To further illustrate the need for hairbands, this is what happens when I take the hairband off:
There's been quite the change over the last few months, hasn't there?
Recently, I changed my blog photo to this:
The story behind the picture is that my chemo-curls had started to get the better of me. Sometimes I looked like Angela Davis…
...and sometimes I looked like Flattop:
So, although you can’t see it in the picture, in an effort to wrassle the curls into some semblance of order, I'm wearing a headband. It's one of a set of three cheesy, cheap, stretchy ones bought at Idolatry*. One is black (non-committal shrug of shoulders), one dark brown (meh) and one a putrid sandy brown (blech).
It then occurred to one that one could knit her own damn headbands and make them any color she wanted! So, out came the needles and yarn remnants and in short order I had two headbands of admittedly pretty tame colors: a gray that goes with my hair (unknown-brand alpaca for those who care about such things)…
And churned out last night, a blue that goes with jeans (Lion Brand Jiffy Thick and Quick for those who care about such things):
Headbands that are more colorful are on the horizon but, that being said, I've discovered that knitting headbands makes me downright twitchy. You cast on, knit an inch or two of ribbing and cast off. Which is all you need but it feels as if you’ve started knitting a hat, made the ribbing, had a severe senior moment and forgot to knit the rest of the hat. Perhaps a better way to way to describe it is it feels like when someone does only the first five beats of “shave and a haircut:" Dum dum-dum dum dum...[silence].
(If I have now made you twitchy, relief is at hand. Read the title.)
* I use a British voice on my GPS and this is how he pronounces Dollar Tree. Of course I glommed right on to it.
(UPDATE: My litigation Inner Bitch has a name! After watching last night's episode of Downtown Abbey, she will be named Lady Mary.)
It occurred to me that you, my pets, have been slogging along with me on my return to school and I never shared the upshot of the first quarter. It took a mind-boggling effort but I passed. Which is saying something because you have to finagle a B or better. If not, they say the university equivalent of "No soup for you!" Or, to put it another way, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.” You aren’t allowed to continue. The yenta in me is snarkily curious about who will return.
Second quarter starts next Tuesday. The good news is the absolutely fantastic lawyer/teacher from last quarter—dynamic, interested, interesting, funny, confident but sometimes self-effacing, and a bit of a babe—will be teaching all three nights. The bad news is, he said, and I quote, “Trust me. If I pass you through from first quarter to second, I’m not doing you any favors.” Gulp.
Second quarter is all litigation, all the time. I’m looking forward to getting acquainted with my inner bitch. We will need to give her a name when the time comes.
As far as the cats are concerned, in winter there is but one Best Spot in the House, a certain window sill that sits right above a baseboard heater, perfect for chasing away the chill. Joon sits on the sill most of the time but frequently pays a dear price for it: When Benny decides it’s his turn, he marches up, bites her in the ass until she screams, gives up, and moves and then he claims the coveted spot.
Benny and I have been “working on this” with loud “NO'S” and squirts from a water bottle. Things aren’t perfect yet but, if this is anything to go by, we seem to be heading in the right direction:
I suck at ringing in the New Year. I’ve never been much for celebrating it to begin with, most likely because it comes hard on the heels of the Thanksgiving and Christmas insanity; I lived apart from family and the familial makings of rowdy New Year festivities most of my adult life and simply never got in the habit; and, although I spent two decades of New Yearses with Poo-Poo Head, she wasn’t big on celebrating it either. (In comparison, my sister has always been good at celebrating it or, I should say, clever about celebrating it. Although she lives in California, since she lived in New York for a quite a few years, she figured that gave her carte blanche to pop the cork at 9:00 p.m. California time/12:00 p.m. New York time. And then all the hoopla was over and she could go to bed. Or keep on making merry. Is that not clever?)
Last year on New Year’s Eve, mostly for reasons of not caring, plus having a brain that was fried on steroids and chemo, I lost track of time and found myself cleaning the litter box at the moment 2013 made its arrival. Surely this year I could do better than scooping clumps of cat pee, yes? Um, nope. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I made this appointment, but on December 31st, I started dietary preparations for a colonoscopy which will be on Jan. 3, my first measureable event of any kind of 2014. Better or worse than scooping cat litter? Discuss.