More gray. I am bucking the trend and working with nothing but gray in the wintertime, and I like it that way. My knitting matches the world outside, and sometimes my internal temperature, too, if I’m being honest. It does get hard. I should get one of those UV lights. I would like to whip up a big Pina Colada and put on a bikini and and then just sit under the SAD light. Find something trashy to read. (No such luck there; I’m working my way through Jane Gardam right now. Have you read her? Go to the library immediately, I mean it.)
I have big plans to huddle up on the couch under a pile of quilts and knit this huge piece of striped ribbing while I watch Shaun White kill it at the Olympics—my mom-crush on Shaun White runs pure and deep, my friends.
In other exciting news, look at this:
My orchid is going to bloom. Ohmygoodness, I can’t wait. I pamper that ugly plant all year long, with its fleshy tongue leaves and brown squirrely roots growing out all unruly over the place, and the whole thing stretches up and tries to jump out of the pot, so I prop it up with sticks and wire and little girls’ hair clips, and mark its stupid feeding schedule on my calendar, and count to thirty as I trickle the water onto its bark once every ten days, and move it from window to table to shelf and back again, monitoring the temperature and light levels, and even with all that attention—just the right amount of attention, mind you, it doesn’t really want too much—and petting and murmuring and careful sterilized trimmings, it still might not bloom. It might drop all its leaves and wither, or just keep one dumb leaf and then sit there like that for two years, just one ugly leaf in a pot. They do that to me all the time. But not this orchid, not today. There will be a flower. I am breathless.