Monday, September 4, 2017

Spinning My Wheel...

I spent today spinning.  I'd like to claim it was a concerted effort to #makeeveryday, but it was really more like "procrastinate (or maybe distract) the day away." (procrastinate away from things like migrating this blog over to a WordPress platform, the process of which feels obtuse and insurmountable to me, or distract away from the fact that my daughter--have I mentioned?--is in LAS VEGAS, without me).

Spinning is an ancient craft wherein you take fiber, stretch it out, twist it, et voila! turn it into yarn.  The fiber could be plant (flax, cotton, hemp, bamboo) or animal (silk, cashmere, wool, alpaca, angora rabbit, mohair, even dog fur).  Today's spinning started when I went "stash-diving," a process in which people who engage in fiber related crafts try to forestall an impulse purchase of YET MORE fiber or yarn by reminding themselves exactly how much they already have, amassed and unused.  In my case, I actually went stash diving as a precursor to "destashing," a process by which the overly-stashed decide to sell off some of their unused hoard to other fiber crafters, exploiting the other crafters' moments of weakness while attempting to recoup a portion of the considerable money they have as that least liquid of assets, craft supplies.  In the process I sorted out a significant quantity of fiber to destash, and smaller portion to keep (#kondoeveryday) and a single braid that I decided to spin, right now, today, even tough (or more precisely, because) I had other, more pressing and pragmatic things to do with my time.

Friday, August 25, 2017

Rebel Mom

I’ve just left my firstborn in Las Vegas.  LAS VEGAS, a city I was proud to have never set foot in until nine months ago, when at the age of 44, I took my daughter there to tour the college. University, rather, a huge one, 30,000 students, the size of the entire *city* where I attended high school.  And now she’s here, on this campus, in this triple digit heat, a quick two miles from urban chancre that is the Strip.

I’m writing this from a quiet hotel room, a modest Courtyard, where I sit ALONE.  I am alone with a pool, a king sized bed, and enough disposable income to purchase any manner of alcohol, chocolate, or bath salts I might desire.  Years ago, when the children were wee, I would’ve given 1.5 ovaries for this very setup—silence, personal space, and maid service—and yet I sit here alone, missing my daughter, who is striking off into this next chapter of her life.