I should have said, hung over. It's a reading hangover. I stayed up stupid-late again but at least I finished the damn Pratchett (brilliant, as usual, although not as good as The Fifth Elephant) and I have resolved not to start a new book tonight, or probably this month even. I can't handle it. I'm a printed-word addict. Pathetic.
So, today: slept late (10:45), got up, toodled around on the computer for a while doing basically nothing, made lunch for the kids. DH and I tag-teamed The Passion of The Christ today, he went to the 12 show, I did the 2:45. Whoa.
Came home after the movie, popped ribs out of the freezer into the oven, and made cornbread and popped that into the oven and set the timer for DH; dashed off to the 5:30 Mass (excellent sermon by Fr. C on discretion, what it is and why you should use it), came home, made coleslaw, ate yummy dinner.
After dinner, more toodling on the computer, but productive: finished another column for LCL Mag, and emailed it off to them. Yay! Off the hook until next month for those guys, now I won't have it hanging over my head and can focus on my paying work and the newspaper columns. The LCL mag column is on stocking a low-carb kitchen, but in reality I think it could easily be expanded into the 3 columns: fridge & freezer, pantry, and baking. Then each could have a recipe, too. There was no recipe in the one I sent to LCL, it was long enough as it was. I'm liking how this is working out so far. I remembered to solicit emails this time, and also referred readers to the Mailbag.
And then, as DH (I do so love the man) was giving the kids their baths, I remembered I needed to do laundry! Yikes. Fortunately, only 2 loads so I will not be up until 1AM doing it. I hope. Anyway, got that started and now here I am. I am exhausted to the bone. This has happened before (when I read HP & The Order of the Phoenix in something like a 30-hour period, many of those hours between 9PM and 5AM one night...) and I always think, "I will never do that again," andyet, I do. I must think I'm indestructible or something. Either that, or it's an innate ability of a woman to forget about pain (else all children would be only children).
I have a column on The Passion percolating in the back of my head. When it sorts itself out I will write it up and dupe it here, wherever else I end up posting it. My first thought on leaving the theater was that I want to see it again. My eye-for-detail was in overdrive and my ears were straining for false notes, but didn't find any, although there is one thing I want to look up. Caviezel's eyes were amazing, his entire performance, stunning. The supporting cast was extraordinary, too. It seems odd to me, for me to say, "I loved this movie," but I did love it. There's so much love in it... well. I do have a piece to say and when I'm ready I'll say it, not now, not now.
Through this haze of exhaustion and pain (Vioxx isn't doing shit for me today), I'm still feeling blessed. There was a time in my life when I prayed everyday for myself, for peace, because I didn't know how to live with all the emotional pain I was in, I couldn't deal with the world and really live with all that hurt, all I wanted was peace. I found it long ago and have cherished it ever since, but today I'm reminded again of precious it really is.