That's the sound my week is making... there is just something SO fantastically strange about staying home during a spring weekday, and doing it more than once? It's surreal. I don't even get anything accomplished. And I'm afraid Mate and I are going to have to rock/scissors/paper/lizard/spock for who has to stay home tomorrow. Neither of us are in a place where we really can do it without some serious repercussions. (For one thing, I'm scheduled to be out five days in the next three weeks for training... and isn't that whip-fucking-spiffy?)
Anyway, I mooched around the house today, visited The Loopy Ewe on-line and made a FANTASTIC wishlist consisting of about $500 worth of yarn, and then sent it to Mate with the title "Happy Mother's Day to Me!" (Laugh with me, now... I'm not THAT narcissistic!) And then, just when I thought, "She's talking the ears off the frickin' cat, Ladybug has GOT to be better!", I took her temperature.
And it was 101.5. And Spaznado boy's is creeping up from 99.3. And fuck-it-all-to-heck, I'm going to have to stay home tomorrow too... and if my life REALLY sucks, I may have to miss the damned baby-shower I'm working towards for the deadline.
*sigh* *double sigh*
The thing is, when they're REALLY sick, my heart goes out to them and I'd do anything for them. But when they're at that "I'm whining because I can" stage? I feel a little persecuted, really. When I feel that shitty, I just want to curl up in a ball and leave everybody alone--as if THAT would ever happen. When they feel this shitty, they want to whine about it until I want to curl up in a ball and leave everybody alone. And, really, where is the justice in that? But I want them better--not just for me. Ladybug looks sooooo sad, and Spaznado boy is just not himself. *bleargh* How can you sick in the spring like this? (Flash to that lovely scene between Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in 'You've Got e-Mail'... ah, much better now.) Maybe a bouquet of friendly flowers will make my little Ladybug feel better? We can always hope.
Oh yeah-- I'm scheduled to do a guest blog for someone on the 8th--I'll give you all the link when it comes out, if you want it. I asked the cosmic question, "So What Do I Write Again?" in the piece... yeah. I didn't come to anything definitive either, except, mostly, that that guy from Beowulf deserved a spiffy meal, a nice place by the fire, and a REALLY cool wench. And Mate told me he's seriously going to youtube me when I do my thing at the library on the 18th--which will cause me to avoid the website for years for absolute fear of seeing myself on video, and considering my recent Supernatural Music Video addiction, this could be a good thing.
And really, that's about all. I've had to make the terrible choice to knit more than write this week... ouuuuuuucccchhhh... as much as I love knitting, I want Rampant done and Changing started... The world of the Little Goddess calls!
Oh yeah--in honor of the last day of poetry month:-)
Everything I learned about unrequited love, I got from John Keats:
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
«I love thee true.»
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d - Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - «La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!»
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.