Tsk, It's Monday Again

Well, we survived the weekend, THAT weekend, the move-all-the-furniture weekend, the all-new-carpeting weekend.  I've already carried in today's boxes from Durwood's van but one of them doesn't need emptying only putting in place.  (it's the writing file box that lives under my desk and holds the printer paper on top, not that a single file box will hold all my writing, good thing there's jump drives and hard drives, huh?)  I'm determined to only do a box or maybe two a day instead of killing myself trying to get it all done in one day.  It didn't take a day to pack and move it all so it doesn't need to take a day to put it all away, and who says it all has to come back into the house anyway?

Don't you hate it when you wake up to go potty only half an hour before your alarm goes off?  How can you go back to sleep after that?  It's really dark at 5:30 in the morning, actually it's still pretty darned dark right now.  And it'll only get worse before it gets better.  *sigh*

Friday I went to the grocery for some chicken wings (I seem to be addicted lately) and look what I found.  Seckle pears!  When I was a little girl my country grandparents had a little orchard and one of the trees produced what Grandma called "sugar" pears.  I loved them and couldn't wait until they were ripe.  I have a very clear memory of climbing up to sit on a branch so I could eat every pear within reach.  I also have an even clearer memory of the ensuing stomach ache, but seckle pear season makes me think of my wonderful Grandma A even more often than I already do.  I just don't try to eat a tree's worth at one sitting anymore.  That's what I call maturity.

At Friday Night Knitting FW gave me a pair of slippers she made for me in thanks for some needles and yarn I brought to share with the group.  She used some of the yarn I gave away that night too.  They're so warm and they fit perfectly.  I love them.  Thanks, FW!  (I think they look especially good on the new carpeting.)

October 27--Vincent van Gogh, Roses.  The white rose petals drifted in through the open window bringing their fragrance to mix with the lingering smell of gunpowder.  Lance lay on the floor, his hand outstretched as if to reach to pluck one of the blooms that massed on the trellis outside.  A few of the petals landed in the spreading pool of blood turning them deep red.  Erica had come in through the French doors with her gardening basket over her arm but all the woven wicker held was a small black pistol.  Without a word she leveled the gun in her gardening-gloved hand and shot Lance in the chest.  She replaced the pistol in the basket, turned, and left the way she had come.  When the police arrived they found her kneeling in the flower bed behind the carriage house planting a lilac bush in a freshly dug hole.

I'm so glad that I managed to be here in the morning today instead of late in the day like the last few days, probably because I don't have a pile of boxes staring at me or two men tearing out aged carpet or flopping around new carpet.  I've even gotten started making the week's lunches.  I am impressed with myself.  I think breakfast might be next, then a shower, dressing, and then it's off to work.  Oh, and I need to stop to feed the chickens since I have a big bag of veggie and fruit peels for them.  As if you care, but making this list helps me remember stuff.  I tell people that my brain used to be Velcro and now it's Teflon.  It used to be a joke but not anymore.  Seeyabye!
--Barbara