june 14, 2001. "Homer, I think you should remember Matthew 7:24, the foolish man who built his house on the sand." "And you should remember...Matthew...21:17." "And he left them, and went out of the city into Bethany; and he lodged there?" "Yeah. Think about it." I think I've figured out the next couple years of my life. I suppose that's a pretty grandiose thing to say. I don't care. The plan is this: one more year to finish this degree. Then 2 years of teaching while the Boy gets educated for his first career (I don't think he'll fail, but we are living in the new economy (whatever that means. The introduction of money to medieval Europe - now that was a new economy. It doesn't even compare to the new corporate serfdom. Except that it does.)) Then we'll go back to Ontario & I'll get pregnant. When I feel up to it, I'll start doing my Masters in English - I wasn't ready to do the degree right after the Bachelor's (or as I like to call it, my Spinster's Degree in English) but I'm sure that by the time the baby's old enough to amuse herself for an hour or so, I'll be dying for some poncey lit-think. Just think! I'll have 3 degrees and be able to legally call myself "Mistress Amoret," without supervising the diaper'd humiliation of civil servants and those of that ilk. And the baby thing will be nice as well, of course. I feel like I'm rushing headlong into this motherhood thing, but I have to face the fact that although I like to put pigtails in my hair & PowerPuff Girls stickers on my computer, when everything's said and done I'll be 25 in August. I may be young at heart, but my baby machine will work best before 30. My best before date rushes upon us. To comfort myself after thinking these thoughts of impending responsibility, I spent quite a bit of down time today imagining what my first lying-in would be like. I'd like a home birth if we can afford it, simply because if I'm in my own bed and not a hospital, my pregnancy won't be a medical crisis on the level of a burst appendix or a raccoon bite. This begs the question: who is invited to the birth party? Too many people, man. They'd have to comfort me & the Boy in shifts. I'd particularly like Preacher to stand over me near the beginning of labour and read the judgement of Eve in a thunder-and-brimstone manner. (See? This whole pain stuff is your own fault, woman. Now get up & make me a pot pie.) Last night the Boy & I had a fight that was more-or-less caused by my extreme crankiness. That night I'd had two distinct bouts of foot cramp, during which I could nothing but clutch my aggrieved tendon and wail. Afterwards I could feel the foot twinge & jump, making me paranoid that a third cramp was on the way. I have no idea how I translated this anxiety to a completely unnecessary fight, but that's what happened. Eventually the Boy got up from the bed and went to the study to calm down. I, for my part, fell asleep. Next thing I know, he was shaking me gently and calling my name. Still half-asleep, I somehow deduced that he was trying to open a new dialogue between us. Snarl. "Leave me alone!" I muttered/shouted. "Go to fucking sleep!" Undeterred, he continued talking about his feelings. I began to moan with frustration. "Go away! Let me fucking sleep!" I begun to wake up a little, which only made me madder. The 'dialogue' continued for awhile until he got tired of being abused. Eventually I fell asleep again. This morning I slept as late as I could. When I finally shuffled into the kitchen, he was early-morning chipper as only the Boy can be. I wasn't angry either, but I did have a few words of advice. "You know what they say about not coming between bears and their food? That all kinds of violence could happen?" "Yeah." "Well, I'm like that. Don't come between my sleep and me. Then everyone wins." "I understand." Back when we first started dating, I used to have horrible moments in the morning when he would wake me up and sulphurous Linda Blair-ish things would spill out of my mouth. In about 5 minutes, sanity would return and I would apologize profusely. Terribly embarrassing. I have learned since then that crabbiness is my choice in the morning - I can either bite his head off every day or I can choose happiness. I picked up some really bad habits as a teenager at home, where surly behavior in the morning was the norm. I'm lucky that I can work my will upon my evil mood, and that I'm not at the mercy of my body. Millions can't. "Your mother sucks cock in hell!!" Today is a day of much rejoicing. 3 years ago today, the Boy & I went on our first real date. We had gone out for coffee together before, but I was far too creeped out by his intensity to pursue a relationship. Plus, I thought he was gay. 3 years ago a switch turned over: one of those big knife switches, the kind you see in Frankenstein movies. Suddenly I needed to touch his skin. Not much skin, I was perfectly happy with the skin on his forearm. When he casually bit me on the neck, I was a goner. Happy kissing anniversary to all and sundry, but mostly to my Boy. As of today I have kept this diary for 4 years. 4 years!!! I am so out of touch with the diary movement as it exists today that it's not even funny. The other day I looked at the panel of judges who give out the Diarist Awards, as I was idly wondering if I had a chance at any award ever. I didn't recognize a single diary kept by the judges. I had never heard of the Hall of Fame winner. When I checked him out, I discovered that I've been keeping a diary longer than him. Just swell. I think it's important to remember at this point that I originally started my diary to increase my hit count. I saw the Mighty Kymm's hit counter and coveted it mightily. My current readership is well below peak levels, although I'm pleased to see a slow increase over the year. You may think such things are superficial (I usually do), but every once in awhile it's important to touch base with your real motivations. My real motivation is as follows: I will never write the great Canadian novel so I'm grabbing it where I can get it. I like meeting new people, I like reading other people's diaries and I like being challenged to write better. But in the end, I really want big fat hairy praise. Just being honest, yo. In any case, happy birthday to me! This has not yet bored the pants off me, therefore I just may continue it for the next million years. Give or take.