Angie came over again today. She helped me make a new raspberry cordial, but she’s really too greedy to be of much use. She drinks the vodka straight and eats the berries instead of letting the fruit absorb the wonderful liquid. I think she’s perfectly happy with the colorless nature of the vodka. Odd, because she absolutely refuses to drink water. She told me about a clear liquid that is even stronger than vodka called grain alcohol. She says it’s what they make extracts from, but I’m not sure how tasty that would be. I can buy extracts. She tried to convince me that they might be as tasty as cordials. I handed her the vanilla, but she didn’t try it. I did. It burned a little, but I liked it. Besides, I don’t make cordials for the sake of drinking. I just like the beautiful way they shine lined up on the top shelf of the pantry. I only have to drink them when the shelf is full. Frank says I don’t have to drink them all at once, but I won’t waste good cordials and it’s more efficient to clean off the shelf all at once. Alas, I’ve never succeeded. I don’t think I’ll let Angie help me make cordials any more. She wastes too much, and wants to open the other jars. Maybe I’ll invite her for Clean Off the Shelf day. That way Frank won’t get mad at me when he finds my apron on the floor, or the trip to the hospital. He tells me they use a stomach pump on me, but I find my stomach pumps quite well without the help of those white dressed men, and it covers them with lovely colours. I hate white. It frightens me.

Frank doesn’t like my new tape. He wants me to play something else. He made me turn on the TV instead of listening to my tape. Silly Frank. I like the TV for the colors. But it’s never as interesting. I like to listen to my tape and watch the colors. But that only annoys Frank. He says they don’t match.
  ¶ 6:53 AM

  Today two things of interest happened. I'll try not to write about everything. I don't want you to be bored. I'm very ordinary and I don't do anything special. So I will only try to keep track of the *interesting* things.

The nosy old bag next door got a cat. She is constantly putting it out or bringing it in, and it gives her an excuse to move. Sometimes, when she sits there with her binoculars long enough, I think she's already dead. But she comes to the door and if I'm outside, she *talks* to me. I don't think I can bear it. She wants to know everything. She hints more about the patter of little feet than my mother ever will. If I wanted the patter of little feet, I'd have gotten a cat myself years ago. Right now though, I'm thinking of a dog. A big dog. One that will keep that cat too scared to come outside. I'm not sure if planting a vegetable garden was a good idea this year. It means I have to go outside. It means she will be watching me. And now, she will be talking to me. I look at her mouth, watching her talk, and all I can think about is duct tape. Frank won't allow dogs though. He wouldn't like a cat either. But opening that door gives her an excuse to tell him everything I've been doing. And she will. She always does. Nosy bint.

Between you and me and the bedpost, I'm not sure what bint means. But I like the way it sounds when I say it. Bint.

Angie gave me a new tape. It's by Tony Horton, and the music is simply lovely. Nothing but love songs that haunt you. I played it twice today- even once after Frank got home. He didn't notice, but that's because I played it in the kitchen softer than his television. The picture on the album reminds me a little of Frank before we got married. He's very handsome. I wish Frank could have sung like that for me.
  ¶ 6:38 AM

  Dear Diary,

Today Angie came over and set this up for me. I told her how Frank reads my diary when he sends me shopping, so I don't trust writing in the flimsy book. Angie understands my need for privacy. She swears she won't be able to read this when she is done. She swears Frank won't even know I've created this. So I can write whatever I want. Writing was the only good thing the couch doctor insisted on. It's so much easier to keep track of things if I can write them all out and look them up again later. So now I'll write everything to you. I hope you don't mind.

I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Jeanne Berkley, and I'm 33 years old. I have brown eyes and brown hair, and I live a very brown life. I hate brown. Brown is dirty. Dirt is the enemy. Too bad bleach doesn't work on eyeballs.

Today I made brownies for Angie. She gives me special ingredients, and I show her how to bake. Too bad her mother won't teach her how to cook properly. But then, her mother is never home. She offers me her brownies, but I get too giggly, and I burn Frank's dinner, and he doesn't like that very much. I don't blame him. Burned dinners are very brown.

I bought more vodka today. Frank has said I may make medicinals again. Oh the joys of a good strawberry cordial! Slice the fruit to 1/4" and pile in a mason jar. Then pour over the vodka, seal, and let it rest. Sometimes, I just open the pantry door to stare at the jar of neatly sliced berries. I like cranberry too, but it's not as neat. You must mash the berries, or at least pop them. It's a mess. But it still comes out red. Proper cordials are red. Beets make a pretty cordial. But it doesn't taste as good.

Frank will be home soon. I'll make chicken and stuffing casserole with corn in it. I'll pretend the whole dish is the color of the corn, so it won't be brown. I still hate the way Frank hid the food colouring. Why can't I find the blue? This dish should be more blue. Then we wouldn't need corn.
  ¶ 1:26 AM