We're three+ weeks out from the beginning of Zombiehandapalooza, and I can now definitively say that I am absolutely tired of this nonsense. Sure, sure, if it was a simple break, I'd still be a cast (probably poking pencils down in there to try to scratch it, because that's the sort of difficult patient I tend to be), but my understanding of this whole bionic being-screwed-back-together thing was that I would be FINE in record time. And while it's true that I can type again (hallelujah!), it's also true that 1) my left hand still has a chronic case of The Stupid and 2) it huuuuuuuuurts. That...
I feel slightly ridiculous, updating on random minutiae when so many people I know and love are battening down the hatches in preparation for Sandy, but here I am. Nothing I can do from here can stop a hurricane, which seems unfair, really. That'd be a good superpower to have. My superpower, instead, is WRITE ABOUT NOTHING AS A DISTRACTION. It's not as flashy. [Sidebar: I wrote something on Facebook this morning about how, when weighing the pros and cons of letting Chickadee move away for the year, "life-threatening hurricane" hadn't even been on my list of concerns. As I wrote it I was...
I'm sure you never would've guessed this (ha ha), but the departure of my daughter coincided with the triumphant return of the Apron Of Coping---our code-phrase 'round here which loosely translates to "Mir is cooking and baking in a futile effort to avoid feeling those pesky and unpleasant feelings." Some people are emotional eaters, some people are emotional chefs. I consider myself an excellent multi-tasker because I am BOTH. I bake goodies for the gluten-eaters in the house and then I make other sorts of comfort foods for me. Today I'm making soup. That's a little messy to eat while...
I always find myself looking forward to the weekend with a fervor that borders on religious, particularly by Thursday or Friday. It's going to be SO NICE, I think, and I will SLEEP LATE and RELAX and RECHARGE. And then Monday rolls around and I am just as exhausted and cranky as usual. It seems unfair. [Side note: I did finally make an appointment to see my doctor, on account of recent life stressors do seem to be taking a slight toll on my health, possibly. Weird, right? I mean, who knew that constant months of high stress might make you less than perfectly healthy or something? So I called...
I spent half the weekend curled up in a little ball under my desk. Oh, haha! Not really! God, there's crumbs and dog toys and stuff under there. I do my best fetal position checking-out-of-life withdrawal either in bed or on the Man Couch. (Man Couch has recliner seats. Obviously.) At one point while I was doing my very best impersonation of a couch cushion, Otto sat down with me and we watched Best In Show, which I've somehow never seen before, but actually made me laugh quite a bit. I'm glad I can share this sort of breaking news with you. (Make sure to see this movie from twelve years...
This weekend Licorice and I had our birthdays. That's how I knew she was meant to be my dog, you know---the rescue had assigned her a birthdate, I guess, and it's the day after mine. She is now maybe-six (really, they're just guessing on her age) and I am now forty-none-of-your-damn-business-but-trust-me-I-feel-old. Or 41, if you insist. Otto and I ran away for the weekend and left the dog at the kennel. Because we're both so much older and more mature, now, this morning Licorice proceeded to prance around our bed a full hour before the alarm was set to go off, and later this morning---after...
It was not actually my intention to wander away for most of a week, leaving you considering whether or not I had managed to get through that treatment planning meeting without vomiting. Whoops. Sorry! I suck. In my defense, now that the Great Zucchini Invasion of 2012 is winding down, it's gone all Attack of the Yummy Tomatoes 'round these parts. And although we all know I've been a little weird about my garden pretty much forever, the whole ZOMG-there-is-so-much-I-cannot-control-right-now-and-it-makes-my-tender-pink-middle-feel-uncomfy thing means that I am committed to my stupid garden in...
It's depressing me to have that last post be on top of the page, here. Instead let's all admire the latest arrival at Casa Mir: I've been trying to grow melons in my garden for years, and this year---the year my garden surely should be dead of neglect---is of course the year that they took. We've had a lot of rain, you see. (Also: irony.) I have trellised the sugar baby vines and dutifully constructed pantyhose slings for my budding fruits, and although my reading told me all about how fruits should reach at least eight pounds and sound hollow and blah blah blah, this morning this melon had...
When we last left off, poor Licorice was trying to adjust to being used as a chew toy by Zoey. Truly, the dogs had very nearly reached an amicable understanding---and here by "amicable" we mean that Zoey learned to knock it off whenever Licorice snarled at her---so of course we packed everything up and moved on to the in-laws. Zoey is now a distant memory, so far as Licorice is concerned. (She's in for a rude awakening next week when we head back to my parents' house. Ha!) The good news is that here at Nearly Nickless' house there is no exuberant puppy trying to eat Licorice's head. The bad...
