About Me

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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!

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

“Wake me up at six,” he says.

The alarm has gone off three times. This last time, he turned it off and said that. To which I responded, “I’ll think about it.” At least that’s what I think I said. Between the snort and the chuckle and the coming up with a title for this morning’s post, the exchange has gotten a little fuzzy. This is because we are into Day Three of DST, and it takes me a good two or three weeks to make the adjustment.

We went to the empty nesters’ family home evening last night. It was a St. Patrick’s Day themed potluck, and the conversations were even more delicious than the food. We do this once a month in our ward, and I liked this one even more than last month’s.

You know those bugs that look like giant mosquitoes but are not? There are two of them flying about the desk (and my head), and I think they might be courting. One another, not me. Although apparently my head is as attractive to them as a streetlight is to moths. Where is that cat when I need him?

I opened three boxes before breakfast yesterday, and two or three more after we got home from FHE last night. I found my scrapbooks, and Beloved skimmed through them with me. [There was a distinct lack of reverence shown to my awesome scrapbooking skills. Scrapbooking, for me, was less about the photographs and more about papercraft and wordcraft. There are some very clever pages in there, and some of them show off the artistic skills I honed, making quilts. One of my friends at work has asked to see my scrapbooks. She will know all the right things to say, and he shows his esteem in other ways, so it all balances out. He’s not in trouble.]

I woke up after about three hours of sleep and slugged down some chocolate almond milk, then wandered into my studio and tackled the last three boxes, only to determine that they contained books, but no ball winder or umbrella swift. So I went into the middle bedroom, which will become our office, and prowled around in some of those boxes. Found my wedding dress. And a skirt which needs a little mending. And a handful of washcloths which no doubt came out of the clean pile that slid off the fallow side of the bed at the duplex, but which are now going into the wash and will join their cousins, neatly folded, atop one of the dressers in our bedroom until we rearrange a closet to accommodate the linens I have brought into the marriage.

I dumped a bunch of stuff atop the washer yesterday, then told Beloved before he went fishing, “Please don’t panic, or think it is a demand. But when you have time, the [white, never used] duvet cover needs to be washed so we can give it away, as well as the sheets that are bundled into a pillowcase. The quilt needs to be washed so it can go on top of your blue quilt and our room will look like my room.” He chuckled. And when we went to bed last night, the duvet cover and sheets were on top of his easy chair, waiting to be folded; the pink and rose and terra cotta quilt (the one I made when we lived in Fredericksburg) was in the dryer, and our new paisley sheets were in the washer. He also caught two catfish yesterday and worked in the garden.

He is the liveliest, allegedly-terminally-ill, person I know. Or can imagine. I have to gallop to keep up with him. And I love it.

I have nearly completed the second baby sock in this colorway. There have been three near-breaks or thin spots in the skein, necessitating breaking the yarn for real, splitting it into its plies, and weaving in the ends, since this is superwash and refuses to be spit-spliced (felted). Thankfully, these are socks for someone who will never put weight on the soles, so it does not matter if there are tiny thick spots here and there. But it is annoying. This is some of the yarn I bought last month in Farmersville, not a skein which has been marinating in my stash.

This is the part where I wake him up. He said, “OK,” but I don’t think he meant it. I may have to go make like the cat and pounce on him. Or maybe just fire up one of my AARP brain games with the obnoxious sound effects. But pouncing would be more fun!

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