Happy to share
From Books Inc last Thursday to literally, knitterally, books inc: they increased.
There is a monthly Friends of the Library sale and the Monday after there is often a books giveaway to clear out the leftovers. Notice is posted on freecycle.org.
I hadn’t seen those notices in awhile. Were they waiting for the time change and more daylight? I have no idea.
I forwarded it to our ward’s chat list, and lo and behold: the daddy and daughter who were just inside the door last night receiving chocolate torte were just inside door #2 tonight at the former high school as I came in through it. They were quite happy to have heard about this. They were just on their way out and glad to get a chance to say thank you on the spot.
Bring boxes and bags, the notice had said.
No need, thought I, I’m only going to get one or two books, max, I can certainly handle that in my knitting bag.
One twist in that plan was the staff person who was disappointed that a handful was all I was taking: the thing was about to end and please, she pleaded, couldn’t I take more? There are some good ones here if you’d like cooking. Knitting? Crafts, right here.
They don’t say it, but from what I understand the majority of never-claimed books end up in the landfill. One can understand a bibliophile’s plea that they be rescued.
The books vs cane was–well, I didn’t hit anyone all those times I dropped them–and I put the first batch in my car and dove back in. Hardcover James Herriott! Wallace Stegner–still here! And I got there after people were loading up full pickup loads on my way in. A photographic expedition of a river in West Virginia that Debbie would surely love to have (it’s yours, Debbie). Another by someone who boated down the Merrimack River, which runs behind our old neighborhood, and the writing seems to be good enough to spend more time on.
The second trip to the car made it seventeen books and at six minutes to closing, arms aching, I decided I’d better give it a rest.
There will be more Cooking With Fruit happening around here shortly, no doubt.
The Maine idea?
Friday February 28th 2014, 11:42 pm
Filed under: Non-Knitting
Anybody else own these? Anybody else with any experience who can weigh in? Or know anybody?
It’s not just the fact that the bottoms are white, which is a new thing to me. And one would notice that part more because of that. They do come a little far forward from the rest of the shoe compared to my other Birks and I’m afraid of tripping over them–so far, I’ve only tried them on so I don’t know.
I bought them via Amazon and Amazon directly and not a third-party seller; I noted that the promise on their page of free returns vanished after I’d placed the order. Huh. Note to self: save a screenshot. Who knew I would need to.
The price was $107 off so clearly they were someone else’s return, and I don’t mind because they seem to be the real thing and brand new. (Not to mention the price jumped right back to retail after they arrived.) But after trying them on, I went Googling for images to see if mine were an anomaly? After a quick glance, they don’t seem to be.
They’re growing on me–I do need a pair of closed-heel shoes, unlike all my other Birkenstocks, and these will do quite nicely. And they do need to be Birkenstocks: the shaping across the bottom of the foot steadies my shaky balance.
It’s just–I’ve never had a pair of shoes before with buck teeth.
Batteries, part two
While the second peach tree blooms merrily…
The doorbell rang and I didn’t even have to sign for the box as I saw the FedEx guy on his way back to his truck. I opened the door and yelled, ‘Thank you!” and he called back over his shoulder a cheerful, “You’re welcome!”
We got the first exploded battery out of the scooter’s case two days ago, but the second was well wedged in there. We put on rubber gloves to avoid any leaking anything and pulled. And pulled again, putting our whole bodies into the effort to get those things apart. Released and reassessed. Carefully avoiding damaging the case, kind of holding our breath, he gave it another try thisaway while I said a silent prayer and I imagine he did too but whatever, about a minute later it came free from the case and the industrial-strength velcro holding it tight. Nothing broken and neither of us ricocheting into the walls.
He connected up the new batteries and I screwed the case back together and plugged the thing in.
About an hour later, Richard said to give it a try.
It’s too soon, isn’t it?
Just try turning it on. What color is the indicator?
Well, from this angle it’s green, from that it’s yellow.
Nada. Dead. I unplugged the thing and brought the case back over to him.
“Oh wait,” I suddenly said, turning back around and disentangling cords, not having realized that someone had put a second one on the scooter at some point probably thinking it went with it, “It helps if you plug in the right one.” But I had no idea now which one had been and which hadn’t. (Edited to add later, of course we had had the right one plugged in–that indicator had been on.)
Richard unscrewed the case again–no small job–and tested the batteries, but one being dead didn’t mean anything if it wasn’t ever charged up to begin with.
It is plugged in again, only this time we’re sure it really is plugged in. Putting the key in gets you zero on the indicator still. Waiting, hoping hard…
If nothing else, the local Fry’s Electronics has a pair of lead-acids in the right size. Hopefully not expired. So there is at least a backup plan.
(Update: zero volts, one, 13.3 on the other.)
Watched Olympics at Michelle’s tonight till late.
And somehow in the course of the evening discovered that my Iphone 4s had
as in 0
Nada. Everybody has packed up and gone home. No idea why. Every address, every phone number, every email addy, poof. I’m hoping we can recover the info at Verizon on Monday but we won’t know till then. Has anyone else ever had this happen?
And–and this is definitely not being typed in order of importance but it’s late and I’m too tired to edit… My mom’s big brother, my Uncle David passed away yesterday, and the mathematician in him I imagine would have loved the 02142014 of the date as he slipped quietly into the beyond, well loved.
This old house
A whole lot of living packed into one day. You see that picture? It did not rain today.
Diana was my excuse to make split pea soup, thick in veggies and ham and warm goodness for lunch on a bitterly cold day. She came by with her square and to get the scarf, since the two squares that were to come to her place didn’t arrive in the mail till after she got home so we couldn’t put all three on together after all. It’s okay, she’s got them now and is sending the scarf right out to the next group of knitters in the morning.
We had a great time. We hadn’t seen each other in far too long. We vowed not to let that kind of time lapse happen again. She raved over the soup, over walking into the house with the smell of it cooking, over sharing a good meal with us (Richard’s on vacation.) For me it was a rare treat too because I can only eat small quantities of it at a time; it’s not a low-fiber food, and to have her enjoy it so much and to get to enjoy her so much added so much to my day.
Then she had an appointment at 2:00 and I had one to go visit Don.
Don gives his thanks for all the well wishes sent his way. He loves to tell a good story as much as the next blogger and was a little discouraged that it made him breathless for a moment to talk very long. Been there… I understand…but he did manage to tell me more about his beloved late Amalie. I hope I didn’t stay too long, but we were both very glad I’d come. And I gotta tell you, he looked a whole lot more chipper than his roommate. He’s trying to get it set up so that he can read his email where he’s staying. He’s a trooper.
Coming home, cleaning up a bit, I went outside a moment to toss something in the recycling bin–and did a doubletake. Wait–when did it rain? I know water pools on the flat part of the roof, but. Richard? Did a pipe burst? (It was 29, five degrees warmer than Anchorage, Alaska and on its way down when we went to bed last night. And yet we forgot to leave the kitchen tap dripping. You always, always…)
He groaned. He got up and went out there (brrr) and looked–and came back in and said, Call a plumber. Try Joe and see if he does that kind of work, but, call a plumber.
And of course it was 5:04, ie officially after hours now but oh well. We had a full-blown waterfall at the downspout.
Joe didn’t pick up right away, the next guy was swamped, the next guy was, too–but he threw me for a millisecond by saying something about our solar re those pipes.
I was delighted, and then so was he. This was a guy who came out for a job for me maybe as long as two years ago, where his equipment wasn’t quite long enough to help me so he refused to charge me for coming out. Even though he’d given me valuable, helpful information along the way. So I knitted a hat and mailed it off to the address I found for his business. He chuckled when I exclaimed that he remembered us just from seeing our phone number show up!? Cool.
And finally we got someone we’d never hired before but who–give him a minute to call right back–yes, he could come right out. (I could just picture him explaining to his kids that it would be bonus Christmas money if they didn’t mind his being late for dinner, and people needed his help.)
Very nice guy, very thorough as he checked for possible second leaks in the dark and the wet and the cold with his headlamp and flashlight. He mentioned that the people who had installed the water lines (this would be the same ones as did the heating work Joe just replaced) had not done a good job of it.
Were we surprised? Still, though, we’re the ones who forgot to let the tap drip during the freeze, so, hey.
And then I went off to Purlescence. Where I got to meet Carrie of Alpenglow Yarn, owner of a small mill. I loved that her Big Fat ball bands tell you the names of the individual alpacas, and Paul Cezanne and Mozart? My dad’s influence and my mom’s. Perfect.
And. Always another and. I finally remembered to run in the ends and drop off the long-awaiting hat at the Halos of Hope box for chemo caps for those in underserved areas. The yarn had come from a swap at the shop: freely given, freely given back.
The funky design? I could just picture a newly bald someone missing the familiar feel of the bounce of her ponytail at the back of her head, so I braided the last of the yarn in the ball, braided the braids, and ran the ends in by sewing the braids together for good measure.
Cezanne and Mozart will help me knit another soft warm hat.
I think, hopefully, tomorrow will be a day for simply putting my feet up, sitting still, eating a bit of leftover soup, catching my breath, needing no contractors however nice people they may be…and knitting. Got that big deadline coming up, y’know? *collapse*
I gained a greater appreciation for the phrase “it dawned on me,” after I woke up with the light this morning with the clarity of the thought.
That there is even more to the story of the bank teller.
In September I had together in front of me three checks as I filled out the deposit slip to take to that credit union. Two small, one big, this amount, this amount, and this amount, all nicely tallied and ready to just hand over, done. I delivered these in person.
I didn’t notice for days that my deposit receipt had not included just over a thousand dollars in the expected total–and in disbelief, I went looking everywhere, checking various places and accounts, and found that somehow I had dropped that one big check on the desk and it had been left home; there it was. All innocent-like. I was mystified as to how that could have happened and just kicked myself for not noticing that the one at the bottom of the pile had been left behind.
But I was coming down with the flu by that point and a second trip over there wasn’t happening. I could tell you stories on our mail service, but that alone tells you all you need to hear about that.
Family came from out of town, airline tickets already paid for, staying at our aunt’s because I was still sick. (And surely the added carbon monoxide from turning up the heat while I was didn’t help–this was before the space heaters. I’m so glad the in-laws didn’t stay here, now that we know.)
During those weeks, at some point the thing got moved to a safe place so I could get to it when I got better and of course it became instantly lost.
It plainly needed to be here–the big check, specifically–till that new teller got that job so that I would have sufficient incentive to drive over there again for just the one and so would go have that conversation. And perhaps so that she herself would by that point have the information she needed on her friend to do what she needed to do with what she learned from me.
It was never all about the money. But there was no way to know that till later. And with my visual memory damage that I know that I have and know that I have to work around, I almost missed seeing the hugeness of the blessing and how it came to be, in my ordinary frustration with my own shortcomings.
Fiji or not Fiji
I’m debating typing this. I don’t want to sound like I’m patting myself on the back. But then, actually, it started with what seemed for a long time like a mistake on my part, and more of one as I held doggedly on to it.
I saw a jacket–on sale, a very good price, lined and good and warm. And it was a deep blue teal, just subdued enough, the short-shearling-type lining a slightly greener teal and lining the hood, too. Gorgeous. I seriously coveted it. It was too big for me, but my daughter needed a jacket and there you go, decorating a daughter is even better than decorating yourself and so I bought it.
She, however, was a teenager at the time and the kiss of death at that age is to have your mother go bonkers over an article of clothing she expects you to wear. (Hey, I did it to my mom, too, I get it.) She did humor me enough to try it on once and as far as I remember that was that.
Both girls are a lot taller than I am, and no matter how much I liked it, the sleeves especially were just ridiculous on me.
And yet over the years as various things have come and gone, that jacket has stayed right there in that closet, with me unwilling to let it go. I gave a coat to a shelter, knowing it was much needed. The jacket, though, for whatever unfathomable reason, stayed. Out of sheer stubbornness. Or something. Someone had to like it as much as I did, darnit.
For the last few weeks, I’ve thought, y’know, I really should take that to church (but kept simply forgetting it, good intentions or no good intentions)…
…Instead, finally, that part of church that I kept thinking about came here.
We got a phone call in the middle of all-the-everything that’s been the furnace stuff: making sure that we remembered that on the monthly calendar we had signed up to serve dinner to the Mormon sister missionaries tonight. We had utterly forgotten. Had it been just one more day, had we known when we signed up, we could have had the whole house nice and warm for them, but oh well.
One of them is from the States and one of them is from Fiji. I had some very good coconut-curry sauce (thank you Costco) unopened in the fridge and hey, cook some raw shrimp in that, a few minutes stirring on the stove, done. To make the beautiful young woman with the slightly English accent feel at home, and she was ecstatic. (That wasn’t the only dish, but it was the most successful one.)
Richard had pulled one of the space heaters into the dining area as we’d sat down to eat and we’d explained about the no furnace. Between it and the cooking, though, we had it reasonably comfortable in there.
We visited awhile, and at the end, I asked her: I had this jacket. It’s been cold. She was from a warm climate. She was taller than I; would she be willing to try it on and see if she liked it?
Her face lit up in surprise and hope and I ran and got it.
It fit! She LOVED it. “It’s *warm*!” (And boy did I relate to that sense of endless cold right now with having had to open windows to air the carbon monoxide out and all that.) She loved everything about it as much as I had, and just kind of danced around a moment in it holding it tight to her for sheer joy, the other sister missionary as happy for her as anyone could ever have asked for.
Turns out my instincts had been right–our tropical friend had been shivering and I should have done this long since, way back at the start of the cold, but at least here we now finally were. She had been going to go take the hit on her funds at long last (and I can’t imagine what that would have been for her at American prices) and just go and buy a jacket tomorrow. Tomorrow.
And now she didn’t have to. This was everything she needed. It fit. And she loved it.
It had been waiting for her for a long time.
I saw Joe walking past the door and I apologized to my parents on the phone, who said no, no, go talk to Joe, and as I hung up I opened it.
Joe. You saved our lives. And I told him about my headaches and their rarity (and Richard had them too), about the spike in the red blood cells that had made no sense to the doctor till I told her, how she’d confirmed that absolutely, yes, we had carbon monoxide poisoning.
I said, You came right away to give us that quote and you wanted to start right the next day. Even if I couldn’t afford to pay you all of it that soon. You insisted we needed to get right to it, and you did. You saved our lives.
He looked like he might suddenly burst into tears and turned with a quiet, Let me go check on that unit.
And he checked on that unit. He opened it up and got a really good look all throughout it. Burn burn burn in there, there, and there. Rust rust rust. Metal parts that should be solid moving easily (he took a video). Now we knew what the black stuff appearing out of the vent in the living room too high for me to reach was: the thing was burning mad and it blew a gasket. Totally gone. He showed how the carbon monoxide had come to be specifically directed towards and pushed down the vents instead of dissipating outside.
There’s no way to make that thing safe, is there, I asked. But it was not a question. Those pictures were the mechanical equivalent of my colonoscopy five years ago.
He thought out loud things he could maybe do, not wanting to pile on our costs, knowing how tight things were…
But your conscience wouldn’t let you do that.
It was not a question: it was me verbalizing his face.
No. No, he nodded, agreeing fully. It just… It isn’t…
We were both thinking out loud, word by slow word.
Then, let me talk to Richard to confirm, but I know what he’ll say (and he did). We replace it. It’s the right thing to do. We knew we would probably have to. Don’t worry, it’s okay, Joe, and thank you for worrying about us. But we need to do it, so, we need to do it. We’ll make it work somehow on the money end. (I wrote a chapter in a manuscript as the footsteps tromped around above my head earlier. It’s something, at least.)
So since we can’t take down three trees and part of the fence before Monday to make way for Joe’s lift, and given the tilt of the driveway, there will soon be a crane in front of our house. Parker would be in absolute heaven if only he could watch it in person. We’ll have to take a video.
I stood there stunned
So this was nothing like that.
Except in the ways that it was.
After two winters of paying obscene heating bills, knowing that to replace the damaged ductwork on the roof would cost us a minimum of $6k (hah! I wish!), as I was paying a utility bill I told Richard what the next one would be. And the next.
The next day, he bought the first of our two space heaters after resisting them for so long for fear of fire hazard. We set it up near the thermostat to blow across our bedroom at night and turned the furnace, which had been set to 66, to where it simply wouldn’t come on at all with that thing near it. But we didn’t quite turn it off.
And the headaches I’d been waking up with every single morning went pretty much away. I’m not someone who gets headaches but very rarely. It was such a strange thing. I’ve had no energy, but I ascribed that to having recently had the flu.
Joe and his crew came today. Eight thousand dollars (so far) and there will be no new flooring before the grandchildren come, I’m afraid, but two space heaters alone does not cut it with a toddler and a by-then crawling baby around; when it came down to it, we had to have honestly working central heat again. Ours seemed to just blow cool air, never warm–better than what was outside, but.
They had about half the ductwork ripped off the roof when the city’s recycling truck came by–hey, that works! Metal is metal, you guys want this? And so they loaded it on, there you go, everybody wins.
The first contractor had left nice shiny metal ductwork up there, years ago, and the birds (we heard the woodpeckers going at it) saw either a mate or a competitor, don’t know which, but they left many many holes in it. We hired someone to fix that; he wrapped it up, ignoring the holes, oblivious to the fact that it was full of rainwater inside and that the HVAC unit now had to heat that water to get anything to us. Thus the thousand-dollar heating bills that were just killing us.
But when the crew got all that stuff down from there, Joe inspected the now-disconnected furnace.
He came down from the roof, sobered, and knocked on the door. He showed me the pictures on his phone. This is what’s there. This is the rust. This is what it means.
I stared at him, speechless; it took me a moment to explain to him, in a voice that surprised me at how small it sounded, why that hit so close to home.
It had been blowing carbon monoxide through our vents.
My doctor said this evening that yes this explained the abnormally high red blood count two weeks ago, absolutely. Richard’s still not sure; after all, the alarm in the kitchen was still plugged in. But we don’t know how much was venting or where.
And last time this happened my CO count was way higher than his. It just was. I always assumed because of the pregnancy, though I wonder now. (I have been grateful all her life for Michelle’s good health…) But then, come to think of it, at least re this time, I’m in the house all day and he’s not.
My head is directly below one of the registers as we sleep. We had only had the furnace on at night. For Richard, a headache is an ordinary thing but for me, not at all. We did have a CO alarm at the far end of the bedroom–and I went and checked it after Joe left: it had been knocked ajar from the outlet it was plugged into, no way to know when. We’d had no idea.
My sweet husband two weeks ago went from no, I’m never getting a space heater, to, sure, dear, it still worries me but I’ll get you one. And a few days later, the second for the other end of the house.
It is November, we’ve had night temps in the low 40’s and even below, and not once have we turned the furnace on all the way to see if it could actually make the house feel warm. We’d talked about it, how it might be a good way to test to see if this was when we really did finally have to call Joe, but somehow it just felt like…don’t…don’t even want it on…
Lo these many years ago we were all hospitalized with carbon monoxide poisoning from a coal-burning stove in New Hampshire, and these headaches had reminded me of that only not nearly so bad–but to the point that I had said something out loud to Richard about it reminding me of back then, and of asking a firefighter friend at Kathryn’s party Saturday about some of the calls he’d been on. It seemed pure hyperbole to my own ears to even make the connection; after all, that time I had fainted not from lack of oxygen (as far as I knew at the time) but simply from pain beyond what my body was willing to stay conscious through. I woke up when I hit the floor but couldn’t really get off it.
This one was just a nasty headache. It made it hard to sleep, too. (Just like… Oh wait…)
Suddenly the pain of paying for Joe’s work doesn’t seem so much of one.
Get an alarm if you don’t have one. Check it. Be safe.
(Edited to add, the doctor says it should take about three weeks to work its way out of our systems.)
A blank slate
So I have a question to toss out there. I need the voices of experience.
When I was growing up, there was a rock quarry a half mile down the road that had been in operation since colonial days; we had a flagstone entryway, a great place for scraping the mud off your shoes–oh oops, sorry, Mom. I love love love floors like that. Solid and of the earth.
We have 20 year old vinyl flooring in the kitchen and halls and bathrooms, and it has definitely seen better days. So we’ve been looking. The house is a California ranch built on a slab.
One salesman told me his Linkwerks stuff was far better than plain vinyl; wears longer, is thicker, is in essence padded compared to, say, a stone floor. He says.
Given that I’m someone damaged in both bones and balance and I fall.
But the materials cost is almost as much as some stone ones, so why bother? And I don’t want to repeat the disappointments of what I had: the vinyl had a lot go wrong quickly, and the tile entryway cracked in a small earthquake.
I liked some of the slate floors I saw online–some have smooth surfaces, some, irregular, but Saturday’s salesman told me that regardless, slate absolutely wouldn’t do around a grandson who will be crawling in a few months, that it chips and flakes and the little one could skin his knee.
Yeah, I wouldn’t have wanted to crawl on my folks’ old entryway for the hardness, but then at my age I wouldn’t really want to crawl on much of anything; I don’t know if he was just trying to upsell me?
One reviewer on Yelp said to beware of cheap granites vs good ones, without answering the question that immediately raises: how can you tell?
So my question is, what do you have that you’ve been happy with?
(Edited to add: our water table is too high to make wood work.)
The doorbell rang: a friend of Michelle’s I didn’t recognize and whose name I tried really really hard to get her to say loud enough for me to hear, since I was the only one home just then, offering up a blooming pot of narcissus in condolences. It was very sweet of her. Darned if I know who she was.
I remember the last time I had to be in real weather in winter, I felt very Californian because the only shoes I owned that had a closed heel were sneakers. (Other than the Wookie horsehair shearling-inside mukluks someone once gave me, but never mind.) So there I was in Birkenstock clogs, flipping snow at the backs of my quickly-freezing-wet legs as I walked.
Wookies are great for Halloween night as I hand out candy, funerals, not so much.
Young professional daughter to the rescue, Chan to the rescue by having given me a heads-up about a site to check out, and though they weren’t perfect, a new pair of size 6.5 EE-width leather boots in a price I could fathom right now was actually found. (A good time of year to be looking, too.)Â Not flats, which I need, but at an inch and a quarter, close; we’ll see in express-shipping time if they fit, and if they don’t I will actually have to be dragged out shoe shopping, trying to find that one physical store among the millions of people in the Bay Area that has what I want in a size I can wear. Just a plain, classic, comfortable, no-frills pair of black leather boots. Hopefully they’re already coming.
That backup pair in that picture is motivation if nothing else. Family photographs will be taken. Um.
Jeff and Brady
Part 1. Turns out my daughter has her own Piano Guy friend. He had no insurance and was saving his money to pay for the surgery he knew he needed but the stroke beat him to it. At 30.Â Sam blogged a link to the effort to raise money for Jeff’s medical expenses and I’m passing it along.
Any amount is an emotional as well as a financial support and makes a difference. Thank you.
(Edited to add.)
Part 2. Later in the day I read that there is a surge of interest and donations to the Brady Campaign, with politicians and others coming through their doors who perhaps would not have been seen there before, asking what can we do to help? On Brady’s site, they decry the official NRA argument of it’s all guns vs no guns, setting forth proposed limits that most NRA members would find very reasonable.That we have had in the past. But to go on with no changes, now, even after Newtown…
Again, out came my credit card. My token amount was a small but present voice among the many.
I hit submit.
It took me very much by surprise how fiercely the feelings came, instantly. I had owned my voice. I had used my voice. I knew then that I will use it again. Our children and grandchildren need our every voice, and when they needed me I too was there for them, is the only way I can put into words how strongly good it felt: more powerful than, as Superman says, a speeding… Yes.
Wednesday December 19th 2012, 11:14 am
Filed under: Non-Knitting
My blog vanished last night.Â Blank white only for any page and we had no idea why. I googled while Richard spent hours on it, and half the posts listed seemed to have been replaced with spam–which is pretty self-defeating if you can’t click on anything.
And here it is up again as if there’d been no problem, all 2232 posts that had gone poof, my very-nearly-daily journal of over six years back up again, my written record for my grandson and future grandchildren; my grandmother wrote her autobiography when I was ten and I treasure it and managed to find a copy online for each of my kids a few years ago.
Googling just now, most of the spammed results are gone. All but one. I’m on it.
And so I am reminded and nudged that hard copies are wonderful things.
Tuesday September 25th 2012, 11:29 pm
Filed under: Non-Knitting
I told DebbieR I couldn’t remember the name of the type of wordplay that this belonged to, only that my mom had given me such a round of applause over it when I was a teenager that I actually remember what I came up with: I dropped the toothpaste, she said Crestfallenly.
Debbie sent me this link with examples like, That’s the last time I’ll stick my arm in a lion’s mouth, the lion tamer said off-handedly.
Okay, let me give it a try.
We need to call security! he said guardedly.
What are you doing, Captain–do you think you can just barge in like that? Wow (turning to the others) canoe believe it? (Turning back) Shape up and ship out!
I like the way you cut and colored your hair! she said in clipped tones.
I don’t like what you did to that window, he said in great fenestration.
Lemme decide where to plant that peach tree, she plotted.
It’s fruitless to try to make sense out of a toddler; they mango their words.
I think the stove is leaking! he gasped.
That’s not the fridge I want, she told the salesman coldly.
With this Hunger Games thing going on and the demand and prices going up, too many people are paying too much tax on Paul Ryan’s arrows, he said pointedly. I think you got the shaft.
I wouldn’t ever want to own an animal with a cloven foot, he vetoed.
Her enthusiasm for hazelnuts is well nutted.
There’s an artist with us in the marathon and I think he just broke his foot! the runner painted.
Ganache me what the chocolate is for, said the Greatest Cakes contestant; we’re going to get creamed!
Bill Gold was the columnist for the Washington Post when I was a kid who taught me to love reading the newspaper–he was wise, he was funny, he was generous, he was and showed so much that was good about the area I grew up in.
And I remember his word contests: take any word, add one letter, and give it a definition.
My friend Ruth was marveling a few minutes ago as we chatted that, unlike herself, our friend Holly can knit lace, socks, intricate patterns, and chat at the same time without losing track of the pattern or dropping a stitch–only, the way Ruth put it was, she could do it simpultaneously.
And Ruth goes for the Gold!
It’s late as I type and I’ll come up with more tomorrow, but here’s a start.
Yarn’t. Not going to knit that one.
Musht. Gotta finish that oatmeal.
Spilk. What I did with my hot cocoa on my blouse on Sunday. (Right at the bottom, and I quickly rinsed it off, no problem.)
Prolitics. The likelihood that your candidate will win in November.
Windoww. Why I have scars on my arm from when I was eight.
Hamperr. The one with the happy cat in it.
Birrdfeeder. The one they would go to to cool off on a hot day.
And with that I’m off to bed. Anyone?
Edited to add in the morning, squirrtel. What my supersoaker is.