About Me

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Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Monday, July 07, 2008

She knits. She mutters. She knits some more.

While it gives me great satisfaction to have one wall organized in the living room, if I turn around and look at the opposite wall,

with the couch and the coffee table and the rocker and the two gorgeous chairs that I do not regret buying, even though I’m not sure where they should go,

and the TV and its stand, and half a dozen remaining boxes, I’m not sure what to do next. As of Saturday night the sofa table [which is too tall for the sofa] that I labored and procrastinated over for nine months, was serving as a room divider by the door.

So I started on my studio. I put the sofa table along this wall,

with my rolling carts high-centered over the bottom shelf. When I start unpacking the rest of the boxes in the studio, there is just enough room between the lower stacks of drawers to stack all my plastic shoe boxes full of craft supplies, where they won’t tump over. Woohoo!

And I put my filing cabinets between these windows, at least until I pay off and pick up that Scottish cupboard.

The closet in my studio needs to stay fairly empty until the nice men have gone up through it into the attic and put down the radiant barrier. I could store a lot of boxes in that closet, at least until I get the rest of the room organized. In the meantime I have stowed maybe a dozen boxes, so that the workers still have room to climb up through the trapdoor.

Thankfully, it doesn’t all have to be done right this very moment. But I made enough progress over the weekend that the unmade progress is starting to get to me. Finish-itis is a lovely thing in a knitting project. Not so much when it creeps into one’s struggles at housekeeping.

Middlest’s birthday is looming over me like Snoopy’s impression of a vulture over his dogfood dish, and I have no idea what to do for her. The move has consumed much of the past couple of months, and she ought to get something really fun, since she will be officially a quarter-century old on Bastille Day. Something small and not exorbitantly expensive to move, for when she comes back to Texas.

Another random housekeeping thought: it would be a good idea to take my under-bed storage boxes and tuck them under the fainting couch, where I used to keep them three apartments ago. Then I could hang my nice wool coat in my nice cedar closet and put the rest of my linens safely away.

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