dog wear

We are up, making a sweatshirt for Sid. Nicole is a seamstress and is carving up an old gray sweatshirt and Sid is a reluctant model. Any time we ask him to hold still, he seems to think we are going to cut his toenails. He really hates that.

It is nearly over now -- the weekend. Sid's unfinished doggie-cape sits in a pile amid the recently re-organized sewing supplies we have pulled together in the past couple of days. We have many sewing boxes and tins and baskets --Me and him. Me and them. Us. Since move and marriage, the numbers of boxes has dwindeled, but it has been a slow melding, like butter and sugar over low heat. We are caramel. I rarely order anything online, am still a bit of a chicken about all that, but needed a basket for sewing stuff, and I know they exist but I shopped far and wide and could only find an old-lady tapestry covered easter basket with little plastic liners. I'd rather have a good tackle box, and frankly, had one in hand at Bi-Mart, but K talked me out of it. He wanted me to have the real thing. I couldn't agree more. But neither of us knew where the real thing was. So I went to Jeeves and typed in "sewing basket", which elicited the response "Do you mean sewing caddy?" which I did. Which in turn provoked my husband to rent Caddyshack, but that's another story. So I said okay to Jeeves, and went for the caddy idea. Tap tap tap and there it was: a three-tiered wooden box on legs that folds out like a two-sided tackle box like the big boys have, and I ordered it. And it arrived, and I am not yet a victim of identity theft. I would hate that.

So I got the caddy, and it is full and organized, and the girls know where to find a needle, and, more importantly, where to put it back so it doesn't stick someone in the eye while they are rolling around on the floor with the dog or the husband.

There is a point to all this.

As I have whined about since mid-december, I am having shoulder surgery next friday. The day is nearly here, and since I will be down (but not out!) for the count, I figured I needed a hobby. I decided to learn cross-stitch. Needlepoint. I can do it with one hand immobilized and it passes the time, of which I will have much. Well, the same amount, but it will seem different. Already does: It is sunday night and I'm not suicidal. I just don't think I was meant to work. Do you?

So, me and the girls (the girls and I) moseyed over to Michael's hobby shop because if I have a hobby, they need one, and Haley got a bunch of embroidery floss to make string bracelets and Nicole got a set of those knitting hoops and some yarn. .... Yarn. Wow. There is some trippy shit out there these days. I've been watching women working on projects (thus the cross-stitch idea) and they have any manner of string projects they are weaving into any manner of winter clothing. Not me. I'm afraid of string. Knots kill me. So, I'm sticking with the smaller version: thread. I never did take up macrame, when every hippie chick worth her salt had plant hangers and wall art made of tangled rope. No way. But there is yarn that looks like animal hair and angel feathers and disco sparkles and vomit. You can get anything.

Anyway, all of this is in preparation for the aftermath. A hobby and good pajamas. Pyjamas. Whatever I buy needs to be easy on and easy off. I should just get some mumus but I am absurdly fashion conscious. Pain will dictate fashion rather than the other way around this time.

And soup. Asia will bring me Tom Kar Mushroom. The girls will cook me whatever they can on lunch break, and my hubby will treat me to his cuisine in the evenings like he used to. He makes great spaghetti. Tonight I made french onion soup. I have been wanting it since Valentine's day. We went to Montage and I had heard they have excellent french onion on their menu. But they don't anymore. "Sadly," said the Maitre d. A convincingly forlorn metroboy.

So I have a hobby, jammies and soup. I'm ready.

My fucking shoulder hurts. It probably wasn't a great idea to go see Buddy Guy last night and stand for four hours bouncing to the blues, but we had tickets, and sometimes moving is better than sitting still with this thing. But it was so loud, and I was really hurting. And this guy, some aged hippie with gray hair to his waist, decided to dance. And it was crowded, and he was feelin' it, and had to get his groove on. And it had to happen in my immediate space. And he was seven feet tall with big hair and I shoved him at one point. Because look... I can stand there and be in pain, but don't bump into me. Okay? I had no effect on him. He just kept on dancing. I was so annoyed.

That's the weekend update. I'm not working tomorrow.