Slips and confessions

Slips abounded this week. Sadly, they aren't as amusing as Mrs. Slipslop's unfortunate slip that ruined her virtue. (Yes, I've been sorting through books trying to decide what to keep. Since Joseph Andrews is available at the library, it will probably go. Operation Books Live on Bookshelves is a ruthless effort.)

The plucky, sassy, determined Ms. Lemon-Says took a spill from her attic to the floor below. Although I've never met her, we've swapped comments online since 2003. She crocheted beautiful clothes and dyed her own yarn before I ever considered using knitting needles and yarn. I look forward to seeing pictures of her children and hearing how her husband is doing. She's now undergoing a series of surgeries to repair a shatter pelvis and a broken elbow. She's resilient, has a wonderful support group, and has the promise of a full recovery. I want to send her all of the good wishes and hope that can be offered. She has a special place in my heart.

The yarn that needed to be plied slipped off of the bobbin with the help of my kitchen shears. It began innocently enough. When I started to ply the yarn, it stuck, snagged and was very resistant to my efforts. Edward Scissor Paws and his mentor, Miss Tangles with Paws, twirled between the bobbins and the wheel and dragged several yards of yarn across the room. Distracting with toys has worked in the past, but toys with feathers couldn't compete with wool from a real sheep (and probably the faint scent of genuine sheep poo). For the first time in their furry lives, I squirted them with water from a spray bottle and they acted as if they'd been burned by acid.

Next, the drive band on the wheel snapped, and I dissembled whole wheel apart before determining that the drive band would not go onto the wheel as a continuous loop. I snipped it, tied it and reassembled the wheel. A person with good sense and this level of frustration would not continue to spin at this point, but I did. Shortly thereafter I concluded that spinning was more about process than product and bid the Kool-Aid Border Leicester adieu. In the cold light of day, I can sincerely say that I do not miss it. Finishing every project is over-rated.

Slips abound. I'm off the caffeine wagon. At this very moment, I'm drinking an iced, white chocolate mocha from Starbucks. It is nearly impossible to feel penitent while sipping this concoction. The regret will not begin until I crash from the coffee high later this afternoon. Eric Clapton's Cocaine may or may not have been playing on the radio as I took my first sip. I know what I'm doing. Really.

Not even half-way through my year off from men, I'm struggling with that decision. It's hard. However, everyone from pop psychologists to Mom to good friends have recommended it. I have enough relationship judgement left to know that my perspective in the dating area is skewed after being dumped by my husband with a note that said he was leaving because he loved me. Sometimes the bitterness is all I can feel, and then other times the relief and forgiveness washes over me. A year would help me get perspective on Men and Relationships or even men and relationships. All of this leads to my confession: I've been watching Swingtown. Someone mentioned that the dialogue wasn't very good, and I was thinking, "What dialogue?" The beautiful people, seventies music, vintage clothes, and, um, cheap thrills are plentiful.