Early days in the marathon

Widow Dressing snarled at the little boy who came to the door selling cookies.

“Don’t want no cookies. Go away.” She slammed the door in his face. She didn’t even care that she could hear him wailing outside. She’d had more than she could take in the last couple of weeks, and she wasn’t going to take any more. Not off anybody. Or anything.

She had gotten her yarn boxes unpacked, and the boxes cut up into her now completely full to almost overflowing recycle bin at the curb. Squeezing in two bags of trash had even been possible in the bin the bloody damned city didn’t pick up last week. What the hells did those so-called Sanitifying Guild people do all week, anyway? Were they blind and stupid, or just one or the other?

It was nice to have a little space in the room and have her yarn back in its Place in the World, she had to admit that.

But her shoulder ached and burned (she was NOT going to try the water disaster like that) and she should not have tried to set up the new iconoprojector her son had sent her. It refused absolutely and utterly to connect to whatever her “network” was, even though she was not riding her first stinkin’ biting Shetland pony and was bloody damned positive she’d entered all the ridiculous information correctly.

But she told the “help people” (hollow laughter) to call her anyway… only to find out that her audioimp device had freaking died, and it never did that. So she said, in much saltier language, “Well, screw it,” and stopped.

It wouldn’t even let her connect to her own darned account with the people who made the bloody iconoprojector.

This did not make her feel one bit happier. She still was furious that she couldn’t get it set up, because she’d really been looking forward to doing something relaxing so she could knit tonight.

That was not going to happen.

Widow Dressing glared at all the boxes that surrounded her. She snapped at the empty kitchen cabinets–how was she supposed to figure out how to put anything in those, and where? (However, she had found her little Japanese saws, and mangled hells out of the top half of the nonfunctioning retainer clip, completely removing it, although it made no difference.)

Her shoulder hurt so badly she wanted to cry. Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. And despite having demolished a good 16 or so boxes today, she was deeply, deeply annoyed.

Well, she’d learned never to go to Cost-mo on a Sunday. And that fake trees were as dear as a university education no matter where you found them. And that her Santa Clara pottery had made it safely through the trip. She still needed to cut up a two-pound brick of Cost-mo cheese and put most of it in the freezer, but even if she left it sit ‘til morning the world wouldn’t end.

She was a seriously, seriously unhappy camper, largely thanks to the ghastly uncooperative iconoprojector, because those stinking things NEVER NEVER NEVER EVER EVER EVER worked for her. They refused to hook up, they told her things were wrong when they were not, they LIED, they were just horrible and she hated them all.

But her craft room was starting, slowly, to take shape. This would change radically in the next few days, but we’ll save that for later.

Floor space!
Stash to shop from!
She’d even found her fountain pen case and all had made the journey safely (though she hadn’t yet taken out all the bubble wrap to be sure).

She realized she actually didn’t have anything but the #(%&^%$##! iconoprojector to be pissed off about. Fortunately, she’d found and was wrapped up in her old, beat up, way-too-big but toasty cashmere sweater, so at least she was comfortable. She could find something to watch on her tiny screen, however unsatisfying it was.

Posted by wordsmith

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