I'm worried about something that is making me anxious, which then goes right to my stomach, which has been dodgy all weekend. Which is sad because I go to these holiday parties, with huge spreads of yummy-looking food . . . and I just pick. Which is better for me overall, probably, but still — so sad. Sexy Em had a chocolate fountain at her party today, and I just looked at it. (Though I did sample her mom's amazing homemade shortbread. And ate ham.)
But yesterday I had lunch with my dear elderly friend Mrs. Professor, and it was such a joy to spend time with her. She has this fantastic sardonic wit, and she's very smart and insightful; we had an amazing talk and roared with laughter . . .
. . . and then I came home and worked for eleven hours. I had three editing jobs to finish, and one in particular was really really hard. (It's about genetic engineering, and I am just not a science girl; it takes a lot of concentration. But . . . it's fascinating, I'll say that.) And coffee helped me muscle through — eleven hours of coffee — so when I finished around 10 p.m. I was vibrating with caffeine and couldn't close my eyes for another six hours . . .
. . . which worked out okay, because Mimosa began whimpering at 2 a.m.; she's got some kind of stomach bug, and she hates, loathes, and fear throwing up more than almost anything in the world (my dad is the same way — me, I can throw up on a dime), so she was having a panic attack. I got her cleaned up and calmed down, and today she seemed better, but tonight she's sick again.
And so am I; my dinner of leftover mac & cheese and a hot dog and a good slice of homemade red velvet cake did not sit well with me at all and came right back up . . . which makes me fear I also have the bug and might have to miss most if not all of our planned Christmas Eve festivities tomorrow.
BUT: We also threw Li'l Martini's birthday party tonight, and it was awesome. Five boys in fedoras, with candy cigarettes sticking out of their mouths, bidding and raising and folding and bluffing . . . you could die of the cuteness. (I've known these boys almost since babyhood; to me, they are eternally eight years old, round-cheeked and adorable.) My mom had sent him a pack of oversize playing cards (the size of a smallish coffee table book), which I used for decorations; I also tossed handfuls of Hanukkah gelt on the table and put the candy cigarettes in shot glasses, and it all looked great.
And then Mimosa and I cuddled in bed and watched Miracle on 34th Street (the original) and It's a Wonderful Life back to back, which was lovely . . .
. . . until the throwing up. Though I do feel better now; I cling to the hope that anxiety and Wrong Food were the culprits rather than virus. Send a good thought, won't you?
Tomorrow I plan to sleep in and then sit in my comfy green armchair and read, as long as I want to. I have to wrap presents and buy the marinated steak tips for our Christmas dinner, but other than that I am the proverbial Freebird . . .
. . . which I will repeat to myself as I breathe in and out, slowly, calmly.