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I wasn't quite up to churching today anyway, and this time change business provides the perfect excuse.
Intellectually, and emotionally, I know: my cat was sick and had to be put down. I'm okay on the basics: one can of cat food rather than one and a half. That big black lump is my computer bag, not him sleeping on my chair.
But little things still get to me. Finding a little spot in the office where he'd been sleeping which still has to be cleaned up. Instinctively trying to herd the dogs away from the kitchen after they came back in this morning, so they wouldn't bother him while eating his breakfast. I'm sure I'll be seeing him out of corners of my eyes for weeks, be they ghosts or me mistaking him for his sister (she's black-and-white and much smaller, but from certain angles she comes across as all-black like he was).
This is the third time we've had to do this since I started this journal, a little less than three years ago. But it still sucks.
----
Trying to keep my mind on other things. The ceiling, for instance.
We had some water damage during the October storm- not enough to bother with insurance claims, but some mushy plaster. Eleanor's been working on sanding and painting our kitchen cabinets, and sometime last week she took the sander to the bigger of the spots and got it ready for repair.
I was a relative wreck yesterday morning, sleeping well past the point I usually do and she was already off to work by the time I finally rose from the dead. I saw she'd begun laying the spackling compound onto the spot, not an easy job working against gravity.
Being considerably less skilled but a bit taller than she, I figured I'd give it a shot, and after a number of hits and misses at the task, I did a credible job of, I'd guess, getting a bit more than half of it ready for resanding and painting.
When Eleanor came home, at some point she looked up and saw the work. She was immensely pleased. "I didn't expect you to go and do that," she said.
I answered with the only thing one can answer, given that as a straight line:
"Nobody expects the Spackle Inquisition!"
----
Can someone splain something to me?
Why does an environmentally conscious publication like the New Yorker insist on littering each and every issue with little postal-reply subscription cards (there must be a half dozen of them, of various forms, in each issue) WHEN WE ALREADY SUBSCRIBE TO THE FUCKING MAGAZINE?!?
----
I'm behind on my books-read. I'm behind on my listening to the entire NT on mp3. I'm behind on podcasts. That, and more spackling, appear to be on the order of the day.
We are keeping up on film, though. Eleanor brought home Heathers last week, which was deliciously fun in that pre-Columbine way one can never quite pull off anymore. And we finally got round to seeing Maggie Smith, Rowan Atkinson and Kristin Scott-Thomas in Keeping Mum, which is also marvelous fun. The screenwriter for such a Veddy British film was a surprisingly un-Veddy British upstate New Yorker named Richard Russo, whose novels Straight Man and Empire Falls we simply adored, and who also wrote the script for Ice Harvest, which we saw in theater last year and I've just netflixed, along with this documentary, which looked rather inneresting.
----
I've laid in my tickets for the Blogger Conference in New York on June 23rd. Now all I need to do is organize the conference. Single tickets went online barely three hours ago, and the best I could acquire were two seats in the not-quite-nosebleed section of the second highest tier. Now there's an earlier event, May 11th, where for the same price I can score four tickets in practically the center of the venue, but that's much less of a hot ticket and I think I'll hold off on it for the time being.
Intellectually, and emotionally, I know: my cat was sick and had to be put down. I'm okay on the basics: one can of cat food rather than one and a half. That big black lump is my computer bag, not him sleeping on my chair.
But little things still get to me. Finding a little spot in the office where he'd been sleeping which still has to be cleaned up. Instinctively trying to herd the dogs away from the kitchen after they came back in this morning, so they wouldn't bother him while eating his breakfast. I'm sure I'll be seeing him out of corners of my eyes for weeks, be they ghosts or me mistaking him for his sister (she's black-and-white and much smaller, but from certain angles she comes across as all-black like he was).
This is the third time we've had to do this since I started this journal, a little less than three years ago. But it still sucks.
----
Trying to keep my mind on other things. The ceiling, for instance.
We had some water damage during the October storm- not enough to bother with insurance claims, but some mushy plaster. Eleanor's been working on sanding and painting our kitchen cabinets, and sometime last week she took the sander to the bigger of the spots and got it ready for repair.
I was a relative wreck yesterday morning, sleeping well past the point I usually do and she was already off to work by the time I finally rose from the dead. I saw she'd begun laying the spackling compound onto the spot, not an easy job working against gravity.
Being considerably less skilled but a bit taller than she, I figured I'd give it a shot, and after a number of hits and misses at the task, I did a credible job of, I'd guess, getting a bit more than half of it ready for resanding and painting.
When Eleanor came home, at some point she looked up and saw the work. She was immensely pleased. "I didn't expect you to go and do that," she said.
I answered with the only thing one can answer, given that as a straight line:
"Nobody expects the Spackle Inquisition!"
----
Can someone splain something to me?
Why does an environmentally conscious publication like the New Yorker insist on littering each and every issue with little postal-reply subscription cards (there must be a half dozen of them, of various forms, in each issue) WHEN WE ALREADY SUBSCRIBE TO THE FUCKING MAGAZINE?!?
----
I'm behind on my books-read. I'm behind on my listening to the entire NT on mp3. I'm behind on podcasts. That, and more spackling, appear to be on the order of the day.
We are keeping up on film, though. Eleanor brought home Heathers last week, which was deliciously fun in that pre-Columbine way one can never quite pull off anymore. And we finally got round to seeing Maggie Smith, Rowan Atkinson and Kristin Scott-Thomas in Keeping Mum, which is also marvelous fun. The screenwriter for such a Veddy British film was a surprisingly un-Veddy British upstate New Yorker named Richard Russo, whose novels Straight Man and Empire Falls we simply adored, and who also wrote the script for Ice Harvest, which we saw in theater last year and I've just netflixed, along with this documentary, which looked rather inneresting.
----
I've laid in my tickets for the Blogger Conference in New York on June 23rd. Now all I need to do is organize the conference. Single tickets went online barely three hours ago, and the best I could acquire were two seats in the not-quite-nosebleed section of the second highest tier. Now there's an earlier event, May 11th, where for the same price I can score four tickets in practically the center of the venue, but that's much less of a hot ticket and I think I'll hold off on it for the time being.