I'm doing my usual seasonal-change two week migraine. Which means lots of migraine meds, which means wandering around in a fog. That might be kind of fun if there weren't a two year old in the house. A two year old who likes to take things apart and must be watched every minute.
I was curled up in the recliner today, feeling crappy, and the Goober came over to cheer me up. She decided what I needed was a serenade, and proceeded to sing "Twinkle Twinkle" in a pitch so high only dogs could hear it. It went straight through my head like an ice pick, but I let her finish and said thank you. The hug after that really DID make me feel better.
Then, my computer shit the bed. I've got two computers I use regularly, a laptop I traipse around with and a desktop with two hard drives in it that I use mostly for archiving. (We're on a network so all the computers in the house access my desktop for photos and stuff. We're a geek house. We knew that.) In the interest of archiving, I also was getting my e-mail on that computer. Well. When I went to check my e-mail, I got some message about how the computer had recovered from a 'Fatal Error' (I do so love programming terminology, so cheerful) and had re-set itself. Maybe it recovered from the Fatal Error, but the e-mail doesn't work now, so I suspect instead of recovery, it's more like in ICU, hanging on by a thread.
Anyway. Bottom line, if you've tried to e-mail me in the last, oh, 48 hours, please re-send it, because I'm not sure what got lost.
When I'm kinda functional, I've been spinning and dyeing. I've got almost a full bobbin of the RFB, and am hoping to have some plied by the end of the week so I can see how cool it is. The husbeast came into my office and we had a conversation something like this:
HIM: The Purple Trainwreck looks good.
HIM: The Purple Trainwreck. Looks good.
ME: That's not Purple Trainwreck. That's RFB. Purple Trainwreck is in the closet.
ME: Really fucking blue.
HIM: But there's purple in it.
ME: It's mostly blue.
HIM: You scare me.
ME: Back at you, babe.
This is what I get for marrying a guy who insists there are only eight colors in the world, the ones that come in a box of jumbo Crayola crayons.
Otherwise, I'm re-drawing all the charts for Morrigan, partly so they're in symbols I understand and partly because I'll understand the structure better once I've drawn them out. There are cables on every row. No wonder they named it Morrigan. The gauge swatch is chugging along. Whee.
And the Goob has been playing with my camera again.