Les Affaires de Coeur: March 2009 Archives

Restless today. Still haven't fixed the valve flat that spontaneously burst into song (or rather, loud hissing) on my way out the door yesterday.

Rather than fix it (which would have made me late), I simply grabbed an alternate bike and zipped away at top speed. Miraculously arrived five minutes early for brunch. Thank you, fastbike.

Indulged myself shamelessly in every way I could think of this weekend - though not in the one that really counts.

Spent money on the following:

mimosa et tartine et salade des fruits
tiny garnet nose-jewel
the good hummus
pedicure

Took a day off the bike(s) today to rest my knees, but even moreso my poor back. Walked to the spa.

Making soup. Really really distracted today by impure thoughts which will no doubt simply remain in the realm of fantasy, which is disappointing, but on the other hand I must be less depressed to be having those thoughts again. For a couple of weeks there even the lure of hot boy(s) was doing nothing to raise my antennae. (You know I'm depressed when...)

Hello, lovelies. When last we left our heroine in a huddled sad heap on the floor, things were looking bleak indeed. They're still looking bleak, but her mood has improved ever so slightly.

Put it down to a few uninterrupted days on the bike(s), or to a bit of judicious flirting, or to whatever you'd like.

I've been taking advantage of the still-pretty-fracking-chilly weather to keep knitting a few late-March items for self and friends. Ordinarily among spring's many gifts (hayfever, the nagging feeling that one ought always to be outdoors doing something fabulous, and that since one isn't, one is wasting one's life) is a sudden and total loss of interest in the knitterly arts.

I felt the first fingers of that beginning to take hold a couple of weeks ago, but then it got cold again (not that it ever really pushed fully into warm, mind you; there were just hints and vague promises), and so I kept knitting. And now I have a pretty pair of mittens that didn't photograph at all well in the incandescent lighting, but you may take my word on it - they are sweet.

And I am knitting another pair for a friend who massacred his first pair by the simple expedient of wearing them on the bike in a rainstorm. I am thinking that however pretty that Koigu stuff is, fabled in song and story, it doesn't hold up very well. I mean, one rainstorm, c'mon.

So the replacements will be in less-gorgeous but hopefully sturdier yarn that's already been road-tested by yours truly.

There's a whole thread on Rav about knitting for the bike, and I wonder if I ought to post some real-world feedback from my various knit-recipients. Enh. Too complicated.

I was telling my dad, finally, after 10 days of utter silence, about the various bad newses to which I have been subject lately, and he commented that any one of them would be enough to make a sane person's head spin.

Which would explain the impression of her I've been doing lately. I dunno. It seemed like I should just be able to handle it all.

Of course, that is how it always seems, with me. It's like a disease. I expect that nothing will ever break my back, and then what happens is that my body takes that challenge literally, and I end up with my back out for months and months.

Yes, the poking with needles seems to be doing something. I mean, something in addition to giving me strange bruises in even stranger places. It seems, thankfully, to be easing up my mobility a bit, and if I'd just stop doing laundry and twisting myself into unfortunate contortions in my sleep, the pain might even abate a bit.

Me: I hurt my back in my sleep.
He: Alone?

Sigh.

Top 5 Reasons Boywich Rocks

1. He loves me no matter how shitty a mood I am in. ("It's still you," he says.)

2. He is every bit as geeky as I am about bikes, sci-fi, and most every other geekable subject.

3. I am comfortable enough with him to tell him how I really feel, no matter how dark and desperate that is.

4. He's funny as hell. I always end up laughing when we're talking, even in the middle of massive despair.

5. He understands when I just don't want to talk anymore.

Bonus extra-special thing: He doesn't expect or even want me to be perfect. I can be late, sad, scared, grumpy, angry, childish, and any other damn way, and he still loves me. And almost always understands how I feel. I mean, really, gold freakin' star.

Unexpectedly laid up on the couch again. I hope I hope I hope (times 100) that it won't be for more than a day. Though I doubt it.

The ways of bad backs are mysterious and unpleasant. Made an appointment to get stuck with needles. At this point I will try (almost) anything.

I've been in a mitten-knitting frame of mind this winter, partly because a lot of people asked for them and partly because my one pair started to unravel and I needed to make myself some replacements. There is something cool about that, namely:

a) I've been knitting long enough to have a pair of mittens I made begin to unravel (they lasted several years, too - made 'em out of some leftover Mountain Colors Weavers Wool I'd bought for a gift project).

b) When I need a new knitted object, I can just -er- knit one. There's a measure of self-sufficiency and instant gratification there that's lacking in most of the rest of life. For the rest of life, you need to call upon fairy godcreatures and such. Which brings me to the following:

Top Three Wishes of Tonight

1. My back to stop hurting so I can go get my bicycle.
2. A delightful lover to appear out of nowhere and present himself for my continuing amusement. I have one in mind but perhaps it is pushing my luck to attempt such a specific request?
3. Something chocolate.

PS. Later addition: Damn. My laptop has just died a weird and jiggly death. Can I add a new or, better yet, cheaply repaired laptop to the list?

Oh my dears, I have no pics for you. How can I show you what I wanted to show you on the way home tonight?

The lit-up skylines, like row after row of angular Xmas trees. The Goldfrapp song leaking out of my head where my iPod had placed it, apparently very firmly, earlier today. The piles of dim sum making (admittedly) uncomfortable cargo in my stomach.

The inevitable flitter of my innards as I flirted but tried not to be noticeably flirting. The regrets at not having managed to forcibly commandeer That Boy for my diabolical purposes on some previous evening. Maybe I should have played rougher.

The champagne bubbles of amusement at the text messages exchanged earlier with Blondie. Me: Dude, you said this is my girlfriend just in time. I might have kissed u. He: Her first words were did u sleep with her?

Hahahahahaaaa. Why yes, love, I did. About a thousand times in three months. Why do you ask?

Oh wait, that would be my answer.

So, my Big Question to the Universe is:

Why is it so frickin' difficult to find a suitable lover to play with? Hot enough and sweet enough and free enough and not interested in getting in my face about my choices in life.

It doesn't seem like such a tall order. Heck, I like 'em short, too. Or not short. Whatever.

Of course, the list of requirements is a bit more involved than that. But not so very. I don't care if he's married, really. I don't care if he's a bit of an idiot when it comes to women. Actually those conditions (or lack thereof) are specific to a particular candidate who shall remain nameless but who is still lighting me up like an airport runway whenever I see him and frustrating the hell out of me when I don't (and when I do, really).

Honestly, darlings, I would have been glad to "settle" for a little romp with Blondie, had he been available, and it's slightly tragic that he's not, because nothing less would be a worthy distraction, and he's only worthy because he happens to be made of candy.

Okay, I know. No pictures are adequate.

Life's been on fast-forward lately, and sometimes that means I take a little break from posting. Or I sit down to post and find that I am telling more than I'm comfortable with or not enough to be interesting.

Anyway. Happy snowy-ass Monday. It's always hard to discern actual snowfall amounts when you live in a city, because the stuff immediately gets piled to either side of road and sidewalk, and then you have impressive berms flanking canals of slush.

I went into town today via mass transit, which I hardly ever do, but I had various businesses to attend to, and decided to pass the time in between by visiting my favorite cafe. Where I saw my favorite handsome fellow, who'd been out working in the snowy mess all day, poor lad.

'Twas nice to see him, in a charged-air sort of way (for both of us, I think), and we flirted a bit, and then he left to get back to work, and I left to get my head shorn, as I am wont to do.

Made plans with my hairdresser for wildly coloured extensions in springtime, wished I'd brought enough dough to get them put in right this minute - I need a pickmeup.

Came home, hung out with cat creature, ate, ate some more, watched TV until the cable went kaput.

That sort of thing.

I am mostly catching my breath today. The weirdness of my weekend cannot be quantified with existing technology - or it's like gravity; sometimes behaving in eccentric ways that defy both Newton and Einstein. No, I'm not making that up; it's headlines.

I am not going into detail; those who must know already do, and the rest can just imagine for themselves. You know, like a Mad Libs. Hell, why don't I just write one for you? To play along, just fill in the parentheses with the words of your choice.

Anatomy of A Weekend

Friday: Lizbon gets a text message from (noun), inviting her to (verb). She writes back, explaining that while she'd love to (same verb), she can't because she has to bring (noun) to (place).

Later that night, Lizbon gets asked to (verb) by another (noun). She declines, saying she hasn't (past-tense verb) in (amount of time), and doesn't plan to start now.

Still later that night, Lizbon gets asked to do a favor, involving carrying (plural noun) to a/an (adjective) event. She agrees, and then gets asked to (verb) in an official capacity. She agrees to that too.

Even further later that night, who should walk in the front (noun) but the most (adjective) (noun) from her past. She says hello, how are you, and instead of responding to her question, the (same noun) says, Lizbon, this is (name), my (noun).

Then Lizbon is tired and desperately wants to get on her (noun) and (verb) home.

Saturday: Lizbon takes her (noun) into (place of business) to get some (verb) done to it, and gets asked to help out with a/an (type of event). She says okay. She (verb) very fast, and then comes back, to cheers and thanks. She then gets invited to a (type of event), but says she can't, because she has a date with a (noun).

Later that night, the (same noun) suddenly begins playing with his own (part of body) in the middle of the (place). Lizbon is (emotion) and really wants to (verb) away, but can't think of a way to manage that gracefully.

So she pretends not to have noticed. She walks the (adjective) (same noun) back to his (means of transportation), and feels obliged to (verb) him goodbye.

She feels very (emotion) by it all, and wants to fly fly fly home and wash her (part of body) out with soap. She hopes to never hear from (same noun) again, but supposes she will have to (means of communication) him the jig is up.

Sunday: Lizbon very very gladly spends time with several of her (adjective) friends, and tells them the tale of her (opposite adjective) weekend.