I'm sitting on the floor in my "studio" (really, the other end of a very long and narrow front room) listening to the littles as they watch Wallace and Grommit, their laughs and giggles and gasps punctuating the plot of the movie. I should be cleaning, sorting, etc. I've vacuumed up enough dog and cat hair to make another whole animal, the amount of dust and lint is rather appalling. My mouth is sore, but certainly not as bad as I had expected it to be, thank goodness.
My mind is a bit spastic today, hopping from one thing to another. As I cleared the stuff off the piano, I thought, perhaps I should post this on KSL and get it out of my house finally. As I vacuumed the dog hair off the floor, I thought, I need to check the price on pine flooring and see if I can get some at a decent price and if I can, can I make it match the flooring that is in the studio? I want some grapes. Maybe I should write a blog post. I wonder if the kids want popcorn. And on and on. Sometimes I think my mind would like me to anything but clean. Because, obviously, I am not cleaning right now. Blog post, yay!
It's hot and a bit muggy outside. I wish it would just storm. One of those dark, loud, banging storms, strobing with lightning. I love it when the thunder is so big and loud that it shakes the house, but I remain cozy and safe behind my walls. When I am cranky or wound up, a storm always makes me feel better. As if the weather is responding to my mood and doing my yelling and fighting for me. I like to curl up on my chaise in my window and watch it rage, and then I don't feel so like raging myself.
The past little while, I've felt more like raging than usual. I've resisted, mostly, but only because I have to. I've no one to rage at anyway, not really. Small Daughter doesn't deserve it or understand it. Teenage boy would probably just be scared of it. Mike has had enough of it to last him three lifetimes. Instead I knit furiously or scream into my pillow. Alas, though, my pillow, while absorbing the raging quite well, doesn't ever respond and is, therefore, a less than stellar partner. Venting to a pillow does have it's limits.
Fear not, though. I am ok. Just...ragey. I'm working on being satisfied with the lot that is my life. And I am reminded that it could be worse. Of course, the fact that it COULD be worse, doesn't necessarily make this better, as it could also be better. But, it will get better, somehow. Either I'll get a raise, get offered a job closer to home with more money or Small Daughter will simply grow up and not need me quite so much anymore. Then I won't feel actively guilty about not being around so much, right? Right?
Yep, I'm rambly. Apologies.