Sleepy bye-byes

Haven't posted much lately. Think it's this Zoloft business. I have insomonia at night and somnolence during the day. It really does say "somnolence" on the pack. It struck me as a pleasing and slightly underrated word so I wikipediated it, and discovered that: "[Somnolence] is considered a lesser impairment of consciousness than stupor".

Thank god for that.

Of course, I should add that my somnolence was compounded today by an an hour and a half of massage, bought for me as a treat by an extremely remarkable, talented, hilarious, clever and stunning friend of mine. It was so cool of her, and totally compensates for not being able to have children.

Oh, and my current somnolence is further compounded by the glass of wine I'm having. Oh, and the Aunty Val. (My last full one. I'm gradually reducing my dose, because despite what you're insinuating my doctor doesn't think I'm THAT BONKERS that I need both Valium and anti-expressos. So we're winding down from the Aunties — half tomorrow, then ever downwards, until my packet runneth dry.) (My doctor, by the way, is another source of amusement between Wilcox et moi. She's his doctor too. She is tall, blonde, kindly but ever so slightly stern, clever, well-postured, attractive of waist and bottom, younger than us, extremely conscientious, and generally exuding of prettiness and tidiness and efficiency in both appearance and character. We are sure she was Head Girl, Captain of Hockey, recipient of the Maths & Science Prizes, and runner up of the English prize and still not quite sure why and occasionally cross because her carefully plotted little essays let her down of some 1950s boarding school that doesn't actually exist anymore, and has timetravelled into the twenty-first century, where she gets to treat GenX losers like us. Last time Wilcox was there he said, "Me and Miss Schlegel joke that you must think we're the screwiest couple in this practice!" and she said, "A lot of people have problems. You're just doing something about it." And then she said put her hands up beside her face and pretended to be a cuckoo clock — or at least that's what Wilcox said, but I don't really believe him, as she doesn't really have a great sense of humour. Last time I saw her — which was pretty much the day before Wilcox — I tried to lighten the mood between Kleenexes by telling her that when I was a kid I used to steal my parents sample packs of benzos like Valium and stuff — my folks both being doctors themselves. They used to keep them in a ancient, red plastic bowl on the top shelf of the pantry. I thought me and Dr Head Girl would have a laugh but she looked a bit stern and mumbled, "...even then..." and wrote something down. Secretely we think she must go home and tell her husband — who, by the size of her engagement rock, either has a double-barreled surname or works entirley in private practice — "Thank god they couldn't reproduce!")

Oh, and I've got more somnbulation from the brisk hour-long walk Geordie and I had earlier.

I don't know that I mentioned that Geordie is my parents-in-law dog, and very soon — in less than a week — he and Wilcox will be driving back to his real home. I will stay home alone. Good for work, of course. But I'll miss my Geords. The truth is he doesn't much care for me, except as a source of walks and lamb shanks. But I'll miss him. Of course, we need our own dog. We have an ethical delimna about this which I will seek your help with in a future post.

Anyway, so this massage, it was in St Kilda. The first thing we saw as we got the corner of Akland St was a guy throwing up on his sneakers. It was gross, but I kind of envied him the somnolence he was going to enjoy as soon as he got home. He would probably somulate most of the day, then go out again later for some more somulators. Then we got to the place and it was super posh. The girls were all uniformed and efficient and impertinently young, like it was WWII or something. Afterwards we wondered where young masseuses go to die. Eventually they must turn thirty, right? What happens to them then? It's like that joke comedians often make about never seeing baby pigeons.

My lovely youngly was called Christina. At the beginning of the massage she put stones on my back and talked about chakras, and during the massage she played this synth and pan pipe new age music, which I don't get. What's wrong with Bach? I would have liked to hear Glenn Gould playing the English Suites. I would have blissed out at Bach. But apart from that it was pretty much the perfect massage. She was great at the massaging bit — firm, but not painful — she didn't speak except to say what she was going to do before she did it, so I didn't jump, which I tend to when people unexpectedly touch me with fluids in private places.

Wilcox: "So was it a full body massage?"
Miss Schlegel: "No. It was just my boosies and vagina."

(Actually I stole this joke off of [note use of my new favourite idiom "off of"] said friend who bought me massage, who originally told me it was five minutes of clitoral massage, followed by a short break, then off and on again for the whole 9o minutes.)

Meanwhile, another friend of mine — Erica Seccombe — gave me three framed prints of her artwork, which is worth about a million dollars. I will direct you to more of her amazing artwork when she finally gets her website up, but here's a taster.

Erica Seccombe, Nanoplastica, originally uploaded by glasscentralcanberra/ the Kelly Gang.

Her artwork is complicated, but the short answer is she takes x-rays of novelty toys. Pretty incredible, huh?

I know I go on about my IRL friends a lot, but it's only because I'm trying to milk my "tragedy" for all it's worth and develop some competitive spirit amongst them so they keep one-upping each other with treats. Jokes! (As Wilcox says.) The truth is I keep going on about because I can't get over it.

Ok, since you insist, I will seek your help now with my ethical dilemma re a dog. I want a dog that is robust, and will go for a big walk/run with me each day like Geordie does. Wilcox wants a smallish dog that won't shed too much, or take up too much of the house. We both want a puppy. I feel ethically unable to get anything but a rescue dog. Wilcox thinks we can't save the world and we have a narrow range that's suitable for us so we should be allowed to get a dog from a breeder.

What do you think?

This:
Or this: