Happy New Year!
Okay–so this blogging thing–still working on it a little. Trying to find a balance between “Blogging is draining my soul” and “What is this thing they call blogging?” (after fifteen years of blogging!) is maybe not as easy as it sounds.
But our Christmas was lovely–frenetic, but lovely. Our New Years was quiet–the kids got sparkling cider and that’s really all they’ve wanted out of the deal.
ZoomBoy has started work at Raising Cane’s chicken fingers, and now he’s brought home a fever and a cold–although I know it’s not Covid because he heard we brought home Volkswaffle and practically booty-bumped two people and a cat in the hallway getting out to get himself one. Given that it was the only time he moved all day, I felt sort of proud of that.
Squish enjoyed Christmas–and is on a new medication regimen that seems to be working. I’m much relieved.
Chicken is looking for a new job because she’s unsure of her financial aid status right now, and Rubio’s is draining her soul.
And Mate… well, he’s sort of made me a basketball widow over the last two weeks. On the one hand, I can’t blame him because the Kings are SO BAD this year, he’s like, “It’s a train wreck, but it’s one I’m personally involved in and not only can I not look away, I want front row seats. I mean, I have to settle for what my season pass gives me, but still–if I’ve got the tickets I’m going to watch them self-destruct. It’s intoxicating. Like heroin.” I’ve got no words for that, really–but it does make my thing with yarn a lot easier to understand. I hope anyway. “It’s wool, and I just want to touch it. It’s intoxicating.”
Right?
Anyway–to get to the title of the post, we took the dogs to the dog park today, the one where they get to run around and play chase and act like dogs.
I was quite surprised, really.
I’m pleased to announce that after a couple of those weird alien stretches Ginger does–and one time of peeing and showing the world she was not assembled correctly and has some odd skeletal glitches–she ran around and barked and chased other dogs.
As Chicken told me, “You can do this when your feet or knees hurt and you can’t walk the dogs at the park.”
It was a nice thought–and I’ll keep it in mind. But remember Christmas? One of my gifts to myself was a pair of crocs. After giving myself fasciitis twice–once after Thanksgiving and once after Christmas Eve-I decided that I needed something on my feet if I was to spend the entire day cooking.
The Crocs arrived December 27th, and they may not change my life–but I’m impressed so far.
But if they don’t completely stave off the fasciitis flare ups, I’ve got to say it–�Crocs. Who knew.
