Blog Written with a loving hand by kitt some time around 20:45 on 5 August 2005
I'm not sure what to write about. I could write about ballet and Billy on my birthday. Or about Kris' parents coming out and Bob helping me finally finish (well, get really, really close) the main bathroom. I could write about how I have the equivalent of bed sores on the back of my legs from sitting in one place for four days in a row trying to finish up a project, only to have the client angry at me for still not finishing. Of course, that story would have to include the arguments (discussions?) about what "finished" means. Or about how I managed to disappoint both Bharat and Sandie on the same day. And how painful that was. Or about how I managed to hit 3 of my known 4 migraine triggers (disrupted sleep patterns, caffeine, heavy exercise, and hormones - aspartame doesn't count because it's a guaranteed migraine, not just a trigger) and managed to not get a migraine - amazing! And there's the story about visiting Lisa for Potlatch, and how it links so nicely to the conversation with Paul and Scott and Brad. Or that Lisa is coming to visit! Or how about the blogher conference last weekend. Or the Stanford Classic games I played on Sunday, and about how I didn't kick the opponent. I didn't, oh joy, I didn't! There's how Bella escaped from the yard yesterday and Kevin asked, "Am I a retard?" for leaving the side gate open for three hours. Or Annie escaping today, despite Kevin's attempts to look out for the two dogs. And, then there's how I haven't run in a week. Did I mention the bed-sores-like issues on the back of my legs? Yeah. Or how about how I've lost the last week? Working 13-16 (billable) hours a day means the laundry didn't get done, the dishes didn't get washed, the rooms aren't straightened, and blogs aren't written. I almost want to cry. Yet, I'm too busy to do so. When I slow down, I think okay now I can cry. But the tears aren't coming. I don't know why they aren't, they're usually here by now. But, still, they're not coming. Strangely enough.