The Shape of the Tiny Cat Pants Afghan Eludes Me

I’ve been working on the TCP afghan all week, so it is with a heavy heart that I sat there and pulled out all of the “Delft Blue” yesterday.  There was three days’ worth of work down the drain.

I don’t have any clothes with me, really, since I thought I’d be going home and coming back up, so I’m hoping to get to Walmart.  I’m also hoping to get over and see the College Professor.

I’m so hungry to hear from folks I’m not related to.  I’ve got nothing to say.  Nothing is going on here that’s any different than the day before.  So, I hate calling folks, but I could listen to the most mundane crap in folks’ lives for hours on end if it meant that I had something new to know.

Otherwise, I’m going to be left sharing with you such stirring observations as that I feel like The Joyful Noiseletter has gotten a little sanctimonious and conservative in its old age and how I haven’t bothered to check my work email in two days, so now I’m dreading it.

The Butcher may leave tomorrow, depending on the weather.  I saw a couple of hawks yesterday.  My mom has this lotion I’ve been using that makes me smell like dessert.  And I went to my mom’s eye appointment yesterday and it turns out she’s got some condition basically brought on by her being Northern European.

So much for the genetic superiority of the white race–apparently there are all kinds of conditions white folks can come down with as a result of being white: bad eyes, weird internal splotches, weird external redness, etc.

Under ordinary circumstances, I could make interesting (at least to me) posts out of all of those things, but these are not ordinary circumstances.  And, though I love you, Illinois, sometimes when I come home here, I feel myself slipping into the life of the girl I would have been, had I not been so lucky.  I can imagine her/me, driving back and forth along flat roads that curve and curve again only to follow new property lines, trying hard to focus on the road right in front of her or the great sky over her, pretending that her life was as large as she cared for it to be.

I come here and I lose track of days.  I lose track of what’s going on in the outside world.  I get uncomfortable about calling my friends.  I start to worry about the dishes and what we’ll have for dinner and whether everyone is properly dressed.  I start to give a shit about all the small town gossip and consider cutting my hair into that short, severe, midwestern poof all the women around me seem to favor–because it’s no fuss.  Because I don’t want to be a fuss.  Let’s no one be too much of a fuss.

Well, that’s depressing.

I’m going to go get in the shower.

13 thoughts on “The Shape of the Tiny Cat Pants Afghan Eludes Me

  1. I like being a fuss.
    And being the self-described diva of a small town, the best way to be gossiped about is to cut your hair very short and kiss a woman on the mouth passionately.
    I hear they like talking about that. ;)

  2. They may talk about you, but they can’t help but still love you if you smell like dessert. Yum.

    Darling, don’t let the weather and the smaller world get you down. Let where you’re from inform the life you’re in, and be proud of it, crazy and frustrating and wonderful as it is.

    We love, miss and kiss you. Passionately, on all three counts. MmmWAH!

  3. You know what is funny, I feel the same way when I spend too much time with my parents — and they don’t live where I grew up.

    You need some new things to know… so, here are a few images from my life (really boring… but, new to you :) —

    The trailer park I can see from my home office windows looks like it is steaming… it is so cold, every trailier has poofs of exhaust or vapor coming from their roofs.

    My cats are so naughty, they must like getting sprayed with the squirt bottle. The blind one just meows to have something to do and the young one insists on getting into things she shouldn’t.

    Since my Christmas tree was still up yesterday, I got Valentine’s decorations, took down the ornaments and put up the Valentine’s day stuff — now we have a Valentine’s tree…. why don’t we do a tree for every holiday??

    Have a good day and know that your parents need and appreciate you, even if they don’t articulate it.

  4. B.,
    I’m at the office right now, and I’ve got the crud. It’s Friday, and I have absolutely no reason to be here other than I felt guilty for not being here. Laying home in front of the TV does not sound fun, although it’s probably where I ought to be.

    I will be home all by my lonesome tonight, hopped up on Nyquil. So if you want to talk via email or gmail chat or AOL chat, drop me a line.

    And ‘Coma… that comment about kissing… you are such a trouble maker [duck].

  5. Oh B, your musings remind me of going “home”. I also grew up in a small town in the midwest. By the time I was 15 I knew my world had to be bigger than that. Thank God for college and all the weirdos I knew and loved. It was the 60’s at the U of Wis. I was probably the only conservative chick on campus. It never occurred to me to kiss a girl on the mouth to shock the home folks. I did wear dangly earrings and bellbottoms, tho. Guess I showed them.
    I’m at the beach this month. Wish you were here. We’d knit/crochet, drink wine and try not to shock Sar’s kids, who are arriving in about 2 hours. xxx

  6. In other news, the entity for which you work is still here.

    Except now there’s terrible parking, lots of construction and loud young adults with backpacks.

    I know! Who knew things would change that much while you were gone?!

  7. The Editor, now, what was the best kiss you’ve ever had from someone on a cold fall night in Knoxville after drinking retro drinks watching poor Joe sneeze and fight a terrible cold from someone who was wearing a pink sweater.
    Jeez, I really am being specific, aren’t I?
    Hmmm, who could it be?

    B., I really need you to come to Hooterville and go to juke joints and laugh with me. I think I can get us a police escort. Seriously.

  8. Sounds very familiar, B. – except my parents’ church newsletter doesn’t have such an artsy name. And to newscoma’s suggestion of kissing a girl, I would add: be Korean. At least in Idaho. I don’t know if that sort of thing is as head-turning in Illinois. Good luck with the afghan and I’m glad to hear things are going well with your dad.

  9. B., I really need you to come to Hooterville and go to juke joints and laugh with me. I think I can get us a police escort. Seriously.

    Good lord. I’ll bankroll that trip. And sell the video. It’d be like Thelma and Louise, but with better music. And nobody dies.

  10. Mother Sarcastro, I don’t know when or how, but we have to someday sit on a beach together drinking wine and making things out of yarn and causing your son to roll his eyes and cuss. That would be good fun.

    Grammy, the Joyful Noiseletter is not a church newsletter. It’s an interdenominational thingy. Here’s the website.

    ‘Coma, I’m so coming to Hooterville. That would be a riot. I’m going to have to see if Wage can’t take some sexy picture of me, first, just because otherwise I’m going to feel self-conscious about hanging out with you looking all beautiful and newsworthy.


    As for the rest of you, I love you just a little bit more now.

  11. B., I’m blushing. The deal was that Wage WASN’T supposed to take a picture of me only those folks at the legislative reception.
    Of course, we drank for free and he sweetly went with me (SQ had basketball tournaments.) I missed you terribly incidentally.
    We must get Wage on taking a sexy photo but you already have that beautiful one that you took that is so exotic I can’t stand it.

    Thank you for the kind words. :)

  12. P.S ….
    Shhh, secret. I had no idea when he shot that photo. I think that’s part of it because if I’d known, my eyes would have been closed, I’d been guffawing and looked like the female version of any mugshot off of my Name is Earl. When I saw it, I thought man, I look all of my age. (But then I though, what the hell, I’m 42. Looking 42 isn’t so bad. Then I went and ate a dingdong and contemplated my very own mortality.)
    And I started the blog anonymously. Sheesh, I’m a maroon.

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