Back in the day

I remember the day when I thought this would be a knitting blog. It is however, a barely-on-life-support, neglected-like-smelly-cat, quasi-blog-thing just sitting there in space.

But I have an excuse - really. It's called hell. Some of you may refer to it as moving, but you're just fooling yourselves. After FIVE DAYS of hauling cr*p back and forth in a U-Haul, I am now the proud owner of several rooms and a garage covered in trash and stacked to the rafters with boxes.

I (thank god) had no more vacation time, so I'm back at work. Which you would think is a good thing. But while I'm at work, the hubby is neglecting his own job to do stuff around the house. All. Day. Long. So not only is my home an upscale dumpster, I also sit buried under incredible guilt that I haven't someone transformed it into Magic Happy Pretty Land, and instead of foisted it (not on purpose) on him.

For those of you contemplating a change in address, let me give you a few lesson learned:

1. Do not let people not box stuff because they'll "do it the day of the move." You, my friend, will do it the day of the move, and then the day AFTER the move, said non-packers will whine at you to tell them exactly which box their Holly Hobby protractor is in.
2. Do not think you will paint and move on the same day, or even in the same weekend. I now have half a painted downstairs, with paint spattered willy-nilly all over from where we stopped in mid-wall because we had no more freaking time to paint and the moving truck was costing us like $29,278,384,973,829,487,397 per minute.
3. Do not let tile contractors come in and lay tile WHILE you are moving. I think that one is self-explanatory, and yet it seemed like a good idea at the time.
4. Do enlist your loving father to walk your poor traumatized dog several times a day so that he doesn't do his bidness on the new carpet in the living room of the old house. Twice.
5. Whenever anyone offers help, take it. Even if you don't know them very well. Even if they were probably only being polite. Don't be afraid to give them the shi**iest, dirtiest job you keep avoiding doing. You can make it up to them later, when you haven't killed yourself in frustration and despair.

On a happy note, I have converted the hubster. He is now one of the chosen people. Which, you might think are those of jewish descent or the aryans or the hotties (depending on your POV), but really, it's the people of color. Yes, color. You see, once upon a time, he was a white wall, black lacquer guy. For about 10 years too long after the cancellation of Miami Vice.

And when we moved into our old house, he saw nothing wrong with our white walls and PEACH curtains (Lined, no less. With matching sashes) that came with the house.

After seven years of badgering him, I convinced him to remove most of the black lacquer furniture and paint FOUR walls. Tan. He still clung to the peach curtains, so I threw them away one day while he was out playing tennis. Burnt red raw silk miraculously grew in their place.

Now, he has finally converted. And our new house is (or rather will be) a veritable bonanza of color. Including my - wait for it - pumpkin colored kitchen. I have little happy O's whenever I venture into that room.

The only problem being, as many a new convert does, he is going completely overboard. See the above color palette? It already has four colors on it. (Actually it has five, because we used two shades of light green.) He thinks it's not enough color and wants to know why we can't use a different one in every room of the house.

But seriously, when I look back up at that first one, how can I complain?

Did I mention the new house has an entire closet available for my crafting pleasure? Well half a closet, but it's a wicked big one, so it's more room than I even need right now.

Which I'm pretty sure is a very clear message from God to BUY MORE YARN.