It’s been a tough week. I’m a machine down and my right knee isn’t working. So I’ve been working on that small blue and white moonlight piece with moths and fireflies. Which means lots of fireflies and tiny moths.

But my week didn’t really top the charts. I have a friend having a triple bypass next week. I know she’s scared out of her mind. I also know I’m too far away to do very much. So I’m making her a Dammit Doll.

Her friend suggested I make clothes for her. It’s a nice thought, but I’m not really a sewer. And it will cost more than buying clothes. I told her friend that I had gone to the Omar the Tentmaker school of fashion design. My speciallty at moments like this is something silly.

I don’t care how much your doctors care, and how kind the staff is. Surgery sucks. Seriously. So there will inevitably be alot to be upset about. All that energy has to go somewhere. So you can take your Dammit Doll, wack it on any surface near by and speak the time honored chant: “Dammit, Dammit, Dammit.” Those of us with a more Shakesperian eduction may be able to elaborate on that.

It’s true. The feelings need to go somewhere. There’re not a lot of ways to express that in the hospital. It’s adrenaline from being surgically attacked and the inabilty to move for the same reason. It shakes down badly without a way to express it all.

I’d say I could use one myself, but it’s enough to make them. And they need silly hair which is half the fun. I’ve made two so that her caretaker can have one as well.

In the end you have to blame someone and there’s no one to blame. So it’s San Andrea’s fault and a place to dump all the anger, fear, and pain that goes with surgery. An act of serious silliness.