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Spent most of yesterday feeling just plain awful.
Hard to know exactly where that feeling was coming from.
There’s a world filled with awful, horrible things: violence, exploitation, self-promotion, maya.
And then there are little bubbles of genuine goodness—like Sybyl the cat.
One wants to protect these bubbles of goodness. But one is never up to the task because the world really is a murderous place filled with uncaring people, and one is weak, barely capable of keeping one’s own head above the torrent let alone rescuing and cherishing a little innocent animal who cannot swim the raging waters on her own.
Yadda, yadda, yadda.
At the height of this mini-breakdown, I had to wander out to score Sybyl a sweater to wear over the glucose monitor.
I went to five different places. Nada.
The only things I could find were Halloween costumes.
Slasher movies are big on the Halloween pet costume circuit this year, you’ll be pleased to learn.
So, there I was in PetSmart, wondering, Do I dress Sybyl up in a little black hood and cloak like the “Scream” franchise? Or do I opt for camouflage fatigues and a miniature hockey mask á la “Friday the 13th”?
Sadly, the humor of the situation didn’t dawn on me until afterward (like one of Edith Wharton’s ghosts.)
At the time, all I could think was, If something happens to me, what will happen to Sybyl? No one else will want to take care of her; they’d think, “A diabetic cat? Too much work.” Ichabod might promise me on my deathbed, “Yeah, sure,” but then he’d turn right around and have her put to sleep. It would be exactly like what happened with Susan and the stuff I had in storage. I can’t really trust anyone.
And somehow the thought that I can’t really trust anyone sent me straight over the edge.
###
Jessica Mitford, my favorite of the storied Mitford sisters, was known for her stoicism and humor.
But reportedly, she never got over the death of her first husband, Esmond Romily, Churchill’s nephew, who joined the RAF at the onset of World War II, and was shot down over the North Sea.
All her life, her sleep was fitful. From her dreams, she would moan, But he’s cold! So cold! So, so cold!
Later, she wrote in a letter to her novelist sister Nancy: “What it boils down to is putting one’s feelings on a special plane; most unwise, if you come to think of it. Because the bitter but true fact is that the only person who cares about one’s own feelings is ONE."
###
Eventually, at a thrift store, I did score this attractive garment:
And as of 6am this morning, the glucose monitor is working fine.
It actually is registering fluctuations that make it obvious the insulin I’m giving Sybyl is working.
So, I’m optimistic again this morning.
And feeling okay.
###
What else?
The current Remunerative Project really is a slog.
But the weather has improved!
Temps aren’t supposed to get much over 80° today.
Which means I can break the slog up with gardening and tromping.
Hard to know exactly where that feeling was coming from.
There’s a world filled with awful, horrible things: violence, exploitation, self-promotion, maya.
And then there are little bubbles of genuine goodness—like Sybyl the cat.
One wants to protect these bubbles of goodness. But one is never up to the task because the world really is a murderous place filled with uncaring people, and one is weak, barely capable of keeping one’s own head above the torrent let alone rescuing and cherishing a little innocent animal who cannot swim the raging waters on her own.
Yadda, yadda, yadda.
At the height of this mini-breakdown, I had to wander out to score Sybyl a sweater to wear over the glucose monitor.
I went to five different places. Nada.
The only things I could find were Halloween costumes.
Slasher movies are big on the Halloween pet costume circuit this year, you’ll be pleased to learn.
So, there I was in PetSmart, wondering, Do I dress Sybyl up in a little black hood and cloak like the “Scream” franchise? Or do I opt for camouflage fatigues and a miniature hockey mask á la “Friday the 13th”?
Sadly, the humor of the situation didn’t dawn on me until afterward (like one of Edith Wharton’s ghosts.)
At the time, all I could think was, If something happens to me, what will happen to Sybyl? No one else will want to take care of her; they’d think, “A diabetic cat? Too much work.” Ichabod might promise me on my deathbed, “Yeah, sure,” but then he’d turn right around and have her put to sleep. It would be exactly like what happened with Susan and the stuff I had in storage. I can’t really trust anyone.
And somehow the thought that I can’t really trust anyone sent me straight over the edge.
###
Jessica Mitford, my favorite of the storied Mitford sisters, was known for her stoicism and humor.
But reportedly, she never got over the death of her first husband, Esmond Romily, Churchill’s nephew, who joined the RAF at the onset of World War II, and was shot down over the North Sea.
All her life, her sleep was fitful. From her dreams, she would moan, But he’s cold! So cold! So, so cold!
Later, she wrote in a letter to her novelist sister Nancy: “What it boils down to is putting one’s feelings on a special plane; most unwise, if you come to think of it. Because the bitter but true fact is that the only person who cares about one’s own feelings is ONE."
###
Eventually, at a thrift store, I did score this attractive garment:
And as of 6am this morning, the glucose monitor is working fine.
It actually is registering fluctuations that make it obvious the insulin I’m giving Sybyl is working.
So, I’m optimistic again this morning.
And feeling okay.
###
What else?
The current Remunerative Project really is a slog.
But the weather has improved!
Temps aren’t supposed to get much over 80° today.
Which means I can break the slog up with gardening and tromping.
