I submit today to the screaming of the dryer, remembering the ear infections of years past. I sometimes think about cutting the stuff, donating it for cancer patients as I did a few years ago, but I've never let it grow until it stopped. "Hell, grow it to the floor, Cat," M. teased me. I have trouble resisting a challange. I wonder if his new job has started yet; must needle him for neglecting me. Well, what goes around comes around, I guess; there are people I've neglected. Oddly, the headache that walked in my door last night and made me miserable, wrapping my head in harsh tentacles, an unwelcome lover that held me through the restless night, releases and disappears as the scream machine is silenced.
I take it in my head to phone Hawk, and he doesn't get past "Hello" before I'm weepy. Stupid. Blame hormones or whatever. The kids hear me crying and come to comfort, but they're getting used to this. Jesus, it sucks needing what I can't have. He teases me and tells me silly stories and makes me laugh. "Feel better? A little?" he inquires. I think I shouldn't have called, but I do feel better for having heard his voice.
A phone call tells me that half of last night's rehersal is now moot; tomorrow's gig has cancelled. So much for Mrs. Santa.