(no subject)

I stopped at Michael's tonight after work to add to my yarn stash for possible holiday presents, if I get off my butt and work on them. I also found a bit of ephemera that's going in an envelope I've been meaning to mail to someone since I got back from New Mexico in August. D'oh. Now I have the yarn to make a throw using a pattern I found while leafing through some books at the library, and I'm looking forward to getting back into that again.

Crochet: marginally cheaper than therapy. ;)

I fell asleep on the sofa earlier while watching "Definite Article", which apparently followed nminusone home this evening, and it's now time to change our outgoing message to tell the 10 people who call every day in response to a sign on Route 50 about dog boarding that they've misdialled (the company's number is the same as ours but with the first two digits reversed, and people have been calling as early as 6 AM) and then drag my groggy self to bed and try to get back to sleep.

(no subject)

I was pretty spoiled growing up, I admit it. I don't think I was spoiled rotten (but then, who ever thinks they are/were?) and I of course didn't get everything I ever wanted, but if there was something I truly had my heart set on, odds were reasonably good that I could have it. Except for a pony. I never, ever got one of those, no matter how much I begged. Or a rocketship, either. I guess I should specify "if my parents thought it was reasonable". One of the lessons adulthood provided was that just because you really, really want something, that doesn't mean you're going to get it. This is of course one of those lessons that you get to learn the hard way. Over and over again. Intellectually, I know that no matter how much I might want these things, there's little to no guarantee that what I want will ever come to pass; life just doesn't work like that. It would take less mental energy to just relax and let what's going to happen, happen. I know that, I do. However, there's still the remnants of a spoiled little child somewhere inside (and if I'm being totally honest with myelf, she's not buried particularly deeply, if at all) that thinks that intensity of desire really ought to count for something, and that I've been patient and I've been good and I ate all my vegetables -- even the nasty brussels sprouts -- and now I deserve my pony, damnit.