The Rangers tickets are at their new home. I regret that not at all. I am insufficiently interested in baseball to attend a game with my co-workers, beloved though they be. The idea of sitting outside, getting my face and hands barbecued (yes, I know there is such a thing as sunscreen; I am a delicate hothouse flower, and an hour in the great outdoors is more than sufficient to wilt me, sunscreen or no), eating overpriced hot dogs, while overpaid men in funny clothes are chasing a little round ball?
Picture all of those men on a quilt shop hop or a yarn crawl, and that is how much fun I would not be having, absent the new guy. Who is still, bless his heart and various other organs, feeling puny. This has been a frustrating winter-into-spring for both of us, and I for one am heartily sick of it. Pun intended.
I am still coughing occasionally. Mostly when I am physically tired, but also when I am feeling stymied. I broke out the Mucinex last night, when I was at dinner with Brother Sushi and we were discussing my current lack of progress on the romance front. I have been sitting here with my heart half-open since Valentine’s Day [hello? flowers? card? Bueller?] and am not quite ready to vote myself off the island. Nor am I ready to have Brother Sushi have a talk with the boy, although he offered last night.
What I do know, is that the status quo is not working for me. I am ready to have that dreaded Define The Relationship talk. And at this point I do not much care which way it goes. I just want to know. And I want to get my breath back.
OK, in other matters, life is going well. I am working on something in the leftover Malabrigo, and it is [quite prudently] not arguing with me. I think it will be charming when it is done.
I found the two little bear point protectors about half an hour ago, hiding under a ball of yarn on the coffee table.
I bought an AppleCore when I was at the battery shop on Thursday, after getting my teeth cleaned. It is a red silicone thingie that rounds up all the spare wire for my iPod, and it was something like two dollars.
My watch has a new battery. The battery dudes tried to pry open my non-bleating sheep key fob, to insert another battery, but were unsuccessful. The sheep is a little the worse for wear.
The button I used to push to make it bleat and light up, has fallen down inside its head somewhere. I wish I had had my camera with me when they had four jeweler’s screwdrivers inserted at various seams. One of the guys was really on a mission to fix it for me, and I was laughing so hard at Frankensheep that he had to take it over to the serious, “I’m Working On Important Stuff” part of the shop.
Battery Dude gets major points for trying. I promised him a copy of that French chocolate torte recipe, the one that is 80% dark chocolate and 50% butter and 300% delicious.
I get to attend BittyBit’s piano recital later today. I am really looking forward to that; it more than compensates for my not getting to see the new guy. I am far more the sit inside and enjoy approximations of culture sort of girl than the sit outside and sweat and knit while men run counterclockwise sort of girl.
And I think it’s time to start making a list of all the decisions I have been postponing [season tickets to the ballet? symphony? museum membership? singles cruise? electric rate plan? new electricity provider?] and ponder them anew. Might not be time to make the actual decisions, yet, but just to pin down all that is in flux while I am trying to figure out what’s what.
I think that would be good.
Might even mosey over to the Amon Carter Museum later this morning for a pre-recital vaccination. The only culture this week, chez Ravelled, has been the buttermilk, and it’s long gone.
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