I can't believe it is the 8th of December already. I won't bore you with the list of tasks undone; I will say the tree is up. Not decorated, but the lights are on. Progress.
I was trying to remember Christmases past, not in general, but specific ones. The only one I can remember is the Christmas I got my first guitar. I was 12, and I was so excited, my parents had managed to hide it completely, so even snooping around didn't reveal it. I have different guitars now, two of them. I still play, although my hands cramp up pretty quickly and I haven't tackled a new song in a long time. There is something very soothing about listening to a master guitar player, like Chet Atkins or Eric Clapton (acoustic and when he isn't singing!), or Leo Kotche (jazz) or even Santana (rock and roll). I wish I had been more consistent in taking music lessons, the last teacher I had passed away from cancer and I haven't looked any further since then.
I can't sleep tonight, I keep waking myself up snoring. I've tried reading, and writing in my journal, and counting sheep (well, not really), but here I am at 5 am, groggy and drowsy, but wide awake as soon as I get comfortable in bed. No doubt I'll be dropping off about the time to get up. Isn't that always the case?
I've been struggling with rosacea and it has flared up in the last few weeks. I look like Santa with his cheeks so rosy (and a belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly, but let's not go there). I went to the derm doctor last Monday, and she gave me a sample of a new drug that is a vasoconstricter, works fast and lasts twelve hours. I have tried it twice, and have not had much success yet, but I am trying to feel when the flare-up starts and not wait until I am beet red to use it. It would be nice to be able to use blush again.
Bumper sticker for the day: "Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines."
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