Dress is thrifted, orignally BCBG Max Azria. Today was a total waste of an outfit/blow-dry/made up face.
All of this freaking out I’ve been doing? I forgot that I gave myself advice on what to do months ago. Just don’t freak out. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t do stupid things. I finally looked at my wrist last night, and felt much better. I slept well. It wasn’t lasting, but it worked long enough for me to get to sleep. Which is exactly what I wanted when I got this sloppy little tattoo.
I’m going to be leaving for a vacation in a couple of days, so expect fewer posts.
I feel bad for that last post – like it’s a burden (see the very last bullet point). So anyway, here’s some fluff about my magnificent best friend Winston, which I hope you will enjoy:
These are all of Winston as a baby. He’s much much much larger now.
Winston likes to hold hands. When he’s sleeping and I’m reading and we’re on the same bed or chair, he’ll keep my hand right next to his face with his claws.
A couple nights ago, Winston was on my lap while I ate an Otter Pop. He was interested in the wagging tail-end of the popsicle’s wrapper, and batted at it a couple times. I encouraged this behavior. Eventually, he bit it and we did a bit of an awkward tug-of-war. And then I died because a person can only handle so much.
My dad picked up Winston for the first time yesterday. They don’t like each other too much, but remain tolerant because I love them both. Anyway, it was really uncomfortable for both of them and you could see it on their faces. And it was hilarious.
Winston will either nuzzle something when he wants it, lay down and point at it. So when he wants fresh water, he meows (a lot), lays down, and points at his water dish with his front paws. When he wants to go outside, he’ll nuzzle my bare feet and then nuzzle my shoes. When he wants to get up on my lap, he’ll nuzzle the legs of the chair.
Winston can climb up walls and trees like a monkey.
Winston goes crosseyed when he’s tired.
- Bulleted lists are so comforting. I can’t emphasize that enough. If I’m sad and someone tells me that I look pretty and they love me, I don’t dig it. But if the tell me that
- I look pretty
- And they love me
- I feel so much better. It’s a crutch, and as a writer I shouldn’t allow it. But I really want to.
- So, the strange happy-denial/manic-disconsolation limbo that’s been going on the last couple weeks has reached what I hope is its zenith. On my birthday I was extremely stressed. Then for about four days I was relaxed, to the point of seeming medicated. Then I freaked out again. Then I forced myself back into the denial/relaxation. I did this by keeping busy. Now I’m traveling through the spectrum almost hourly. And now you’re caught up on the fascinating history of the last week.
- I talked about how I would regret being so relaxed. And this has translated into an almost-unconscious effort to stress myself out again. No, more than almost. I’d say it’s an average amount of unconsciousness. But the dreams are back. I’ve been reading things that I ought not read. Talking to people that I should avoid. Letting my mind wander to places where it has no business. Rehearsing tragedy. Ignoring the full reality. Allowing and encouraging daydreams that make reality so much more jarring and bleak. Trying to obtain things that are just no good for me. Setting goals that have no purpose but to remind me of troubles that I cannot change.
- So, I do that for about an hour. Then I watch the Daily Show or read books to prepare me for labor (I find them so interesting and heartening) or teach myself how to do Tunisian crochet or try to eat food, and forget about everything but whatever is in my hands and relax. It feels like stagnation. That makes me worry. Repeat.
- I haven’t been able to finish a meal for about two weeks. Pregnant ladies are supposed to have cravings, and I’m never ever hungry. Since about week 12 I actually lost almost all preference towards food, and became completely apathetic. This is good, because it encourages me to eat with my brain instead of my gut, and I’ve been very healthy. Everything I eat has a purpose. But it’s getting kind of ridiculous now.
- Breakfast this morning was a glass of milk, a peanut-butter and organic unsweetened strawberry preserves sandwich on delicious wheat bread, and a banana. I couldn’t finish any of it. So I’m trying to understand what my body is telling me here. Growing humans is what my body should be really good at doing. If I needed more food to grow a human, my body should clue me in. But the only thing telling me to eat is the alarm I’ve set up on my phone. I had some trouble gaining enough weight in the second trimester, but then everything was shiny. Well, also there was some trouble with not losing weight in the first trimester. But really, since about week 17, everything has been perfect. My doctors have been telling me that my weight gain and the baby’s size is perfect, and it really makes them feel validated in their career. Which I’m all for. I’m terrified of going to the next appointment and seeing their scowling faces, thinking that I’m not taking care of my child. Whoops, didn’t mean to follow that tangent. Especially not for two whole bullet points.
- Anyway. Everything should be going so well. Broken things are being mended. I have air conditioning now. I’m reuniting with lost friends. I still have my vanity. There’s so much wonderful yarn-stuff happening. I feel like steps are being made – I’m moving forward.
- Except for professionally. Or emotionally. Or in any way, now that I think about it. I’m not moving forward at all. No! Now that I think about it I’m actually moving backward! Really fast! Dammit!
- I’m going to try not to think about that.
- I’m chatting on facebook while writing this, and someone (who I haven’t spoken to in at least a year) is telling me about their wonderful loving friends who can’t have children and would love my baby so much. This happens all the time. I feel like it’s a meat market. I should be sympathetic – it would be awful to want, but not be able to have a child. However, when this happens I just want to tell these loving poachers to stay the hell away from my baby. It makes me angry, and I feel taken advantage of. Even though these people only have good intentions.
- I had to ask my dad what it’s called when you hunt something you’re not allowed to hunt because I couldn’t remember the word “poaching.”
- I know I had a point to get to when I started writing this post. It had something to do with me being stressed out. But I think I’m transitioning into a relaxed phase again. Time to break out the crochet hook and reruns of 30 Rock.
- But while I’m at it, I’d like to talk about hormones for a bit. I’m sure that a lot of this emotional see-saw has to do with hormones. But that doesn’t make it completely imaginary. I’ve always been bad at accessing feelings, and for me hormones are more of a locomotive to bridge the gap between an actual happening and my own emotional response. Does that make any sense? And also, as a pompous but cute actor said in one of my recent interviews, “We have such a cynical society … that’s so easily willing to dismiss the emotions of young people as hormones. … This is real, it’s what you’re experiencing and it’s valuable.” Of course he was talking about love and Shakespeare, but it still applies. So don’t dismiss me, because it will light a fury that I won’t know how to deal with.
- What’s happening to me now would make an awful book or movie. The plot’s too scattered, there are too many variables, and the main character can’t express herself eloquently.
- I feel bad that there aren’t any pictures. I promise that tomorrow I’ll get dressed up all pretty and take some outfit shots for you. Or you can go to my other blog, were many exciting yarn-related things are happening.
- Here’s a joke I made up a while ago and am very proud of: J.J. Abrams, Gene Roddenberry, and Joss Whedon walk into a bar. Come back next week for the punchline. BA-DUM CH!
- Nope, actually I’m not done. What drives me crazy is that honestly, my closest relationship is with my cat. If I talk to anyone else, I feel like I’m burdening them. And people should have people that they can talk to, even when what they’re saying makes no sense at all. Let me rephrase. People should deserve to have people that they can talk to. I need to work on that. But until then, how am I supposed to condense all of this intangible nonsense into a coherent answer to, “How are you doing?” I try to be honest, but always just say, “Fine.” Because I guess on average I am fine. But it’s the average between two extremely distant points.
- Can you believe my phone took this photo? It’s like living in the future.
- Turns out if you’re pregnant and decide after noon to dye 13 skeins of yarn outside that day (in July), you’ll probably die. Well, you’ll probably bring back your sciatic pain, kill your feet, almost forget to eat dinner, and have your first painful Braxton-Hicks contraction. Just so you know.
- I’ve documented what colors I used on every skein, if any of you want to be copycats.
- I dove into this after peeking at this tutorial, and with the knowledge I gained from this tutorial about sleeve dying last year. I won’t make a full-on tutorial here, because there are just too many out there. But I may list a few of the things I did differently.
- I’m kind of completely in love with every yard of this fiber.
- I’m too cool to wear gloves while I dye, so I have total Baba Yaga fingernails. It’s extremely sexy:
Remember all of that talking I did about recycling sweaters? Well, I ripped a whole bunch of them. Thousands and thousands and thousands of yards worth. You can see the full pile in the background of this picture. I’ve washed, dryed, stretched, and skeined all of the cotton blends, acrylic blends, and dark wools, and currently the light neutral wools are in the tub.
Aren’t they pretty? But here’s the thing: I’m really tempted to pour half a gallon of vinegar in there and just dye all of it. Dye every single skein. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? I want to make some really deep greens, and crazy yellows mixed with a wee bit of pink, and wind up with armfuls of bright colored, happy, wonderful beautiful yarn.
When was the last time I knitted with a light neutral wool anyway? Quite a while ago, I think. But then again, when was the last time I wore a knitted object in the colors I’m dreaming of? Probably when I was six. Maybe I’ll go through the skeins and take a sweater or two’s worth out. But I really want to dye all of it.
Screw it, I’m doing it. Besides, fantastical yarns are expensive, and I can buy neutrals any time, anywhere. So say goodbye to these yarns – they’re about to metamorphose into some magnificent jewel-toned beauties. I’m really excited!
I’ve given to the idea of re-using an outfit two days in a row. This is an old prejudice, with roots in childhood. But on days when I spend most of the day working outside and lounging inside, with maybe just a few hours of social contact, it’s silly to allot one outfit per day. Anyway, here it is:
My aversion to maternity clothes is getting pretty sloppy. This skirt, which comes with a side-zipper and a wide, low waistband, is only half-zipped. And I’m certain I walked around with the bottom of my belly showing today. I do have two “maternity” shirts, but one is long-sleeved and the other is ugly. It’s just so hard to find good maternity at a thrift store.
I’m not going to get too much into personal details on this post – we need a break. Today started out pretty miserably. But enough superficially pleasant things happened to cheer me up, and I’m feeling much better now. That is all. I wish you could see this skirt better – it’s purple with little flowers, and I want to own a million of them. I’ve been trying to find some cheap easy way to make a bunch of maternity-friendly miniskirts, and I’ll probably just give in and buy some elastic soon. Yeah, elastic is the thing keeping skirts from being “cheap.” It doesn’t make sense at all. But so far I’ve been trying to convert pyjama pants into skirts (it’s promising, but not perfect) and using drawstring (which is infuriating because though my ass is bigger than I’m used to, I still don’t have anything to hold up a skirt). Just something about using elastic that makes me feel sort of ill.
I figured it out in the time it took to place that picture: you can’t usually buy elastic at a thrift store. What’s there is old and brittle. And I don’t want to buy a pair of pyjama pants just to harvest the elastic. I’m not noble or anything – just cheap.
But imagine a tiered ruffled skirt like this with a crocheted hem on the center ruffle. Or a mini circle skirt made from white t-shirt cotton. I want to make them so much!