1. I am so overcommitted, I should be committed. All of this was backed into, one at a time. I was aware of the implications of each task, but as it came along, it was either irresistable or unrefuseable.
2. I am constantly doing stuff, but I'm not really doing stuff I want to do when I want to do it. Knitting? Not so much. Spinning? Only for commitments/tasks. Weaving? Almost none. The winding of the warp goes slowly.
3. Thanksgiving is almost here. Can anyone who is reading this actually believe this?? I didn't think about it, and didn't think about it, and suddenly I HAD TO THINK ABOUT IT. The lists are made, the shopping has begun, the cleaning has commenced.
4. Why is everyone asking me if I want to move to Buffalo? Would anyone in their correct mind want seven feet of snow other than on a mountain that they are visiting? It was amusing, nonetheless.
5. I am getting a new refrigerator. The people who are in charge of selling/fitting it to the existing space/delivering it are from another planet. They wanted to deliver it the day before Thanksgiving. I can guess why they had open delivery slots that day. What do I do with the turkey while they cart the old refrigerator away, and get the new one up to (down to?) temperature? And why do they treat me as if I am unreasonable when I say no?
6. I am still without pointy wooden interchangeable needle thoughts. This bothers me more than it should.
7. I have too many magazine and journal subscriptoins. I cannot keep up. I have eliminated several, and it is still a fail.
Bluish grey, slate, black. Subtle colors, with a black weft, and I will see what will be. Mr. Etherknitter keeps reminding me it is a utility warp. Ms. New England Yankee wants nothing to be wasted, and wants a useable product out of the warp that ties up the loom for the first time.
The new weather word last winter was polar vortex. It clamped its chilly fists around our throats in January, and refused to let go.
April came, then May. Flowers bloomed. Gardens flourished. In June, we flew to Chicago.
I have made this trip many dozens of times over the years. Never have I seen this view. The plane made its approach to the runway, but there was no city, and there was no runway. The city showed dramatic evidence of a few iconic buildings, and that was all. The final scene of the Planet of Apes came to mind. I pulled out my camera, *click*click*click*.
The news the next day reported a final swat of polar vortex that had created the inversion. Then it was gone.
Carole's Ten on Tuesday is 10 musicians you would bring back from the dead.
1. Janis Joplin: Oh LORD won't you buy me a Mercedes Benzzzzzz.
2. Freddy Mercurey: Completely missed him the first time around. Had something to do with studying and passing exams. Terry C linked to the LiveAid performance. Ohhhhhhhh. Please bring him back.
3. Beethoven: Even stone cold deaf, he was one for the ages. I am glad that human culture agrees, and has preserved what he did.
4. Jim Morrison: Another one gone too soon. So much genius, and such a stunning bass.
5. Mozart: Oh man, infectious disease was a bitch. Such happy music.
6. Louis Armstrong: For my husband. And now me. That rasp.
7. Laura Nyro: Of all the mid 20th century female troubadours, she was the best.
8. Leonard Bernstein: More genius. Not taken early, but still.
9,10,11. The three members of the Outlaws band that are gone.. The remaining two aren't enough. They were even better in person. Rock on. This might be the genesis of my current abiding love for HomeFreeVocalBand.
There are times, more often than I would like to admit, when Armand is the one thing between me and terminal entropy. Exercise sessions with him can be the one finger in the dike of slothdom and inactivity.
I had him take pictures of me using those damn effective TRX bands. Love the Bosu exercise, but would modify some of the shoulder ones in the video for rotator cuff kindness.
And in other exercise news, I have started rowing again to practice for the Concept2 Holiday Challenge.
An epidemic of cold sheep is infecting some knitters. A Ravelry discussion in FOAY (Friends of Abby's Yarn) centered on how many bins people had filled.
Historically, I have resisted quantifying such things, which probably means I should. Some fleeces are in boxes. That technically keeps the bin count down. Estimation becomes a slope that defeats the effort of counting/keeping score.
I now know how many bins I have. I am not telling.
Cold sheep would take a great deal of the joy out of my fiber life. One could make the argument that if I need to buy things for the fiber joy to stay intact, then it isn't about the fiber. It is about retail therapy, which is an entirely different problem.
So let us call it chilly sheep.
1. Yarn purchases (starting now) need to be project driven. The project is now, and the yarn will be used to start that project.
2. The yarn (or fiber) has to be very interesting/very special/very unique if it is purchased without a project in mind.
3. These limits do not apply to classes, equipment, or supplies for those classes.
4. These limits do not apply to books that contain patterns, drafts, or educational material.
5. I will sell one wheel this year.
6. The only fleece I will buy this year is Zita from Whitefish Bay. If Zita is not available, I will not buy a fleece this year.
7. All fiber purchases will be governed by the one in/one out rule. My fiber stash will be either neutral or negative at the end of 2015. (NB Batt making does not diminish the fiber stash until the batt is spun.)
All purchases will be recorded in a notebook for independent assessment by the judges. (Lynn?)
Found today, driving to a colleague's retirement party, past woods, past newly revealed stones in the autumnal landscape --
Sometimes, I really wish I could find out what the builder was thinking.
Last night was the first hard freeze. The morning brought crisp air. Scarves, mittens, hats suddenly have become important.
The inevitable question today: is it late fall or early winter? I waited for his answer. (My opinion would sway his assessment.)
Indeed, it is late fall. There are still signs of life in the landscape. The chipmunks have not disappeared into torpor. Juncos have arrived, but not many. Leaves still show color and still hold to the trees.
We had to slow, then stop for the cavalcade of 25-30 turkeys crossing the road. They looked worried. Some hurried, some didn't. The guy (or old girl) with the beard brought up the rear. The flock reminded me of skiers who cross avalanche terrain one by one, carefully, so that if disaster strikes, not all will die.
Traffic on both sides came to halt. Nobody laid into their horns. The turks did what they do, and then so did we.