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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary


\"Hey, I am not here for rage. I'm here for revenge!\"

Thank you for the cashmere cleaning tips. My sweater is in a bag in the freezer right now. I will carefully pick off the wax once itís frozen on the knit, and if that technique doesnít work, then Iíll go to the dry cleaners. The ironing suggestion freaks me outóarenít the cashmere fibers sensitive to temperature? Wonít they shrink or cook even at a low setting? Hmmm. I donít have an iron so that solution will have to be tested another time.

Once the sweater is clean, I will send it off to a knit alteration place to have the moth holes repaired and the seams reinforced. My big fat head has weakened the seam between the turtleneck and the body a bit. It pains me to admit that Iím like George Costanza on that one episode of Seinfeld with James Spader. The one where he keeps expecting an apology for having been insulted by James Spaderís ďYouíre going to stretch out the neckĒ comment?

After work, I painted for 5 hours. Got home at 11, had some tea and decided to call my parents to check in on my father who recently had hernia surgery.

Boy what a mistake that was. My mother was in a hectoring mood and I was at a point in my exhaustion where I was too weak to let things roll off my back. She kept digging and interrupting me, and I totally fucking LOST IT. Like, fourteen year old tantrum LOST IT. I had called to see how my father was doing and I walked right in to a THING, one of those angry exchanges that causes your typical manic depressive borderline bipolar disordered mother to HANG UP THE PHONE and ignore her daughterís future phone calls.

Yeah, and Iím the one behaving like a fourteen year old.

It really was not one of my finer moments and I am very disappointed with myself. I feel terrible that I got so angry because now they wonít even remember the reason I called; theyíll only remember that I was rude and (probably) need to apologize.

I actually said something along the lines of this: ďIím sick of this shit! I donít think the harangue is funny and I donít appreciate it anymore. Itís your fucking hangup to deal with so donít put it on me. You need to get over it.Ē

Thatís when I heard the receiver go Ďclick.í My father was still on the line so he and I talked about his operation and their upcoming trip to Morocco, but it was awkward and miserable and I wanted to cry.

Thursday is Thanksgiving and this year I am thankful for living on the opposite side of the country.

10:59 a.m. - 2004-11-23



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