I have found myself at odds this weekend--in between writing projects as I await the verdict on my novel from folks I’ve sent the first draft to, with no video games that excite or engross me anymore, and with a chronically-pained left knee/hip that is making it really hard to motive myself to exercise. I poked my rug here and there in front of the TV (That's not dirty; I was literally poking a rug, evidence below), and listlessly played a few vids and made a project out of nurturing Mr. Typist, who has managed to catch some horrible, lurching, tissue-drenching bug, but my heart wasn’t really in any of it. I have structured my weekends around the novel for the last year, and now that I’m retreating from it, I feel a little lost and unanchored. That, and my favorite month, October, has officially ended, leaving me in dread of the relentless, inevitable Holiday! Cheer! that follows. And I discovered that TV is horrible. I have Netflix and all, but the universal remote in the Typist household is programmed to require an IT degree to use, and I’m always too tired to absorb Mr. Typist’s patient, repeated lessons in how to switch from TV to Netflix, so when I punch my rug, I’m at the mercy of lame cable offerings. I cannot watch one more idiotic cooking competition, flea-market vendor battle, or forensic drama with a rogue chick-genius in ironic cat-eye glasses.
In artisan rug terms, here is what I have accomplished so far:
I thought the whole core section was a little too dark, so against common wisdom, I nipped over to Joanne’s a few nights ago and bought a competing brand of yarn (I guess you’re not supposed to do this because of different brand dye runs not being compatible and such, but it worked out okay.) This yarn was lighter in shade than what I had been working with. But the important thing is that I just happened to be in line behind the most effing adorable father/son duo I have ever seen in my life. I actually teared up slightly witnessing them. The dad was a “hip” dad, who dyed his graying hair black and wore Converse high-tops and horn-rimmed glasses, and his son was a budding Goth. They looked like twins. The dad was enthusiastically explaining to his thirteen-ish-year-old son the rationale behind his purchases, and exactly how they were going to make the kid’s Halloween costume “totally rock”, and the white streaks they were going paint on his boots, and the matching stripe that was going on the leather jacket, and his son looked at his Dad like he was the sun, the moon and the stars, dark Goth eyes shining with pure enthusiasm. Then the dad started making fun of all the lotions by the check stand display case, asking his son if he wanted to smell like “Christmas street lamp vanilla spice”, and the son grinned with delight, but wouldn’t give in to outright laughter. I know the whole thing sounds completely corny and ridiculous, but the love between them was obvious, and the pure goofy guilelessness of their interaction redeemed my whole terrible week somehow. I really hope those two have a lifetime of happy Halloweens to come.
On a darker note, my co-worker texted me a few nights ago about “National Cat Day”, the idea of which completely infuriated me. I responded with some rage-text babbling about how it’s not enough that cats enslave us with toxoplasmosis and force us to do their bidding, but that EVERY DAY IS CAT DAY! All cats do is eat and sleep, in between bouts of destroying everything we love and inducing sleep deprivation with their endless three a.m. demands to go in then out then in again, then, feed me. And on top of it all, they get their own day??? I call bs on that! Cats are not entitled to an entire day devoted to their narcissistic, ruthless selves. At one point, I owned three cats simultaneously. I know of what I speak! To this day, I love all of those cats with a helpless, Stockholme-syndrome-like adoration, but that does not make it okay that they get their own day. Is there a whole day devoted to really good typists? Not that I’ve heard of, kind sir! National Cat Day indeed! This is an outrage! Good animals and good professionals go totally unacknowledged, while godforsaken cats are awarded for their selfish gluttony by Their Own Day. I just don’t know what the world is coming to anymore.