I have a mild cold. In some ways, this is worse than a full-blown Death By Cold Germ cold. Well. Actually, it is only worse in this one way, to wit: I don’t feel miserable enough to go curl up on the couch and sniffle mournfully to myself. I feel miserable enough to whine about it, and miserable enough to take Dayquil, and miserable enough to wish I was on the couch – but not miserable enough to actually abandon my post and do so.
Also, I need more coffee. Not ‘a coffee’, which involves frothy milk and other such nonsense. No. What I need right now, right immediately now, is a cup (pot) of good old fashioned brewed coffee. I’m thinking maybe some Cool Breeze Columbian from Boca Java. My coffee club is my last luxury-grocery holdout, and I’m holding onto it with all ten fingernails.
I don’t need it for my body, people – it is my soul which needs to be drinking in the heavenly aroma, the bitter resolve, the delicate blend of flavors, sweet and bitter and acidic and rich.
I need a cup of ambition, and I need it now.
I understand that other people don’t ‘get’ my coffee fixation. I accept that, in the same way that I accept (sort of) the fact that there are people in this world who think wine in general is “icky” and cabernet is “get thee behind me SATAN!” on the nasty-scale.
Which brings me to my yarn stash.
My stash has realized that there is hope – yea, verily! – there is hope given even unto the smallest, most forgotten skeins languishing in the box beneath the box beneath the Space Bags containing the remnant balls of wool. The ball heard from the skein that the hank heard someone say that I am not going to be buying any new yarn for a while, and…well…
It has begun talking to me.
That’s right. My yarn is possessed, and speaking in tongues only I, through the grace of the Woolly Spirit, am able to understand.
I have some Cascade 220 in deep purple that wants to be a Ragna (scroll down, it’s the sweater in orange). Although I have informed the C220 that a) there isn’t enough of it to make this sweater and b) it is the wrong weight for it, it insists that it would make a stunning Ragna and that besides, I’m totally going to want to hack a good 8” off the chest size, which surely would save the yardage of a skein or two. Go down a needle size or two, I’ll be PERFECT, it murmurs in sultry tones.
The kitchen cotton would like to remind me that there is no such thing as too many dish towels. Several balls of Knit Picks Palette in assorted colors claim that even though they aren’t machine washable, they would still make really sweet little baby outfits.
I couldn’t really hear what they were saying, what with there being several boxes and a few Space Bags stuffed with Merino Style on top of them and all, but I think the black alpaca skeins were putting in a vote for being made into a drapy shawl. Maybe the Snowdrop shawl. Like I said, it was hard to hear them.
And of course the aforementioned Merino Style has been slipping all kinds of magazine articles about the benefits of wearing good, warm hats and gloves everywhere one goes under my eyeballs. I keep putting away my Weekend Knits books, and somehow, mysteriously, it keeps ending up sitting on my desk.
It really is becoming rather childish, you know? I’m on to you, Merino Style! I’ll get to you when I get to you, and not a moment before!
Which brings me to children.
It has finally happened: Boo Bug lost her jacket. Her brand new jacket. The $50 jacket with the down lining and genuine faux fur that made her look like a little pink Eskimo. Her only “decent” jacket.
She lost it.
This, friends, was an especially good trick because she did not at any time leave the school premises. This is not school-school. This is daycare-school. It is small. It has two wee little playgrounds, contained within rather large fences. There are only six classrooms. The jacket does not have a whole lot of good hiding places, is what I’m getting at here.
And yet? Gone. Cannot be found. Was on her body when she walked in, could not be found when it was time for the body to walk out again.
The mind boggles. It truly does.
Also, I did not finish putting away the laundry yesterday (sheesh, less than two weeks into the new year, and already I’m slacking off) (but, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers was on last night, and…well…it was in Technicolor and…uh…well. I got distracted.), so I put the rest of it away today. Then I fixed the two rumpled shirts with a baleful gaze for a while before putting them away in the closet. I will refuse to acknowledge their existence until next Tuesday, because I do not feel like ironing right now.
In point of fact, what I feel like doing is this: Taking a shower, picking up the Denizens early so I can give the nine year old visitor somebody else to talk to for a while, and then curl up in my rocking chair with my Sock In Progress and watch the news from 5:00 to 7:00 and then serve up fish sticks and applesauce for dinner. After the reception my beef casserole got last night from them, it would be heralded as the Best Cooking Ever™ by the Denizens (and guest).
Kids. They wouldn’t know good food if it walked up and bit them.
Models of the Atom
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