Remember, Remember the 5th of November

It's Guy Fawkes Day here and much like The Horse Whisperer or gefilte fish, I wish it could be dis-invented.

I can't stand this night.

The fireworks. Oh, the fireworks. Bloody amateur fireworks, too. Amateur fireworks that drive my dogs crazy. Crazy.

As soon as the sun sets, the fireworks start with the popping and the banging and the whistling and the high-pitched whining and then - worse - the barking.

Oh, the barking.

I've tried everything - shushing the dogs; pretending the fireworks aren't happening; feeding them so that they associate the fireworks with good things; I even took Campulance's advice and took them out into the back garden and oohed and aahed at the pretty lights bursting in air, lying for their sakes, so that they could see that I wasn't afraid and that they needn't be afraid. Pshaw! Nothing worked.

I've given up now and am letting them run in and out of the back door, bark alternately at the sky and the skylight and shiver and quiver in fear, as they like. It's nearly midnight now and the fireworks will ease and, hopefully, end soon. They'll forget about the noises and the bad exploding lights, but I'll know it's coming next year.

It's coming.

I'm no fool, I have a plan. Next year, they'll have these to cover their ears.

Next year I'll remember the 5th of November and the three of us will Keep Calm and Carry On.

Look Who's 1!

Today is Roxzilla's first birthday. It's hard to believe that we've only had her seven and a half months. I can hardly remember a time when she wasn't here.

Since it's her birthday, I'm letting her roughhouse with her brother, bark at the neighbor she hates and I let them both have roast beef and roast ham with their biscuits for dinner.

What did we get her for her birthday?

We got her spayed.



Happy Birthday, Rox!

Yep.

It's fibroids. Again.

As If I Wasn't Jealous Enough Already

It's not enough that some people get to live in New York, oh no, they get extraordinarily lovely events, too!

I logged onto the Purl Bee blog to see their post about the upcoming NYC Yarn Crawl happening in October!

Sooooooooooooooooo jealous.

Sigh. There are definitely some things I miss about living in the States.

And before you ask, yes, I would have gotten off my keister and gotten on a plane and gone to the East Coast for this.

Maybe I could convince to some of the wool shops in London...

(Note: Original artwork copyright of Melissa Soong)

I'm Not Martha

I live every day of my life under the cloud of a conundrum: I don't like to clean, but I loathe clutter and dirt.

Though I like our house, it has been making me insane for the past three-plus years. We moved into a lovely, late-1920's semi-detached from a very modern townhouse. You know, one of those apartments with open-plan kitchen/dining/living areas with storage in every conceivable place including a kitchen pantry and a coat closet at the front door, an alcove specially meant for the flat screen tv (whether you had one or not), walk-in closets in both bedrooms, built-in storage along the upstairs hall (wall and base cabinets), laundry room, fitted furniture in the bathrooms... Let's just say that we don't have that kind of storage here.

We had some rather large pieces of art on the walls and a huge mirror that stood in our hall. One of the pieces of art is being partially hidden by the tv and the mirror is still crated in the garage. I have boxes of things that travelled via container ship from the States over three years ago that remain unpacked. Mind you, there are only a few, but a few is a few too many!

Yesterday I woke up and had had enough, er, I mean, I woke up inspired and made a start.

In two days I emptied all the crap out of two 75 litre plastic boxes that have been stored in the garage for at least a year and either rehomed (in our home), recycled or binned the items. I sent the husband off to the charity shop with several bags to donate while I went to the tip and dumped all of the larger items that could be recycled and bags of trash that couldn't. I donated bags of dog treats, toys, leads and bedding to the Dog's Trust and packed and posted a package that I've been meaning to post for three weeks. I even took 23 books to the secondhand book stall at the weekly market and sold them to the proprietor. And if you knew how I feel about books, you'd know what a big deal this is!

The sad thing? I don't think I can see a difference.

It's time to get ruthless.

Why Didn't Anybody Tell Me Sooner?

Anyone who knows me, strike that, anyone who's met me (even ever-so-briefly probably) knows that I am arachnophobic.

And I mean arachnophobic. Not a little. A lot.

The tiniest of spiders, tarantulas... all the same in my book. I will throw away goods if I find an old web in them. I cannot sleep in a room that has a spider in it - especially if it's crawled under or behind something and I can't see it. Every September I consider moving out of our house.

I have been carjacked by a spider. I kid you not.

Last night, on my way up the stairs to go to bed, I froze, one foot in the air, after catching sight of one of the eight-legged evil little freaks, casually hanging out on the wall.

I called the husband.

He came to the top of the stairs and said, "What?!" I could only point. His response?

"It's not doing any harm."

Ohhhhhhhh! How silly of me? Has that been the secret all along?! Well, now that I know it's not doing any harm, I'm completely cured! Thank you, husband, for your wise words have opened my eyes to the truth of the world and I am now unfettered of my fear and can go through life blithely picking up and tongue-kissing spiders!

If only I'd known...

Suffice it to say, I made him come downstairs and get the damn spider.

He's Here!!

In the wee, small hours of the English summer morning, a baby boy was born.

Actually, he was born in the not-so-wee, small hours of a Midwestern summer evening, but he's here and that's all that matters.

The Husband is a grandfather and I'm a granny-by-proxy. I'm so frickin' excited!

He was born at 8:13 p.m. on August 13th (very cool) and I'm dying to see a picture of him. His mother and his grandfather were both beautiful babies, so I can't imagine that he'll be any different!

I say it's time for a plane ticket and a visit, so we can get to the cuddling!

Oh the knitting I see in my future...

Welcome, little one!