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.
--Kristen McHenry
No comments:
Post a Comment