Sunday, November 28, Crack of Dawn: This morning begins as a quiet and beautiful one. I wake to a pink sunrise, laced with anticipation in knowing that Howard and I will see the latest Harry Potter film this afternoon.
I reflect on the day ahead. I think about how I will bring some knitting with me to the theater. Not Howard’s socks (I’m on the second one!), but instead the cotton, garter stitch shawl I started when I was first learning how to knit.
The shawl is for my niece Chrissy, who has been waiting for it forever. I save the shawl for times that call for mindless knitting: Prayer. Meditation. Phone conversations. Movie theaters. OR, when I’m so frustrated with something that if I don’t grab knitting, I’ll put my fist through a wall.
You know what? That fist feeling hasn’t to me happened in a long time now.
For those of you who follow my gluten-free gallivanting, you know that one of the side effects of being seriously glutened (at least for me) is becoming cranky, micro-managerial, overly sensitive . . .
I become a bitch.
So knitting has become one of my best friends. It calms me. It challenges me. It comforts me. It waits for me. It forgives me when I mess up. It helps me overcome my most bitchy, glutened moments.
Knitting also keeps me from feeling sorry for myself. When I cannot eat what I want, I turn to my best friend.
The food thing has become even more challenging as of late.
I was recently told that, in addition to gluten-intolerance, I am also sensitive to corn . . .
Normally, I would have written the above copy like this:
MovietheaterpopcornMovietheaterpopcornMovietheaterpopcorn . . .
Instead, I wrote Movie theater and Popcorn separately with a period after each, because for the first time in my life, I now have to keep movie theaters and popcorn separated. Period.
I can’t help but wonder if this is the way the dark lords of corn seek revenge for my having smuggled homemade popcorn into movie theaters for, like, EVER.
You can see why bringing my best friend into the movie theater is important to me.
Non-knitters will ask, “How can you knit in the dark?”
I will answer: “Are you kidding? How can I not? It’s survival mechanism . . .”
Back to the beautiful day . . .
I wake up early and make a pot of tea, which I’ve been inspired to drink again instead of coffee, thanks to a recent blog post by Stephanie Pearl McPhee a/k/a the Yarn Harlot, who is a hero of mine and, good grief, I’ve now mentioned her in so many of my blog posts that I’m beginning to wonder if she is becoming a Saint-of-sorts in my life.
You’ll find The Yarn Harlott blog here.
This morning is perfect. Blissful. In addition to working on Howard’s second sock, I listened to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone on unabridged audio. I started the whole series of HP books yesterday. I’ve gone far too long just watching the movies without reading the books. How dare I?
Fast forward to 10:30 A.M. I have been at it for hours now, sitting in the kitchen, knitting, reading, sipping tea, basking in life. Smiling.
Howard peeks his head around the corner and tells me he is going to take a bath.
Howard is hard of hearing. Without hearing aids (not waterproof), he can’t, well, hear. Having to wear hearing aids has been a blessing to Howard at times. When I’ve been glutened, all he has to do is remove them, and he is instantly transported to a land where everything is right, good, silent and peaceful.
I smile and nod in reply, knowing he won’t hear me if I say anything. Then I go back to knitting, reading, sipping, basking and smiling. I start to think: Maybe I have found my own land of silent and peaceful.
Enter Milo-the-Moth-Hunting-Dachshund. Milo is 11 months old and still a puppy. He is also a faster-than-the-fastest dachshund, and (even though I would NEVER race a dog) he could outrun a greyhound if there were a moth at the finish line.
Certain phrases excite Milo. One of them is, “What are you doing?” which, when said in an excited, high-pitched playful-like tone, sets Milo into doing a happy dance with tail wagging, tongue waving, fur flying.
Milo smiles when he does his happy dance. He really does.
For some reason though, Milo is having a mellow morning as well. Curious.
As Howard runs the bath water, Milo paddle-foots his way into the kitchen and kneads his paws up my legs. I lean down and absentmindedly say, “Hi, there, good boy! What are you doing?”
Peppy puppy returns. He bounds straight up to lick me on the face. As he does, he bops me on the nose.
And, this is where it gets interesting:
My hand grabs my nose, my sock yarn dangles and somehow manages to hook itself to Milo’s collar. I have a knee-jerk reaction, which startles Milo, and as Milo backs away, my yarn goes with him.
“Yaauuuuuaaaaauuuugh! Oh Milo no . . .no, no!”
Then, before I fully realized what I was saying, I said it again: “Milo, what are you doing?”
HAPPY DANCE. Prancing puppy, racing, smiling. Go, puppy go. Out the kitchen, into the living room, down the hallway . . .
Over the river and through the woods.
Now, I am running. I am chasing Milo frantically. I really don’t remember what I was saying, but I remember trying to hoot “STOP!” while laughing hysterically and trying not to panic.
Remember my best friend? Well, now that friend is being unmercifully drug through the house and . . .oh NO! Now my yarn is headed dangerously close to a spot where I see Milo had an accident earlier.
I stop laughing. It is at his point where I enter the Deathly Hallows. This happened much earlier in the day than I had anticipated. “STOP! Wait!”
Luckily, I was able to counter the pup at the poop. Phew. But then, Milo sees it, and he sees that I see what he sees, and he immediately takes off running in the other direction.
“Whhaaaa-ah-ah-ah, aughhhhhhh, no, no, NO! Come! Wait. Stay. No, Milo, Milo, wait!”
Meanwhile, Howard bathes in relaxation. For him, everything is silent and peaceful.
. . . back to chaos: As Milo springs happily through the house and I scuttle after him, I realize I can’t stop laughing. A thought comes to mind: Back in glutened days, I would be having a fit, but today I am laughing.
Yes, yarn is everywhere. Yes, my sock is doomed. And as doom looms, I see my life play before me in a culmination of I Love Lucy and Strega Nona.
Eventually Milo jumps on the bed where I somehow manage to dislodge the yarn from his collar despite the pants, wags and waves.
Slowly, I make my way back through the house, rewinding the yarn, rewinding the yarn, rewinding the yarn . . . until it reaches my sock who (yes, who)–and this is unbelievable—remains unscathed.
It seems as though the line of yarn that traveled with Milo flew off of the yarn cake instead of the needles. I am clueless as to how the sock survived all of this.
It is a miracle.
Saint Stephanie, was it you?
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