Late on a Sunday night

I should be sleeping, but I just finished one of those dreaded weeks on call, and this is the only time I have to play until next weekend.

So check this out.

Spindle spinning, one year ago.

Spindle spinning, six or so months ago.

And spindle spinning, now.

Progress is made.  I have yet to really try plying.  It’s enough to draft.  Sort of.

I participated in my first swap.  A lovely package came to me from the UK, and included such goodies as a catnip mouse for Harrison, and bits of sea glass from beaches in England. (Be still, my heart…I love sea glass!)  There was a journal, some pretty little stitch stitch markers, and a skein of yarn just the colors of the aforementioned sea glass.  Postcards, a bag…there was some really cool new music, some of it in Arabic…relaxing and peaceful to listen to…and a really great little ditty bag knit from Noro Kureyon.  Did I say I loved getting this package?  It was from AudreyM over on Ravelry.  Thank you, Miss Audrey!

Okay.  Now I really need to go to bed.

Oh.  If I was a comic book character, I guess this is who I’d be.

A bright, shiny New Year…I hope

20 days until the inauguration…5 months until my 50th birthday…5 months until my children graduate (on the same day, thank you) from their respective colleges….

So much to look forward to this year, yes?

I have every intention of purchasing that camera battery this week.  Every Intention.  Really.

In the meantime, here’s that cowl I mentioned last post.  Grape purple Manos del Uraguay, in a feather and fan pattern.

It’s hard to see, isn’t it.  Maybe this is better.

That’s a silly hairdo I have going on, but it’s New Year’s Day, I’m on call for work, and I’m just trying to lay low.  No expectations, no plans, just take the day as it comes.  Note I might better spend some time weaving in the ends of this cowl.

My brother.  I adore the guy.  I made him some wool/cashmere blend fingerless gloves for Christmas, in a simple 4×4 rib.  No, no pictures.  There was no time for photography.  I barely had time to wrap and send them.  Anyway, he has these gloves.  And today calls me and says, “they’re great, I love them, can I have a pair in black?”

You haven’t seen my cat in a while.  He’s here.

He seems to enjoy sleeping around my fiber.

Speaking of which, let’s end this New Year’s post with a little unintended humor, shall we?

Everything is terminal

I think this is an occupational hazard of hospice nursing.

Everything is terminal.

Add previously existing issues with depression/anxiety to a job that squarely faces the big ‘D’ every damned day, and it’s easy to see how I might arrive at my terminal state.

But how to fix it?

Years ago I slept as a means of escape.  And when I say I slept, I mean I slept.  Sometimes 12-15 hours a day.

The last few days I have that need to sleep.  I can’t look you in the eye.  I can’t really hear what you’re saying.  All I know is I want to be where it’s warm and safe and I don’t have to think.

I’ve been stumbling home after work, peeling off my clothes, and ducking into immediate, and deep, sleep.  I did it again this evening, sure that I was sick.  I woke up several hours later,  confusing incandescent light with sunlight, utterly convinced I’d missed a day, or maybe a week.

“What day is it?” I asked my boyfriend.

Quietly, so as not to upset him, I silently bumbled through a mini-mental status exam in my head.  Orientation?  Check.

I am being visited by my old friends, Mr. Fear and Dr. Dread.  My terminal condition is right around the corner.  I can feel it.

I want to find a cancer sniffing dog and let him go at it.  Find it.  Find what’s killing me.  I know it’s there.

I really hate living like this.  I live on the edge of despair most of the time.  It would be so easy to slip off the edge, and it takes all my energy to stay on solid ground and be “normal”.  I get so tired.

On a brighter note, I finished all the Xmas knitting.  All items were received reasonably well, so I am pleased.

I stopped at Yarn Boutique on the way to the hospital Friday, and picked up some rich purple Manos to make myself a feather and fan neck warmer.  I was craving something soft and comforting.

But knitting is not the same.  It’s hard to concentrate.

For someone who says she sleeps too much, what do you suppose I’m still doing up, at 2:07 AM?

48 hours

I’m still picture-less.  I am too cheap/lazy to go to Circuit City or wherever to buy a camera battery.  This is bad news for a blog.

But let’s look on the bright side, shall we?

Without pictures to share, my winter holiday/solstice/Xmas gifts will remain secret.  As they should.

So.

What have you been up to?

Me.  I’ve had a week of vacation.  That started out with the annual trek to Rhinebeck for the sheep and wool festival.  Following that was a 10 day period of fairly substantial let-down and depression.  As much as I love Rhinebeck, I hate when it’s over for another year.  Some people love Christmas.  I love Rhinebeck.  (And abhore Christmas, but that’s another post.)

I bought lots of good stuff, all from my pre-written list.  There was little opportunity to see anything outside my list, as I spent the day sprinting through the barns in hot pursuit of the listed items while my mother waited for me outside.  I was so glad to have her come, as I like having her around to sniff yarn with, but this year she had a hard time walking, and so spent most of her time watching the crowds.  She was rather generous with her time, I thought, so I got to do a few crazy things like wait in the line at The Fold for over an hour for Socks That Rock.  (Of which I procured three skeins of medium weight in very lucious colors.)

I’m glad I got the spindles I had wanted when I was at Hemlock, because I couldn’t get near the Bossies, and the Goldings were a pipe dream. Romney roving?  Forget it.  I grabbed the only silk hankies I saw without regard for color or condition.

You may interpret my tone as I describe this any way you like.  And if you decide that perhaps Purl was not so happy with the absolute hordes of people at Rhinebeck this year, you would be correct.

This used to be a cool way to spend a Saturday in October.  Sure.  It was always crowded.  But it wasn’t three and four and sometimes six people deep in the barns, waiting to see a vendor’s wares.  There was no pushing and shoving.  Or swearing just loud enough so the person with the oversize stroller was sure to hear. (No.  I did NOT do that.  But I overheard others.)

The folks who run the festival need to make a decision.  They are either going to be a festival for fiber lovers, or they’re going to be a county fair.  Pick one.  But they can’t do both.  For instance, they have to let those endless numbers of little kid activities go.  If I was the parent of a young one, no way would I bring my kid(s) to Rhinebeck.  Hell, I’d be petrified I’d lose them in the crowd.  I’d want to spend my time sniffing and petting and buying my way to the poorhouse.  I wouldn’t want to spend my time enduring the pleas for more crap to eat and the endless why-can’t-we-go-home-now wails.

As long as I’m on a roll, let me tell you about lunch.  My mother and I found a short line for turkey sandwiches and a bench to sit and eat.  Next to us was a family, which included two young children who kept trying to lure us into watching them screw around.

Now my mother and I are cut from the same cloth.  I grew up hearing, “children should be seen and not heard”, and trust me when I say I wholeheartedly embrace that philosophy.  (Ask my kids.)  I will never understand the philosophy of parenting that includes the notion that every single thing some child does is precious and worthy of praise.

So I’ll bet no one will be too surprised that I turned my back on these little kids, and hoped that by doing so, their attempts to lure me into noticing them would cease.  Leave me alone.

And for godssake’s, stop that whining.  And shrieking will get you nothing but a trip to the car. (Oh.  Wait.  These aren’t my kids.  That’s right.  Go ahead and shriek.  Daddy’ll buy you another ice cream cone to shut you up.)

The older I get, the less tolerant of children I become.  Grand motherhood should be a hoot, huh?

So anyway, I do the Rhinebeck thing, and visit with some family, which was pleasant enough.

I went back to work last Monday, but not without calling the Monroe County Jury Hotline first.  Indeed, I was the proud recipient of one of those red and white summons a couple of weeks back.  With a huge sigh of relief, I noted that my juror number was 36 numbers away from the cutoff.

Monday night, oh…maybe around 7 PM…I suddenly remembered I needed to call again.

They don’t call it a summons for nothing, folks.  I was summoned.  As in, get your tail down to our hall of justice, and pronto, on Tuesday morning.

So I went, and promptly got myself selected to sit on a jury.

Well, hey.  I thought, this isn’t bad.  I can take a break from talking about sad things like death and dying and whatnot.  It’ll be like a vacation!

Mais non, my little readers.  Mais, NON.

Jury duty consisted of a week of testimony regarding child sexual abuse.  Yeah.  Fun.

I think I’d rather have my chats about death and dying.  Anyway, we reached a verdict on 3 of the counts by late Friday afternoon, and were a hung jury on the last two counts.  Fortunately, the judge seemed to have recognized the utter mess the DA had made of the case, and was not surprised that we were hung (and utterly confused).  He declared a mistrial on those last two counts and let us go.

Hmmmm.  48 hours.  That was the title of this post, wasn’t it?

Less than 48 hours until the start of election day.  A week from today, even if the Republicans pull out all the stops and screw with another election, we should have a new President.

I want to dig myself a hole (after casting my vote, of course), and only unbury myself when it is over.

I am scared.

We are this close to having someone of unquestionable quality and vision take the office.  This close.

Want to know my election day fantasy?

A swiift and sure victory for Mr. Obama, of course.  And television coverage of that woman from Alaska being  escorted onto a plane. Because enough is enough.

John McCain, I wish you well.  I really do.  You’ve had an admirable career, and have much to be proud of.  But understand I cannot hire you to be my President.

There’s a new man in town.  I’ve had my eye on him since his speech at the Democratic convention in 2004.  I knew he was special then.  He’s the man I want to hire.

Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.

Hello, fellow prisoners

He’s really done gone and lost it now.

I respect his military experience, and have great empathy for the effects his years of captivity have no doubt had on his life.  But I can’t respect the politician.  Nope.  And now it looks like the strain of it all is really wearing him down.

Lots of knitting is being done.  I remain sans camera battery, however.  I need to buy one before Rhinebeck.  I’ll get pictures up here before long, I promise.

Rhinebeck!!!!  Just over a week, and I’ll be there.  It’s that thought that gets me through the week.  Yeah.  I’m on call again.

Blech.

Feel it move?

The universe.  The world.  Whatever existence we’re smack in the middle of.  It’s shifting.

Feel it?

It starts with the change of seasons.  One day it’s hot and muggy.  The tomato plants out back lilt under the oppressive heat.  Their fruit cracks open with over-ripeness.  Lightening streaks through the horizon after dark.  Bats (no lie here, folks, eight of the little devils came to visit us this season) lose their way and flap their way through my house, careening into walls and windows – everywhere but the open door.

The next day the wind blusters through the parking lot.  I drive to work and am momentarily confused at the sight of slight tints of orange in the trees.  The light – it’s different. Slanted.  Cold.  The moon is low and bright.  The lady next door puts a scarecrow out front and frames her door with orange lights.

Every day I go to work.  One day’s the same as the next.  I upload my patients’ charts, and catch up on troubles from the night before.  I finish yesterday’s notes, return phone calls.  I round on my patients, and in between times, meet with grieving families.  I speak with the dying, ask them about their pain and if they are afraid, and lay what I hope is a healing hand on their shoulder.  (Healing.  No, I don’t heal them back from death.  I hope to help them heal from this life, so they pass easier into the next.)

The last two weeks, though.  I can’t connect anymore.  It’s like I hear myself talk, but I might as well be selling vacuums or lipstick.  I’m not on the same level as my patients, or their families.  I recognize the signs.  I’m deep into self-preservation mode.  Feel the shift.

Tempers flare.  Gas prices rise.  For Sale signs clutter an old neighborhood.

The Democrats host a fantastic convention.  I feel hope for the first time in (literally) years.  Someone is speaking my language.  Someone has been listening!  There is kindness and compassion in the world.

The hurricane comes, and then the Republicans get their turn.  I watch in casual disregard; nothing interesting here.  Until.

The trump card is pulled.

And welcome to the world, Sarah Palin.  Woah, folks.  Better hold on tight.  We’re in for a ride now!

Who, besides, me, is old enough to remember the old Herbal Essences commercial from the ’70’s?  You know the one.  Pretty woman in a suit struts towards the camera, liberated by shampoo.  She shakes out her hair from a bun and yanks off her librarian glasses.  That’s the first time I saw Sarah Palin.

Yep.  It’s her.  The shampoo lady is at the podium.

All I can say is I’m afraid.  I’m very afraid.  The term “political refugee” is starting to sound normal, like a term I might someday have to use for myself.  The world is spinning out of control.

In what parallel universe does a grown man with (self-reported) integrity choose someone like Sarah Palin for a vice-Presidential running mate?  How will this person help me?  What has she said in the days since the announcement have offered me any hope?

Here we are.  Days later, and still we’re shifting.  Sarah’s face is trumpeted all over the popular media.

Oh, how she scares me.

Sarah Palin advocates a pro-life agenda. She has the right to choose what she believes in.

However, she does not have the right to smash her beliefs down my throat, or my daughter’s. Sarah Palin does not have the right to put my life at risk, and she most certainly does not have the right to put my sweet daughter’s life at risk, either.

What the pro-life folks forget is this. Women have always chosen. They chose well before Roe vs. Wade was decided, and they will continue to choose if it is overturned.

The difference is, women will have to become criminals to choose. They’ll have to put their own lives at serious risk to choose. (Is anyone out there old enough to remember an aunt, or maybe a friend, who became seriously ill, or even died, after an illegal abortion?)

This is what Sarah Palin and others are advocating for. They won’t be saving lives. They’ll be destroying even more of them.

Listen. I don’t like abortion, either. I can’t imagine anyone does. I worked for quite some time at Planned Parenthood, and never, ever, spent a night in the surgical clinic without grieving for the babies who’d never get to live.

But the alternative is worse. I made my peace with abortion a long time ago. People like Sarah Palin, and the folks who are pulling her strings, frighten me very much.

I can’t even begin to speak about the alleged censorship (pretty much a done deal, according to the New York Times), or the alleged abuses of power in Alaska (ditto to the Times).

How can fellow humans, fellow Americans, knowingly place their trust in this woman?  And her running mate (who, by the way, I had an iota of respect for, before this), since he clearly chose her for reasons that have nothing to do with “country first.”

Hold my hair while I vomit, would you?

Thanks.

Where’s my candidate in all this?  I understand that New York State is already as blue as blue can be, and Barack has no reason to spend a gazillion dollars campaigning up here.  But it would be nice to hear from him.  See him.  Get some reassurance that he’s not giving up on us.  We need him.

Someone has to help get the world on an even keel.  Someone has to reign in this madness.  He told me he would try.

I like to think the Democrats (all of them, even my friends, the Clintons) are composed and nonplussed, wherever they are.  They are waiting for the Republicans to finish slapping each other on the back, and waiting for Sarah to hang herself with her own rope.  Then they’ll be back, in full force.

To give me hope.

I’m headed to the Finger Lakes Fiber Festival this weekend.  Look for me.  I’ll be wearing this button.

(You can get yours, here.)

Gearing up for Rhinebeck

Maybe the title should read, “Purl’s list of greed”, or “How to piss away $500 in one afternoon.”  Either way, it would be accurate.

I am going to spread out the greed over two events, I think.  The Finger Lakes Sheep and Wool Festival is in Hemlock on September 20 and 21st.  I have already coerced a coworker into going with me to that one.  I am thrilled at this prospect, because A) it sort of looks like I have a friend, and B) I can buy a Bossie and maybe the Golding I lust after, thereby relieving the stress of finding them at Rhinebeck, along with everything else I want.  

(I want, I want, I want…to breathe in the autumn air…to see the leaves on a sunny afternoon…to wander around and pet soft, gentle creatures…to inhale the scent of the sheep barns (my mother, if she’s reading this, will likely being muttering, “that smells like sheep shit!”  I can’t help it; I love the smell, shit or not)…to get totally overwhelmed by color and sensation…and go home feeling simultaneously satisfied and wishing the day had lasted just a bit longer…to spend the evening pawing through my treasures, knowing they’ll bring me a whole year of happiness.)

Oh, yes, and the other rationale for spreading out the greed is that my mother will be none the wiser about the spindles I pick up at Hemlock. She already thinks I’m nuts; no sense in worsening that sentiment.

Here’s the spindle from Tom Golding that I’d like to purchase.  

I looked at it several times last year, but for some reason chose a plain ring spindle with an ebony whorl. Don’t get me wrong; I love the spindle I have.  

 

But I love the new tree spindle, too, and must have it.

Bosworth spindles are another breed.  I put myself on the waiting list for a Moosie.  I love, love, love the idea of a Moosie.  The antlers of moose that are either shed (do they shed their antlers?) or found on deceased animals found in the wild are carved into spindles. I believe the Bosworth’s when they assure me that no creatures whatsoever are harmed in their endeavor.   Rather, a naturally occurring thing of beauty is recycled into a useful tool.  I like to think the spirit of the moose lives on.  Anyway, this special spindle takes a long time to manifest itself.  First they have to wait for the right season to find the antlers to begin with.  Then it takes Jonathon a good bit of time to fashion the material into well balanced spindles.  So, my expected date of shipment is somewhere around May of 2009, which is really nice, as that is my birthday month, and I can rationalize nearly any purchase then.

Here.  I lifted the Bosworth’s photo of their moosie off the website.  I’m sure they won’t mind, particularly if I include the link to get your very own moosie.

My daughter returns to Oswego on Tuesday, so today we’re spending the day together, and I can’t wait.  We’re going to American Eagle so she can find some (more) jeans for school.  We’re going to Verizon so she can check out the new cell phones, because her contract is up for renewal.  We’re going to Sephora so we can play with all the goodies.  Then we’re going to see the sequel to The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and then we’re going to California Rollin for a sushi dinner.

Things I’ve finished since I posted last:

1) a washcloth.

Things I’m working on, still.

1) Blue/green Noro silk garden light clapotis.  (Dear lord, will it ever end?)

Things I started:

1) My so-called scarf

2) Assorted Solstice gifts which cannot be shared.

Hey, I’m really liking Joe Biden for VP.

I’m also liking this sentiment. Yeah.  

So there.

Standing on words alone

I still don’t have picture taking ability, due to my prematurely dead camera battery.  Photos taken with Photo Booth are okay for spontaneous LOOK AT THIS! sort of things, but not for sharing such subtleties as stitch definition, etc.

I just spun a few more yards of lush green corridale/romney blend.  To see the fiber, look at my title bar up on top.  (It’s not really a lush green fairy cave, you see.  It’s wool!)  Anyway, my singles are getting a little more even, and the drafting business is becoming clearer (I think).

This helps.

I hope embedding YouTube videos gives credit where credit is due.  That is most certainly NOT me doing that drafting.  It is someone who knows what they’re doing.  I just happen to be able to click with this clip, in that it makes sense to me and my hands.

I got my time off for Rhinebeck!  It’s still three months away, but with my vacation time now written in stone, I feel like I can really start thinking again about it.  I’ve started a wish list.

• a Bosworth spindle, most likely a midi
• That Golding spindle that looks like tree branches inside the whorl, with an owl sitting on the branch
• Fiber.  Duh.
• Enough yarn for a sweater, pattern as yet unchosen.
• More fiber.
• More yarn.
• Hand salve from Blackberry Hill Farms.  Look.  Here
• At least a look at the Socks That Rock, although I may not stand in line for something I can order, unencumbered, off the internet.  I like the stuff, just maybe not enough to get into groupie mode.
• If I could find the jasmine tea I bought a few years ago at Rhinebeck, that would be lovely.
• I think I’ll skip the chocolate dipped potato chips this year.

The little girl who grew up across the street from me when I was married also grew up, I guess.  She is a few years younger than my daughter (23). Evidently she had a baby and is living with her mother.  Friday night her baby, just a year old last Tuesday, accidently drowned in their swimming pool.

 

She was a sweet girl back when I knew her, and her mother was a really good mom.  We all had pools back then, but we managed to escape the horrible tragedy that she’s now living through.  I can’t begin to imagine her pain. You have your baby’s birthday party on Tuesday, and the following Tuesday is the baby’s funeral.    I can’t wrap my mind around it, and I’m a distant observer.  I feel so horribly for them all.

 

It’s humid.  Life in western New York often resembles life in the bottom of a simmering tea pot.  Constant moist, bubbling, heat.  It’s so humid the a/c can’t even cut the water out of the air.  Combine this with my own internal combustion system (thank you, middle age, and thank YOU, menopause), and I am a sticky, whiny mess.  I heard Primrose Oil helped. With the internal combustion.  Not the weather.                                                                                                                                                                         

I have this desire to reread the Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice.  It started last night at the bookstore when I was looking at the pile of ridiculously attractive vampire novels set up by the back door.  I was going to buy the first in the series, until I realized they were geared towards the high school set.  Now I’m all about exploring different genres of fiction, but I can’t bring myself to purchase books geared towards teens.  It’s bad enough I still sneak peaks at Glamour magazine now and then.  (I finally gave up on looking at Seventeen magazine when I was in my 30’s.)                                                                                                   

So anyway, I’ve got a taste for vampires today.  One of my favorite classes in college (first run through, in the ’70’s), was a Gothic Lit class, where we read Interview With A Vampire.  It had just been published.  I’ll never forget the professor.  Anne something or other.  She had long, black, witchy hair with gray streaks and floated around campus in a black academic robe that she wore like a vampire’s cloak.  But damn, she was cool.  She talked about vampires and angels (she was way ahead of her time) like they were real creatures who walked around with us every day.                                                                                                 

She was so authoritative.  ”Angels do not ‘graduate’,” she told us.  ”It’s not like a promotion from angel to archangel.  When you’re an angel, you’re an angel, you stay in your class.  You don’t move up.  And when we die, we don’t become angels.  We become dead.”  Oh, she was a hoot.  I can’t believe they gave out grades for that class.                                                                                                                                             

Look at this.  Nearly noon and I’ve done nothing but drink coffee and spin.

 

And now I’ve written to you.

Thoughts from a sidewalk cafe

Thursday afternoon.  75 degrees.  Sunny.  A little breeze.  No work.  A sidewalk cafe and jazz on the speakers. Is it possible to get any better than this?  

I have this list of things I wanted to do on vacation.  It is Day #4, and most of my list is done.  One of the things – spend the day at a cafe with my laptop and knitting.  Check.

I’m at Spin Cafe on Park Ave.  Most of you Rochesterians probably know the place.  Decent coffee, and the wireless is free.  

Knitting is the new socks from Apple Laine yarns — Apple Pie.  On size 0’s, the inch of 2×2 ribbing is a slow go, indeed.

I cleaned out my bureau drawers yesterday and found a Kitty Pi I had started several years ago.  I just have to finish another couple of rows around the rim and then felt it.  Voila.  A new bed for the man-cat, and another project jumps from the UFO bin and into the light.

There are three people sitting at the table next to me.  Two men and a woman.  They are all talking about their marriages, past and present, and their therapists.  Words I hear, caught in the breeze:  ”Abuse.”  ”Drinker.”  ”Apologetic.”  Also heard, “I just came from a meeting”, and “early recovery.”  Is it wrong that I think their coffee is paid for by their SS disability checks, earned after several letters from their respective psychiatrists, verifying the severity of their mental illnesses? And this is how they spend their days…chatting in coffee houses about their meds and shrink appointments, engaging in miniature therapy sessions among themselves?

It wasn’t too many years ago that I, fresh from the trauma of separation and divorce, and engaged in my own weekly visits with the psychiatrist (old man with prescription pad and little else of any use to me), spent many an unemployed hour in coffee houses (Okay.  Maybe not.  I spent my time in Perkins.) chatting it up with my fellow sufferers.

At least then I had some friends.  

I am one of those people who never learned the necessary skills of making friends.  It is beyond difficult.  It is nearly impossible.  Three young women just met on the street in front of me, all hugging and exclaiming to each other, acting like long lost sisters.  Sisters.  I think that’s a key word.  Sisters.  I don’t know how I can miss something I’ve never had for more than a couple of years at a time, but I miss the closeness of another woman friend.  Even if it’s just someone to laugh off a stupid-man-moment with.  Oh share the bittersweet days of mothering adult children who have little use for us anymore.  Or someone to reign me in when I want to shop until I drop, which is something I do because (I am keenly aware of this) I am longing for some kind of community, and where else to find it but at the local mall, where someone is always happy to see you?

So I have to work this out, somehow.  At the ripe old age of 49, and what could best be described as in the crone period of my life, how on earth to I teach myself the mechanics of making friends.

Suggestions, as always, are welcome.

Planned Obsolescence

The receipt says 8/18/07.  The warranty says the battery is not covered.

Isn’t that convenient…

Which just means I have no way of adding my usual high quality photographs to the blog.  I’m fairly certain the difference will be negligible.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed off.  What the hell?  They should make it clear at the outset that the actual cost of the camera will be retail plus the additional yearly cost of a replacement battery.  I know.  $29.00 is not likely to break my bank. It’s just the point of it that bothers me.

Pictures will be from my Mac, then. 

Noro Silk Garden Clap continues.  I know.  It’s boring me, too.

My pond scarf is morphing into some kind of hippy bag.  This was after I was planning a trip to the lake to find a piece of driftwood to make it into a wallhanging.  Now I’m thinking it’s just a mess and I should toss it in the closet.

I got some Apple Pie sock yarn (Apple Laine) from Spirit Works yesterday.  After I cleaned and sorted and exhausted myself with housework, a little treat at the yarn store seemed like a good idea.  You can’t see the colors, but they’re bluish-purples and golds.  

It’s HOT here.  I’m thinking that either an afternoon in an air conditioned coffee shop with my knitting, or a trip to the museum, are in order.  Another idea is a trek out to the Apple store to get a laptop sleeve for my Macbook.  Or I could stay home in the a/c and knit one.  

God, my life is boring.  I really need my camera back to ‘pretty’ things up and make me believe (and you) that I am not really so boring, after all.