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.

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.

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.

I miss you…

Dear Blog,

I know you feel neglected and unloved.  The fact that I have caused you this pain hurts me greatly, too.

I have no excuses, other than life has gotten away from me.

1. The boyfriend is all moved back in.  Sometimes it’s hard to take time away from playing house with him to make time to blog. 
2. There was a little issue of a cancer scare in the family that had my mind occupied for several weeks.  Join me in screeching from the rooftops, would you?  ”Benign!  Benign!  BENIGN!!!!”
3. My internal furnace (hormones and hot flashes, oh my!) coupled with the humidity of summer in western New York make the fondling of wool rather unappealing.  Hence, there has been limited activity in the knitting/spinning departments.

However.  

I miss you.  I do.  

I’ll be back.  I’ll be better.  I promise.

Lame

While I’d like to be the type of blogger who posts regularly, so as not to disappoint the readership; I’m afraid I am quite lame in that department.

Though it could also be argued that one has to actually have a readership in order for anyone to be disappointed that there are no new posts.

So it’s the chicken vs. the egg, isn’t it?

I don’t post because I have no readers.  I have no readers because I don’t post.  

Whatever.  I have bigger fish to fry beyond overthinking this one.

Knitting Projects:

 

• Noro Silk Garden Lite Clapotis in blues and greens.
• Socks That Rock in Tinklit (a Raven colorway) socks.  Soon to be frogged, because I’ve proven to myself that I can indeed knit lace socks, and they are too big.
• Schaefer Laurel Clapotis in reds and greens.  

In the past few weeks I’ve planted a garden.  The tomato plants have grown twice their original size already.  

Tomatoes.  Such a shocking word.

We used to be afraid of terrorists.  Now we have been instructed to fear tomatoes.

It just never ends, does it.