My current WIP, soon to be a nostalgic sweater pattern on Craftzine.
We’ve been re-watching (well, me re-watching; Ron watching for the first time) old episodes of Buffy. Right now we’re on Season 3 and I’m getting to see a lot of old eps I haven’t watched since they aired, which is great fun because I only remember the broad strokes. Ooh, that Xander makes me so mad in Season 3! And Wesley! Rgh! I like that the men of Buffy are most often the petty ones. (Or maybe it’s actually just equal and only feels lopsided because on TV it’s so often the other way round?)
So naturally, I had a Buffy dream last night. I’m kind of surprised it’s taken this long for them to kick in because I usually get television dreams a couple days into a marathon. Last night I had a dream about kissing Spike that made my heart pound so dramatically that it woke me up. We weren’t making out or anything, just kissing so softly we barely touching, but in my dream it was exhilarating and I woke up with a mad adrenaline surge and my heart racing so much I was practically gasping, which was a little embarrassing (even though at the moment, I was the only one who knew).
Did I mention I’m 40?
When I went back to sleep, my thrilling Buffy dreams didn’t resume. Instead I was balancing my checking account online and I had all these charges from my new ATM card that I’d forgotten to record, and as a result, had bounced several checks and was having to call around and explain. That dream was much more realistic, and also made me wake up a little mortified.
If you had asked me at 16 to describe the 40-year-old me’s dream life, I wouldn’t have expected this. Nor that the second dream just as apt to be, you know, my reality.
We’re barely into the new year (that is, we’re well into the new year, but it feels like it just started) and my grasp of time is as tenuous as ever. I’d been so glad for my open February, but it flew by before I knew what happened, and now we’re a third into March and it’s all a blur.
My February crafting was only marginally successful. I did manage to knock out my pound of handspun again, which was comprised of my Spinsters Club batt plus a bunch of Roving from Triple R Farm (Rhinebeck booty).
There was about twice as much of the first as the second, so alternated an ounce of red with half an ounce of mutli, then plied them from opposite ends of the progression, so the finished yarn should have roughly even stripes of red plied to itself and red plied to the stripey stuff. It’s a nice sturdy DK and will probably become a lightweight sweater.
I’m right now battling a breath-sucking tide of general anxiety. That’s the worst, the vague kind that’s difficult to diffuse because it’s so diffuse itself.
Freddy was really sick last week and had to go to the kitty hospital for the better part of the week. He seems to be doing well now, and now he’s on a very extravagant Rx food that makes Sugarfoot’s fancy prescription food look like a $4 generic from Target. But cats don’t eat much, so it’s not a terrific burden. (It’s funny how when your pet’s sick, money is no object, but as soon as they’re out of the woods, you start grousing about dollars. It’s like that Seinfeld joke about the check coming at the beginning of the meal.)
Anyway, for the next month, in addition to the special food, he’s supposed to get subcutaneous fluids twice a week to make sure his kidneys keep nice and clean.
The vet said to nuke the bag for a minute to get it to room temperature, but she’d already taken the plug out when she showed me the process, so when I nuked it, it flopped out of the bowl I’d propped it up in and two thirds of it spilled all over the microwave while I was facing the other way fiddling with the tubing. Yay! $20 all over my counter. Then trying to get it in was a comedy of errors, only comedy isn’t exactly the right word. More of Ron struggling with Freddy in a towel and me sticking the poor cat half a dozen times like a pincushion only to accidentally pull it right back out and squirt water all over the room. Again and again, and punctuated with me & Ron growling (him) and/or screeching (me) at each other. Finally, I had to give up and take a break, and I’m not psyched about replaying that little farce again later tonight.
Maybe because the strain of Pollyannaing had gotten to me, maybe because I’m disgusted with myself for my laziness and incompetence in general, maybe because I’m irritated I can’t afford to go to Berlin for a few days at the beginning of Ron’s next tour as I’d hoped, even with my mom’s cheapie tickets, because we closed our credit cards and can no longer pretend the imaginary money is real. Maybe I’m just cranky from the belly full of cheap grocery store Chinese food that’s turned me into a remorseless farting machine. But whatever the root cause, the fluids debacle dropped me in a pool of looming panic. It’s kind of suffocating me. I think I’ll go hula hoop a bit and see if my mood improves.
If I still feel shitty in a little while, I’m make two lists, one called Poor Me and one called Quit Being Such a Titty Baby. Poor Me will enumerate my woes and Titty Baby will count my blessings. Hopefully the second list will be much longer.