RIP Betty Williams, you were a remarkable woman. No mother-in-law jokes here; I was proud to be your daughter-in-law.

Petty, Trivial, Inconsequential

My birthday is September 11. For 44 years, that was a wondrous day, a magical day, a day I looked forward to each year (yes, even after I had passed 30 and 40). Now, and I know this is incredibly petty, I am angry that joy at my birthday celebration was taken away from me. I know it was awful for the New Yorkers and Washingtonians and Pennsylvanians who saw it unfold in person, and it's truly awful that so many thousands of people died, and it was scary for those of us who were even once- or twice-removed from the events (waiting for hours to finally hear that my brother and Mary were okay)... But my lasting memory of watching the news that morning was "my birthday will forever be ruined." Since 2001, every 9/11 I wake up, not thinking "oh boy, it's my birthday" like I used to, but "I hope they haven't done anything again."

This year, despite Bin Laden's death (or maybe because of it) , I am dreading even more turning on the news, for multiple reasons. One, 'they' may choose to do something again on the anniversary, something bigger, worse. And two, the news outlets are already going whole hog with memorials and remembrances. I know the people should be remembered and we should be thankful for the rescue workers who got the survivors out and we should never forget... but it's too soon for me to watch or listen to any of that. I don't know if I'll ever be ready - I still can't watch the Kennedy assassination film without crying, and I was 6 or 7 when that happened.

So, I'm left with feeling this feeling that I know is petty, trivial, inconsequential - that my birthday has been taken away from me. I know I should be bigger than that, better than that, light candles, say prayers, do something positive... but all I really want to do on September 11 is to stay in bed, and that makes me both sad and mad.

Enough? Not Hardly

This hangy-thing (which was designed to store shoes) holds enough sock yarn to make 36 pairs of socks. And that's only my non-Socks That Rock stash - the STR stash is in another 2 buckets and there's - hmmm - about 10 pairs-worth in them. Sock yarn is lovely and luscious and pretty and squishy and holds so much potential. I lurves me some sock yarn.

I think I should get another hangy-thingy for the other door in the room. Maybe that one could hold... mmm... lace-weight yarn? My alpaca yarn collection? Notions and knick-knacks? I got it - it could hold more sock yarn!

Irene, Hurricanes and Others

Hurricane Irene, my aunt Irene - both, forces of nature. Strong, gusty, a little wet at times; definitely something to be reckoned with. Key message: Don't ignore me.

I still miss her a lot, still catch myself thinking I need to call her or send her an email to tell her about something, even though the other side of my brain knows there's no one at that number or email address any more. As with mom, I know that time will eventually help that sensation fade away. Until then, those thoughts still surprise me when they crop up.

I now find myself thinking/wondering when the phone call from Ann will be the one where she says, "He didn't make it this time." It seems like every time we start breathing normally after the most recent hospitalization, thinking/hoping that will be it for a while, he goes back in, sometimes for the same thing, sometimes for something new. In the end, he's doing well, considering he got the raw end of bad heart genes. (And by "bad heart," I only mean the machine part of it; his true heart is the biggest and sweetest one I know.)

As for Hurricane Irene, don't ignore her. Take precautions, my friends and family; take precautions.

This is What Happens....

...when you're not really a farmer.

The difference between big, plump, juicy blackberries and small, dried-out, vinegary blackberries is apparently about 4 days.

The apple is one that jumped to its death sometime between yesterday and today, possibly assisted by a bird (or two) pecking at it. Of the four remaining apples, one has also been pecked and eaten already, leaving three to possibly attain adulthood.

Bummer.

On the plus side, it was a lovely day to enjoy the sunshine. I'm still not sure I like the totally bald look, but I like the rest of it!

Why I Don't Write Much

If you're gonna write, it's best to write about something compelling. If you can't write about something compelling, try to write something compelling about something else, even if the something else is nothing much. The best, though, is to write compellingly about something compelling. Writing compellingly about mundane things can work; writing mundanely about compelling things can even work. I, on the other hand, manage to write mundanely about mundane things. Not the best combo of the bunch.

D'oh

This:

(Becoming Art, Eos Fingering)

Was supposed to be this:



(Becoming art, Cielo Sport).

I was so excited to find the right colorway (Sunlit Amber) at Lisa's Becoming Art booth at Sock Summit, I grabbed the skein and didn't pay a lot of attention to the yarn base. Duh. The Oak Grove fingerless gloves call for the Cielo Sport base, I had picked up a fingering base. Right color, wrong yarn. D'oh!

Because she is lovely, when I emailed Lisa about my mix-up, she said all I'd need to do is send her back the Eos Fingering and she'll send me the Cielo Sport once she's dyed it.

Gotta love those kinds of indie dyers!

(Oh yes; yarn fumes indeed!!)