(no subject)

The dog's alternating between clingy and crazy annoying, There's a bizarre, unitchable itch in the back of my throat, and I'm close to giving up the war I'm waging on the dust and animal hair in the house. There are always dishes in the sink and I put on a lot more weight than I had imagined I would during my convalescence.

But, I love the book I'm reading, I'm going out to visit two of my favorite far away people and possibly going to the scar project show in New York. I've switched from being foaming-at-the-mouth angry at every mention of breast cancer to being alternately charmed, irritated or indifferent.

I saw three of the four Peter Mulvey shows (turns out there's at least one artist that I simply cannot stand). I'm going to Richard Shindell tonight, and girlyman next week, and seeing Melissa Ferrick and Ani Difranco out in Northampton that weekend. And I've always thought there was something secretly shameful about spending money on things that didn't have a physical presence but I'm starting to sink into abandoning that, and becoming both more and less attached to the things I do own. You can pry my cookbook collection from my cold dead hands, but I love that I have a couch that has a blueberry stain, that all the dogs I know are allowed up on and that the giant table shows use. (This was not always true. I was furious when I found the first scratch.)

Are nests ever eventually feathered, or will I keep changing this house as I change? I guess time's the only way I'll find out.

Now, cat shit and laundry. But later I want to talk about book reviews, and forging meaningful connections on the internet, and solitary vacations and how my shrink is asking me questions about my past that I don't know the answers to.and knick-knacks and perfume and kitchen gadgets.

(no subject)

The dog's alternating between clingy and crazy annoying, There's a bizarre, unitchable itch in the back of my throat, and I'm close to giving up the war I'm waging on the dust and animal hair in the house. There are always dishes in the sink and I put on a lot more weight than I had imagined I would during my convalescence.

But, I love the book I'm reading, I'm going out to visit two of my favorite far away people and possibly going to the scar project show in New York. I've switched from being foaming-at-the-mouth angry at every mention of breast cancer to being alternately charmed, irritated or indifferent.

I saw three of the four Peter Mulvey shows (turns out there's at least one artist that I simply cannot stand). I'm going to Richard Shindell tonight, and girlyman next week, and seeing Melissa Ferrick and Ani Difranco out in Northampton that weekend. And I've always thought there was something secretly shameful about spending money on things that didn't have a physical presence but I'm starting to sink into abandoning that, and becoming both more and less attached to the things I do own. You can pry my cookbook collection from my cold dead hands, but I love that I have a couch that has a blueberry stain, that all the dogs I know are allowed up on and that the giant table shows use. (This was not always true. I was furious when I found the first scratch.)

Are nests ever eventually feathered, or will I keep changing this house as I change? I guess time's the only way I'll find out.

Now, cat shit and laundry. But later I want to talk about book reviews, and forging meaningful connections on the internet, and solitary vacations and how my shrink is asking me questions about my past that I don't know the answers to.and knick-knacks and perfume and kitchen gadgets.