English 101

What I learned from the internet today:

You can verb anything if you just word it.

LOL. For reals.

What I haven’t admitted

There’s a reason for the lack of knitting on this here knitting blog.

The reason is that it hurts to knit. Any more than 20 minutes, and I want to cry with the pain.

I’ve had pain like this before, and I’ve worked through it (meaning, ignoring it). But now, there are lumps on the tops of my hands, where there were no lumps before. I can barely type. It’s a constant steady throbbing from my wrist to my elbow. It hurts to do things, like open a door, lift the year-end audit file, chop vegetables.

Both arms hurt equally. What I did three months ago, with ease, is now a major challenge. Things like unloading my dishwasher. Seriously, this hurts. Combined with the sciatic nerve business, I'm a wreck. A shell of myself (or so I would like to think, anyway).

What has happened is my inability to relax has caused the tendons and muscles in my upper forearms to shorten.

However, the prognosis is good. I’ve learned some stretches, to take breaks, to hold my wrists straight as I type (yes, I remember my typing teacher, and getting my knuckles rapped. I am that old. Or that rural. I'm not sure which).

But still, I must slow down. Perhaps stop. Even ask for help.

Asking for help is the hardest part.

ARGH!

P.S. N, I love you. Thanks for your help. I truly couldn't manage, as you well know.

Absurd

Every year it sneaks up on me.

I know that I will be out of town during the second weekend in July. Winnipeg Folk Fest is the same weekend every year, for the past 35 years.

I have my ticket. I have my campsite.

What I don't have:

• clean clothes
• clean sleeping bag
• food
• beer (or enough beer, at any rate)
• transportation
• sunscreen
• bug spray

Why do I do this to myself?

Confession

Life has not slowed down much, here at Chez Peepee. What I envisioned as a leisurely, lazy summer, full of wine, knitting, and laughter, has been, well, rather frantic.

The whole house is a mess, there's wine to be bottled, six individual socks on the go (only one is a second sock) and well, I'm sure I'm the person in the neighbourhood whose lawn gets snickered at.

And I've chosen it to be this way, and for right now, I'm OK with with it.

I'm sure you are all wondering what has happened.

And no, I'm not drinking a whole lot. Certainly less than usual.

What I am doing is reading. Novels. For fun.

And this is the confession part. I'm re-reading a series of novels I first discovered in 1994. When I was so poor that I couldn't afford to buy the next one, and actually stood in Coles reading the latest installment, because the waiting list at the library was a year long.

Why am I reading novels that I have read before (to be honest, read just about every year since I was able to afford my own copies in 1997)?

Because I am a romantic (and it galls me to admit that, oh yes it does). I am a sucker for star-crossed lovers, or circumstances that won't give two people a bloody break. I secretly wish (or perhaps not so secretly, now) that there was someone out there that I could love throughout time, and that that person would love me back.

Well, there's not. But that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy reading about someone else:

I love, love, love this series of books. They've got everything - history, humour, a strong heroine, a dashing hero. The absolute best part is, I lived in Scotland for a time, and the 18th century was my favourite period of study. Bonnie Prince Charlie and all his lot. Diana Gabaldon has done a fine job of making 18th century Scotland come alive. I hear the voices of my friends in my head when I read these books. And that is perhaps the best reason of all.