Murder of Crows

I'm making great progress on Arosa, even though I'm only working on it at work. I'm up to the middle of the armhole shaping on the back. Yeah, it's not so interesting to talk about, but it's refreshingly simple to work on, soothingly meditative. I take it out to my car on my lunch hour and work on it while listening to 90s-at-noon on Live105. It's the best part of my workday. This yarn has a great drape. I also bought a bag of it in black/silver, and I'm thinking of remaking the IK Greek Pullover with it.

Cobweb was going well as well, and I'd hoped to have a finished picture of the back by today, but then I noticed that I'd screwed up the first and last repeats of the lace several rows earlier, and then I tried to drop the stitches and fix it, and then there was weeping and much gnashing of teeth. One hour later, I'd ripped back to where I was on Tuesday, and I think I got all of the stitches back on the needle, but I wisely decided to put it down for the evening and go to sleep.

That's all the knitting news.

I'm slacking on the gym. I'm blaming it on my knee being kind of tight and sore, but that's just an excuse. I'm burning out on work, on my fitness regime, on a lot of things.

Last night, Daisy noticed that Lucy has rubbed all of the fur off under her collar. I looked down at my newly baldnecked dog, looked up at Daisy, got teary-eyed and whispered, "That's horrible. I'm horrible. How did I let this happen? My poor, poor Lucy!"

"It happens. It's just HAIR. Calm down. It will grow back."

"Will it? Will it really?" My lip trembled.

"Dude! What's WRONG with you?!?"

"I need mashed potatoes and gravy, and I don't have the will to move off of this couch."

We were wallowing in our ennui last night, what with Daisy's freelancing job at the chocolate factory coming to an unexpectedly sudden end and my job/cars/finances/knees/pets/statuary seemingly slipping out of my control. I've stopped e-mailing people, stopped commenting on blogs, kind of stopped caring if anyone calls. Daisy's in the same boat. I think we're both a tad depressed. Hell, the only reason we're still keeping in touch is that we live next door to each other. Held down in our morass of apathy by our ill-defined malaise, we couldn't pull ourselves out of it enough to even find food. Falstaff saved us by driving to El Pollo Loco and buying us chicken dinners.

Today's looking a little better. I made an appointment for Lucy to see the vet about her obsessive licking and chewing. A.B. thinks she might be allergic to the bark, which would really suck, but I think it's probably more likely that she's allergic to the grass. She's been doing this for way longer than we've had the new bark. Anyway, I made the appointment for her, so that's checked off the long list. A.B. and I are run/walking Bay to Breakers on Sunday, probably way more walking than running, but we're going to do it. I've got Arosa in my bag and the weather's looking nice for a lunchtime knitting session. It's a good day.

On my way to work today, I saw my favorite outdoor jogger. I call him Superguy. He wears what I can only imagine are his only clothes suitable for exercise -- bright purple gym shorts, a shade of purple not normally found in men's sportswear, and a grungy white tanktop with the Superman logo emblazened across his big, round belly. I'm pretty sure the tank isn't supposed to fit him that way, that it's meant for a much taller man but it's the size he needed to cover his gut. He's a heavier gentleman, is what I'm trying to say. Oh, and it has a tear near one of the shoulders, making it look like it had been in the rag pile at some point before receiving a second chance. I like to imagine Superguy pawing through the laundry basket, shouting in to his wife, "Hey, where's my tank top?" "I use it to polish the furniture. I've used it to polish the furniture for five years now. It's a RAG." "Ah, man!" He pulls it out of a basket of stained, torn cloth napkins and towels, holds it up to the light, sees the rip in the shoulder but notes that it's still technically wearable. "It still fits!" What I like most about him, about the idea of him, is that I've seen him every few days for a few weeks now. He didn't just try it once, then give up. Damned if I don't find that inspiring.

I know it's called Crow Canyon Place. I know it's not supposed to be ominous and scary. And yet...