Webmail doesn’t work worth a damn–half my messages aren’t sending. Speakeasy is appalling, and after days of lousy customer service and getting jerked around, then being told our only option was to shell out an absurd amount of money to have someone come out and fool with it, we cancelled our DSL order completely (the wrath of Ursula was inflicted on the deserving, so at least we aren’t paying any of the usual fees) and are going with a cable modem from Time-Warner. This is not at all what we wanted to do, for a lot of reasons, but we have no other real options if I ever want to be able to send e-mail again (and hence get work, and so forth, and get money, which is another thing to tense up about.)
I am blocked on the sculpture thing. I’ve got the stuff, I’ve got the idea, I’ve got the design sketches, and I’ve got nothin’. I sculpt a head, I stare at it, I squish it. Sculpt, stare, squish. Sculpt, stare, squish. I know that this is a sign for me to go do something else for a bit. Like most artists, knowing this does not cause me to do it. It’s not that we HAVE to suffer for our art, but we do it anyway out’ve bloody-minded stubbornness.
And to make life really fun, the cat’s anal glands are obviously stuffed up again, as I learned when I attempted to cuddle her and came away smelling like the fourth day of a three-day rain of fishes. Change shirt. Scrub hands to elbow. Sniff. Grimace. Rinse. Repeat. We need to switch her to a high fiber diet. Chronic anal gland problems are rare in cats, the vet told me, but I have Freak Cats, so I don’t know why I’m surprised.
I try not to get grumpy too often in my LJ–it’s probably not much fun to read–but dangit, I deserve a grump now and again, and James doesn’t deserve to have it inflicted entirely on him, so here we are.
On the bright side, mystery bird has been identified tentatively as a yellow-rumped warbler of the “myrtle warbler” type, and the one bird is definitely a Carolina wren. There is something inherently cheerful about Carolina wrens. They are perky. It must be the tail. Possibly if I had a tail like that, I would also be perky, and all this internet mojo would roll off my back. In the great cheeseball tradition, I should probably declare my new spirit animal the wombawren or the wronbat and channel the perkiness therein, but y’know.