Another Shitty Mother’s Day

First of all, to all you mothers who actually have children who remember who you are - Happy Mother’s Day!

Other than the obligatory phone call to my mom, I’m spending it alone with Roxy.  It’s just another day - my days melt into one another, so I’m never sure what day of the week it is or the actual date.  For instance, I’m going to a fiber festival next Saturday, but it surprised the shit out of me to learn it was coming so fast.  It’s a good thing the lady I’m meeting there reminded me, or I would have completely forgotten.

I’m currently fighting with two lace projects - one, I keep ripping the whole damn thing out, and the other, the instructions are wrong.  Since I don’t know how the pattern is going to shake out, I have to wait for the designer to let me know her latest corrections.  Even as bad as my math skills are, it just didn’t add up to the required number of stitches, and I don’t want to mess it up beyond having to frog a row.  Spinning is non-existent for the moment; since my sweet Tillie was taken from me, I’ve had a really difficult time getting the motivation to do much of anything.  At this rate, my ass is spreading faster than soft butter from sitting all the time.

The stress of what’s happening with that crazy bitch next door has also kicked my disease into high gear.  Tired all the time but not sleeping, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the accompanying pain - it’s all part of it.  We won’t even talk about the amount of TP I’m running through...

One of the things that bitch did was to call every city agency she could think of to make my life miserable.  I admit, my front yard was an embarrassment, so I got ahold of a fraternal organization called the Clampers who do things for people who can’t do for themselves.  A lovely young man came out and cleared all the weeds.  During his work, Gladys came out to spy on me (she’s even taking pictures and videos of my house), and he gave her a dirty look.  When she still stood there (camera at the ready, I’m sure), he gave her the finger.  I’ve stooped to her level and stood out in front of her house taking a video of the six cars they own and how they’re parked (especially the giant truck blocking our mailboxes, and the two parked between our houses - one of which doesn’t even run), and have forwarded it to Code Enforcement.  They’ll be out this week to investigate violations (smirk).  If they’re force to move that piece of shit Baja Bug, I’m going to sit in the driveway on a lawn chair and take a video of them moving it into the backyard - it’s the only place they have to put it.  Retaliation will come, of that I have no doubt, but she’s dangerously close to harassment and me filing a restraining order.  If she so much as farts in my direction, I’ll use my special skills to destroy her house.  Yeah, there will be repercussions from that little maneuver, but I think at that point, it’s not just being mean - it’s self-preservation.  And if something happens to Roxy, I’ll rip her to shreds.

So other than falling asleep and getting very sharp knitting needles stuck in my ass (and the stitches falling off said needles), making stupid mistakes when I’m awake enough to knit, and various and sundry other adventures in the my world of creation, there’s not a damned thing going on other than the shit from next door.  It’s probably a good thing I’m not spinning right not - I’d probably flick the spindle the wrong way and have it shoot straight into my eye.  Not that I can see all that well anymore, but that would hurt - and it would also fuck up my spindle.  One can’t have that...