5 is the Magic Number

Last week was another hard one. But I spent a lot of time alone in reflection, signed myself up for a sock knitting class, aced a test, and worked in the garden. Ethan whistled to amuse himself, and unbeknownst to him, he amused me too. Family came to town. We ate birthday cake and exchanged presents, and my older sister allowed me to kidnap her pug for an afternoon in the park. Doug shredded yet another roll of toilet paper while I was sleeping, and as the cherry on top, Pablo decided to puke all over my nicest piece of furniture. I love my kitties. I met up with a friend who was in town and have made plans to take the little one up north to see her next weekend. Plans, distractions, all good.

I tried very hard to have a good time. Sometimes worked, sometimes didn’t.

As it turns out, five is the magic number.

Three suicides, one death of old age, and a fatal car accident in one year is what it takes to finally convince Ms. Lauren to take off the game face and indulge in Cryfest 2005. And once it was over, I felt okay.

Sometime this summer I’m taking a trip to the town my parents grew up in, a little dying town in Arkansas. There isn’t much there to see but a restaurant, a bookstore, and a graveyard. Maybe I’ll cruise through Memphis on the way back. But I need some closure. I want to see it one last time.

I have a few phone calls to make — check up on some old friends, see if they’re okay. The computer is to be fixed tomorrow and I can get off this stupid laptop. Doug goes to the vet, I finally get to complete my tattoo (for free, no less!).

I will absolutely knit Ethan an entire pair of socks, not just one. I will ace another test tomorrow. I will write something on the blog that isn’t solely about me. I need to.

And now back to your regular feministy goodness.