So.
What is left for this page, if so much of me is subsume-able under absence and/or craziness?
This might become some sort of journalistic thingamajig wherein daily events acquire Great Meaning as I write about them.

But

probably not.


Yesterday was my birthday, March 24. Neither the Spring Solstice or the infamous Ides, but I like my little birthdate. According to the feminist calendar my aunt sent me for Christmas, the leader of the WWII SPARS female division of the Coast Guard was born on the date I claim as my own. She is probably more significant that I'll turn out, but
a) you never know, now do you?
b) I can remember my name,not hers.
So.
My friend Anni, given the Homeric ephithet "the divine" somewhere else on this wacky page of mine, reinforced her moniker tenfold last night. I mean, she's a great cook but she outdid herself with strawberry shortcake and chocolate orgasms. Cookies of course, but the mental image is pleasing nonetheless.
Chocolate orgasms....
I got honey for my birthday. (the first jar lasted a week. Still working on the second)
That's another miscellaneous-type fact, I adore honey , eat it by the spoonful, and am planning a future career as a Bee Empress. You are what you eat, and I was, of course, born to hold sway over empires, so it seems inevitable.
Can you tell I have a sweet tooth? In addition to cake and orgasms and honey, there were chocolate-smothered bananas and strawberries. Our lair, the now infamous ML Second floor lounge, became a room replete with excellent food and, quite soon thereafter, Valpolichella and slithery dancing. My friends and I are excellent dancers, capable of fogging up a room with our sultriness to an amazing degree. That Valpolichella didn't stand a chance once the Madonna was cranked. Or the Prince.
The insane amount of strawberry shortcake, absolutly drowning in cream, brought to mind another favorite cartoon of my youth. Yes, those dolls with the freakishly huge heads used to outnumber actual humans in my house by at least five to one. Since there are ony four members of my family, this wasn't an incredible number of dolls, but still.

My family consists of my parents, my youthful brother, and myself. By sending me Godiva chocolate coffee for my birthday, my brother (Breton) negated everything bad I've ever said about him and earned me a reputation as some kind of finicky sister. Which I am, but in comparison to that Bret almost anything would be. Very little ruffles his aplomb. In short, he is pretty chill.
My mother is one of the Great Ladies. If, as an infant, I'd been acquainted with "Gone with the Wind" I might have recognized a little bit of the supernatural Ellen O'Hara in my mother.
For example, she swears in French. Many a time I've heard the tinkle of broken glass coming from the kitchen, followed by an emphatic, "Oh, maird."
I can then return to my business, knowing that my mother's got serious class. She likes Egg McMuffins to the point of making fried eggs in the morning, putting them on an English muffin and adding some cheese or bacon, and calling it an Egg McMuffin. I doubt Ellen O'Hara was ever so corrupted by capitalism.
My father is also quite a guy. A guy's guy, yet he is incredibly compassionate and devoted to his work as a battler of infectious diseases and coping with all the lunatics who think they can be doctors in his capacity as Associate Dean of Student Affairs at SUNY Stonybrook. He might retire from this soon, and do God knows what. Someone with the energy level of my dad could never settle down to rounds of golf. He might travel a lot - more, I should say. He has been to 73 countries. Do not compare my list to his.

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