Today was hard.
Three weeks ago tonight, Frankie was on the couch, just not feeling well. A few hours later, and our lives had changed forever. Three weeks ago, I used to have good days and bad days. Now, we have bad days and worst days. Yesterday was ok. Today was kind of horrible.
It's a quarter to midnight. I have to get through the next few hours somehow, but I know I'm not going to sleep for a long while, so I may as well indulge in something good and healthy and happy. I don't want to cry anymore - not today, anyway. San Diego was a wonderful time, but I'm beginning to realize that in the coming months, it may act as a life preserver for me during the bad moments. I've had lots of good things happen in my life, but they were all before we lost Frankie, and I just can't go there right now. So maybe my need to stretch everything to its breaking point will serve me well here. So be it.
Thank God for well-placed perfect weekends.
* * *
I've always loved an opportunity to sashay. The Weston Horton Plaza has a marble floor and a large foyer; I had my favourite shoes and a skirt that swings like a bell if I walk just so. It was a match made in heaven, and Friday night had me feeling deliciously feminine and pretty as I flitted from circle to circle before dinner. (You may not know this, but I flit rather well, you know.)
From gorgeous Jessie and her So-Perfect-We-Could-Have-Designed-Him-For-Her beau, Thumper, to pretty Science Girl and her Mister, I bubbled along, sipping my aperitif, chuckling at everything, because it was the kind of night where everyone was charming and witty and brilliant.
At the bar, ordering my next Amaretto, I touched base with the most perfect roomates a girl could have, and we giggled and compared notes while I silently thanked all that is holy that I'd lucked out the way I did. Poppets, those two deserve medals. (Funny the way things work out; I originally booked the room for myself. Plans changed, though, and suddenly, Trance and Cruel Irony and I are sharing a room.) It was the best thing that could have happened to me. They took care of me, and let me grieve, and let me be happy, and Carson Kressley'd my outfits, and complimented my much be-moaned bottom, and in the morning, got the coffee going. Does it get better than that? No, poppets. No, it does not.
Dinner was almost served, but I had to go and inspect Weet's coif. So, click-clack across the floor I went, glass in hand, to exclaim over the miracle of being able to just go whoosh with your hair, and suddenly it's all drawn up and lovely, artlessly sophisticated, and basically everything my own unruly mop will never, ever be. What I adore about Weet is her most generous ability to indulge my silly need to talk about hair and hemlines. When it comes right down to it, letting people break their own ice by babbling about something that makes them comfortable is what good manners and friendliness is all about, no?
And then the doors opened and we were seated and treated, as dinner was served. I know that I handed out some Jingo forms, a game we used to get to know each other better, but I was far more interested in engaging with my dinner partners instead. Between laughing wickedly with Chauffi on my left, and flirting outrageously with Pablo on my right, your Mare had no time for games, my beauties. And besides, who had the Portobello pastry? Dear Lord! Wasn't it divine? Who could play when that was on their plate?
What a wonderful evening it was.
I was right, as it turns out. Concentrating on pretty bits of time here and there will help enormously. Until it doesn't, of course; for now, it's just a matter of getting through each night.
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