But I also read. This really cheered me up. But maybe people don't care about these things anymore, they're too busy watching for random celebrity boobflashes, or something. The next few years may be a national Rude Awakening.
And I want to put my arms aroundthis poor lady, but I might end up shaking her until her teeth rattle. Let him go dear. He's gone already. You are fighting HIS choice, in his living will, and that's not love, that's your fear. And if she wins, the whole living will concept will be up to legal challenge. Been there, had to make this call, and while I understand her anguish, this is wrong. And I was way younger than she is, and my husband wasn't even 50, and it was even more brutal, unfair and obscene. But hooking him to machines to die slowly would have been far, far worse than letting him go. She needs to let him go. I don't know who her attorney is, I haven't read that far, but this is a case someone took for the thrill of making law, at the expense of human suffering. Asshole.
I had some "Use or Lose" time off to spare, so today I took an impulsive half day. We close early tomorrow, then there's the 4 day weekend, so it almost feels like six days off. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but today wasn't bad - if I could work half days I'd actually enjoy my job. I just get tired of it by around 3 every day. Not just tired - braindead. We all do. At a certain point in the day it's "I can't think about that now. We'll talk about that tomorrow." Thinking is done between 9 and noon, after that it's too taxing.
I finally rented and saw "About a Boy." Sweet movie, but it dragged. Bigtime. Sweet ending, but really pointless when you think about it. Eh. Not one I'd want to see again - even the animals got bored and asked to be fed early, and I told them they'd eat when the movie was over. Every 20 minutes, a representative from the Dinner Committee approached to ask whether it was over yet. "Nope, and I'm as tired of it as you are." But I was knitting, for the first time in over a week, and I'd watch paint dry while knitting.
Mousing left-handed and obsessively dyeing yarn instead of knitting it up has rested my wrist and it feels ever-so-much better.
I ripped and re-started the oatmeal Galway cardigan, because I didn't like the way the increases looked. They were fine, really, but they weren't what I wanted, I needed to do them differently, and it would have bugged the living shit outta me if I'd continued on, and even if I finished the sweater I'd always be going, "Those shoulder increases look like hell." I've re-started and gotten halfway to where I was at the ripping (about to stop increasing entirely) and I'm much happier with it. Now I don't have that nagging, "But something's not right..." eating me.
It has also dawned on me that the Girlchild will be moving home in May, to work her internship and begin job-hunting in earnest. She will probably be crashing here only temporarily, but she's most welcome, and I am thrilled, but...Her Once and Future Room is currently a junkyard. I need to tidy (translation: give away or throw out a lot of miscellaneous shit) and then paint. The paint on the walls is the sponge paint job we did together, when was that, the summer before she started high school? Yeah, I'd say it needs repainting, especially since it's a Wedgewood blue and white and nothing she owns now goes with it. I'm thinking the "Cream in my Coffee" I used in the kitchen would work in her room, it's warmer than white but neutral enough to go with whatever, but she can make that call when she's here for Christmas. We can even hit Lowe's for paint swatches. Mother is a Sicko, she loves to paint.
This story has a sub-plot, which is that it is time to get cold and mean with the stash - I'd never part with a yarn treasure, but as I mentioned, I self-medicated via ebay while confined with my husband, and some of the stash serves no place in my future. It's not bad stuff, it's just more wool than I could ever use, stuff like that. I will pack up a box for the Alderson Hospitality House. Thanks to Nanette for introducing me to them. This is, of course, La Martha's prison, but I think she can buy her own yarn.
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