I am sick, I am not able to stay home and get well, and I am at the end of my patience.
None of this matters right now, though, because I have a whole half-hour for what ought to be lunch and I am going to spend it writing, instead. (Of course, the half-hour could be nullified with a single phone call from the boss, so I'd better write quickly.)
I'm keeping the contest open through the weekend and will announce a winner on Tuesday. Entries have been coming in at a quick clip, and I've been laughing a lot when I check the mail. I need the laughs this week, so thank you all more than you can imagine.
The prize, which I hope the winner will feel is actually a prize, will be an original drawing, newly created for the contest. (What did you think I was going to give away? A poncho?)
To keep sane (and also because it suddenly seems to be a part-time job) I've been drawing every night. I should be working on photographs, but I'm not set up to deal with Photoshop while lying in bed.
Most of what goes into my sketchbook doesn't show up on a shirt or even in the blog. It's really just doodling, although doodling in this case serves two purposes:
- It increases the fluidity and facility with which I draw, much as daily weight workouts give a bodybuilder the ability to lift more weight with greater ease. Unfortunately, drawing does nothing for the abs, or I could give this Web design s--t up and do porn for a living.
- It pulls new ideas out of what I will, for lack of a less pretentious term, call my subconscious. Half the time when the pen hits the paper, I don't really know what I'm going to draw. I just start making lines. And sometimes when I'm done I'm surprised by what's there. Sometimes it's good, and may turn into a finished cartoon. Sometimes, on the other hand, I consider running the paper through the shredder. Twice.
I have no idea where she came from. I thought I was drawing a sheep.
Judging from the date elsewhere on the page, I'd just sat through an interminable conference call at the end of which the only decision made was to schedule another meeting. I was clearly longing for greener pastures.
Before I really got to know a lot of knitters, I would have thought this to be an absurd idea. Now, I'm not so sure. There are probably four or five women reading my blog who have actually done this.
In case you can't read my scribble (I was on the subway) the caption reads, "little [sic] Intarsia's mother loved to knit." Weird. But maybe she could become the heroine of a series of children's books. Little Intarsia Goes to Rhinebeck. Little Intarsia's Very Special Christmas Sweater. Little Intarsia Meets Nancy Bush. Little Intarsia and the Case of the Wacky Ball-Winder.
She'd have to have spunk, like Eloise. An attitude. No way I'm drawing a whiny little twit like Caillou, or that namby-pamby Linnea who keeps mucking about in Monet's garden.
Oh God, I'm so crabby today. Sorry, folks. Nothing a weekend cuddling with C won't fix.
See you Monday. Kisses.