Wish You Were Here, Dear

I feel better now. Instead of watching the news last night I watched two episodes of The Golden Girls. They never fail to crack me up. I used to think of myself as half Blanche and half Bea Arthur's character, but lately I've been thinking I'd rather be Rose. Or Ma (Estelle Getty). Picture it.
Rose: We're watching 'I Like Lucy'
Bea: No, Rose, it's 'I Love Lucy'
Rose: Well how do I know if I love it, I've never watched it before!

The Gray has been absent since Sunday, having a business convention in Las Vegas to attend. I miss him terribly, and have discovered a lot about my universe, as he is rarely gone. This includes:

1. Coffee. I am accustomed to waking up, rolling over and pouring out a cup of coffee from the delightfully full carafe of freshly ground and brewed French Roast sitting on the nightstand with a large clean cup. Without the Gray, I find no coffee in the morning. Coincidence?

2. Dog food. Normally I wait until Grazzi "clears her throat" (small short soft barks) and then, from the warmth and dryness of inside the utility room, let the dogs out into the kennel and yard, where they eat the breakfast that is waiting for them. Now I either brave pouring rain or freezing cold in my purple furry slippers and short terry robe, rescue the food pans from somewhere inside the kennel, straighten the racoon-toppled dog food bin, shovel out food while water drips on me from the upper deck, then attempt to replace the latch, all before my first cup of coffee and while Grazzi's voice has warmed up considerably into scales complete with triplets, sixteenth notes, arpeggios and variations of "mi me ma mo moo" and "ti te ta to too".

3. Dishes. Every other day I get up and come into the kitchen to find immaculate cleanness (on the off days I clean it up in the afternoon). Currently the countertops refuse to empty themselves into the dishwasher, and the coffee grounds that get spewed around the grinder sit there mocking me. I've taken to a diet of peanut butter crackers and yogurt, but the trash is getting alarmingly full.

4. Fireplace. Downstairs, the gas fireplace that was installed two summers ago is very temperamental. To get a fire going, I must dial a couple of knobs, turn it on, turn it off, push the igniter once or twice, turn it on, turn it off, turn up the fire level, turn it on, push it hard, then push the igniter and it will come on... for a few seconds, then go off. I repeat this sequence, more or less, until it finally stays on. Normally I use the Gray for complaining to (he does not possess the irrational talents necessary for getting it to start). I could call the repair folks-- again-- but this is the man's area. My inner southern soul repels this just as it rebels against taking trash or fixing cars or installing screens. My father, rest his soul, would never forgive me if I gave in. Men need to feel needed. So without the Gray, my firestarter angst remains undirected.

5. Cuddling. The warm furry neck of a poodle is just not the same as the warm hairy chest of the Gray. The black furriness of Jojo against my right leg does not substitute for the tennis-muscled leg of the Gray, and the light snoring of Ginger on my left does not make me forget the buzzsaw qualities of my dear one. And none of them, not one, ever looks at me for no reason and says "I loves ya, baby."

The thing about winter in the northwest is that if you are lucky enough to get a sunny day, you know it will be very cold, but if you want to be warm you will have to be wet as well. Today is just sunny enough, I think, to get a rare picture of Afghanicus in his natural habitat.

The Kerry Cashmere project is also progressing nicely. The thumb gusset on the glove is complete now, and so onward it goes.

With Ginger's help, I plied a small bit of angora with a single ply of merino/silk to see what it would look like. Next I want to see how it will dye. I may first need to see a psychiatrist about my vision of dyeing as a huge undertaking that requires weeks of preparation, a master plan, tons of yarn and lots of space. It ain't so.

Posted by Sheila at November 4, 2004 07:35 AM Posted to Life | TrackBack