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The backwards long weekend
This Good Friday is much less fantoddy than in recent years because it's more like a mild Christmas Day, with white traces in the grass and on the roofs, than anything having to do with spring. Which almost makes yesterday's freezing rain worthwhile.
I woke very cheerful yesterday. The world was flat ice over frozen sleet, so how lucky I had my ice grippers. The wind was freezing dank and cold, so how lucky I had L's wool mittens to wear over my insufficient gloves. I had to take transit, of course, so how lucky I had my misbought metropass. And then I got to the station and a woman was screaming into her cell phone at some poor schmuck on the TTC's helpline, because the bus was late, the bus never comes on time, she has to get to work, when are you going to do something!!!???- which rather soured my mood. Buses may be equipped to go up and down icy hills safely, but other vehicles aren't, and if a bus gets behind a pile-up, yes the bus will be late. (Agreed, it would help if staff could announce when and why buses are late, but given the lamentable quality of the PAS here, it wouldn't help.)
Of course, my knees weren't cheerful at all. They hurt in a very distinctly arthritic fashion (at the front, not the usual ITB sides.) Pure perversity made me decide to go out to dinner after work rather than face the crowded subway home, and as I limped along Bloor I passed the BMV bookstore, long unpatronized in my attempt to read the books I actually have. But luck was with me: they had an omnibus edition of My Life in the Bush of Ghosts and The Palm-Wine Drinkard for a mere $5. So I went and had a bento box and started Ghosts, which perhaps I shouldn't have, because the thing reads like one long unending nightmare. Even Forest of a Thousand Daemons didn't have such a hapless protagonist (well, the protagonist is a hunter, not a child-teenager-young man) or such randomly malicious youkai.
Then again, I've almost completely forgotten what happens in Forest. Books are like dreams: vivid while one is in them but fading to a few unclear details when finished.
Legs are happier today, now I'm wearing a knee brace, and shoulders start to unknot. It's not that work per se cripples me; it's hefting our unhappy 35 lb 10 month old that cripples me. K is unhappy because cabin-fevered: he can't go on walks because he hates the stroller, he can't go in the yard because he's too young, he sits in the room all day and bellows his sadness to the world. Oh for the days when we had two rooms and all the space heart could wish for.
I woke very cheerful yesterday. The world was flat ice over frozen sleet, so how lucky I had my ice grippers. The wind was freezing dank and cold, so how lucky I had L's wool mittens to wear over my insufficient gloves. I had to take transit, of course, so how lucky I had my misbought metropass. And then I got to the station and a woman was screaming into her cell phone at some poor schmuck on the TTC's helpline, because the bus was late, the bus never comes on time, she has to get to work, when are you going to do something!!!???- which rather soured my mood. Buses may be equipped to go up and down icy hills safely, but other vehicles aren't, and if a bus gets behind a pile-up, yes the bus will be late. (Agreed, it would help if staff could announce when and why buses are late, but given the lamentable quality of the PAS here, it wouldn't help.)
Of course, my knees weren't cheerful at all. They hurt in a very distinctly arthritic fashion (at the front, not the usual ITB sides.) Pure perversity made me decide to go out to dinner after work rather than face the crowded subway home, and as I limped along Bloor I passed the BMV bookstore, long unpatronized in my attempt to read the books I actually have. But luck was with me: they had an omnibus edition of My Life in the Bush of Ghosts and The Palm-Wine Drinkard for a mere $5. So I went and had a bento box and started Ghosts, which perhaps I shouldn't have, because the thing reads like one long unending nightmare. Even Forest of a Thousand Daemons didn't have such a hapless protagonist (well, the protagonist is a hunter, not a child-teenager-young man) or such randomly malicious youkai.
Then again, I've almost completely forgotten what happens in Forest. Books are like dreams: vivid while one is in them but fading to a few unclear details when finished.
Legs are happier today, now I'm wearing a knee brace, and shoulders start to unknot. It's not that work per se cripples me; it's hefting our unhappy 35 lb 10 month old that cripples me. K is unhappy because cabin-fevered: he can't go on walks because he hates the stroller, he can't go in the yard because he's too young, he sits in the room all day and bellows his sadness to the world. Oh for the days when we had two rooms and all the space heart could wish for.
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We escaped to California for a bit of sun, only to find the first 3 days foggy and heavy rain. LOL! Thankfully we ended on several days of full sunshine.
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I can't fault the professionally angry people. I'm an angry person myself. But I don't get angry at down-trodden wage slaves because that profiteth a man nothing.