I finally did something

For a long time, I have been meaning to do something about this old bastard of a footstool that I have. I got it from my mum and we've had it for as long as I can remember. I think we might have gotten in when we lived in Yakima, but I can't be sure. There used to be a sofa that went with it, but that's long gone after being passed through Tristan's in-laws and subsequently burned in a house fire. I think.

Anyway, it was disgusting because our cats thought it was for horking on, for sharpening their claws, and on occasion, for peeing upon. But no more.

Disgusting!

It was so gross. I am a notoriously terrible haus frau and thus just don't give a fuck about cleanliness in the home. Obviously. Again, I've been meaning to do something about this footstool. I could never decide on a fabric or colour scheme or anything. Yesterday though, I was perusing my local... um... big-box store and spotted the perfect fabric:

It spoke to me.

Andy favoured the zig-zag pattern, while mum asserted that it made her ill looking at it, and thus chose the somewhat yonic pattern on the right. Since it used to be hers, I went with what she said.

First I had to rip that motherfucker apart. Let me tell you: I used to get fussed at for sitting on this thing. According to my mum and dad, "It's a footstool, not a butt-stool." When I was very tiny, I could curl up on it and relax happily until one of the parentals noticed me and made me sit properly on a couch. Tearing into this bastard was nice. 

I won't get into the gory details, but I went at it with wild abandon. No seam rippers here, kids.

After tearing off the old, I covered it with the new. I had to use a quilting needle and thread to attach it to the existing cushion. In retrospect, an upholstery needle wold have been nice. But you work with what you have. 

 Sorry it's sideways.

I also added an entire blanket's worth of batting to re-fill the void left in the middle by years and years of butts, feet, and fat cats. Not pictured is the embarrassing incident involving the machine sewing of the skirting (I forgot how to lower the foot on my machine), nor the actual process of sewing the cover to the cushion.

I was struggling with what to use to attach the two pieces. Then it came to me: Crochet! I made a chain about 5-6 feet and did two rows of dc. Andy rather liked the idea of both crochet and using brown wool, so I ended up with something that appeared to be someone's small intestine laid out for all to see. With poop. Lots of poop.

 I then used the same stupid needle to sew on the border.

And there you have it. Rough but useful.

A closer look at my half-assed chocolate dragon.

The cats seem to think it's a new bed. But I guess that's okay.

The Waydown

I'm friggin tired. I've been tired all day. I bled from my nose for several hours. My #2 is iffy at best, explosive at worst. I have the donkey cough. I've barely been able to eat. I'm out of miiiiiiilk gah! I'm still awake because I am a.) unable to sleep and b.) waiting for my crops to mature for harvest. DONT JUDGE ME! I joined a co-op and I wold feel like an asshole if I didn't at least try...

My knitting will never get done. I finally got to 73 on weatherfield. I read all of "The Absolutely True Diary of a part-time Indian" today in about an hour or so. I wanted to cry when i was done. I actually got some research done, but of course it's all about Sherman Alexie. Surely Tim understands that he dominates the field of not just funny Native American literature, but  Native American literature in general.

My cats all snore. Andy snores. I don't think I snore, but my nose and throat are so dry lately that it wouldn't surprise me.

I have a week left, then I graduate. Then I have to procure a real job. My annoyance level is rising at an alarming rate. I'm definitely taking it out on the wrong people, because I am too chickenshit to say anything to the right people. I just want to lay low until the 7th and let grad school become a distant "well that was interesting" memory/life lesson.

I don't think I was properly equipped or prepared to go to grad school. Undergrad wasn't difficult even in the slightest for me. Grad school, to be frank, was only difficult because I have shitty organization and prioritizing skills. Not to say that the work wasn't difficult... it kind of was, mostly just because of the quantity. At any rate, about a million things have fallen to the wayside, including my marriage. That's definitely the worst part.

I haven't worn my wedding ring in a week. I'm pretty sure I haven't kissed Andy in just as long, if not longer. I haven't told him I love him in a while either. I'm an asshole; I've been assured of this from outside sources. I have poor prioritizing skills, remember?  I should be sleeping, curled up next to him, but I'm an asshole. I'm a selfish jerk. I'm a proud bitch. I'm just a confused 25 year old little girl that can;t get her head on straight. I am a chronic life ruiner.

No, no, I'm not asking for pity. Nor am I asking for more people to assure me of what a dick I am. Trust me, I get that shit daily. I'm just writing stuff down.

Andy asked me a few weeks back what I would ideally do if I could. I immediately responded that I wish I could make a living off of writing. I don't think I am the most well spoken or the most interesting person in the world, but christ if Laura Fuckin Bush can get her shitty book published (and I mean, come on, what the hell is so interesting about her other than her remarkable ability to put up with a moron 5 year old for a husband?), why can't I get anything published?

Because I haven't tried is why.

Without being too dramatic, that really is the story of my life.

I've gotten through this far without stretching myself out too far, without going out on a limb, without taking risks. I'm safe. I know that's not the foremost adjective that comes to mind when someone ponders my being, but in all honesty, I'm a pretty safe gal. I don't do a goddamn thing that makes me uncomfortable (because it's pretty hard to do that), I don't make myself do anything too difficult (I like to say I know my limits), and I definitely don't deliberately make things harder on myself.

Unlike some people I know...

At any rate, I'm fucking tired. I want to try and eat something and keep it down. I'm cold. I can' bring myself to knit anymore tonight, nor write anymore.