Mistletoe of Celeste

Oh my sainted grannies . . . . I'm not even going to describe what's been going on this evening, both for reasons of privacy and because I'm so tired of talking about it. I've been on the phone for roughly FIVE HOURS with my mother, Queenie, my mother again, the social worker and nurse manager at Mother's residence, Queenie again, the Duchess, and Mr. Science. And I've just sent off a long email to Deb asking her professional advice about some legal matters. It's not a medical issue with my mother this time. It's a question of inappropriate behavior and inappropriate care. And it's very disturbing. I'll probably have to go there again in the near future, but I'm waiting to hear from the Duchess about when she's been able to arrange an appointment.

As if that weren't enough . . . in the relatively trivial world of my creative endeavor, writing a synopsis has made me feel that I should tear this book apart and put it back together again differently. I hate this thought, because I so want to FINISH something, and also I know that this way lies MADNESS at least potentially. And yet, I am so tired of writing things that people don't quite get. Well well . . . I wonder when I'll have time to fix this. Or anything.

We missed getting to the gym today, because four inches or so of snow fell during the night, and the world is a frosted wasteland again. We had to shovel the car and driveway out before going anywhere, and by the time we did, it was too late for the gym. I wanted the Sparrowhawk to go to his special gym tonight, but he said "No, I can't leave you in the middle of all this," and I couldn't argue with him because . . . I WAS STILL ON THE PHONE. Oof . . . . I'm having a stiff drink although it is not on my diet plan.