Sorry. I have a cold, so I'm grumpy and crabby and sleepy and probably a couple other dwarfs to boot. Heh. I'll survive. It's only a cold!
The electrician has left the building, which means that both Starman and I now have beautifully light, bright offices in the basement. Gotta love the halogen, particularly in rooms where the only natural light is coming from a measly three square feet of window near the ceiling. I've got a call into the painter; once he's done, we can get on with construction of Ikea flatpack furniture and shelving. (In theory we could construct all that now, but there is no space to put anything except in the rooms themselves, and it's just easier to let John do his thing.) Starman's room won't be fully furnished until the boat sails that has his stuff on it. Okay, it has to sail, dock, get unloaded, and the shipment has to clear Customs. A few more weeks, at least.
When my room is outfitted, however, the real fun starts: the dozens of boxes already here have to be unpacked, and then all my fabric has to be packed and moved from Philadelphia to Harmony (that's what we call our house here) and reorganized. In the end, it's going to be stunningly beautiful and tremendously useful. I have to use superlatives like that or I'll get overwhelmed by all the work involved! The real carrot for me is the thought of all that luscious fabric organized by color and tone. Check out another quilter's studio for some idea what I'm talking about: http://www.pamdora.com/ (January 8, 2007). You have to know that's nirvana to my eyes! I swear I could lose 50 pounds, eat all my vegetables, be a fulltime lawyer, and keep my house spotlessly clean if someone would allow me to buy fabric as behavioral rewards. I wouldn't even need time to sew it up; it's enough just to look at it! (You'll notice I didn't talk about maintaining our life savings in that list of fantasy accomplishments; fabric is Not Cheap.)
And how am I doing on the New Year's Resolutions? I have done nothing new on the job front; I'm up to 3.6 miles on the week, and 11.4 for the month/year-to-date; I've cleared out all the Sports Illustrated backlog, and am down to four Vanity Fairs; and I have a little news on the Demonslations. Starman and I went to Philadelphia on Wednesday and saw my therapist. He doesn't normally accompany me, but wanted to on this occasion, so I saw it as an opportunity to deal with some anger issues. I'm not angry at Starman. Starman is so far beyond the normal zone of annoyance that can pop up in relationships that I have a hard time even using something he does to show how not annoyed I am. (Only lame example? He sometimes leaves kitchen cupboards open after taking out -- or putting in -- the one thing he wanted. See? Not even registering on the Richter Relationship Scale.) And yet. . . And yet I have gotten enormously angry at him twice in the last month. The first time could have been situational; we needed to treat the cats with flea stuff and one cat protested vehemently and Starman didn't keep kitty under control. I got bitten, which wouldn't normally bother me so much, but this time it did.
The second time -- on Monday -- was so obviously not about the topic at hand that I knew it was important to talk about in therapy. Starman and I were off to run errands and go to the movies. This involved crossing state lines into New York, so map reading became somewhat challenging. I was driving; Starman was navigating. And, as so often happens, the moment came when the directions as given didn't match up with reality and adjustments had to be made. I just lost it, and honestly, I can say this: I was genuinely angry and I have no idea why. Of course I apologized, but even as my (slightly) more mature adult self was saying those critical words of contrition, an inner child was seething still at the situation. I wish I knew what had upset said child, but the communication inside a dissociated person like me is hardly straightforward. Twenty minutes later I told Starman honestly that I really had no idea what happened.
Talking about it with La Reine (blogonym for my therapist, but the backstory will have to wait) helped Starman, I think, understand that while he's the target (and I'm sorry about that: it's really not my intention to hurt him, and I know that it does hurt him) he's not the cause. La Reine urged him not to walk on eggshells with me because the anger, bubbling up from 45 years ago, is healthy. Not fun, but healing overall. I told him he was allowed to look straight at me and remind me (and himself), "I am not your sister." (I think it's safe to say that my sister -- and not the 2007 sister, but someone from the early 60s -- is the only person deserving of my rage.)
Was a demon actually slayed? No, not really. But it's a terrible irony that Starman is so loving and attuned to me that I feel safe enough to open a can o' whupass on him. Poor man. I'll make it up to him another time, and in some other way.