This past week has been flush with bad news. First, I discovered that I had single-handedly RUINED an entire early season's harvest of Cecile Brunner tea roses by incorrectly packaging them. Into the incense box they go and not into tea or potpourri as intended. Cecile Brunner's are nice tea roses because they bloom intermittently throughout the summer, so all is not lost. All but that first flush of lovely sweet pink blooms.
Then we were called to pick the granite for the new house -- the actual slabs -- and while talking with the builder we foolishly inquired about the timeline for completion, thinking it would be sooner and not later. Well, it's later. Much later than we had ever anticipated. In fact, the news put me in a funk that I'm having a very difficult time pulling out of. I know this kind of thing takes time and that the timeline changes, but I never thought this would happen. In November we were assured move-in was going to be in April, at the latest May, then the rain came and that was pushed to late May, early June. Now they're saying late July to early August. Up until they told us that, I was driving past the house every evening on my way home from the farm. Since they told us that, I haven't been back. I just don't care to see how close the house is to completion only to be told it will be another eight to ten weeks. And most of these feelings are borne out of where I'm staying now. I can't get in any studio time. I can't locate all of the perfumery. I have nowhere to store things that I might buy to begin perfuming again. I'm in a rut.
And, of course, there's more. I foolishly read yet another poor review of Working the Bench (the first one, the one that ain't that great), and the reviewer was fair and brutal and stated something that was confusing. They said there was no index in the book and there is an index. I don't know where this person bought their copy, but they must have received an older, unrevised edition. Anyway, I don't know if I'm cut out for this anymore.