Well, that's what it feels like to be here working today. I don't work on Friday. Or Saturday, for that matter, but this week I'm doing both. *sigh* (big paycheck, big paycheck) That means it'll be after 7 o'clock when I get to knitting but I'm still going. I was thinking I'd skip it, just go on home once I close the store, but when Durwood asked this morning if I'm going I decided to do it. What the heck, I can go home after knitting, right? Right. I've been thinking that it's too early to be needing chemical heat packs in my shoes, making sure I have a shawl with me, and too early to be wearing my winter jacket, but it isn't. The dive shop's a cement block building on a cement slab with industrial carpeting on it, plus I swear that there's a tiny gap where the floor and walls meet so the furnace sucks in cold air right over my feet. I wear wool socks, and thick boots once it's icy and snowy, but I still need those little heating pads in there. I love them; they keep my tootsies warm. Tomorrow's the start of deer hunting and hunters usually like to have snow, "tracking snow," on the ground plus they've gotta roast in their bulky orange clothes when it's in the 40s out there. I suppose if they're sitting still they don't get too hot but walking around would make them sweat. And another thing, tomorrow morning's the Christmas parade downtown. I was thinking I'd call DS & DIL1 to see if they'd like to go, you know, get bundled up and go watch the floats, balloons and marching bands, drink a little hot cocoa--but, no, I have to work at the same time the parade starts. (poor pitiful me) I know I should be glad I have a job and a fun one at that and I am, I really am, but I love complaining and feeling just a little sorry for myself too so you get to listen to me, you lucky ducks.
November 16--George Bellows, The Red Vine, Matinicus Island, Maine. Nora was grateful that the sun shone as she hung the sheets on the line. It had been a long winter with many gray days so it was a treat to stand in the soft spring air feeling the sun warm her fingers. She caught a whiff of Mae's bread baking next door and smiled. Her own loaves were still rising in the corner of the kitchen out of the draft from the open door. A sudden squabble of gulls out over the harbor made her look up. It was too early for the boats to be coming in but there was movement out near the breakwater. She shaded her eyes with her hand. Her heart nearly stopped when she recognized the yellow trim on the wheelhouse. It was her George's boat, the Nora Dell. She dropped the end of the sheet and clothespin she was holding and started to run.
Okay, now I feel better about myself. I'd had a few blah nights of writing but this one gives me my faith back. How come a night or two of no inspiration makes me feel that I've lost it and won't ever get it back? I'd like to think I have a little more faith in myself than that. Ooh, phone, maybe it's a customer.
P.S. nope, telemarketer, dang it.