- Four 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!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
They were looking a little depressed...
My thanks to SuburbanCorrespondent for virtually reminding me to put them out on the curb [kerb, for you British types] on Tuesday. No, not all of them; we have extras because of the remodeling on the other half of the duplex, or maybe they are canoodling when I am asleep. Every time I turn around there seems to be another one. When I moved in, there were four: two for trash and two for recycling. Now there are six or seven. They probably sing doo-wop under the crepe myrtles while I am at work.
Three of them are/were lying on their sides because the old front doors, which you can just barely see if you look between the two leftmost ones, blew over in a gust of wind on Sunday afternoon. I just left them as is until it was time to roll mine out to the curb, figuring that they certainly couldn’t fall any farther.
Another good article on Meridian.
@Francis: If you mean the pictures I took of my neighborhood, no, not the Eastside, but the Cultural District, more specifically what Trainman familiarly calls “The Heights,” because he used to live a few blocks from here.
@Tan: Guinness makes stout, which is a dark, chewy sort of beer.
I popped a nail and [temporarily, at least] sent it into the umpteenth dimension. It happened while I was sitting at switchboard, because there was this jounce and then roughness where the acrylic was gone. I crawled under the desk and felt around for it, but there must have been a lurking alien who captured it and transported it to the mother ship for scientific research. If you suddenly see a whole bunch of feisty middle-aged women who look like me, you’ll know why.
Usually when this happens, I am able to find the missing nail and plausibly attach it to my finger with a clear band-aid until I can get to the Nail Dude’s. I was afraid that I would have to gimp along with one naked nail until Saturday, because I have no evening free until then. But a second search under the desk brought up two chunks of petrified chocolate muffin and the fugitive nail. So I was able to do my Redneck Manicure, and life goes on.
I took a good look at the red sock when I sat down on the train yesterday morning, and I realized that my gauge had gone all loosey-goosey. So I frogged it back to within a couple of rows of the end of the toe increases, and I started over, and I am much, much happier with it.
When I got home from Relief Society, some kind soul had put my empty bins back alongside the house. Bless your heart, whoever you are, and not in the Southern sense.