Dear Dear Diary
I finally updated links on the right. I got tired of blogrolling not working as advertised, and since I didn't have most of the blogs I read listed, I thought it worth the effort to redo the whole thing.
If you don't see yourself listed, you may wanna give me a poke.
My relative isn't dead, but her blog is mostly dead, so you may want to skip that one. But If I find any other family blogs, I'm putting them on!
I’M going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
I also like the Bruce Bennett version... but I don't think I know where I can put my hands on that chapbook... His was more "I'm off to weed the garden, waging war on slugs strangling the tomatoes, oozing slime... you come too."
I'm very much a "You come too" person. I wanna go here. You come too. It's more fun if we share along the way.
Sometimes, life is boring. Other times...
"Honey? There's been a Delivery." The way Jazz said delivery, it deserved the capital letter. "I think the UPS guy injured his back getting the box on the porch. That better not be yarn."
I verified it was what I hoped it would be- a new printer. A laser printer that does color duplexes. This rare beast is no longer manufactured. It is Very Large. He helped me get it shoved into a corner of the office. Things were rearranged. I warned him more boxes would arrive soon. He was not comforted, even after I told him they would not be Yarn, especially since one of today's deliveries was from a bead shop. The other one was a couple of boxes of paper (because printers don't work without paper).
But I'm looking forward to becoming a first name basis with the Post Office clerk.
Hooray! I'm in business as a virtual office assistant! Just as soon as I can convince the Beast to work for me.
Well I was looking for a new car- which was me- a cool convertible or an suv - too bad I didn't know my credit was whack because I'm driving off the lot in a used subcompact...
Those commercials are insidious. I did that from memory. It's terrible that I can wander around the house with that shoved in my brain. I worry I've forgotten something important to make room for that crap. Like earlier this morning I was considering an argument over whether it's Heisenberg or Heidenberg's Uncertainty Principle- to of course cap off a conversation about Schroedinger's Cat. I get into discussions like these a lot for a non-physicist and my father would be proud. The irony about being uncertain about the uncertainty principle is not lost on me. For the record, it's Heisenberg.
Speaking of boxes, we are about to have many heavy boxes arrive in Chez Diary. It'll be interesting.
This blog may yet turn into a knitting blog, or take on even odder permutations. For some reason, I've got a lot more readers than I ever expected. And I'm not sure what I'm supposed to write or what they'd like to hear. You're welcome to make requests, yanno. Or maybe you don't.
The basset is calming down and perking out of depression post Kenya. It was surprising how well he's recovered being the only dog. He has scheduled his anxiety and angst between 4 to 8 pm, and if he gets a couple of walks or just one if the weather isn't good, he calms down and passes out to go back to sleep at 8 pm. I think the anxiety is exacerbated by Jazz's behavior- he still wants to play with Kenya during her time, so he tries to interact with Rascal more than he needs/wants, so then the basset (who has a very long excitement fuse- it takes a while to get him going) gets excited just as Jazz is hitting the "oh I guess I ought to leave you alone" stage, and they tend not to be as in sync as one could wish. It's an adjustment period all around, but walks for the basset are good for all of us.
The source of my happiness:Republicans block war funding bill.
Now, I'm still a little upset the democrats weren't also actively blocking funding for the war. But this gives me hope that both parties are realizing Nobody Wants This Fucking War And It Must End Now. Or the article is written to spin to blame the democrats, which is also annoying, but a flea compared to the Greater War Picture.
Oh and I'm going to wean myself off the medical transcription.
Anyone want to buy some earrings or stitch markers? Giggle.
I used to think PETA could only do good. I know better now.
I saw this, and I saw so many things to which this could apply.
I thought about life before the damn sensitivities.
I thought about some friendships I have lost along the way.
I thought about our fucked up president and the relationships of our country and the rest of the world.
I think about what idealized time I'd like to go back to, but then I remember- there is none without fault. I'm here and now.
And right now, I'm so totally excited about tomorrow.
It's hard to watch your favorite show die.
I think CSI jumped the shark when Tarentino directed an episode. I did not like that episode, but Jazz did. Since then, they've been experimenting heavily with various things. I didn't like the way Sarah left the show or the head games they've been playing with Warrick.
But this last episode? I didn't need the writers explaining what jumping the shark was. I was watching it. The show was trying to be funny, in all the wrong ways. It was uncomfortable to watch. And the preview for next week? It makes me not want to even bother next week.
This is terribly depressing.
Finally done with remodeling the side yard. We've taken out all the paving stones (they went from the front like this all the back to the end of the driveway) and put down grass seed. We're going to consider bushes and other landscaping.
We put the wall up initially because the old lady who lived in that house always bitched about the nature of the grass. It wasn't cut enough. It was cut too short. All the clippings were in her driveway. When Gene lived there, it was soooo nice. She called the cops on us (or her son did) that the lawn hadn't been mowed, and we faced a fine if it wasn't cut in 24 hours. I got out the weedwhacker and had at it myself after that cop visit. But then I looked at the law- it required the grass to be higher than 12 inches, and it assuredly was not (although yes, it could have used the trim). We were tired of her bitching.
She died last winter. I can't say I was fond of her. I can't say I'll miss her. I can't say I ever really knew her at all. I do know there is still no for sale sign out front. Her son and daughter show up regularly to get the mail and a "few small things." I think the estate will be argued over for a couple of years. Then who knows what will happen to it. I don't know who will live there. Or when. It feels just as empty as when she lived there.
But it has felt good to be grubbing in the dirt. For years and years, I longed for a bit of earth to call my own and to plan my own garden. I saw this bank and wanted to put in a rock garden. But with my allergies, I have trouble being outside once the lilacs and then the roses bloom. The lilacs are blooming now. As long as I'm not standing next to them, they aren't as bad as they have been in the past. This is *wonderful*.
And we're working on the back deck too.
I found some philosophy hidden in a romance novel that I wanted to share with you. This exerpt is from D.E. Stevenson's Vittoria Cottage
, 1949. Yes, that's right after WWII, and both world wars permeate her body of work (and I think I have all of her charming books). Yet she still managed this:
"I've thought a lot about happiness," Caroline continued. "Perhaps because I saw what unhappiness did to Arnold. I've sometimes thought, supposing everybody - every single person- decided to do their level best to to make one small corner of the world happer. Would that help?" She spread out a wrinkled pillow-slip as she spoke and smoothed it skillfully.
"Like that," he said.
She smiled. "You mean ironing out the wrinkles. That's easy."
"If you know how."
"I know how to iron out wrinkles," she admitted, folding the linen carefully. "If everybody did what could . . . made a little happiness here and there, just to start with . . . and then the circles would spread until they touched and merged."
"Everything ironed out."
She took Leda's tennis shorts and spread them on the board. "It isn't impossible," she pleaded. "It isn't impossible if we started to go about it in the right way. We're going about it in the wrong way. Passing laws and trying to make people happy and good. . . there's only one way in which it can be done, and that's from inside outwards; starting with the individual and spreading outwards to others. Some people have power in them and could do a lot, others could just do a little, but everybody could do something . . . even if they just made one house a happy place."
When I was younger, I would stare for hours at my face in the mirror. I did not recognize me. I was prettier, and the shape of the face was just wrong. Only the eyes- the warm brown and wise eyes- remained the same.
I look at myself now, and I think, oh yes, That's what I'm supposed to look like. This is who I am.
I imagine in another 30 years I won't recognize myself. Only the eyes will stay the same. The rest is subject to change.
And if I wasn't bothered by hair dye, it would change a lot more often.