I'm sipping on Fox Hollow 91 cabernet, listening to the Glenn Miller movie, weeping, knowing I'm not pregnant, no need for the morning after pill. This weeping can be only one thing—PMS in full bloom.
I am both saddened and relieved. It would be ironic to be pregnant at 43, having waited all my life for the right man to come along, with no man on the horizon, and the biological clock ticking into overdrive.
Oh God, I am so grumpy, and nothing is going right, so I make multiple pieces for the art show. Test drive my art sticks when the collage fails. The bed is covered in a mosaic quilt of art pieces.
Here I am weeping over Glenn Miller's death as the band plays Little Brown Jug. I'm drinking wine in the rain, in a downpour. The rain is a posthaste tribute to Gene Kelly, who died two days ago, and I'm Singin' in the Rain with a deluge of empty bottles.
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