In the mood for a little Andrea Bocelli this morning, I played "Con te Partiro" from my iTunes library. I love this song more than words can adequately portray. I do not know a stitch of Italian, yet the first time I heard the song in the late '90's I felt a connection. This song sounds like goodbye. Goodbyes are hard, even if they are good for you. Their memories are bittersweet.

So there I sat with my laptop, eyes closed and tears welling, when I feel something not a little fluffy at my hip. Sophie stared intently at the computer that was producing the noise, before closing her eyes and beginning to purr. I doubt she knows any more Italian than I do…but then, hearts need very little translation.

I am done with econ. I handed in my final last night after spending most of yesterday writing and refining my essay. I planned to finish marketing yesterday too, but as always, econ used more of my resources than I was expecting. I typed up 500 words and then my brain clamped shut and I spent the last two hours of my night limp on the couch. This morning? My head is pounding and I feel a little sick.

I have exorcised you, econ!

We are listening to my iPod while in the car. Nick likes pointing out when a given song that I have ripped is from his library. "Lady in Red" starts playing, and he's all, "You took that from me!"

I question aloud, "Why would anybody have an entire album from Chris De Burgh anyway?"

"THAT'S HOW WE HAD TO DO IT WAY BACK WHEN."

This is my new haven:



A couple weeks ago I decided that the time was ripe to buy a treadmill. Nick had already seen to the purchase of a super-nice elliptical trainer earlier this year in deference to my knees, but after a nasty case of shin splints following a walk outdoors in April, I realized the need for some impact-exercise in my repertoire. Nick spent an entire Saturday organizing the area to be just what the doctor ordered for both of us.

My head is very full right now and I am feeling very overwhelmed. I have developed a thudding ache where I had all of my surgery in 2006/2007. I can't escape it. My nerves are waking back up after a nice long rest…but I so dearly miss that numb spot right now. I suppose I am a little nervous that it could be something more, too.

I can't get this dumb frog out of my throat. I "ahem" until my voice is raw but the crud just won't leave. I have an appointment with Allergy in a couple weeks to see if my sinuses are the culprit. It has been a rotten allergy season for me anyway, but maybe something else is up. I am supposed to be off all antihistamines until my 6/11 appointment, so the next two weeks should be a peach.

I have been feeling dually stressed out with school and work, and mainly because work seems to be in a tizzy lately. I can handle the challenge of full time school, but not when I can't empty my head from work at the end of the day. The home gym offers a nice alternative to sharing a pitcher of beer during happy hour.

There are many things I like about the basement. I like the coolness of the area, the separateness from the rest of the house, and the privacy. Oh Lord!—the privacy! SO much nicer than a gym! I always get ready for a workout being all wussy and all "it's so cold!" but then I start going and I'm being steamed alive in my sweats. At the gym, I just had to live with it. Here? I strip. Mid-stride on the treadmill. It's a talent.

I came up from kickboxing on Saturday in nothing but some sweaty underthings. Nick nearly swallowed his tongue before demanding to know what happened to my clothing. Maybe I'm a closet nudist? But then, that's rather oxymoronic, isn't it?

This year, as Mother's Day approached, the hovering weight above my chest fell. Part of me feels like this is a regression, a depression that has reemerged after I worked so hard to build myself back up after Mom died. This year, I looked in the mirror one morning and it struck me: my mother is dead. I can never be a mother. This day will never mean anything at all to me; a bitterness and a deep hurt has surrounded me since. You can only pretend to be okay with everything for so long.

My memories blur and then grow agonizingly clear. I made myself "forget" two years ago. It seemed easier then, when the hurt was so recent, so real, and I wasn't sure if I could survive without her. I suppose it is time to actually deal with this emptiness. This all comes at a moment when my brother has fallen to depression, sending a late night text message wondering if I still had the slide show we played during her visitation, and my father has signed up for a fresh round with grief counseling.

This year, instead of being a party pooper, I elected to stay home from all Mother's Day festivities. My brother did the same...we are in the same boat of past and future reasons to celebrate—he tells me he never wants to be in any relationship at all because it hurts too much when people die. At the risk of sounding immature and whiny, this isn't fair.

Normally I have my wits about me, my rhetoric down. "There's a bigger plan; we're too small to see." I'll recite something she once relayed to me..."The word 'deserve' should not have been invented. Who are we to decide?" But right now, it all all just seems so unfair.

Thursday afternoon, I decided that I needed to run away, even if only for a day. Nick helped me plan a quick trip to Chicago, and we spent yesterday exploring the city and catching Wicked at the Ford theatre.
Today, reality returns. I think Nick was quite surprised when, on the trip home, he asked if I wanted to stop and visit her grave today. I clamped my lips and shook my head; gigantic alligator tears leaked from beneath my sunglasses.

Last year, I decided that I have come to save up all of my mourning for Mother's Day and her birthday, the two days that have always been about her. This year, I am not quite sure that just two days will be enough. I have been able to talk about her fondly, in humor and warmth…trying to relay just how awesome of a person she was. Lately, I have been unable to say anything. I am overcome with images. I see her pregnant, rubbing her belly and talking to me like she told me she did. I remember us cuddled in bed together, talking and giggling. I feel her hugging me.

And then I feel it all go away.

I still hate Econ. I hated both Micro- and Macroeconomics when I took them in the past, and nothing has changed in the last six years. Curses to those credits for not transferring! I am just starting the third week in this accelerated course, and already I am coaching myself toward the June 22nd finish date. Fortunately, I have class in a subject that I enjoy as well (marketing), but even that made me a little bugeyed last night as I had to teach myself my marketing professor's personal version of APA format before submitting a paper.

This economics professor is a real hard aaa—erm...she's tough. I cannot figure out how to impress her pants off. I started the session thinking I may just enjoy Economics more than Marketing because my Marketing professor began her reign telling us to forget everything we know about APA format and learn her way (going onto post no less than 10 documents to study). But I've figured out how to impress her pants off. We're all good. Econ still sucks.

Maybe it's just exhaustion. Maybe it's being stuck with my nose in the books while the weather warms. Maybe it's like I think and economics really is the devil. In any even, June 22nd can't come soon enough. (Just in time to start the next block of classes June 23rd.) This is the most absurd thing I've ever decided to do.

I have confessed my Jane Austen addiction before. I sit wrapped in a bouclé throw and under a purring Sophie watching the A&E series. As time passes, I wonder that I know every line of this five-hour film. What keeps me coming back to a story that I know so well? Is it personal joy, or is it the joy that remember in sharing it with someone? A worthy question, and one that I am unable to answer.

I have just now reached the conclusion of the first DVD, the moment when audible breaths catch, and Mr. Darcy confesses his love for Elizabeth. "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." No wonder I spent a decent portion of my adolescence in love with Collin Firth, huh? But instead of losing myself in the conflict and the rawness tonight, I lose myself in memories. Mom bought the six-part VHS copy when it came out in the 90's. That tidbit probably tells you little knowing that the two-part DVD is $20…but that VHS set was nearly $150.

We would take a week every year, watching one tape a night until we were through. Days four and five were the best, when the original conflicts lessen and Mr. Darcy puts Caroline Bingley in her place. FINALLY. Hate that woman!—in every medium I've seen/read her presented! Yet, I find my emotional involvement with tonight's viewing detached.

Boredom does not seem to be a factor. Is it melancholy? Stronger emotions trumping silly fantasies? Is it a jaded outlook that makes this story unbelievable? Is it a calm contentedness in my own life that makes romanticizing this story unnecessary? I think it's likely fatigue, knowing we are faced with choices regularly—hard choices—and they may or may not lead to happy ends. I do not care to think of them.

This all seems very inane, doesn't it? Welcome to the Blogosphere. It's just that I find it curious that I no longer lose myself in stories. My energy, heart, and time is better invested in my own life anyway…but I feel as though I have lost part of my identity.

I grudgingly watch South Park with Nick every now and then. Mostly, I find the show distasteful, but I would be remiss if I did not find it in equal parts funny.

I am not proud.

Last night, I was particularly amused when the townspeople of South Park awoke to no Internet. Widespread panic ensues as people cannot find out what happened to the internet because there is no internet to check! An awkward moment of silence encompasses the crowd as someone asks how they got their news before the Internet. As memory dawns, the throng breaks into a television store to turn on the news. The newscaster reports dully that their Internet is down and they have no way to get the news to report. In a deep resolve and in Grapes of Wrath style, one family decides to head out to California where it is rumored that there is still some Internet out there.

I found the satire hilarious. To equate the loss of the Internet with the Great Depression was brilliant, so sad and true. In the end, one of the little boys is sent to negotiate with The Internet (a giant router with a blinking orange light), and he makes peace with it by unplugging it, then plugging it back in. Peace (and the World Wide Web) returns to South Park, and a town meeting is held wherein the people are cautioned not to abuse web browsing, to only surf when absolutely necessary, and to view Internet pornography twice a day maximum.

And, with that distasteful note, I have dedicated an entire entry to South Park. Nick has poisoned my mind.

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(edited to add clip:)

I had my yearly eye exam on Thursday. My optometrist monitors my hazel-y eye because she says that we should monitor anything on our bodies that change. Good news to report: I still don't have a disease! The coloration is not raised and there is no presence of a tumor behind my eye. She says the hazel pigmentation cells in my right eye are the ones that I would have been given when I was created in my mother's womb—and there is absolutely no presence of hazel in the other eye. Not even tiny cells that'll be more apparent later on. Though, she did see noticeable advancement of the hazel from last year. Whereas her notes described last year's presence as a "quadrant", she says it is definitely fingering out. So, I guess we keep watching that sneaky booger and celebrate that I have another clean bill of health—those get more valuable after receiving several that are still pretty dirty. I am happy. I am just in a conundrum. I "dress" my eyes to bring out the blue...if I become all-hazel over there, do I need different palettes for each eye? Coppers for the blue and plums for the hazel? I find this all very distressing.

After dinner conversation last night, my curiosity grew as to how I spent my money last year. Holding my breath, I downloaded the report and opened the local file this morning. Three things:

1. Sophie leads a royal lifestyle.
2. I am so happy that every Walgreen's visit is classified as "HEALTHCARE"—lord only knows what the absence of yet another eye color compact would do to my delicate state.
3. I've spent more on gas than on either Sophie or "HEALTHCARE"…which I can say, without embarrassing myself on either of the previous totals, is quite a lot.

I am actually very impressed by the completeness and organization of my bank's spending report. The only problem is they don't know how to classify checks—not that I write many. Goals for this year? Learn to teleport.