Into the bathroom, with Gabe in the shower, I peed into the cup. Two lines. The first test I ever took, the month before, I was so disappointed by the single pink line.
Today I’m thinking about the move. Mostly about art supplies. Embroidery skiens, knitting needles, balls of yarn, water color trays, paint tubes, water cups, sponges, masking liquid, colored pencils, smudge sticks. I want to use my supplies, and when they are all burried away in wicker baskets, I end up pulling stuff out, sitting indian style beneath the coffee table in the living room. Instead, I want a space to do projects. A place where everything has its spot, where colored pencils can remain out, and metalic paint and charcoal fixative can remain tucked away. A place where a self-healing cutting mat can remain out, propped up on an artist’s table. I think I need to dedicate a wall in the new office to crafts. The elliptical machine might have to be in the living room. Even if a plank of white coated wood rests on two even storage drawers/cabinets… hmmm. I need to organize life with label makers.
Yesterday morning I made the god-awful mistake of being bored miserable. It was a mistake I suppose because I ought to have forced myself out, even if it was whippingly cold out, the kind of cold where it stings to breathe and you’re thankful for the warm snot that is dripping into your mouth. Okay, so you’re not exactly thankful. I made the mistake of thrusting myself out in it, to bury the boredom, took a wog (walk/jog) to Gracious Home. I finally bought a can of chalkboard spray paint. Now, I have a headache. I slept in fumes. The chalkboard was sprayed onto one of my kitchen walls, the one above the flip out table, the one above where the Linus wee-wee-pad-chucks reside. I used a level. I used a wooden school ruler. Straight lines, blue paint tape. The thing is, that tape isn’t all that sticky, so the black paint dripped beneath the areas I was trying to mask. The measuring was for nothing. Uneven mess. Headache bonus. Now I’ll have to dig up some white paint to even it out. Chalk and felt eraser are now on my to-do list. It doesn’t stop there, you see, because I had to go to Duane Reade for a refill on the pill. Who knows why I even bother with it. It’s sad, really, every time I take a pill, I’m reminded that there is no reason to be on it. Sex. None. My skin is fine, so I can’t even say, oh it makes my skin clear, or oh, it keeps my periods light. It’s a sham. So, there I am at the DR, loading up on TP and cotton balls, then, it strikes me that I’m running low on anti- perspirant. Dove. The thing is, they didn’t have my powder scent. FRESH SCENT was all that was left. You can’t just switch to a new brand, or it takes days to kick in, then you walk around sticky moist, flinching from the smell on your hands as you sniff to see if it’s working. Is that me? So, I buy the damn FRESH SCENT, and it doesn’t smell fresh. It smells like artificial beach. Headache. Finally, this weekend, I went perfume shopping. No man, no dating. Newfound Stephanie… who paints with chalkboard spray in the winter, who writes three pages of longhand each morning, who takes herself out on “Artist Dates” once a week, who now makes an effort to take walks just because. The Stephanie who keeps two therapists incase she doesn’t agree with one, she can bring it up with the other. Consensus. And with this newfound self, I figured, what the hell… newfound scent. Bulgarian Roses from Creed. Plus two samples which came wrapped in shiney paper, packaged like a roll of Smarties. Not smart. Too many samples, not enough coffee beans. Headache. Still, the Roses scent is lovely on my skin, my sweaters will be lovely too… folded neatly in my armoire after being worn, then picked up again in a week, smelling of love and sophistication. Of course, not this sweater. This sweater will smell like artificial beach. Ho hum.