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"it's only a gift if you use it"
Nov. 7th, 2012 10:20 pm11/10 - Clothing Swap
11/12 - Readercon Skype meeting
11/20 - Three Mile Island show
11/22 - Thanksgiving
It doesn't feel like there's much going on in the coming days. There's Thanksgiving, which is exciting and will get more exciting the closer we get. Maybe it's Hands and Hips being away for a couple weekends, maybe it's just getting too dark too soon and I'm moving away from the curmudgeon side of the line back onto the feeling left out side.
I want to be wanted, all the time. I want to be sought out, invited places, mentioned, remembered when I leave the room.
I had all these thoughts about what I was going to post (I know, I say that every time), about what attracts me, what dismays me, what I've been cooking, what I've been reading.
I have an awful memory for some things. I tell myself stories, I tell other people stories because I can make the things that happen into stories, tell them like they happened to someone else, some other me. But that means sometimes the details slip through the cracks, and it's hard to actually remember what it is I was doing this time last year.
I know where pretty much everything in my house is, I remember the small bits of other people's lives, in part because it makes me feel safer in conversations, to ask other people to tell me their stories, in part because I want to know how absolutely everything works.
I'm here, on my stained and snagged grey couch, in my scottie dog and peppermint blue fleece pants, and an ani difranco waffle shirt with the collar cut out and socks with sparkly stars, my hair in a braid that it's been escaping all day so I'm all frizzy, eating a piece of taza chocolate, while Moppet crunches on her kibble, and Frye screams from the room she's been shut in to eat. We're watching Supernatural, season six, I just took the ambien for the insomnia and the amitriptyline for the migraines and the omeprazole for the hiatal hernia. My cuticles are raw and ragged, I spent a couple hours at the Artisan's Asylum filing papers and pretty much destroyed them. I'm under a giant maroon blanket, with a grumbling dog with a wet face. The snow's still falling, clumping in the tree out front, and I still haven't called 311 to find out what our options are, because I really don't want to lose the whole tree, but I don't want the third of it that is dead to end up in our living room.
Obama won last night, Warren won last night while I was unconscious on Delight's couch, extremely well-fed and comfortable in the knowledge that Light would be kept company watching the results come in. Moppet was very good at the vet's today and everyone loved her. Light picked me up from volunteering so I didn't have to trudge home in my inadequate outwear choices. And now it's time to cuddle a small dog until I pass out.
11/12 - Readercon Skype meeting
11/20 - Three Mile Island show
11/22 - Thanksgiving
It doesn't feel like there's much going on in the coming days. There's Thanksgiving, which is exciting and will get more exciting the closer we get. Maybe it's Hands and Hips being away for a couple weekends, maybe it's just getting too dark too soon and I'm moving away from the curmudgeon side of the line back onto the feeling left out side.
I want to be wanted, all the time. I want to be sought out, invited places, mentioned, remembered when I leave the room.
I had all these thoughts about what I was going to post (I know, I say that every time), about what attracts me, what dismays me, what I've been cooking, what I've been reading.
I have an awful memory for some things. I tell myself stories, I tell other people stories because I can make the things that happen into stories, tell them like they happened to someone else, some other me. But that means sometimes the details slip through the cracks, and it's hard to actually remember what it is I was doing this time last year.
I know where pretty much everything in my house is, I remember the small bits of other people's lives, in part because it makes me feel safer in conversations, to ask other people to tell me their stories, in part because I want to know how absolutely everything works.
I'm here, on my stained and snagged grey couch, in my scottie dog and peppermint blue fleece pants, and an ani difranco waffle shirt with the collar cut out and socks with sparkly stars, my hair in a braid that it's been escaping all day so I'm all frizzy, eating a piece of taza chocolate, while Moppet crunches on her kibble, and Frye screams from the room she's been shut in to eat. We're watching Supernatural, season six, I just took the ambien for the insomnia and the amitriptyline for the migraines and the omeprazole for the hiatal hernia. My cuticles are raw and ragged, I spent a couple hours at the Artisan's Asylum filing papers and pretty much destroyed them. I'm under a giant maroon blanket, with a grumbling dog with a wet face. The snow's still falling, clumping in the tree out front, and I still haven't called 311 to find out what our options are, because I really don't want to lose the whole tree, but I don't want the third of it that is dead to end up in our living room.
Obama won last night, Warren won last night while I was unconscious on Delight's couch, extremely well-fed and comfortable in the knowledge that Light would be kept company watching the results come in. Moppet was very good at the vet's today and everyone loved her. Light picked me up from volunteering so I didn't have to trudge home in my inadequate outwear choices. And now it's time to cuddle a small dog until I pass out.
