter films, (which I covet most viciously) contains not a shred of the quirky and fascinating calligraphy that makes Harry's books so.... covetworthy, and of course it doesn't help that I only feel like doing this behavior half and hour before bedtime when my handwriting is sure to be poor.

(Hey there cupcake, If I give you a hundred bucks, will you stop writing ridiculous run on sentences like that one?)

You really feel like living on the edge today I see. Don't you know it's a really bad idea to get between a middle aged woman and her coping mechanisms, there doo dad?

It might help in my quest for producing some kind of calligraphic masterpiece if I got out my real ink pot and nibs and holders and had a go. But the thing is, writing using those tools is slow and laborious. Not at all suited to the slightly manic streak that is manifesting itself these days. So I'm in a catch 22 situation. And the result is a big waste of creamy unlined paper and various shades of water soluble ink.

Sigh.

Some days it sucks to be me.

(You know you could have just written that last line at the top of the page, and then put the green bar under it and called it a day. But Nooooo, you had to write an entire page of barely understandable gibberish. And WE had to read it!)

I'm not going to dignify that comment with a response.

(Thank god!)

You SEE what I have to put up with around here? You'd be scribbling in your journal too.....