Everything I do, I do enthusiastically. And when I do find myself engaged in something half-heartedly, distaste for myself curdles in my throat like past-date dairy product. So for example, when I decide what I *really* want is to just languish on the couch watching "Wild Discovery" or "The Real World" or some such horrifying product, I really throw myself into it. Lichen will grow on my shady side. I am not "vegging". I am passionately relaxing. For years I had a problem wit

I've changed my hair color now three times this year. This is unusual, really... most of the colors I've had lasted for an average of 1.625 years: bleached white, fuchsia pink, deep purple, black, light blue, lavender, pinkish purple. Even the shifts from one color to another used to be gradual, or at least related, usually. Except for one time when I went from black back to white. But once you get to black, what else are you gonna do? Now I've gone from pinkish-purple to tur

Ashley's in England again. While he's gone, I make messes that I don't clean up and I sleep in the middle of the bed. Because it is my habit to clean for arriving guests, I always make the house spotless for his return. Surely he assumes it's been that way the whole time he was gone, and he burdens himself with the guilt that his big suitcase in the kitchen and his piles of mail and newspapers in the hall darken the joy of his return. While he's gone, our lives become extraor