Today, people were supposed to come and take my mother's car away; I decided donating it to charity was much easier than trying to get it running and licensed here or towing it to Athens and getting it running and licensed there.
Funny thing, though --- the garage doors won't open. Because there's no electricity in about half of the house. So I've been sitting here, trapped (can't get my car out, either), waiting for an electrician to just work me into his schedule today. And I've done all the sorting I can do because there honestly isn't anywhere else to put the bags and boxes. I was going to make a Goodwill run today and empty out the library (not without a car. . .) The Got Junk? folks are supposed to be here tomorrow to empty out the garage, where I've stacked as many bags of trash as I can. See, the plan was to have Mama's car out of the way so they'd have lots more room to work. But unless I can get the doors open, I'll have t…
Is it still Tuesday? I got up at 3 AM, drove to Nashville, walked into my parents' house, and discovered mice. Everywhere. So I had to call an exterminator. Before I even set in on cleaning up and out a little. Which I've done on and off all day --- I've just about run out of places to put the trash. And you can't tell I've even been in any of these rooms.
I think this may be a job too big for me. So, then what do I do?
My musical life can be summed up in two words: Bee Gees.
I have a very clear, very distinct memory of sitting in an elementary school swing singing "I Started A Joke." I've known, listened to and been crazy for their music for that long.
Initially, Maurice was my favorite.
He was cute, naturally, but also really funny. I would, shallowly, decide which Bee Gees' album I wanted to buy by which cover Maurice looked best on.
Then, hormones kicked in, and, BAM, all my love went to Barry.
Still thought Maurice was a doll, but, hey. . .
I'm afraid I sort of took Robin for granted. Yes, his was the voice of that first song I remember singing, and he was Maurice's twin, but, well, someone in a group of three is going to come in third.
Maurice, heartbreakingly, died in 2003. I cried on and off for days. For over a week, Robin has been gravely ill after battling back from colon and liver cancer. Barry, apparently, has been at his bedside singing to him.
By all rights, I should be in Atlanta right now, knitting and shopping my way through Stitches South. Instead, I am home sick with some sort of beastly sinus/flu thing. Sore and clogged throat, stopped-up nose, headache, fever, arms that feel like dead weight. . .
I blame my son for getting me sick and his girlfriend for getting him sick.
Fin. ('Cause my arms are tired from typing just this much.)
If you've ever seen one of these: , you've probably also seen a comedy sketch in which one goes haywire and starts firing balls faster and faster at a poor, helpless, hapless soul who just wants a better backhand. Lately, life has been hurling things at me like a maniacal tennis ball machine. Fast, slow, curving, heavy, featherweight, aimed high, low and in between. All without me thinking my backhand even needed work. Or that I even needed my backhand anymore at all. When all those things are flying at you, you try to cover up the best you can. Or you at least try to make yourself a smaller target. Me, I'm curling up in bed and covering up with quilts. When the barrage is over, not just timing-out, I'll come out from under.
It is almost beyond my own ability to comprehend that I cannot seem to get to Nashville. There is no job keeping me here. The only thing I have on my calendar is therapy one day a week. And yet, every single time I think a chance has opened up, something else arises that means I either can't go at all, or could speed up and stay for maybe 2 days before I'd need to get back here. Briton has a show opening. Hannah wants to come home. Hannah has to come home for a doctor's appointment. Briton can't look after the animals because of work and rehearsal schedules. I am looking at the last week of April right now. But I have a sneaking suspicion that will turn into the week that Hannah finishes school and will need help moving back. I know, I know, all I need to do is put my foot down and say, "I'm going. Work out your stuff on your own." But it's hard to say that when you're a mom. And when the thought of going back to that house ties your stomach …
Got out and ran errands early this morning so that I could get back and watch The Masters coverage. I drove through Augusta on my way to Folly Beach; a beautiful place. I think I went through when all the flowers and shrubbery were at their blooming peak, as it has been so warm around here. It certainly looks more green than accented with bright colors on TV. (Some golfers appeal more than others.) Now knitting on 5 different things, as I have been assured a spot in a local artists' market in May. My request went in months ago, and I pretty much thought they'd decided against me when I never got a response back. Then, all of a sudden, I get an e-mail this week asking if I still wanted them to hold a place for me. Gotta get busy. Wrapped up A Prayer for Owen Meany a couple of days ago. Tearful ending, but a bit of a slog to get there. "J" is Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones. I can already tell it's going to fly by compared to its predecessor. No big plans for the we…
Doesn't Yoda look just darling in my Lacey ruffled scarf? A closer look at the color and ruffles: Today has been a relax on the couch, knit, read, watch movies sort of day. I never wanted for company, either --- Madeleine, Finn and Finn's Hound were particularly constant companions.
Briton's girlfriend and I (she has a name --- don't know why I don't use it) had all sorts of fun at the yarn shop. Technically, it's a yarn barn, but let's not split hairs.
I was taking her because she liked the scarf I made out of Berocco Ric-Rac while I was at the beach. She is chiefly a crocheter, and when I told her I finished in less than an hour, she wanted to try. Though I was tempted to buy more, this time I was drawn to Lacey. Same idea --- needle every other stitch or so, resulting in ruffles --- but there was lots (lots) more yards, and I have ended up with a scarf roughly 28 feet long. Not really, but long. Really long. Deliciously so.
After the yarn shop, we ate at a pasta place we both like a lot, then came back here, where we each worked on our ruffle scarves. She finished hers first, of course, and started crocheting a uterus for to send to her congressman. Briton said she was pretty nervous, as this was the first time she and I had s…