i'm getting close to accepting that i've established a personal time zone that doesn't match my spouse's or my friends' for any meaningful length of time; over the last month or so i've been up until dawn finishing work at least three times, and while it was a little upsetting at first it's easy enough to nap most of the discomfort away? i have been making weird typos every now and again in emails to my editors, which i don't love, but that might have more to do with transcribing much more than i usually do than with being sleep-deprived most of the time. i imagine i'll reset when we go to alaska with family for a few weeks; we'll be on a boat for half of the trip and i sleep well on the ocean, and i won't be able to eat dinner in the middle of the 'night,' so.
i deleted my garbage stepbrother's number from my phone the other day. it's been in a little digital cyst in my contacts for more than a decade; as i recall his mother gave him my number when his now-wife's dog had cancer and he wanted my advice about specialists and treatment. i haven't had any communication with him since shortly after the 2016 election when it became clear he was going to go work for the president-elect and i sent him a plea to reconsider; we were disinvited from family thanksgiving that year and ever since, and i saw him at his sister's wedding last year and that's it. his mother intuited, correctly, that i would tell him what a sack of shit he is if we coincided. (i did not do that at the wedding, as i am not a monster, but thanksgiving is manifest destiny's special day, not my stepsister's.) i've always figured i had the opportunity to send one salutation before he blocked me and i've written and rewritten it over the years as i watch cable news while running–so much anger when i run!–and i polished that prospect in my head like a worry stone. when he legitimately pulled the same shit as a member of this administration that his mother pulled on his behalf when he got kicked off a team in college and i very nearly sent him an actual message about what a waste of protein he is i finally decided, for no reason that would make a particularly compelling anecdote, that i would choose my own adventure at last and forever. then i sent his mother and my dad a petty text about the world cup anyway.
i've been thinking about ways my sister and i can hype ourselves into progress on our picture book and abruptly wrote to a photographer last night about taking author photos. she is pretty expensive, i gathered when i googled around a bit to try to get a sense of what others charge, but i have a hunch that she could crack my awkwardness in posed shots, and the photo of me that's currently on my professional website is very nearly old enough to join the army, so maybe investing in someone who would do a really fantastic job is the power move? there are plenty of newer photos of me online and i don't feel like i'm putting one over on anybody, but it's probaby time to have something out there that isn't a bathroom selfie. she wrote back like 10 minutes later and i like her, i'm hopeful about this. a little part of me wishes i could ask my ex-friend the publishing juggernaut about her experience prepping for this, she's literally the only person i've ever talked to about head shots, but if we saw things the same way, or in complementary ways, i guess, she wouldn't be my ex-friend, now would she. she donesn't seem to be doing very well, but it's hard to know, and i won't ask.
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