Blog

Evidence of PMS? Every single damn word about that last post written just a few hours ago bugs the bajayzuz out of me. Except for the two plugs at the end. Romantic? Please. I don’t know from romance. I just want my pillow and my hot water bottle and QUIET.  I’m  waiting for a co-worker to bring me hot chocolate from Peet’s which might be the only thing that prevents me from chewing off the end of my headset and blaming it on wee tiny invisible mousies, thereby getting my ass taken posthaste up to John George, the local psych ward. Growl. Pillow. Chocolate. Rain. (Well, see, we’re back at romance and I’m ready to kick the mousies myself. If I could only see them.)

I feel romantic. Do you ever feel that way? I don’t mean all mushy-in-love, although that surely plays into it these days, but romantic like rain on the windows and candles lit and soft music and all that sappy stuff.

*Okay, now I’m at work. I started this earlier, when I was curled on the sofa, all tucked into the cushions, computer propped on my knees, the blinds open just enough so I could watch the lights of cars of the freeway driving through the almost-rain, nothing but white twinkle lights on in the living room…..

I tell you what, I’m not in that mood anymore. I’m still happy, but not all romantic about it.

But the reason I started telling you about it, is that I think my house has a good spirit. Not like a ghost er nothin’, ’cause that would freak the hell out of me, but there’s a certain vibe about the place that’s interesting. I’ve always listened to a lot of bluegrass, you know that. But in this place, especially when I’m in the clawfoot tub, I am drawn to listen to mostly swing and standards, old thirties and forties stuff, something I pretty much stopped listening to when I stopped singing it. It’s not like the house wants to hear it (again, free-eeky), but it’s what sounds best in the house.

And the creaks in the floor are friendly. I like the way the wind sounds at the door. It’s COLD, though, and heater guy still isn’t calling me back.

But it’s romantic.

(Hard to remember while I’m sitting here keeping myself awake in the wee sma’s.)

In other news, go say hello to Anj, who’s finally moved her LJ over to typepad (yay!), and be sure to welcome the fabulous Janine (who designs fairisle patterns like you would NOT believe) to the blogging fold. (She’s a Feral Knitter, you might know her from Ryan comment fame….)

I forgot to blog today. And I forgot to install the burglar alarm my folks and sister Christy got me for Christmas, totally forgot that we bought it last night, but I did remember to write, and I wrote for four hours, around the plumber coming and going. Now I have pipes that don’t leak and a whole lotta pages. And a purring cat next to me. (The plumber, by the way? Slow as molasses, but the biggest hit with the cats since the catnip mouse. They LOVED him. Very sweet.)

And now I have to go to work. Yawn.

Oh, it’s a sleepy day, isn’t it? It’s not helped by the fact that my new listening choices happen to be me-lll-oooow. I’ve got two new favorites playing: The Kings of Convenience and Keren Ann. Hoo boy. Run right out and buy ’em if you want to just hang out and dream, looking out at the rain. I’m just kinda sittin’ on the couch, pushing Digit’s head repeatedly away from my wireless card (oh, annoying), and staring out the window. I think there’s a plumber crawling around under the house working on my neighbor’s pipes, but I don’t want to know too much. I have my own plumber coming tomorrow (again) to work on the bathroom leak.

I was thinking this morning about how house-poor I am, and how happy I am to be that way. I was going to go buy paint for the living room, and then I totted up my finances in my head and realized I couldn’t justify the expense. I might need food in these next two weeks, and paint ain’t a good snack, I hear. But I was just glad I could come home where my DSL is paid for, where I have movies stacked on the TV, and I have enough yarn to get me through the poorest days. Really. I’m making Clapotis in yellow Horstia silk, and that’s from stash yarn. What I don’t need to do is buy more yarn. Especially yarn like this:

Okay. Well. That just kind of showed up. Fifteen minutes ago. I had honestly forgotten I’d ordered it, but isn’t it GORGEOUS? (All Ryan’s fault, and I’m sticking to that.)  That’s Lorna’s Laces Sport, two each of Child’s Play and Rainbow. I will have to guard them from Lala, now that she’s mastered the short-row heel.

We were brilliant last night and actually did something we talked about doing (I’m the master of saying, "What a GREAT idea!" when hit with great ideas, and then saying that repeatedly for years.) We cooked two dinners and separated them into plastic containers for the week to come. She was creative and made a potato/cauliflower curry with rice. I was more prosaic and layered jalapeno beans, fritos, cheese, sour cream, and enchilada sauce in a casserole dish. That’s so wrong that’s you can’t even call it Tex-Mex, but it tastes fab, I swear. We have food for DAYS, and that’s good because I’m hungry right now. Food will come in handy. She forgot to take her lunch today, which struck me as both tragic and funny. Poor little starved thing….

To eat. And to knit. You should, too.

I feel as though I should say something deeply introspective and wise on this, the eve of a new year. Something that will make you stop and think, make you sigh, make you wonder about the very fibers of our beings here on the planet we all share.

Well, damn. This last year’s been a doozy, huh?

How’s that? Really, it has been something else. The country’s gone all to hell and Canada gets more amazing by the minute, but my life’s been pretty damn great this year. I bought a home. I ran a marathon. I fell into big, big love. I got to meet about a million bloggers who are all, each one of ’em, as fabulous as you can imagine. I learned dogs are pretty damn cool. I wrote a lot. I got to spend time with my family, and all are healthy. My sisters remain incredibly cool.

So, what now? What does 2005 hold when 2004 kicked so much ass? I can only think of one thing: A book being freaking DONE. Not necessarily sold, because I know the realities of selling a novel in the Land of TiVo. But at least done and out there.

And you know what? Don’t yell at me, but I’m starting something new. I’m putting the novel I’ve been working on for two years aside for a little bit. I’ve been working it to death this last month, and it feels like a fair-isle sweater done on 10US needles. I’m fighting with its bulk, and it’s mocking me. And in my knitting, when I’m mocked, I put the obstinate wool away and start something else.

I don’t doubt I’ll finish the revisions on this one. I’m a finisher, something I’ve  learned about myself this year. I always pick the grumpy sweater back up (eventually) and make it into a garment. But me and the current book, we’re on the outs, and I have a light little book in mind that I’m going to try to bang out in short order, starting next week. The knitted socks of my writing life.

I only worry about myself when I’m not writing at all. I did a fair bit of that this year, feeling too discouraged by the novel to do much of anything else. But as long as I’m writing, I’ll allow myself to let this novel lie fallow a little longer. I’ve got one character in particular who’s balking and digging in her heels and refusing, flat-out refusing, to do anything she needs to do. We’re not on speaking terms. We need a time-out. And she can’t have ANY ice cream, either, for at least a couple of months. I’m cruel that way.

Do I sound like I’m justifying too much? I might be. I have some guilt over not powering through the damned thing. But I tried that, and my voice is going all stern and mean and just isn’t mine at all. I’ll try this other project and we’ll see where it goes.

Here’s to a magnificent 2005 for us all. I raise my virtual glass of fine cham-pan-ya in your general direction and thank you, for being my friends. (New year) MWAH!

Ankle is feeling better. It wasn’t a wicked sprain, it was just more of a strain, and embarrassing, to boot. Or to shoe, as the case may be.

Go read Em and Iris. Collectively, they got me off my ass to donate (and because I know my debit card by heart, that’s only figurative — I never even had to stand up). Go on, make a difference. Show ’em some Americans really do care. MWAH!