Grievances.

We have been wanting this for so long.

Sometimes, we have been patient. Sometimes not so much.
We have made sacrifices and have had to give up very, very important parts of ourselves.
These has been doubt and there has been loss.

It is happening to loved ones - we are genuinely happy for them because we truly care - they are our friends - but our inner selves, once the giddiness has subsided and the hugs are given,  glaze over, take a deep breath and ask "Why not us? If not now, when?"

Does one have to grieve endlessly? Really? Is November making this worse?

Fibre Love.

Last Saturday morning, my Loverlies, I woke up really early.

I don't know why. I would have liked to sleep in. Anyhoo...

I went upstairs, yawned for a while, sitting in the stairs between the kitchen and the living room, scratched behind a few cat ears and slowly made my way to the kitchen after having drawn back the curtains in the dining room. I am realizing, writing this, that I am making my house sound huge. It is. I live in a mansion, have I not told you? I have sold most of my estates, such as the chalet in Switzerland and my pad in Hamburg, but have yet to find a suitable owner for the one in Brazil. It's...I don't know - it's too beautiful, although it reminds of my villa in Costa Rica, but I cannot part with it.

(Several hours later)

Hello, Loverlies! How are you? Been here long? What? I was talking about my estates and I was using my John Cleese voice? Oh, dear. I am SO sorry. I sleepwalk. That happens. Let's start over.

Last Saturday morning, I woke up really early. I'm talking 5:15, which is my weekday wake-up time. I went upstairs, sat in the stairs, scratched behind a few cat ears and slowly made my way to the kitchen to make some coffee. I was planning on sitting in the living room to watch a movie until The Man woke up. He sleeps through almost anything, but I was feeling rather lazy and looking for an excuse to sit in my jammies and sip coffee, so I chose a few Pixar classics and sat down, headphones on, with my knitting. Just as I was starting the movie, I heard some scratching noises coming from the corner of the living room.  "Come on, Ezio. Lie still. The Man is asleep. Don't start now..." I begged him. But Ezio was doing his groundhog pose, sitting up on his hind legs, looking at my knitting cabinet intently. I swear, he does this. The hind legs thing.

I walked over slowly, and sure enough, there was a weird scratching noise coming from inside the drawer. "F*%@ing mice", I thought. I cracked open the drawer ever so slowly, baseball bat held three-quarters of the way down in my left hand, ready to wield the Fury of Almightyness into their helpless little faces and completely smash my beloved knitting cabinet. Well, not really. Knowing me, I would have collected the mice by their little tails while making gentle cooing sounds and put them in a shoebox for the day, given them human names such as Edward, Elliot and Ingrid and fed them some grated carrots and pieces of cheese. I would then have taken them to the park and set them free.

What really happened, though, as I know you are all sitting on the edge of your chairs, is this. I cracked open the drawer, and here is what saw:

"What the heck?" I thought. So I took a closer look. It seems my embroidered Squibbit is loving my Sock Monkey. (the Monkey's not really, technically, a Sock Monkey which I made, but he used to live on a sock, and I saved him from Doom and am keeping him for some other project. Turns out he was showing the Squibbit how to monkey around...ahem...) Don't they look happy?

They look almost as happy as Ezio does with his white ribbon. He looks like he's going to a wedding or something. I got this off a gift wrapping and he loved it, so I put it on his collar for 15 minutes. The Man would like me to tell you that I have a mental illness, although I am not sure what he is referring to.

Musings.

In life, my Dear Handsome and Sexy Loverlies, there are times when you say: "Hmm. I really should do something about this."

So you talk about it to a few, select people. They look at you in a very polite, kind of sideways fashion, and state the obvious (although what they are truly doing is attempting to get rid of you and your weird, over-imaginative way to see the most trivial of events): "That is very interesting - you should write about it!" You feel gratified. You feel like your overly active imagination finally has heard its call, and ultimately, you think "I knew it. There is something to be done about this."

I've been a user of my city's transit system (i.e. the bus, I'm just trying to make it sound fancy) for as long as I've lived here. I don't drive alone yet: I'm working on it. The bus is a microcosm. It includes everything society includes, albeit at varying levels of accuracy and intensity, but it's all there.  The happy and the unhappy, the intriguing,  the snobs and the hippies, rich and poor, people who take showers and others who don't. Mysterious people, bullies, and old farts who want to teach you lessons on life and how you should follow their precepts to be just like them. (You knew when they started talking that you did not want to be like them).


Today is a grand day, for I am launching a new series. It's called: *drum roll*:

Guess What I Saw/Heard/Did On The Bus!

Wait. I don't like that title. It's too...I don't know. It doesn't work, you know? I don't actually ever do anything on the bus, except read, observe people, and listen to music. Sometimes, if I'm taking the bus with someone, I'll talk to them. Let me think about it. Maybe it'll be something a little more playful. Something like...

The Bus Chronicles

Ah. There. I could write a book, but not in these conditions (this was taken as I finished writing this post, at 6:50 this morning: sorry, it's a bit dark, but you get the point):

We're the Blog Police. Fear Us...Are you done yet?