-and other things that I should never type or say again.
It has struck me that, at this moment, I have exactly twelve hours until my first class of the fall semester. It has also struck me that I've read at least seven books in the last fortnight, and that's a bit excessive. It continues to strike me every day that, if I continue to use the word "struck" in every single sentence, someone is going to lose it, and it's probably going to be me.
Speaking of things that have struck (whoops, there that word is again), Hurricane Harvey has been... rainy and wet and like nature, so I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this topic. I've enjoyed a lot of time wandering around in the rain and wading in the running creek. True, there could be something lurking down in the depths of the murky water, but you'll never know until you lose a limb, and I'm all about new discoveries.
I spent a significant amount of time stepping gingerly into the water, despite my knee-high boots, just trying to gauge its depth. After skirting the foggier parts of the water and taking pictures of the lush, green undergrowth, I had a moment of reckless abandon, and decided that it would be a marvelous idea to just walk blindly across it.
I. Messed. Up.
Have you ever been wearing an awesome pair of socks, and thought, These socks are great, I'm just going to walk innocently through the kitchen, only to step on the single wet spot in the entire house? Do you remember the betrayal you felt as you realized your sock was no longer performing its sole duty of warming your cold little tootsies, and was suddenly freakishly frigid and damp?
Imagine that horrible instant, and then multiply it by a thousand, because, in my ill-devised plan, the bottom of my sock wasn't the extent of the disaster. Water poured in from all sides around the top of my boot, and cascaded in rivulets down my right calf, forming an almost-delicate pool around my socked foot. Horror filled my soul as I realized what had happened. My beloved sock, indeed, my entire right leg, was... WET. With water. Blech.
Was I ever in mortal peril? No. Was I in danger? No. Had I been hurt, even a little bit? Only in my tender heart.
You can stop looking disappointed any time now.
After squelching back to the double-wide, and struggling to open the door due to a swollen wooden door frame, I finally got the boot off. And immediately proceeded to work on my hat pattern. It's not much farther than last time I mentioned it, but progress has been made, and I've memorized the repeats.
Besides working on my *ahem* if I do say so myself *ahem* lovely hat pattern, I've reupholstered a few chairs. While hacking up the old and disgusting suede coverings, it's been brought to my attention that, if you don't clean up after your cat, or clean at all, for more than a decade, your stuff is probably going to smell like death. And possibly like ammonia. And maybe like felted hair from a sweaty cat anus.
But what are the odds that someone's going to neglect housework for that long, right?
Vaguely related to the upholstery (such a subtle segue!), is the subject of my loss.
Not of my dignity (good luck finding that), but of a secure handle on my yarn swift. Before you cry with despair, just know that I can fix it (CAN WE DO IT? YES, WE- I'll stop now)! I just have to find some glue that works with metals, as hot glue is all I have at present, and I can't see it being a particularly successful binder.