Dear. . .

. . .  Every Bag I Saw at TJMaxx That Would Have Made a Great Knitting Bag: Why were you all $129.99?  I mean, every single one of you.

. . . Little Knits:  Even though I don't have a cool new bag to put any of it in, thank you for all the great yarn in my latest shipment.  I'm already working with the organic wool:

. . . Stitches South, I made my reservation for you today.  My plan for this year is to take myself on a little "vacation" each month.  Stitches fits that bill for April.  AND I get to see some friends!

. . .   Hugh Laurie, I still love you.  This was a wonderful book, and it looks like you've helped make it a wonderful movie.

. . .  Girls who were in Barnes and Noble studying for a French test: the terms are not "bone-a-partay" and "coop duh tatt."  Neither of you, I suspect, has a prayer on the exam.  And I would love to know who asked whom to help her study.

Might As Well Let All of You Know the Truth

It has been a difficult week, because it was a torturous weekend.  My son has the capacity for great empathy and caring and selflessness, but, unfortunately, he has a greater capacity for bursts of temper that are frightening.  He exploded on me last Saturday, and --- my right hand on this --- spent hours ranting and raving and throwing things and spitting at me and waving his finger in my face and punching walls and windows.  Hours.

He did go see his girlfriend that night, but within 20 minutes of walking in the door, he had spiraled out of control again, screaming about how much better off every one would be if he were dead, pounding on his chest while saying "I'm a waste of skin and oxygen.  The universe is against me.  Why do I even care?"  That went on for another couple of hours.  I hid all the knives and chemicals in the house, and took away his car keys.

Sunday was The Walk on the Eggshells for me.  I never know what will set him off.  Of course, he was fine --- he had spewed all his poison and felt much better.  While I had a splitting headache from the yelling and the crying I did afterward, not to mention the lack of sleep I got because I was listening for him in case he decided to do something stupid.

Monday I had therapy.  It dawned on me somewhere in all the warfare that I am in an abusive relationship.  With my own son.  I spent another hour crying, while my therapist just let me go.  Add more pain to the still-throbbing headache.

All week, I've just laid low.  No energy, really, to do much else.  Everyone thinks I'm in a bad mood, but I'm just scared to talk.  To trip the trigger.  And I'm empty.  There is absolutely nothing left in my tank.  No energy.  No joy.  No hope.

The Past Few Days

Finn scared me deeply Thursday by first vomiting and retching, then literally collapsing against one of the bathroom cabinets.  It was the first time I'd ever seen him anything but jumpy-happy, and it was unnerving.  I laid on the bed with him, gave him ice to lick, and, within a couple of hours, he was back to normal.  Still pretty tired, though:

Pretty sure I put something about this organization on my facebook wall.  Well, the bracelets I ordered from them arrived:

The top one says "Dropped + Made in Laos."  Hard to realize I'm wearing parts of bombs or guns or ammunition around my wrist.

Spent a good part of this morning updating my etsy page.  I didn't make a single sale over the holidays, so it isn't like I had to re-stock or anything.  There were just some pictures hanging around that needed to be posted.

On THE other economic issue, I am still unemployed.   I told myself I was going to jump back into the hunt with renewed vigor in the new year, but all that's out there are the same jobs I've applied for anywhere up to six times.  Even the teaching job in Atlanta, which I phone-interviewed for, has come up empty,  I've sent e-mail after e-mail to them, left phone messages, but have yet to hear the first word back.  Not at all encouraging.

How's your 2013 going?

Lunch Out

With fresh-from-the-salon daughter:

Yuck

The stomach crud will not let me go yet.  If I'm on Briton's timetable, tomorrow should be a much better day.

When I can stay awake long enough, and sit upright long enough, I'm knitting with some great yarn I bought at knit in Charleston.  It's thick-and-thin, which is a huge favorite, and a bamboo/wool/acrylic blend that has a delightful hand.  It's called "Bamboo Bloom Handpaints" from Universal Yarn.  I'm using Reflecting Pool.

Are You Like Me?

When your son has passed along the stomach horror that has had him abed for the last 3 days, do you browse around on etsy, or cowboy boot sites, or online yarn shops?

Or do you think about the days when your son was little, and even then susceptible to high fevers?  And do you think about the number of times you've put him in the tub at ungodly hours to pour cool water on him and try to help him out?

And then does your mind go to both your children, when they were both little, and you remember having babies was so sweet:

But then you realize there were an awful lot of days like this:

And you down some Gatorade and ibuprofen, slump down onto the couch, and hope that your fever brings you warmly weird and satisfying dreams.

Tradition

When my parents were alive, my mother cooked black-eyed pears, hog jowl and collard greens every New Year's Day.  Daddy was extraordinarily superstitious, and wouldn't have it any other way.  No one in my family now eats hog jowls or collards, though my daughter does love black-eyed peas, so we  just throw caution to the culinary winds and eat what we want at the beginning of the year.  This year, it was stir-fry at Genghis Grill for the two of us.  My son went to Atlanta to pick his girlfriend up at the airport;  she's been in Australia the last three weeks.

Also, whatever you do on New Year's Day is supposed to be the template for what you are going to do the rest of the year.  If that's so, I'm going to drive in cold rain a lot, shop at Barnes & Noble, eat stir-fry often and cast on new knitting projects.

You?