In the meantime, the world keeps heading to Hell of its own volition.
It's Fibro Fog Friday here in Historic Downtown Kissimmee. Having trouble moving forward on my plans for today, lists be damned. I'm not really comprehending my own lists, and I can't seem to put together the steps for any task. I woke up with Cat Flat Hair, a direct result of Anakin's determined possession of this pillow. My pillow, as it happens.
This is going to need application of a hot hair roller thing (so help me, I can't think of the word) while standing, and lately I don't do standing all that well.
Anyway, I spent all my standing spoons on a bath for my little old guy Woody. He's lost most of his hair and his weight is way down, but he's in good spirits, even if Anakin did take his favorite sleeping spot. There is so much I have to do, and so little I can actually do, a typical fibrotastic day bereft of energy but full of pain and fog.
The cottage pie remains incomplete; there is no way I can leave the house to buy a rutabaga. Even if I had, I don't have the ability to stand at the kitchen counter whilst peeling said rutabaga. Everything - laundry, beading, cooking, spot cleaning, book shelves, and you-name-it - has come to a big halt. Believe it or not, what set off this latest flare was that shower I took yesterday. All of this and Bernie Sanders has sent me into the Bad Mood Zone. Best I stay in my room, where I can't snap at innocents and where going without a bra is not going to cause nervous laughter and SMHs posted all over Facebook.
I did manage to finish one UFO, so now all of the ends on those utterly luxurious handknit wash clothes have been woven in. The cloths are in the linen closet alongside the more pedestrian terry cloths that Rob and Cory will continue to use. The sense of accomplishment feels good.
I'm glad something feels good.