Four Day Weekend
It was a fabulous day for me. Not only is my fourth day off, the U.S. Postal Service paid me a handsome visit. Three boxes of goodies came my way. Two were swaps, and the third was a RAOK from the wonderful Cheryl. Cheryl sent me four balls of Rowan Linen Drape and a pattern for a placement. Originally, had planned this as a good practice project for finer gauged yarn, however, there is no chance in Hades that I am going to waste this lovely fiber on a placemat. I live with three males; they will not appreciate it anyway. Much better if I give the Linen Drape the love it deserves and turn into something that I can wear.
Speaking of the boys in my house, there is nothing more terrifying to me than the sound of the afternoon bus. Perhaps if it were just the boys returning, and not a gaggle of teenaged testosterone, I would not be so rankled. What happened to doing your homework after school? What happened to going to your own home?
Even on the rare occasion that they arrive home without a small gang, I am still tortured. It is only a matter of minutes before I am serenaded by the doorbell and the telephone. Joe is not vexed by any of this as I am, however, Joe is seldom home in the immediate post-school hours as I am.
In spite of an unhealthy addiction to electronics, none of their friends are capable of phoning one time, leaving a message, and patiently awaiting a return call. This is the part where my compassion for and empathy with the witch in Hansel & Gretel is stoked. I often rely on the answering machine to relieve me of arduous task of answering the telephone, but none of the children will play along. They phone repeatedly, within a matter of minutes, and hang up when the machine (not a human) picks up. Frankly, I do not understand why children cannot be tried as adults.
The weekend was a blur of little events and good food. I bought a few books at the Enrico Fermi Library to keep my mind and tongue sharp with Italian. On the train back to Dutchess County, I cast on for my first sock. I tried this before, but I lacked the patience and dexterity required to whip dental floss into socks with toothpicks. This round, I opted for a more hardy yarn and the needles to work it.
Just outside of Croton-Harmon, I felt that I was getting a good rhythm going and that I could actually do this. At Peekskill, I realized that even if I could do this, I would have to do it a second time to product a mate. I stuffed the sock into my bag and pulled out the book Volevo i pantaloni.
Must run...it is the phone.
Speaking of the boys in my house, there is nothing more terrifying to me than the sound of the afternoon bus. Perhaps if it were just the boys returning, and not a gaggle of teenaged testosterone, I would not be so rankled. What happened to doing your homework after school? What happened to going to your own home?
Even on the rare occasion that they arrive home without a small gang, I am still tortured. It is only a matter of minutes before I am serenaded by the doorbell and the telephone. Joe is not vexed by any of this as I am, however, Joe is seldom home in the immediate post-school hours as I am.
In spite of an unhealthy addiction to electronics, none of their friends are capable of phoning one time, leaving a message, and patiently awaiting a return call. This is the part where my compassion for and empathy with the witch in Hansel & Gretel is stoked. I often rely on the answering machine to relieve me of arduous task of answering the telephone, but none of the children will play along. They phone repeatedly, within a matter of minutes, and hang up when the machine (not a human) picks up. Frankly, I do not understand why children cannot be tried as adults.
The weekend was a blur of little events and good food. I bought a few books at the Enrico Fermi Library to keep my mind and tongue sharp with Italian. On the train back to Dutchess County, I cast on for my first sock. I tried this before, but I lacked the patience and dexterity required to whip dental floss into socks with toothpicks. This round, I opted for a more hardy yarn and the needles to work it.
Just outside of Croton-Harmon, I felt that I was getting a good rhythm going and that I could actually do this. At Peekskill, I realized that even if I could do this, I would have to do it a second time to product a mate. I stuffed the sock into my bag and pulled out the book Volevo i pantaloni.
Must run...it is the phone.
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