Today I slugged down a handful of
and felt much better, and then asked the bosses for three days off. I have various estate things to do, in far flung corners of East Jesus, and I am tired, I can't think, and a nice drive to East Jesus in the sunshine beats the hell out of the windowless beige office. And I was having a bad day. I haven't slept well for a while now. I appear all calm and organized when I'm awake, but when I am asleep my traitorous subconscious proceeds to torture me with endless To Do Lists and Oh My Gods that often wake me up at 3 a.m. I can't focus for shit, and though I can type words here just fine, because I have all the time in the world to do it, when I'm talking and I'm tired, words just vanish. I am, after all, a brain aneurysm survivor who is lucky to be here, and really shouldn't be doing all I'm doing, and I wouldn't if there was anyone else to do it, but there ain't. And, hello, this isn't good for me. So I popped a few Fukitols and decided that my Number One priority is my own life, not my employer's, because damn, have you seen the economy lately? I have no illusions about my role as a cog in that particular rattling and groaning machine, and especially in my current distracted and unfocused state. A brief unpaid leave will help in so many ways.
So for the next 5 luxurious days, my ass will be at the gym by 8, and then off running errands (after shower and makeup, I'm not that gross) and getting things done FOR ME, instead of sitting all day thinking about all of the things I need to do in my Ample Spare Time. If I play my cards right I can cover a lot of tasks tomorrow and Thursday, and...dare I dream? take three days off for me. I haven't had a day off from my mother's issues since, um, April? And her passing didn't put an end to it. Just changed the format. My life is still ruled by Mama-related Drama. Now, with grief and heavy lifting. (Seriously. There is furniture involved.)
My Large Gray Cat. Sorry he's not awake. No, not really. When he's awake he's usually horrrking something up. Tonight I came home to a fresh deposit of unchewed dry food, in cold water. He throws up because he loves to drink water. I have a water fountain for the critters, it's a great thing, and only Boris abuses it. Boris gets hypnotized by the falling water and just keeps drinking, and drinking, and drinking, and then walks away, gets a cramp, and throw up. My son nicknamed him Boris Gump (Boy does great impressions and does a perfect Tom Hanks/Gump Voice): "Ahhm not a smahrt caat...."
Proof that I do knit. Basic socks for me. Pattern from the Knitter's Handy Book of Patterns, which I swear lives on my coffee table. Yarn is Lorna's Laces Shepherd Sock, I think. Lost the label. I am on a sock binge, I don't knit much and socks are so instant gratification. But, fueled as I am on a fistful of Fukitol, I may actually make time to cast on a sweater! Maybe even one with a hint of cables. That may be too ambitious for my current mental state. Maybe a cable of interest on a sleeve? I might be up to that.