I underestimated how tired I would be the day after my trip. I thought I’d be all bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to take a pole class, work out, write, change the world but my body said NO.
The dogs are partly to blame. Somebody got up at 4am and needed to go out. That same somebody decided to take off around the corner so Zeb had to come get me to organize a dog hunt. I’m not naming names but his initials are Marvin.
After Tabby and I walked the hounds (Marvin decided to jump off the bridge into mud puddle even though he was on leash – how the hell did he manage that without hanging himself?) I spent the day moving in slow motion. I fed the kids, washed Marvin (and my bedding because he jumped on them aaargh) and the as I was moving the Silkies out into the Coop Du Jour, I felt that telltale squeezing in my chest.
The last time I felt this way, I thought I was having a heart attack or angina or something. It turns out that I have a cute vagina. Well, that’s what Zeb tells me. Or panic attacks.
What’s strange about my panic attacks is they don’t happen when I’m in the midst of extreme stress. They happen once things have calmed down, which makes them harder to identify. I mean, who has a panic attack when they are home from a trip and everything is put away and in order? I guess I do.
The squeezing in my chest got more painful and intense, my head started to bang and all I could do was take a chill-pill (prescribed for these occasions) and call the rest of the day off. I took the boys up to my favorite shady park and they spent hours building a walled kingdom out of sand as I read and dozed on the bench. I could save myself so much suffering if I just did this more often.
I went to bed at 6pm and didn’t wake up until 5. I feel better now.
Here’s a hurried assortment of crap.
This was a pillowcase. The boys tore in during a pillow fight. Of course. TRASH.
Old Crocs that have filthy liners. I don’t feel good about donating these, the are so nasty. TRASH.
A keepsake from Scrotus’s birthday. It came free with the mini-golf/go-cart package. It’s a nice gesture but no one plays with it. Not even the dogs. TRASH.
A real heartbreaker. This is a butter dish I made. I didn’t wipe the glaze back enough it and fused in the firing. TRASH.
A platter that was glazed too thickly and ran. It’s a good thing I won’t be in the lab this summer. I don’t think I could show my face after this. TRASH.
And this. TRASH.
Sometimes the magic works.
I am so in love with my town. The view of the city as you crest the hill on 36 simply takes my breath away. Every time.
Zeb’s garden popped while we were gone. Look what we came home to!
All of this is just in time to throw a garden reception for Marlo Fisken.
Why is that I always host pole gods after an extended period of inactivity and gluttony? I’m not sure whether I should tell Zeb she’s coming until she arrives. He might become too irritating to deal with.