Sunday, August 14, 2011

Oscar Mayer Weiner....

When I was a kid (showing my age here), I used to sing that song on the farm while feeding the baby geese. The geese are long gone (and the kid, too--well, almost) and the song still makes me smile a little--even when I feel a little under the weather.

And we've been having a little weather the last couple of days, which has played havoc with cleaning the garage out, but we did manage to get all the shelves put together and stood up. They are "ready" for more disorganization. Mainly because my husband doesn't know how to put tools away. He passed that trait down to his son, by the way. His daughter, however, got her mother's "clean and tidy" gene. Well, at least cleaner and tidier that the gene my husband passed down. It's unusual, though, because he claims that his ex lived out of boxes for a long while after the divorce. I was never introduced until many years later, when Christmas and grandkids came along...another story.

But we got the shelves up, and we're ready to start putting "things" on those shelves so that we can tidy up the garage. That's going to take some doing, and probably another weekend, as this one is nearly over, and I think hubby has given up. He's in the shower at the moment, and I'm going to scrub his back in a few minutes. We have a lot of stuff in the house which will end up on those shelves, in tidy storage, until the chance happenstance that we manage to get a pickup over here to load with trash for the dump. We live in high anticipation around here.

It didn't help that halfway through the building of one of the units, I fell ill--well, not so much fell as stumbled, and I had to take a short nap. After the nap, I rose, still feeling peeked, but managed to take a few things from the upstairs garage to the downstairs great room (table leaves for the table there), and then came back upstairs and immediately got sick again. I'm breathing a little better now, and the feeling of rising bile has subsided, but it's still there in the background, so I'm taking it easy, writing a blog post.

And having done all of those things, I'm thinking that an Oscar Mayer Weiner doesn't sound all that appetizing, if you get my reasoning...but the song still makes me smile. Of course, I can't walk more than the few steps to my chair without feeling like an "erp" is on the way, but I'll try to manage. Perhaps I'll call in sick on Monday so that I can work with hubby out in the garage sifting through the tools and giving them a place to belong. At the moment, the tools can wait while I try to sort out my dining room area. The dining room table is a "catch all" for things that really don't have a place right now, and I need the table to sew together the curtain panels. There's also the matter of a complete Windows XP computer on the floor (my older pc that still has stuff on it that I want), and other things--such as a scanner, a tablet, and printer that likely no longer works.

But right now, I feel the need to slow down and knit. Perhaps I will do just that. I am quite far in my circular shawl, and I think that I will trade out the circular cable I'm using for a larger one, now that the stitches are getting cramped on the 16" cable. There are almost 600 stitches on that needle. Maybe I'm not up to that much counting?

In any case, I feel like sitting down and decompressing for a while. Knitting would be just the thing. Maybe that sock I was working on a few weeks ago? It's at the heel, and just an ordinary sock.

Well, I had hoped to use a pair of needle nose pliers to fix a little wire that hooked my thumb drive to a lanyard and a little hook to my keychain, but the little spring went "sproing" and off into space, and I didn't hear it fall. It's called eyes going, ears going, getting old and decrepit. I neither saw which way it went, nor did I hear it going "ping" on the floor (since it's carpet, I wouldn't expect it to make a LOT of noise--the floor is dirty, but it's not HARD yet). I did, however, find a quarter.

So I have to put the tools away. Guess I'll go read.

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