What a beautiful day. Clear, blue sky, bright, bright sunshine. And, it's cold. Barely double digits when I got up this morning. The forecast is below zero overnight this coming week. When I went to bed last night, for the first time the sheets felt cold. The air warmed to a constant 67 degrees, cannot penetrate.
My 97 degrees between the sheets takes care of that, though. The wool lined quilt and the goose down do their job, and I wake up toasty every morning. But that's not what I set out to write of, if I even can remember any more.
Every day is much the same. Weaving, knitting, reading, something to eat, repeat. I did rearrange my living room, both pieces of furniture.
The sofa at an angle. More cozy. The pillows save the seat for any unexpected guest. I haven't had one of those since forever. If I did, I could move the pillows and offer my guest a cat hair free seat. Genius, yes?
I need help on Netflix programing. Some movies I'd like to see, I cannot find. I did watch Julie and Julia; excellent. I cannot find Greenbook, only a list of offerings like Greenbook.
Bridgerton I survived through the wedding and the bridal bed. Enough bad dialogue and worse sex. I found House of Cards. Interesting dialogue and bad sex. I'm fifteen or twenty episodes in, and the character who is the vice president of this country has committed two murders. The plot is growing too dark for me.
I've watched The Dig, Kominsky Method, Atypical. I have a list I've jotted down and searched among. I'll really appreciate more titles to search among.
I wrote down the title of this blog intending to talk a little about my enamel topped kitchen table. Debbie asked about it once, saying it looked like one they had in storage, for their "retirement" home. That is on her mind heavily these days, but it looks as if they may slide out exactly at 65, keeping insurance intact. Only in America. I wonder if Biden will be able to plug some of the chinks pounded into the ACA.
But, the table. I was gifted it by my weaver friend Linda. She emailed me her history with it and characterized it as a piece that can keep coming in and out of one's life.
When she moved to Rochester as an eighteen year old Rochester University and School of Medicine nursing student, she took rooms at the downstairs half of a home owned by the Presbyterian church. They told her to go into the upstairs half of the house next door and take anything she needed for housekeeping.
Thus the table came into her life. It followed her to Eastlake, Ohio as her and Dick's dining room table, then to Scipio, New York as a utility table, back to Columbiana, Ohio as Alberta's dining room table, and then to me, when Alberta moved to Florida to live with Marcy. I love all those names, and how the memories roll with them.
This morning I wove; I'm close to half done with the blue.
I stepped outside for one breath of fresh air. Much more snow is gone, and Toad's state of health is even more apparent.
Time to go knit and try to untangle myself from House of Cards.