Wet and shitty morning
With sniper-like precision, Dinsdale, Monsieur Hair, has necessitated a trip to the vet when I am stone broke. A restful drive of 30 minutes of piteous mewing and cat panting and drivers in Seattle who always seem to be flummoxed by rain and Mommy wants a Valium. Dropped him off and they called me a bit later: it's not dire - a swollen anal sac, ew - but it involves a bunch of shit that involves money. Oh well. If anything really awful happened to Mr. Hands, I would be bereft, so I am thankful that it was just this, and thankful that I don't have an anal sac which could require draining at some point in my future.
Also, I sent my next Waggle Dance invitations out and immediately my core 'family' bailed. I will take this as the Bigger Picture showing me that I don't need a reliable warm cushion of love and acceptance, that it's time to graduate to cooler and perhaps higher climes. I decided when I initally conceived of the idea of a Salon/Workshop, that if it was just me, then I would just sing for me. The practice I'm putting in is really reaping results and I'm starting to get a little itchy for good sound systems, good lighting and beyond the lights, a sea of flint and potential sparkage.