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Keepin’ it small

Today is Sunday and I’m moving slowly and small-ly. Partly because of…

Don't be fooled: that is a razor-sharp nose.

…who has been living with us this week. A hairy brown peanut of cuddles and wags. But it hasn’t been all peaches and farts around here: on Wednesday night we were treated to three renditions plus encore of her rarely-heard HOWCK-SPLAT solo concerto for nauseated dog. As a result of far too little sleep, Thursday was spent sitting on the couch, comforting the still-delicate hound while staring into space. (I don’t know how parents of newborns survive. No wonder the economy’s in the shitter.)

And then last night one of the neighbours had some friends over for dinner: their departure, after this dog’s bedtime, outraged her so that she barked every thirty minutes or so all night. Not a long spree of barking, just an offended “brouf, brff, brff”, so that M and I were regularly updated on her annoyance level.

So: slightly sleep-deprived and in the company of an indignant hound, today I’ve been doing small things. Sometimes food bloggers go all out and make seven-layer meringue tarts with whipped beet filling, presented as a dinky little image of a recipe card and pictures that would make you weep with the futility of your own pathetic attempts. Not me. I made a salad.

Aforementioned salad.

I bought some pretty chillies and then tooled around with the macro setting:

The hotter the chilli, the closer to God.

I put all my weekend things on the couch and took a photo of them:

My life is so awesome.

And then I chilled. I hate being tired: it makes me cranky and sad. Yesterday (while very tired) I tried to figure out why, but didn’t really get anywhere. I did nudge up against the frightening thought that maybe the world is a crueller, colder place than I think, and I exert a lot of energy to keep up the facade so when I’m tired it crumbles CRUMBLES and I see the horror of the world for all it truly is. Totally bogus: my life rocks. But cut my sleep into a smattering of 20-minute chunks and suddenly it’s tears in the supermarket because I don’t know what flaxseeds are, not really. In light of this shift towards the “incredibly poor” end of the judgment spectrum, I’m slowly learning that tired days are days for cutting myself some slack: instead of trying to function normally, or even normal-ish, I give up and sit down. No shame there. You want shame? I got yer shame RIGHT HERE (by which I mean elsewhere).

There’s ratatouille in the oven, slowly baking in anticipation of hungry workers needing nourishment all week. (Me and M, that is, we’re the workers around here, not that bourgeois brown hound you see above.) Not pictured; mug of tea and five crackers with peanut butter and apple slices. There’s knitting and a Helen Garner book and a sooky brown dog. Look upon my couch, ye mighty, and despair.

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