Yesterday was Sugar Daddy’s birthday. I think he was offended that I didn’t write 38 fun facts about him. I’m not sure if I have 38 fun facts. It’s getting harder to come up with more than 10 for the older children. I’m going to have to come up with a new gimmick for celebrating birthdays around here. Anyway, it was SD’s birthday yesterday. We went out to dinner at a Japanese restaurant. SD, Princess Zurg, Mister Bubby, and my MIL all had sushi. Elvis and Girlfriend had bento boxes, and I had something else. I don’t like sushi, and I know that I don’t like sushi, but every time we go out for sushi, I feel like I have to try some. So I had some, and what I had was all right, but it also reminded me why I don’t like sushi. I can’t explain exactly what I don’t like about it. I mean, sometimes it’s just too fishy. And I like fish, but not things that are “too fishy,” whatever that means. I know it when I taste it. I don’t know. In some ways it tastes good, but at the same time there’s also something about it that makes me rather I were not tasting it.

I am feeling nervous about the summer. I look forward to the sleeping in part. But I am nervous about the camps. I’m nervous about the swimming lessons. I’m nervous about my MIL going to Chicago for three weeks, not because I can’t live without her help (I lived without it up until last year) but because I have grown accustomed to making appointments and such knowing that my MIL will (usually) be available to babysit if necessary. Now I will have to make special arrangements for babysitting, if necessary. I am nervous about having PZ home all day, getting bored and using the computer too much and complaining that she doesn’t have any friends. I am nervous about having PZ’s friends over. I am nervous that Girlfriend will not have enough social interaction with other children because it is incumbent upon me to arrange play dates for her because no one will call me to arrange a play date for their kid with my kid. Girlfriend is actually a very popular little girl. I’m the one who’s unapproachable, and my children suffer for it. Well, what can I do? Get a personality transplant?

So yesterday I went to the SuperGyno, and she told me my progesterone was a little low–which wouldn’t be a problem if I weren’t having symptoms of something that is undesirable, but since I am, she’s going to try supplementing me with progesterone for a few months and see if that helps anything. Well, I’m game. Why not? Why not, indeed? So there’s that.

Today I have to see my psychiatrist. Lately I feel like I have run out of things to say to the psychiatrist, so I end up talking about random crap, none of which seems significant, and I seem to be repeating myself on a lot of insignificant points. Last month I cried during one session–not a lot, just a tiny bit–so that seems like it ought to signify a breakthrough or something. I mean, crying is significant, right? Even if it’s just a little bit? I don’t remember why I was crying, though. Maybe I was just pre-menstrual. WHO KNOWS? It was kind of embarrassing. I’m not really a crier, except when I am. Then I’m really a crier. Except when I only cry a little bit, which is still embarrassing. I’m pretty sure I’ve never cried in front of a psychiatrist before. Most of my psychiatrists were not people who give you the impression that it would be okay if you cried in front of them. I mean, I’m sure they would have been patient, but they also would have been sitting there with that impassive look on their face that I interpret as “Good Lord, she’s crying. How long is this going to last? When will she get to the point?” I cried in front of a regular old therapist once. Not a lot, just a tiny bit, like this last time. That didn’t seem as embarrassing because she was sort of a touchy-feeling kind of gal. In the metaphorical sense. She didn’t really touch me, I don’t think. That might have been weird. She was just the type who seemed like she’d consider crying a major breakthrough. And I suppose she was right, that time. I don’t know about this last time. Like I said, I don’t remember it well. Just the embarrassment.

Speaking of touchy-feely, on a non-metaphorical note, when we were saying our goodbyes to the couple who ran the bed & breakfast in Leavenworth, the wife said to me, “How about a hug?” And I was like, sure, why not, I’m a hugger–because I am, actually. I mean, I’m flexible on the hugging issue. I didn’t used to be a hugger, much, but when I’m around huggers, I become a hugger too. It’s weird because I’m really reserved and anti-social, and I think most people wouldn’t consider me very huggable, but I don’t mind it. Sometimes I’m even the hug-initiating type, depending on my mood. I don’t know. I guess not being much of a talker, either, if I have to pick some form of communication, non-verbal is preferable. That is how I end up hugging people who may not actually want to be hugged, or who seem like, “Whoa, I was not expecting you to hug me, but okay, I guess.” Don’t get me wrong. I don’t go up to random people and hug them. I don’t go up to just anybody and hug them. I hug friends and relatives–people I actually know well, but apparently not well enough to know if they are the huggy type. (Yeah, I know, my own relatives–weird.) Perhaps I have faulty hug-dar. Huggy-dar. I don’t know. Now I make myself sound like a creepy hug-predator, which I’m totally not. Gentle reader, if we ever meet in real life, I promise not to hug you unless you explicitly come out to me as a hugger. Not that any of you would, after this creepy paragraph.

I have never hugged my psychiatrist, and I don’t plan on doing so.

I am making a chicken-rice salad for dinner, but it has to chill for several hours, so I have to get that done before I go to the psychiatrist. I have a couple hours, give or take. Well, mostly take. I also have to take a shower, so make that an hour and a half. Can I do it? Yes, I can. Do I want to? No, I don’t. It’s really not such a chore, but I’m just lazy.

What shall I tell my psychiatrist today? I went to someone’s birthday lunch on Monday, and I talked to people. That was different from the norm. I saw someone about whom I had recently come to the realization that while we are friends, we are not really friends-friends, and I have adjusted my expectations in that regard accordingly, but when I saw her, I felt inordinately annoyed by her presence, so apparently I need a re-readjustment of my expectations. But in which direction? I do not know. I am gradually cutting myself off from other people to avoid being hurt by them, even as I proclaim myself a hugger. Well, I wouldn’t hug any of these people. Unless they hugged me first–then I’d be okay with it. Because really, I’m not a hugger so much as I’m a pleaser. If it pleases you to hug me, well, fine. It’s no skin off my nose. I’ve hugged homeless people on the street. Note: None of these homeless hugs was my idea. I just told you, I don’t hug random people. But sometimes random people hug me. Specifically, random people on the street who are mentally out of balance enough not to be intimidated by my aloofness. Apparently the crazy homeless people find me approachable, but normal people, for the most part, do not.

And you know, as a result I find I am not as much of a pleaser anymore. I still want to please people–that is, if I can please someone, that pleases me. But if I can’t, I am much more likely these days to say, “Oh, well.” Because I’m too tired. I’ve spent the last 42 years as the lonely scarecrow all the little animals are afraid of, and I’m tired of trying to make friends. If people look at me and think my face is telling them to get off my lawn, well, fine. I don’t need you on my lawn anyway. I have plenty of homeless people lining up to be my friends. When I go downtown, anyway. In the suburbs, not so much. But you get what I’m saying. I am adapting to a solitary life–solitary except for the five people I live with, of course. And the internet. There’s always the internet.

I now have about an hour and fifteen minutes to make a salad, eat lunch, and take a shower. Can I do it? Yes, I can. But I don’t want to. Do it, that is. I would still like to have it done.