I had an unorthodoxly sportish weekend. I played hockey on Friday, softball on Saturday, and hockey again on Sunday. Just about every muscle I have is sore to the point where it was too much to knit last night. I had been thinking I might pick up a ballet class this week, but now I think I'll curl up in a ball for a few days and wait for my body to start speaking to me again (or at least stop swearing at me).
Last night, I was startled by an unexpected frog, Weasley caught a moth in the backyard that was so big I thought it was a bird and tried to rescue it, and then a centipede decided to join me in the shower.
Plague of locusts, anyone?
For the record, I'm not generally squeamish of frogs, but padding out to the mailbox in bare feet, I placed my foot on the sidewalk next to leaf roughly half the size of my foot. When the "leaf" alarmedly hopped away, I alarmedly hopped in the other direction.
As to the centipede, well, that's just rude. A gentleman would knock first.
Happy Saint Paddy's day, everyone. I hope you're wearing something green. The ground sure is. Everywhere around here is fresh grass, clovers, daffodils and little white blossoms on the fruit trees, so I guess it's spring. It was never truly winter--not in these parts--but there's no use arguing with a polar vortex. Best just to put on a tank top and enjoy the 75 degrees.
I am returned from Stitches West, where I stabbed myself with a felting needle and blamed it on a hamster, performed an impromptu bollywood dance in the hopes of winning free fiber, and accidentally bought a sweater's worth of yarn. It happens.
I score my first point tonight. Like, in a game. With a goalie in front of the net and everything.
That is all.
[Plug your ears. I will now squeal like a girl.]
It's a rainy weekend at our house (thank god) which means building forts, go fish, and a trip to the roller rink to get the wiggles out. We're also watching a fair amount of the Olympics. I must take this opportunity to say that the local network coverage of women's hockey has been insufficient. (Oh, but we get a bloody hour of ice dancing. What's that about?)
I guess you can't please everybody all of the time and sometimes the somebody sitting in the mush pot is bound to be me. Alright, Universe. Noted. I'll stop complaining. (Out loud.)
So if you're a subscriber or a submitter to The Yolo Crow, you probably got a letter this week announcing my intention to shut it down.
I've been running The Crow for nine years now. We published our first edition in the fall of 2005. We've had a good run. While there are things I will miss (mostly the folks; our writers are awesome) and it was hard to make the call, I think it's the right call to make and I feel pretty good about it.
People have been asking how hockey's going.
Hockey. Is. Awesome.
I finished up a six-week class with the self-descriptive title of "Skills and Drills" in which I learned how to skate faster, did not learn how to perform backwards crossovers (despite my best intentions), and, at least once per lesson, listened to my instructor bellow, "Shannon, how do you hold your stick?!?"
So our days were merry and bright. I hope yours were too. Santa made his appearance, and tracked some boot prints all over the hearth. The cat added wrapping paper to his list of favorite things, along with the big water bowl under the tree which is dangling with a multitude of cat toys. My seven-year-old has been a pretty good boy this year, but seemed to get the idea that volunteering to do the dishes Christmas Eve might sweeten the pot just a little.