I was just thinking about tangled webs, about Arachne’s weaving skills, the fabrics of our lives and a few other crafty clichés that accompany my daily rituals. And I wondered too, about problems I have created myself and problems that are tossed into my lap. And the third kind of problem that hovers around the vicinity of my lap for a while, until I grab the outer edges of my apron and hold it up like a big square safety net into which the problem is allowed to drop.
Clearly my impatient tugging made the yarn pull away from me and punish me with a few knots and an unkind spiral of entanglement. My fault. My problem to solve. Strictly speaking, the converter box I have to buy for my old TV next spring is not a problem I have created, but it too is my problem to solve. And then I come to Freddy? Freddy is my granddaughter’s cat. Freddy will be without a home when she moves in a couple of weeks. I intend to open my metaphorical apron to catch him before he is doomed to a life in foster homes.
I have already added my name to the converter box coupon recipient list. As I sit here, musing, I carefully untangle the yarn and wind it into a ball. Preparing for Freddy is probably immature; maybe there are other solutions to his dilemma. But just in case, I make a list of things to do before he arrives.
Take down the curtains.
Remove yarn from kitchen table.
Move houseplants to spare room.
Be prepared for phone and computer cord problems.
Hide cough drops.
Come up with a plan to save window and door screens from being clawed.
Put paper clips in drawer.
Ditto for pencils, yellow post it notes, batteries, erasers, scotch tape, tiny photos, and the other one hundred little things whose conveniently amassed presence on my coffee table, my bookcases, my desk, I take for granted.
I remember one more, very important major concession to his presence in my household. I have to print a sign to remind me, “CLOSE THE DOOR, FRED IS HERE.”
Three years ago, when Freddy was a kitten, I took care of him over a weekend. After he had pulled down the curtains, trashed my coffee table, and bent a few slats on my blinds, he became restless. It was summer. It was hot in the house. I almost opened the back door, the only opening without a screen to tear apart. Then I realized that he would probably take off for the hill behind my house and get lost.
Am I ready for this again? For an unspecified amount of time?
Apron to the rescue.
P.S. Between deknotting yarn, applying for a converter box coupon that is supposed to save me money I hadn’t planned to spend, and making a Freddy list, I finished bear number sixteen. To be photographed tomorrow.
Clearly my impatient tugging made the yarn pull away from me and punish me with a few knots and an unkind spiral of entanglement. My fault. My problem to solve. Strictly speaking, the converter box I have to buy for my old TV next spring is not a problem I have created, but it too is my problem to solve. And then I come to Freddy? Freddy is my granddaughter’s cat. Freddy will be without a home when she moves in a couple of weeks. I intend to open my metaphorical apron to catch him before he is doomed to a life in foster homes.
I have already added my name to the converter box coupon recipient list. As I sit here, musing, I carefully untangle the yarn and wind it into a ball. Preparing for Freddy is probably immature; maybe there are other solutions to his dilemma. But just in case, I make a list of things to do before he arrives.
Take down the curtains.
Remove yarn from kitchen table.
Move houseplants to spare room.
Be prepared for phone and computer cord problems.
Hide cough drops.
Come up with a plan to save window and door screens from being clawed.
Put paper clips in drawer.
Ditto for pencils, yellow post it notes, batteries, erasers, scotch tape, tiny photos, and the other one hundred little things whose conveniently amassed presence on my coffee table, my bookcases, my desk, I take for granted.
I remember one more, very important major concession to his presence in my household. I have to print a sign to remind me, “CLOSE THE DOOR, FRED IS HERE.”
Three years ago, when Freddy was a kitten, I took care of him over a weekend. After he had pulled down the curtains, trashed my coffee table, and bent a few slats on my blinds, he became restless. It was summer. It was hot in the house. I almost opened the back door, the only opening without a screen to tear apart. Then I realized that he would probably take off for the hill behind my house and get lost.
Am I ready for this again? For an unspecified amount of time?
Apron to the rescue.
P.S. Between deknotting yarn, applying for a converter box coupon that is supposed to save me money I hadn’t planned to spend, and making a Freddy list, I finished bear number sixteen. To be photographed tomorrow.
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