Knitastic

So, becoming bored of/frustrated with my Mindflayer doll, I turn my eyes (and needles) to a shorter, more instantly gratifying project. The Minisweater is a vaguely Georgian/Regency looking number, a single-buttoned sweater with short, slightly poufed sleeves which ends just below the bust. Too much Jane Austen recently? Probably yes.

Plotting and planning for Changeling, cleaning the oven and pizza stone with extreme heat, going a run (I cheated a bit today. /lame) and knitting were the prime objectives of the day. And all pretty much happened. Bread will just have to be a tomorrow thing.

And I passed my Drivers' Test, so am officially temporarily licensed in California, and will get my permanent card, complete with sleepy-looking Girl Scout picture on the front.

Apartment To-Dos

I need a teakettle. Boiling water in a saucepan takes longer and is harder to pour into the teapot, let alone a cup. Having boiling water available will help with making bouillon for soup, seitan, etc. as well.

And sweet baby Moses in a basket! We need bookshelves on which to put these books. Boxes and boxes of books. Most of the West Parlor could be cleared if only the books were put away somewhere. Probably in the West Parlor, but at least it wouldn't be boxes. I am tired of boxes. Not as much as I am tired of rented trucks and car-carrying hitches, but quite a bit.

I need to obtain or make oven mitts. So far it stands Me: 1, Oven/Stove: 6. Even with me flying solo against a tag team, that's still not very good.

I also want to line the drawers and cupboards. They are clean, but I always am sure that the dishes will stick to the paint. A bit of contact paper and a few hours of swearing will greatly ease my mind on that account.

And I feel I should make myself an apron. But I have no sewing machine and no ambition to become a hand-sewing virago of awesome.

T minus

So it's getting to be that time - countdown. Most of the "real" packing is done, and now it just comes down to picking up the truck and filling it, then driving away. So now it's all those last-minute things - the pastry cutter. Throwing out most of my old cosmetics and nail polishes. Taking things off the walls and ceiling (paintings, prints, and lamp, respectively). Picking up prescription refills. Doing all the last-minute laundry. Trying to calm down enough to sit still at work.

Making a move

I like to make things. I like to sew fabric into tubes that go around my body, I like to make yarn into appendage-cozies, dice-cozies, neck-cozies . . . I like to make water and dried leaves into a delicious beverage, milled wheat into delicious cakes and muffins, dried legumes into delicious curries, and an unmade bed into a made bed. I like making my muscles harder/better/faster/stronger. I like making numbers on paper and some oddly-shaped dice into a whole fictional person. I like to make myself into different people with clothes and makeup. Occasionally, I even like making a sinkful of foodstained crockery into clean dishes.

Making a move, though? Oy. Maybe it's the nature of packing. Making all the things I've made and will make into . . . boxes of stuff. That's a devolution, I'd say, since, if anything, I want to make boxes of stuff into all the accoutrements of my fabulous life. I want to decorate, fill, feed, entertain, create, write, MAKE. Seeing my fabulous life in those boxes is disappointing. Not that I forget who I am with my things not immediately visible. Pas de tout! I just . . . kind of want to paint the boxes.

Eshet Chayil, or "A Woman of Valor", is the last bit of the Book of Proverbs, which is written by Solomon himself, so his legend tells. Though apparently the Aggadic Midrashim say it's Abraham's eulogy about Sarah Imeinu. Either way, it's become the thing for a husband to recite this to his wife at the end of the week, to thank her for all the thankless schlepping she's done all week. Which is nice.

Now I'm definitely not saying I'm the poster girl for this thing. I'd rather not rise in the middle of the night to begin my work, I'm rather partial to the bread of idleness, (with some cinnamon and sugar over a cup of tea, or with obscure cheese and red wine, yum!) and I'm not the perfect beam of womanly labour described. I imagine Sarah Imeinu could pack up the open-on-four-sides tent of Abraham, move it, wash and wax the camels (now I'm picturing a camel lying on a table in a spa, with the poor aesthetician looking at it in terror, holding the wax strips- Ha!), set it all back up, have cholent on the fire, bread coming out of the oven, homebrewed beer poured, and guests received without a kvetch. Then again, as the mother of the Jewish people, I expect more of her, and no doubt she managed a few pointed remarks (or at least pointed looks) to Abraham, Eliezer, and Hagar about the division of labor, even if she knew it would never be done as well if they did it. (Love you, Virgo Mom!)

But I seek wool and flax (though I'd say my weakness for yarn stores is not quite what was meant by that), make my arms strong (like ox!), and I smile at the future. I smile a lot. I guess it's worth the packing, my own failings, and seeing those boxes, and the mess surrounding them as more boxes are spawned from the wreckage, knowing that I'm going to be off, heading to a new fabulous life, and I can decorate Sacramento, or at least my corner of it, when I get there.