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2001-08-11 | 6:05 p.m.

Geez, I am in a mood. I have my period early, or late, depending on when I had it last, which of course I can't remember. You're supposed to know but I'm no good at remembering unless the period coincides with or, more likely, starts during (as they so often do) a major life event at which I ever-so-much do not wish to have my period. I'll tell you one thing, if you walk into a gynecologist's office and say "I don't know" when asked when was your last period--and they always ask--they'll start looking for your Adam's apple. They're shocked to think that anyone could be SO OUT OF IT. Even before I had kids, they treated me like an unfit mother.

And of course, they were right, because I'm so bad about everything, especially since everything started coming on so fast. I am as close as you can get to being a heroin junkie without actually taking heroin. Not only do I routinely find myself wondering what time it is and what day it is, but I have also pondered the questions, What month is it? and even What year is it? I try to mull these questions over as long as possible before asking someone else. Eventually, it comes to me, usually, because I have a photographic memory (not terribly reliable anymore, but I do fire it up now and then for old time's sake), and also because I'm good at counting forward and back. So I just think of the the last time I associated a date with a day. For example, today I would think Katrina's birthday party is on Sunday the 11th. That's tomorrow. Last week my marker was Lindsay's birthday party, which was on Saturday the 4th. Next week, my marker will be Thursday the 16th, dentist appointment, Friday the 17th, Brownie Girl Scouts Mom's meeting (though I have no idea where this meeting is or when) and Saturday the 18th, Criminy's dance recital. Easy. Not so important to know where you are as it is to know where you are going.

I don't pray, but when I do, it sounds like this:

Please, God, let me write something before I die. Please, please, please. If I can just publish one novel before I die, then I will have fulfilled my contract on earth. Please God, if I'm going to publish one novel before I die anyway, why not make it a good one? A memorable novel, then, and one that doesn't remainder everywhere.

In my prayer, "God" is a metaphor for nature, or the forces of nature, or, sometimes, a combination of my personal strength, stamina, forbearance, endurance, stick-to-it-iveness, and possibility.

If I were praying to a real God, I hope I wouldn't have such lame and self-interested prayers.

(If you think the foregoing doesn't sound like me, you're right. I was reading somebody else's stuff and mimicking their style. Isn't that annoying? There, I'm doing it again. Make me stop! You can't make me.)

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