I’m a bad pet-parent…err…dog parent. I am a bad dog owner. The dogs have been without something to play with besides each other while we’re away from the house the past couple days, so they’ve taken to a slew of naughty activities. Bowls have been pulled off the counter (some have broken, one or two have bounced), stealing tupperware containers and/or the lids, sneaking off with cooking spoons (plastic or wooden, they’re not picky), and the basic mayhem of ripping up the trash bag to get to the gooey insides.
And ripping a hole in the couch to play in the stuffing (found the culprit: it is Firefly).
I have learned, though, while sewing part of the couch back together: I’d make a terrible Igorina. My stitches are not that great any longer, but it has been like 4 years since I purposefully sewed anything.
Yesterday/last night, I found out that apparently I am really good at faking that everything is fine. I find the whole thing laughable (especially since I haven’t brushed my hair in days and just throw it up in a super messy bun. I don’t care, yet I fully regret the situation), but maybe it’s because the realization came from someone who doesn’t really know us beyond Facebook posts and the occasional seeing-about-town. My fb posts are shares from things (dogs, weird videos, comics, etc) interspersed with conversations, musings, woes at work. I am not going to lay my entire life out on fb for people to see. I don’t even like posting pictures of myself or our house. The only thing I can guess at is that maybe I make it seem like we have our shit together (ha. haha. ahahahaha. wow, the cockroaches from Spoilsbury Toast Boy just went through my head)
I spent the morning listening to KUEC with the idea that I would work on some writing while it plays. Yeah: open file, read over it, fix spelling here and there, delete a word, add a few words, stare at the file, at a sentence.
Yeah, even on fanfiction, I’m failing pretty hard at my mental reminder: Come on. Terry Pratchett wrote 200 words every day. What the fuck is wrong with you?
Honestly, I haven’t even opened up my regular fiction files to poke around them. No, I’m getting all pissy at myself because I can’t figure out the next spot of a Clint/Coulson fic, but Tony’s decided large-caliber confetti guns should be involved.
Work is slowly imploding on itself and the want to just say fuck this, I’m out grows every day. One person is super irritated and has changed their schedule to avoid someone else. Two people are leaving at some point, and one of my minions is really sad that I “didn’t get to experience how awesome it was” before one of the managers started.
I bough a little puzzle that says “You Are Dino Mite!” because it’s hilarious and Jamie’s boss found a Peeps suncatcher kit that she had to buy me. I think I’ll paint the suncatcher kit.