Highest Highs, Lowest Lows...

This sunny Sunday began on a note so high it could only be heard by particularly large-eared canines. It had "promise." Great big buckets-full of gooey, squishy, delightful promise!

I awoke to find that my Fall Cold symptoms had dwindled markedly during the overnight hours, leaving behind a minor bit of the snufflies and some coughing. Also gone was the super-cool raspy voice and I rather mourned my short-lived career as The Gal With The Come Hither Voice. But it was a good trade-off since there is little benefit to having a Come Hither Voice if all anyone sees when they get to Hither is a red-nosed, drippy, whiny Sheep.

As I proceeded into the kitchen, I checked the dehydrator. Having been running for twenty-four hours and emitting more heat into the atmosphere of the Sheepie Condo than I really needed, it was ready to relinquish its bounty:

Raisins!!!!

For the record, I have never liked raisins and always made it my personal mission to pick the wrinkly little interlopers out of any foodstuff into which they had made a nest. Then I made my own. Turns out, I do like raisins! I just like them all plump and fresh rather than out of a cardboard box. Life is an adventure, isn't it?

With raisins in hand, one and a half nostrils open and able to take in air, and an attitude as bright as a solar flare, I headed out to the grocery store to do the weekly marketing. There, another happy moment awaited.

I made it to the second aisle before my shopping endeavors were blocked. Despite there only being ten people in the store at that hour, it did not surprise me to find an obstacle early in the game. My roadblock was a gentleman perusing the cereal box labels. He had strategically arranged his body and his cart in such a clever fashion as to make further travel on my part impossible. This is not anything new for me at the supermarket. I give off an aura that tends to stupefy shoppers and cause them to suddenly stop abruptly in mid-shop for up to sixty seconds. I do not know if they remember this once they return to consciousness for I have never really had the nerve to ask. I just accept the phenomenon and practice patience. Mr. Cereal, however, must have been made of sterner mental stuff. He perceived me almost immediately and fairly leaped to correct the situation. Further, he apologized heartily and with such sincerity that I feared I might actually weep right there next to the instant oatmeal.

Our time together was so very brief, Mr. Cereal...but I will think of you often and with fondness. ::sniff::

There was even a good selection of black and white cookies to be had now that the tourist season here at the beach is over! The whole morning was nothing but clear sinuses, raisins and wide open aisles! You can see how I might get a little full of the optimism, can't you? It isn't too much of a leap to think that I might decided to try a little lace knitting free from the cold medications that allowed me to ignore any mistakes and plunge onward, letting fate take over the process. This seems logical, does it not?

Thank heavens I came to my senses last night after I finished the first repeat and put in that lifeline, that's all I can say. I know I was all mocking and devil-may-care about the whole thing while flush with the Nyquil. But, in the cold light of sober day, it seemed prudent to take one or two precautions. The lace is back in the basket for the time being and we will not discuss it for a few days. That should be enough time for that twitch in my eye to settle down somewhat...

Spinning seemed like a better idea. I know this doesn't look all that different from the last time I put up a picture, but it is. I swear it.

There is more now. I know this because I put it there.

This is the kind of stuff that spinners dream of when they close their little eyes for sleepy-time. It is a smooth, soft superwash merino from the magical dye pot over at Susie's place. The length of time it is taking me to finish this sock yarn is really more of a declaration of my love rather than a desire to avoid it. Spinning a fine single that can be plied into a reasonable sock yarn is almost unavoidable. It just wants to be that way. I tend to spin only when the urge is powerful as I find that's the best way to get the yarn I really want. When I spin because I feel I have to "get it done," it shows in the finished product. Every time. I'm a little disappointed that this wasn't done before the summer vacation ran out as I'd planned, but am almost happy to have it for the spinning now. I need its soft, well-behaved comfort after my knitting managed to go so horribly awry this morning. If it knits up as well as it has spun for me then I believe the resulting socks will give me the power of flight or x-ray vision.

It will not, I suspect, empower me to successfully complete a 24 row lace repeat without excessive drama. That would take a miracle. And, since I already experienced the parting of the carts in the cereal aisle, I daresay I've reached my quota for a while.

SA