This morning I got out of bed, went into the bathroom and opened the window to see what the weather was like. As I was hit with the blast of arctic air so cold it froze my nose up instantly I couldn’t help but think. “Oh shit, it’s going to be a multiple sock day.”
Living in Ohio takes fortitude, we all know this. You must put up with the people, the farms, the blisteringly hot summers, and the freezing cold winters. I know all this and do my best to deal with all this. However, when we got from a teasingly warm few days, wearing shorts while running warm, to wondering what on earth we all did to have the weather this cold, that I can’t stand.
I talk about the weather a lot though. It fascinates me in a way I haven’t been engrossed since I started stealing my mother’s romance novels. (I learned a lot from those books.) Still though, I’m sure that you probably have lost interest. Unless of course you live in Ohio, and then you are, like myself, utterly beguiled by this.
Last night at knitting, a woman gave me a couple of bags of fiber that she had declared that she wasn’t going to spin. Now, my wheel has been broken since spring, but she didn’t take this as a hint that I shouldn’t be collecting fiber. She gives me some stuff, which was very kind of her, and I put it in my friend’s car. When I got home, I grabbed it out of her backseat, said my goodbyes and got out. I took it upstairs, and lo and behold, I was one bag short. She’d given me two and I only had one. I looked around and then just figured I’d left it in Tracy’s backseat. Not a big deal. I then went outside to pee (leave me alone, it was dark out) and there was a bag of fiber. Only it wasn’t there. Yesterday was terribly windy, and as I left the house, it had started to take off. My neighbors were going to have an Alpaca lawn!
In my stocking feet I take off running across the sopping wet driveway and yard. I’m pulling fiber out of mud puddles and chasing down the ever dwindling bag. Thank god that my neighbors already think I’m crazier than a soup sandwich. I’m shrieking as I do this, I don’t know why, so all the dogs within a ten-mile radius start barking as I chase down fiber through the neighborhood.
I think I got most of it.
My mother is down stairs making apple dumplings. Long time readers will recall the deep-seated loathing that I have for these things. They are a pain in the ass to make, I don’t like them that much, and think that they really are much more trouble than they are worth, sort of like rice pudding. And not to mention that any time she makes them I end up finishing them. I don’t know how this happens. She somehow eagerly starts them, then has a melt down over pie crust or something (rightly so) and then runs out of the kitchen crying. I just in and piece a piece of falling apart dough over a wet apple as best I can, get it all going right, and then by the grace of god she feels better in time to triumphantly take them out of the oven. This is another bone of contention in the spine of resentment.
The real kicker is when she says, “I made apple dumplings . . . Oh, and Garret helped a little.”
I made the biggest mistake of my life when I learned how to make those damn things. I wonder what sadist invented those thing and what on earth was done to him for it.