Carmi meant for this week’s theme to be macro photography, I’m certain, but I think he’ll cut me a little slack for the picture I’m submitting. You see, it was 3:30 in the morning, and I’d finally found batteries for the camera, and had gone outside to shoot the red ring encircling the moon, when I heard a splash.
At first, I thought one of the dogs had fallen into the pool, but that wasn’t the case. It also wasn’t a skunk, or one of the raccoons that thinks my swimming pool is it’s personal bathtub. It was frog. I watched him swim the circumference of the pool, pausing now and then, and finally I realized that he couldn’t get out.
Of course, I snapped a few pictures before reaching for the skimmer – he backed right into it, and didn’t jump out until I’d set it gently on the ground.
I think it’s the best shot I could have taken without actually getting in the water.
Anyway, meet Froggy:
Yesterday in the grocery store, I hesitated in the lightbulb aisle, trying to remember what size bulbs go in the light bridge of our bed. This is a purchase that usually falls to Fuzzy to make and I’m not certain why it occurred to me to look, except that I was also trying to find a replacement bulb for one of the lamps on my dresser. I wish compact fluorescent bulbs came in soft pink. I like soft pink, especially in the bedroom.
My idyll in the aisle of illumination must have been mildly precognitive, though my powers of perception failed where it mattered. I couldn’t remember the correct size so didn’t buy bulbs. This morning around one AM, I startled myself awake from a disturbing dream, turned the switch on the over-the-bed light, and was greeted with a cold, dead spark-poof sound.
In this space, it seems, I am now completely in the dark.
Or actually, I have a new drug. After consulting with my doctor today (or rather, her colleague, a gregarious gentleman with bright red hair, whom I quite like) we determined that Imitrex was actually over-medicating me, causing headaches to linger.
He’s got me on a milder drug, Midrin, which seems to have knocked the pain in my head back to zero, though I am a bit sleepy.
Tomorrow, I have a hair appointment. Just a wash/cut/blow dry. I’m stripping the pink out on 9/27 and replacing it with Aveda’s new “blackberry” (a deep, deep brown with violet undertones) and either Special Effects’ Blue Velvet or Deep Purple stranded through it. I’m not ready for normal yet, but I’m ready for something darker, and I’m bored with pink.
I am jam-packed with work-type things for the next two days, but should have time to update CafeWriting on Saturday, if I feel better.
Meanwhile, head over to this post at the ATG blog, and tell us what your preference is with regard to medical professionals.
Also, remember that this giveaway will remain open until October 31st. Comment there for a chance to win an advance copy of Colleen Gleason’s latest work.
I slept and tried to write all day to day, and got nothing much done, except half an interview for work, that sucks because when my head hurts I can’t string together words that are coherent, never mind pretty.
Outside, there is a slow rainfall of cool, fat drops, with room enough to walk between them, if one wanted to. I want to want to, but I just feel glum. Even Milo and his toy car couldn’t get me out of doldrums in which I find myself, I don’t think.
I should work, but my vision feels tunnel-ish, and instead, I’m going to turn out the light, and let the BBC overnight service on NPR lull me to sleep.
I’ve been working on (well, actually, they’re done now, I’m waiting for the response) interview questions for Ben Bailey (host of the Discovery Channel’s Cash Cab), for the Jan/Feb 2009 issue of All Things Girl, and as a part of my research, I’ve been watching videos of his stand-up act.
I’m sharing a video of him (ganked from YouTube, of course), for this week’s Media Monday, because it made me laugh. He does go a bit blue, though, so it’s definitely NSFW (not safe for work), or children.
Awakened by migraine. Owwie.
Have taken drugs for it, which will leave me groggy all day.
Le sigh.
Church was good; still digesting.
Back to sleep now.
The beeping alarm.
The whimpering dog.
Don’t want to wake up.
Rather sleep like a log.
The trill of the phone.
An awakening brain.
I have pants to iron.
Wish it looked like rain.
(There’s no chance of rain.)
There are worse things than being up at seven(-thirty)on a Sunday.
There are worse things than being up at seven(-thirty), after staying up til three making pans of chocolate cookies, and avoiding any writing, ’cause your brain was feeling foggy, and napping was delightful, on a Sunday…with an absent spouse.
(With apologies to the creators of Sunday in the Park with George)
Fuzzy sent a text message this morning to let me know he appreciated all the texts he received yesterday from various friends and strangers. I’d posted to my LiveJournal asking people to send him birthday greetings, since sending a cake to his hotel in Hong Kong wasn’t cost effective.
I’m having a severe allergic reaction to something, but I’m not sure what. All I know is that I’m so itchy I want to claw off all my skin. This is never good.
I’m going to check out the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship this morning, and there’s a potluck after. When I get home, I think I will take a benedryl and a long nap.
Happy Sunday. Have a lovely day!
From a friend at LJ: If you see this, post a quicky Middleman exclamation in your blog or livejournal. This is about all the meme I have the mental capacity for so I offer:
Guns of Navaronne!
(The service down here has gone to pot.)
Also, because there can never be too much MiddleMannish goodness:
I should have grabbed the camera, and even commented off-handedly that it deserved a picture, but did I? No. Neither of us did.
My good friend Paula had just returned to town after another stint in our nation’s capitol, and she’d brought back agricultural contraband in the form of peaches and an heirloom tomato. The peaches, she kept, but I’m tickled to say that the tomato was shared at my house this evening.
As good friends can, she sensed that I needed company tonight. I was mopey yesterday because I knew the weekend was approaching, and work was more frustrating than usual, and grew ever more so until finally, around two this afternoon, I told the guy I contract for, “I just can’t deal with any more stupid people today. It’s not your fault, and I’m sorry, but I really need to just stop now, because I’m getting cranky and frustrated, and everything I write is going to SOUND cranky and frustrated.”
He must’ve been having a Fridayitis moment, because he laughed at me, in a non-patronizing way, and we agreed to call it a day.
So when PT called and said, “Hey, what are you doing tonight,” I was honest, and said, “I’d love to hang out, but I’m really not in the mood to GO out. But I have hamburger I’m planning to grill, and you’re welcome to come, if you give me enough time to vacuum my house.” (Vacuuming was not optional at that point, and had been on the agenda for today anyway – the pet-hair tumbleweeds were beginning to evolve into sentient creatures.)
Now, she’d texted me from the farmer’s market where the tomatoes were purchased, so I knew she’d found wonderful stuff, but the tomato she’d brought…it was deep emerald green on top, gradually merging with deeper maroon, and when we sliced into it the inside was a brilliant ruby red, and you could smell that wonderful tomato-y smell that wraps sun and vine into a lovely fleshy package. I arranged the slices on a black glass serving dish, and we sliced the top in half and ate it standing at the counter. It was perfect. It was sexual. It was total food porn. And it was DIVINE.
The rest of dinner was a simple summer supper: burgers on the grill, a salad, and baked potatoes, all accompanied by cosmos and chilled water, much laughter, and no talk of anything resembling work.
After dinner, we adjourned into the dining room I never use for actual dining, and had coffee, and noodled on our computers, but it was late, and neither of us was up to anything really taxing.
Better yet, she stopped at a tea store and brought me some frou-frou tea – 2 oz. each of Assam, Lapsang Souchong, and Golden Monkey, the last of which is $7/oz. I’ve been dying for non-bagged, interesting tea, and even though I really needed rest, brewed a pot of the Assam after Paula had gone home.
Plans for tomorrow include sleeping late, folding a metric assload of clean laundry, and washing several loads of towels.
And writing, of course, always writing.
