We Have Liftoff: 2009 Begins
January 2, 2009
Well, happy new year to one and all. Only three days until school starts again! Never have I been such a fan of education for my children. Let’s just say that when Santa brought a new wah-wah pedal for somebody’s electric guitar, there has been so much “Stairway to Heaven” around here that I feel like I’m reliving Lori Greenbaum’s bat mitzvah party twelve times a day.
Still dragging down here a little, but hanging in there. We managed to dispense with the LEANING TREE OF DOOM on New Year’s Eve, and it felt like we were waving goodbye to the worst houseguest of all time. Just a terrible piece of holiday decor. David said he thought we’d picked the wrong tree. “Remember that first tree we liked? We should have stuck with that one.”
It did, however, not fall down, though I’m pretty sure it would have had extreme engineering measures not taken place. So, due to the screwed-up nature of the circumstances, there are two winners to the Leaning Tree of Doom ’08 Guessing Contest, selected by a random number generator. (By the way, FYI, we had 211 optimists guessing the tree would stand and 176 pessimists/realists/nihilists/schadenfreuders.)
Predicted It Would Fall Winner: Gail at December 16, 2008 02:47 PM: “It will fall on December 20 at 8:08 PM, because I will be partying so hard to celebrate turning the big 5-0 that you will feel it all the way 3 states away! (sorry to cause your tree to fall).”
Predicted It Would Stand Winner: chemgrrl at December 17, 2008 11:57 AM: “Your tree will not fall. It has achieved perfect balance with everything around it, and will thwart that persistent bitch we call gravity. Be steadfast and have courage, little tree! You are a ray of hope for sagging boobs everywhere.”
Gail and chemgrrl, please email me (link is in the sidebar) with your addresses! Yarn will be coming your way.
Out with the Old
One side effect of having two new cats in the house is that I spend a fair amount of time trying to locate them. They have really warmed up since their arrival two weeks ago, but they are constantly turning up in places like the second shelf of the linen closet which just about gave me a stroke yesterday. JesusGodCatDon’tDOThatToMe.
This is Kermit, the Loch Ness Monster cat. Rarely photographed. He’s figured out where the best afternoon sun location is, and he follows it the way a teenage girl shifts her beach chair. Kermit reminds me a lot of Kramer from Seinfeld: he makes terrible entrances, then freezes and acts like nothing just happened.
They’re great cats.
One search for Eliot led me deep into my creepy closet and took me up close and personal with a lot of miscellaneous piles of handknit swatches and old, misbegotten unfinished objects. In a fit of gumption I piled them all up and discovered that they towered over the cat and thus posed a safety hazard–all I need is to suffocate a cat with my knitting. I threw the whole mess into plastic bags–crappy, awful plastic bags–and stuck it all in the attic without a single bit of archival labeling or anything. It’s just up there, like Citizen Kane’s Rosebud or Indiana Jones’ Ark of the Covenant. I hope somebody finds it fifty years from now and wonders who ever thought a Fair Isle yoga mat cover was a good idea.
It left me feeling very tidy, very new yearish. I had in mind a post that Tara wrote recently about cleaning the slate off. And I thought about Clara Parkes’ massive stash sorting plan–here’s where she discusses the concept of the happy pile and the unhappy pile. Maybe a stash sort would be good for us all?
So Instantly Addictive
Once I launched my final Christmas present in the mail, I immediately reached for the Alice Starmore Donegal sweater that I began a while back. Now that it’s cold again, I’m all over this thing.
The yarn (discontinued Rowan Donegal Lambswool) is such a small collection of little balls–a bit of this and a bit of that, and before you know, it’s a sweater.
I’ve cranked about three inches in the past few days, started the sleeve steeks, and feel pleased about it all. It suits the season, this murky tweedy yarn.