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Weasel of Bluster
Feb. 13th, 2025 08:29 pmWhile I was sleeping badly last night, the snow continued. So when I woke up far too early this morning, I was greeted by six inches of fresh snow. This did nothing to improve my state of mind, which was not of the best. I had believed that I would pull myself together and help shovel the driveway before the Sparrowhawk went to his speech therapy appointment at 10, but no such luck. I was about to rush out in haste and make an attempt, but he stopped me and said he was sure he could manage without me. The plow had come down the street, for a change, so that helped. After the appointment, he took the car to the dealer again to find out why it's doing weird electronic things, like beeping and locking and unlocking the doors when no one asked it to. I discovered on Wednesday when I was out that it didn't do that when I was driving. This piece of data was useful, because it helped the service guy figure out that the fault was not in the car, but in the Sparrowhawk's key fob. He made some adjustments to that which will possibly solve the problem. I mention this in case anyone ever has the same puzzling difficulties.
Meanwhile I tried to improve myself by taking a nap, but it didn't really work out. At some point in the afternoon I started listening to "Celtic Lamentations" and would have laughed at myself if it hadn't been sad. Why oh why am I in such a foul mood, so full of discomforts and angst, satisfied with nothing, able to enjoy nothing, longing to be elsewhere but unwilling to move . . . just because it's my brother's birthday, when he would have been 72 but instead is DEAD . . . Oh THAT little thing . . . la la la . . . That explains things, but doesn't make me any happier about wasting a whole day. Though I've done it for lesser causes.
The Sparrowhawk had wanted to take me out for dinner, in advance of the Valentine's Day throngs, but I begged a rain check. I didn't really want to sit in a restaurant and cry over some dish that would be ashes in my mouth. So he kindly got us some takeout from the Asian kitchen instead.
T.S. Eliot claims April is the cruelest month. This is crap. Obviously, it's February, which he would have known if he'd ever lived in Michigan.
Meanwhile I tried to improve myself by taking a nap, but it didn't really work out. At some point in the afternoon I started listening to "Celtic Lamentations" and would have laughed at myself if it hadn't been sad. Why oh why am I in such a foul mood, so full of discomforts and angst, satisfied with nothing, able to enjoy nothing, longing to be elsewhere but unwilling to move . . . just because it's my brother's birthday, when he would have been 72 but instead is DEAD . . . Oh THAT little thing . . . la la la . . . That explains things, but doesn't make me any happier about wasting a whole day. Though I've done it for lesser causes.
The Sparrowhawk had wanted to take me out for dinner, in advance of the Valentine's Day throngs, but I begged a rain check. I didn't really want to sit in a restaurant and cry over some dish that would be ashes in my mouth. So he kindly got us some takeout from the Asian kitchen instead.
T.S. Eliot claims April is the cruelest month. This is crap. Obviously, it's February, which he would have known if he'd ever lived in Michigan.
