There have not been enough hours in the days this week. A lot of that, though, is because I’m not trying to push myself to do ALL THE THINGS. So is it really fair to say there aren’t enough hours? Or would it be more fair to say that I continually try to do too much, and maybe I should cut a few things out?
Here’s a picture of Unrentable Death House. When I posted it on Facebook a couple weeks ago, a relatively new follower wanted the story… which I could have sworn I had written out before, but it looks like I lost it in The Great Blog Migration and Hosing of 2009. So I’ll have to write it again, but don’t feel like doing it right now, so expect to see this picture again soon. With story.
A weekend or two ago we went down to Sanford, picked up supplies at Florida Clay, missed running into my mother who was in the town at the same time, and had lunch and hung out with Amy and Isaac and Tim and Amy’s Aunt Cetty and Uncle Joe.
It was kind of a stressful trip; I get really anxious navigating for Tim because he does things like silently point at an exit that I haven’t told him to take as we’re driving past at a pace to quick to turn, and I don’t know why he’s pointing but he’s driving so maybe he knows something I don’t, right? Or I’ll tell him “take exit 18b, 462-West (or whatever), right, towards blah-blah-blah” but then a few minutes later he’ll say, “so, take exit 97, 359-North, left, towards something” but he says it so authoritatively that I assume I must be wrong. So then I get anxious and second-guess my directions, and the more anxious I get and the more I second-guess myself, the more I dyslexically (is that a word?) switch left/right and north/south in my head, and then I tell him the wrong thing, and he gets quieter and quieter and does more silent pointing and rolling his eyes at me, and suffice to say that by the time we got to Florida Clay, ten minutes before they closed, I just wanted to lay down on the ground and cry my eyes out. The trip was not helped by a brand-spanking-new Sunpass that apparently was not working, but we didn’t know that until we’d gone through about four tolls. I want to throw up when I think about getting the ticket for THAT one in the mail.
But we had a good lunch and a little hang-out time with family, and Aunt Cetty (who is a potter) has a lot of ideas for me as far as yarn bowls go, because I was telling her how I want to make them but the way I’m making them now is just not as effective as I want. She also doesn’t have access to a kiln right now; so she’s going to come up in about ten days and stay for most of a week, and we’re going to have some awesome play-in-the-clay time together.
I have a number of things on the needles right now. St. Brigid, which I’m allegedly seaming, but may actually never finish. Weathered Oak, which I’m not even letting myself pick up until I finish Goddamn St. Brigid. A scarf on the loom, which I try to get an inch or two on every day because I need to get through some sock yarn stash (and my edges are still totally uneven, which I need to fix if I’m ever going to sell my work). And I made a decision on what to knit to wear for ICFA; a lacy open pullover (that you wear a tank or another top under) that I’d already finished one sleeve of. I’m knitting an inch a day on it, and I should finish pretty much the day before the convention (unless I take a day off here and there and have some sort of LOTR/Harry Potter marathon so I can crank that shit out.
Brindle is driving me freaking crazy these days. I had to kick her out of the bedroom, because for some reason after 15 years of sleeping down by my legs, she’s suddenly developed a penchant for sleeping above my head. She wedges her fat ass in between the headboard and my pillow, and then either lays there and scratches all night long, or tries to make biscuits in my hair. Or shares her fleas. All of those things suck a giant bag of dicks, so she’s been kicked out. Now one thing about Brindle is that she needs a good 8-10 hours a day of snuggle time in order to not be a complete Pain in My Ass. Many of those hours used to be while I was sleeping (I’m pretty sure she doesn’t think I’m “sleeping” as much as “giving her a lap for seven hours, as I should”) but now she’s not getting that. And I might sit down at the computer for a bit here and there, but
Whoops, sorry, Brindle jumped on the keyboard. Really. I can’t make this shit up.
… but Brindle doesn’t always sit at the edge of the desk like a vulture, waiting for me to sit down just so she can get in my lap. She does a lot, just not always. So if she’s there, and I sit down, she doesn’t understand “I’m only sitting to print out this label and will be standing in fifteen seconds” so then she gets all bitchy when I shove her off as soon as she’s gotten comfortable.
The other day she flailed about and knocked my just-filled cup of coffee all over my desk and laptop. Quick thinking saved the laptop but I did banish all cats from my room for four days while I cleaned and tried to make it a little more cat-safe. Sigh. Cats.
I have about five more photos, but I need to go and start pouring some ceramics before it gets too much later. Another post, “soon”, then.