Damn.  Two weeks with nary a word from the wicker chickens roost.  It’s quite possible the world has stopped turning.   Uncharacteristic of much of my writing here, this post will be of little consequence.  Who am I kidding?  I’ve got an entire category devoted to “In which I have little to say.”  So this one will be, apparently, very characteristic of much of my writing here.

Technology pretty much rocks my world these days.  Not only can I order a Digital SLR camera over the Internet, but I can obsessively click on the “track order” button and watch it ever. so. slowly. make its way to me.  Damn super saver shipping.  Free’s nice, but I want it here NOW.

I recently finished knitting a sweater — a gorgeous mossy green wool and silk hoodie that I want to wear every single day.  I finished up just in time to start on some spring projects, including a summer cardigan made from a rust-colored cotton/silk blend.  Yummy.  But, before I tackle that tasty treat, I’m knitting myself some uteri.  Yep, you heard me right.  Uteruses.  And, I’m sorry to say that I’ve officially become a knitter, as in, one with an actual yarn stash.  I have at least five projects’ worth of yarn waiting for me.  Yippee Skippy.

Can you believe the house is still not in order from the fire?!  Yeah, we’re moved in.  Yeah, we’ve even had a garage sale to get rid of all the stuff we unpacked but didn’t know (or care) we even had.  But, there isn’t a thing on the walls yet, and I’m not so sure I’ll ever get motivated to tackle that job.  I’ll be ninety years old with pictures leaning against the wall, and you’ll all call me crazy.

Oh!  And my living room is completely devoid of upholstered furniture.  Because! It appears as though soot, when left on a damn couch for two-and-a-half months, doesn’t come off very easily.  Try to clean it immediately after the fire?  Of course not!  Why would we do something like that?  Of course, it really isn’t any skin off of my back — I get new coverings!  But, whoops, I forgot I like looking for upholstery fabrics about as much as I like folding socks.  Too much pressure.  Too much committment.  We’re talking years this stuff will be with me.  But, I persevered, and the furniture and oh-so-carefully-selected fabrics are at the upholsterers as we speak.  Perhaps I’ll post pictures taken with my brand new camera.  Because I’ll be doing stuff like that, you see.  Taking pictures of sofas.

Tim and I have never been ones to celebrate Valentine’s Day. We both think it’s a rather absurd holiday, and, at the risk of sounding all sour-grapey, I really don’t care all that much about it. Every once in a while we might go out to eat on the 13th or the 15th, or we might make a trip to Target to read each other corny Valentine cards, but we really don’t make a fuss about it. The last two years, in fact, Tim’s been out of town on Valentine’s Day, and such is the case this year, too. Valentine’s Day, quite simply, isn’t a big deal in our house.

Which is why I was a bit surprised last night to find a plastic Target bag on top of the fridge with a note attached to it. Do not open until Valentine’s Day, the note reads. Aww, you shouldn’t have. No, really, he shouldn’t have…because, um, I didn’t.

Not to be one-upped — because that’s really all Valentine’s, and our marriage, I must add, is all about — I called the hotel where he will be staying tonight through Thursday. I arranged for a piece of chocolate cake and some strawberries to be delivered to his room tomorrow night, with a card attached from his loving wife. Aww, I shouldn’t have.

And, in reality, I didn’t. Because, you see, when I went to pay for the room service, the woman indicated she couldn’t take a credit card payment over the phone. I paused for only a moment before I responded, “Eh. Just charge it to his room.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, Tim. And, please, don’t forget to give ‘em a tip.

One of the few casualties of the recent fire in my home was a beloved teddy bear fashioned from an antique quilt belonging to my grandmother (and, most likely, her grandmother as well.) When she passed away in 1985, an old pink and green quilt was unearthed among her belongings. It was in rather poor shape in several places, and, perhaps to the horror of many quilt-o-phile, it was divvied up in the form of four teddy bears, one each for the four granddaughters. The seamstress who made the teddy bears took pains to creatively use the pattern of the quilt within the structure of the bears, making distinct patterns on the bears’ arms, legs, bellies and faces. Truly, each bear was a remarkable, and loved, piece of history. Mine has proudly been in my possession for the better part of 20 years, and I cherish it.

Unfortunately, in the chaos of the fire restoration, I neglected to identify the bear as needing “TLC”, and it was mistakenly assumed to be “just another teddy bear.” It was tossed in the wash along with all of my kids’ stuffed animals. When I unpacked it in January, tears flowed as I found much of the bear in tatters. Well over 100 years old, the fabric simply could not withstand the stresses of the wash. It was ruined.

I half-heartedly investigated having the bear restored. I took it to a quilt restorer, who said she could do it, to the tune of a thousand dollars. While the insurance company and the cleaning company were technically responsible for the cost of the repair, it was difficult to justify such an exhorbitant cost on purely emotional grounds. Besides, I knew a replacement for the fabric would have to be found, and, despite being able to locate a suitable vintage fabric, I felt a sense of irreplaceable loss at the prospect of bastardizing the bear’s original make-up. It simply wouldn’t be the same. I had come to the realization that the bear was a loss. A sad end to the story.

It’s funny, though, how stories can seem to write themselves after they appear to have been written off.  My mother was approached today by a woman toting a plastic bag full of quilt scraps — scraps from the very same quilt used to make those bears more than 20 years ago.  You see, my home town isn’t too terribly big, particularly when you have a mother who’s very sociable and tends to make friends with even the trees.  The seamstress who fashioned the teddy bears 20 years ago had heard through the grapevine of the great bear tragedy, and it seems as though she’s a bit of a pack-rat.  She rifled through her great, grand stash (and it has to be, to have included items this old), and sought out my mother to return the improbable treasure.  And so it appears this bear isn’t so lost after all.

It’s hard for me to imagine how the fates lined up on this occasion.  An old quilt.  A bear.  A grapevine.  A bag of scraps.  Twenty years.  And Serendipity.  Indeed, there’s just a little magic in this story, and I’ve no doubt I haven’t seen the end of it.

1. The amount of dignity lost is directly proportional to the amount of fun had.

2. Hat-head can be sexy.

3. There is nothing cuter than a little girl bundled up in winter clothing.

4. Except, perhaps, a little boy.

5. With a little snow to catch your fall, even the worst tumbles aren’t so bad.

6. When life gives you dry snow, dig deep.

7. Cold hands, cold feet, cold ears, cold cheeks — very warm heart.

I’ve been asked by more than one individual: just what are you doing in Lake Placid in February, anyway?

The answer is: sledding, laughing, staring in wide-wonder at all. the. snow. and generally having a good time. More than one hearty laugh has escaped my mouth while speeding down a snowy hill.

We are not, however, making snowmen. Because, apparently, this kind of snow is too dry to form snowballs and snowmen. Um, could someone please explain? Snow is water, right? And water is supposed to be wet, right? And yet, we have no snowmen. Go figure.

I’ve never lived in a place that wasn’t stingy with its snow.  Sure, I’ve seen it.  Even in large quantities.  But it’s always a visitor, and never one to stay for longer than a few days.  Sometimes, years will go by before I will see a snowflake.  Other times, we’ll get a dusting or two — just enough to let you know that anything is possible.

I think because I’m such a distant acquaintence with the stuff, I still hold a childish glee in my heart for it.  The novelty?  Just doesn’t wear off.  I’m as giddy as a schoolkid whenever there’s the mention of snow, and when it actually materializes, I’m simply delighted.

We’re headed off on vacation tomorrow.  Lake Placid, NY.  No one in our family is a skier, and that’s not the point of this trip.  The plans include the comforts of hot chocolate, soup, and knitting — a lot of knitting.  But the biggest draw?  Snowmen and sleds, and maybe a snowball fight or two.  It honestly can’t get any better than that.

I’ve been doing this balance and teeter-tottering for the better part of a year now. Most of the time, I’m on the balanced end of the see-saw, but, every once in a while — you know, like when I happen to have a fire, or surgery, or, you know, any number of small little set backs in my life — I’ve teetered and tottered more than I’d like to admit. Because, you see, it takes skill to maintain this balance, and I’d like to believe I’ve got skilz.

Or, maybe it takes just a little luck.

Evan had been nothing less than a total nightmare all. day. long. He was inconsolable, whiney, irrational, and — to be perfectly fair here — a total pain in my ass. As the hours of the day rolled on, ominous clouds began hovering over me. I’d made a calculated risk a few days ago, figuring that my children would play well at the indoor playground in the mall while I was interviewed by a couple considering hiring me as a doula. Evan’s apparent “off day” was coming on the wrong day; he had to shape up before the interview, or my calculated risk would become nothing short of a really bad decision. As it was, I was very concerned that it simply would not work out.

The dinner hour at the mall food court prior to the interview — originally planned to be a fun beginning to the outing — was turning out to be equally painful. Not once, not twice, but three times during dinner, Evan interrupted the meal with the news that he had to go potty — only to steadfastly deny the need once we’d all schlepped all of our selves to the bathroom. I’d had it with him, quite honestly, and I had no room in my being for being sympathetic to the trials of potty training. (Because, you see, he has been “potty training” for a year.) As it was, the pit in my stomach was solid and uncomfortable. Clearly, this was not going to work out.

As the time for the interview approached, I packed up the uneaten dinners and headed down to the play area. Within moments, my son was declaring a need to go potty, once again. Visions of this kind of repeated interruption…shudders. Clearly, Clearly. Not going to work out.

One more time, to the bathroom. One more time, the denial. But, despite the denial, he sat. And he sat. And he sat. And he worked it out.

The interview went off without a hitch.