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Even longer day.
Folks: do not smoke. Today, I TSP'd walls for a client that had smoked a year and a half ago for awhile. The wash-water was really vile. Ew. The walls will never be clean again (maybe under a few coats of paint, we're hoping).
Got my plants to my house.
My client gave me a fantastic yellow outfit from a random decade I can't place. Full, below-the-knee skirt and a little jacket-y thing with shoulderpads. Sounds terrible, looks great.
I notice when I'm really tired, I have a hard time going to sleep. I got home from plant-moving and dinner afterwards at 11:30 (home being catsitting) and I've been sitting here computering until... what? I fall over?
I think I'm a bit lonely. No one to go to bed with, not even rats. Tomorrow night there'll be a Devon the first half of the night, at the event, and a Juggler waiting bed, and the night after that there'll be my lovely babies.
Tonight, more Steinbeck letters. He says: I'd like to be friends with you, George, but I can't if I have to wear a mail shirt the whole time. I wish to God your unhappiness could find some other outlet. But I can't consider you a friend when out of every contact there comes some intentionally wounding thing.
There's only ever been one person I could mean that to, but man, it's dead on.
Now he's writing about the research he did for Grapes of Wrath, and the letters are heartbreaking.
Folks: do not smoke. Today, I TSP'd walls for a client that had smoked a year and a half ago for awhile. The wash-water was really vile. Ew. The walls will never be clean again (maybe under a few coats of paint, we're hoping).
Got my plants to my house.
My client gave me a fantastic yellow outfit from a random decade I can't place. Full, below-the-knee skirt and a little jacket-y thing with shoulderpads. Sounds terrible, looks great.
I notice when I'm really tired, I have a hard time going to sleep. I got home from plant-moving and dinner afterwards at 11:30 (home being catsitting) and I've been sitting here computering until... what? I fall over?
I think I'm a bit lonely. No one to go to bed with, not even rats. Tomorrow night there'll be a Devon the first half of the night, at the event, and a Juggler waiting bed, and the night after that there'll be my lovely babies.
Tonight, more Steinbeck letters. He says: I'd like to be friends with you, George, but I can't if I have to wear a mail shirt the whole time. I wish to God your unhappiness could find some other outlet. But I can't consider you a friend when out of every contact there comes some intentionally wounding thing.
There's only ever been one person I could mean that to, but man, it's dead on.
Now he's writing about the research he did for Grapes of Wrath, and the letters are heartbreaking.
