Above is the aftermath of the big book I just finished proofreading (photo taken with my new cameraphone — I finally got one). Eraser dust everywhere and dictionaries piled on the floor. I'm relieved to have it done (partly because my full-time job has gotten a bit hectic), although in reading the book (a travel guide to France) I learned some new things and got to use my education in French. (Look ma, I'm using my degree!)
"What do you do with a BA in English?" is one of the first big laugh lines in Avenue Q, which Jane and I saw last Saturday, as one of my birthday presents. It was cute and amusing, particularly if you grew up watching Sesame Street, as I did. Before the show we had dinner at CAV wine bar near the Castro. The food was pretty good (high spots: grilled nectarine/goat cheese bruschetta and coffee pot de creme with hot cinnamon beignets) and the wines were mostly very good. Prices were not bad, but it's not cheap. We were seated in the back, but the action is up at the bar (and I mean girl-meets-girl action). Many moneyed and young, sleekly dressed ladies. Made me decide that my cute outfit was actually dorky. At the theatre, I really began to feel like a country mouse (many fancy outfits from Bloomingdales, not my style but much more au courant than mine — I just felt a little bit tattered). Although I start up the "I don't fit in" internal monologue whenever I'm in a crowd, the sartorial life lessons I decided to take away from the evening are these:
a) When I think I can get dressed in under a half-hour and look polished and put together, I am fooling myself.
b) My mother's advice about being able to wear classic, well-made clothing forever is wrong.
c) Corollary to b: Saving clothes for special occasions is a waste. I have a tendency to buy pretty clothes that I love but that belong to some life full of formal meetings and garden parties that I don't live. (I prefer not to think about the clothes I'm saving until I fit into them.) I put them away in my closet and take them out once every 18 to 24 months, wear them on special occasions, and realize I've done what my mother does when she puts on that patchwork velvet long skirt (the holiday skirt, you know). I have no idea when she bought it—it's ageless (yeah, right).
From here on out I am going to seize the day. If I feel like wearing the fringed nubuck wrap skirt out for coffee, I will damn well do it. I will wear the white cotton suit to work, by gosh. And when their time is over, I will let go of them without regret. Not only that, I'll buy cheap, trendy clothes if I like them, and let them go when their moment is over. So there.
Of course, 25 days out of 30 I will still take 5 minutes to put on a t-shirt from Target and some cheap jeans that don't really fit. I'm old enough to realize that I might be able to change a little bit, but fundamentally I'm still the same.
Lame knitting first: I'm still plugging away at the blue baby blanket; I'm down to three skeins of the Shine Sport left. Just one more for the body and the last two for the edging. It's still too uninteresting to photograph. The blanket has been dunked in a glass of wine at the True Colors concert, dragged through the sand in Hawaii, and nuzzled by the orange boy (so it's thoroughly cat-hairy). It's lived a lot and it's not even finished. Luckily, it will wash, and it's going to a home with three cats--so I haven't fouled it beyond redemption.
I'm desperate to start something new, or get going on the colorwork sweaters for this fall, or even pick up another WIP, but with the limited knitting time I have lately, I feel like I have to get the blanket done. I've got another proofreading side project that's fun but time-consuming, and the Golden Gate Raptor Observatory hawk-watching season has started up. 
My first shift is this Thursday. I should be spending evenings reviewing field guides, but I can't until I finish this freelance project next weekend.
We're feeding the family of feral kitties so much that they leave some of the food. They're getting bigger, they look a little healthier, and they're less fearful of us. The orange boy knows they're there, but so far he hasn't taken revenge by spraying. I haven't tried to catch the grizzled old patriarch lately; I figure I can just let him eat in peace with his pride.
More than a week after my wisdom teeth came out, I'm still having pain, so I've been popping Advil and I've been a regular in the oral surgeon's office. Dry socket is not a fun experience, but I've been able to control it with over-the-counter painkillers, and it should go away within a week. I'm kind of a cheap date--Advil P.M. does as much for me as Vicodin.
Josie, aka Missy J, aka the J-Dog, has not been doing so well.
She has had arthritis 
since she came to us at a year and a half old; she's 14 now, and the arthritis has gotten progressively worse. It has degraded her spine and spinal cord, so she 's unsteady on her feet and can't lift her back legs easily. She can't always control what's going on with her back end, so sometimes she has accidents—and the stairs from our front and back doors make getting outside to go difficult and unpleasant for her. We decided awhile ago that we needed to make the stairs easier for her with a ramp. I was in favor of buying one, since we are not very handy. My neighbor the contractor was going to help us out, but he got busy, so we decided to try building it ourselves. We've gotten it constructed and covered with carpet, but it's still too steep and slick for her. We're going to try putting footholds and a guard rail on it, and then be patient in trying to train her to use it. So far we haven't had much luck--she ended up sliding down it on her butt (when her back legs give out, she ends up sitting down with her legs out in front of her). Of course
Tina, aka Tina Beans, aka She-Butt, aka Spasmodica scampered right up and down it (with a few cat food bribes). Of course, she's a agility veteran, and we did all kinds of climbing up ramps in agility training. 
Tina is 12 and has a stiff shoulder, so it won't be very long before she'll need the ramp herself. Until we can perfect the ramp for Josie, we have to help her up and down the steps. Usually lifting her back end (by looping her leash under her belly) gives her enough support to get up the stairs, but it doesn't help with going down. It's a good thing I can lift her when necessary.
Some freakin' PR firm with whom I communicated about ONE story six months ago will not take me off their damn list. And their primary clients seem to be purveyors of schlock-o-rama electronic toys. Last Friday I came home to this thing on my doorstep. I tried to get a picture of Orange Boy trying to wedge himself into the cardboard box next to this thing, but ultimately he decided he didn't want to share the box with Baby Undead (It cries! It wets! It devours human brains!). A few days prior, this arrived: 
See what I mean? Thankfully, I put these two wastes-of-petroleum out on the curb with a "Free" sign, and someone quickly took them away. There's yet another one in my office now, but I think I can foist it off on my neighbors with kids, who will quickly break it.
I just finished my first week being back at a full-time job, and on the whole, I like it. There is, of course, the mild discomfort of not knowing the political territory, but I don't seem to have irrevocably pissed anyone off yet. It's a pretty mellow place. Next week I'll have some real work to do, as opposed to just familiarizing myself with systems and pestering people with questions. Unfortunately, I caught a cold on day two of the new job, so I've been snuffling and looking terrible--no doubt making a terrific first impression.
Instead of knitting much, I've been casting hateful looks at the yoga mat bag in progress. Sick of it. Not going to finish it now. But I have plenty of knitting opinions. For example, I'm wickedly jealous of how quickly Rachael finished her cabled hoodie, and it looks fabulous--I hope she and Lala make all their connections to Venice; that is one crazy flight itinerary. And I did sneak a few looks at the Fall Knitty while at work (I'm full of fresh resolutions about being all about business while on company time), and I'm enamored of Cactus Flower and Ivy, and maybe Serrano. This time next year I'll contemplate making one of them. (I'm also full of not-so-fresh resolutions to work backwards on unfinished projects and stash yarn until the backlog is significantly cleared.)
I picked up the top-down pullover
again, and I am excited about finishing that. I should have sleeve #2 finished by the end of the weekend, particularly since I can claim sickness as an excuse for being couchbound.
I just listened to one of my new (to me) CDs from Lala.com, and I recommend it highly: Identity Crisis, by Shelby Lynne. Her voice is grit and honey. If you have to buy just one song from iTunes, make it "Telephone" (not quite a lament on drunk-dialing). Then go buy the album I Am Shelby Lynne because every song on it is perfect. And I kind of love that she has the worst attitude toward the music business. A huge chip on her shoulder.
While I'm being dictatorial, go see Little Miss Sunshine.
OK, I'm all whined out. Time to put on some Paul Westerberg and take more Dayquil.
