September 22, 2005
So when the dog gets sick, my worry mode goes to eleven. Charlie has been losing it from both ends, so to speak, and I've become a nervous wreck. I've been watching him and fretting all day, and calling my two best friends constantly to ask their advice, since they both have much more dog experience than I do.
Maybe worrywarts shouldn't be responsible for another living being...
[Charlie's developed a taste for solitude under our bed.]
September 16, 2005
We all sign in, which means a long queue of people in various moods from sullen to disengaged to temporarily-not-knitting-but-happy-to-know-that-knitting-will-soon-be-resumed.
Boy, do I know that feeling. I'm back on the wagon (off the wagon? I never remember which way that goes...); I've made a hat or scarf every night this week.
I'm starting to get this panic attacks about moving. My husband was barking at me last night to knock it off, but when you're an Unemployed Obsessive Planner, you have to throw your energies into something. I try to channel it into knitting and dinner, but for some reason I've been starting to freak out about moving.
We don't move for another nine months, you know.
I've started obsessively whittling down our collection of canned foods. Can't buy more than what I need now, because what if we don't use it up? So what if this is on sale, we may not get to it in time. And what to do about that huge bottle of shampoo: the future looked so bright when I had hair to my waist, but now the meniscus has barely moved. And the dog food, oh the dog food. Charlie will be making the switch from puppy to adult around the time we move, so what if we end up with too much puppy food left over? Or we buy some adult food and don't make it through the whole bag? We can't just throw it away.
Or actually we can, my husband says as he stares at me in horror. It costs $7.50, so it's not the end of the world.
Of course, last time we moved, I shoved a whole bunch of foodstuffs into my suitcase because I couldn't bear to throw it all out and buy the exact same thing over again when we got to Germany. I guess it serves me right that I ended up with sesame oil all over my entire wardrobe.
You see why I knit now, right? It occupies my mind. It keeps me from worrying that I've just bought a new bottle of tarragon and there's no way we can get through the whole thing before we move.
I'm just happy to know that knitting will soon be resumed.
So I found a solution: I'm no longer a sub.
September 14, 2005
September 13, 2005
So far I've been cussed at twice as a substitute.
If you're reading this and you're a parent, I hope your kids know better than to swear in class, both directly to the teacher or to other students (I heard the m-f word yesterday from across the room.) Or that they know the proper way to ask to use the restroom (hint: it's not "hey, lady, I gotta pee.") Or that they don't start fistfights in the classroom (I broke two of those up today.)
I never would've dreamed of acting this unruly, even with some of our most hated subs. I don't know what the deal is with kids today, but I'm not optimistic about my desire to create one of these beasts.
September 03, 2005
10 years ago I was starting my senior year of high school. I thought I knew everything, and I thought that talking on the phone to my boyfriend was more important than calculus. That's why my husband sat down and did a calc problem cold yesterday and I stared at him blankly.
5 years ago I was starting my first year of grad school, dating my husband long distance and realizing that most people, myself included, don't know the first thing about real learning.
1 year ago I was traveling to France with my mother, breaking my vow to never return to that country.
Yesterday I watched "We Interrupt This Program" in From the Earth to the Moon with my husband, and then we had pie and talked about it. "It's just when I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie and talk about it."
September 01, 2005
52 queries taking 0.0698 seconds, 215 records returned.
Powered by Minx 1.1.6c-pink.