FeVAH!

...fevah in the mornin, fevah all through the house that we are stuck in again because it was FRIGGIN SNOWING all through the night....

I spent all day trying to become a knitwear designer of ruffly fingerless mitts. I'll let you know when that works out.

I made an octopus (NO! A SQUID) with Wendy out of construction paper and yarn, and we counted the legs over and over, first "regular," and then in Spanish: Uno, Dos, Bles, Waplo, Sinco, Tres, Siete, Ocho, Nueve!

There was a lot of wind overnight, which sculpted the snow into surreal waves and trenches. We are hemmed in by a desert of white crystal...the kind of bizarre natural event that photos just cannot capture. The kind of beautiful, if bizzare, natural event that puts me in a strange mood.

I think a nice happy drink is in order to wrap up the rest of the afternoon. I'm thinking, let's kill the rest of the boxed wine and some citrus fruit? YES. Let's do it. What a brilliant idea we've had! Ta!

Somebody bring me something deep-fried.....with chocolate.

Saturday was the fifth anual Fasnacht-a-palooza at Steph and Ryan's, and the first one that I've actually been able to attend. (They lived in Seattle for the first couple.)

Fasnachts (and I have given up trying to spell this on the fly) are donuts, deep fried in the spirit of Pensylvania Dutch pre-Lent festivity. New Orleans gets beads and shrimp and debauchery, and we get dough plunked into vats of boiling lard, and then coated with sugar.

Delicious, delicious sugar-lard....they go good with beer (as you can imagine) and about twenty people crammed into a two-room apartment. Steph and Ryan very intelligently wrapped some of the dough around Snickers bars and chocolate. Because, you know. The plain ones were looking too wholesome and nutritious.

Yes, we are bad Catholics. We all indulged in a donut party four days into Lent. Light a candle for our souls.

At some point, Steph unexpectedly anounced that she has pretty much quit knitting, and was giving away some of her yarn stash. The three of us who are knitters perked up and mobbed around the giant pile of yarn that Steph disgorged from her stash trunk, and proceeded to kick up a good feeding frenzy. The guys decided that video-game-related hooting was needed to counteract the craft-related glee, which I find amusing.

Quick, they're distracted by something we find totally uninteresting! HOOT HOOT HOOT!

Feeling slightly guilty, I made off with a big bag of yarn, which effectively doubles my own stash. As Steph has good taste, it is all nice stuff. It's like we won the yarn lottery. Or mugged a girl of her yarn while she was all hopped up on sugarlard and beers. Whatever. Pictured here is about half of my score:

Do you like how it's all nestled around my coffee mug? This is what I did this morning. I admired how the colors of the yarn that I picked out match my coffee mug. I then drank coffee, fondled yarn, colored with Wendy, organized some yarn by weight, did the chicken dance with Elmo, and fondled my organized yarn.

As I made off with the booty Saturday night, I promised to let Steph visit it, and that she can have any of it back if she wants it. And I made a vow not to buy any more yarn. On top of the vow that I made to Carl to finish his other Christmas glove by the time the snow melts, this makes two yarn-related vows in a week. I'm on a roll.

I'm also feeling pretty fat. I mean. Sugarlard. A total detour from the light yogurt and Kashi track that I have been on lately. I'm not going to beat myself up over it, or anything. It was too delicous and full of chocolate for regrets.

New Motto: Buy No Yarn; Regret no Donut.

I'm embroidering that onto a flag, or something.

Oh, Right. I Blog. With Pictures.

It has been a while. Isn't it good to know that I didn't die by way of freak icicle accident? Although, there was this:

and this:

You have already read all of the blogging that you need to read about snow. One thing I will add to this: Ow, ow, my back- and other snow-shoveling-muscles. Ow. We have a lot of driveway, and we do not own a snow blower. We also can't afford to pay someone to come plow....so, ow.

Even for someone in great shape, shoveling is one of those surprise activities that will hurt you. And I'm not in great shape. I have been trying to keep up with some yoga practice, but it's hard when you have a little kid in the house.

Three year-olds, come with time limits. Over every activity, there is actually a hovering stopwatch counting down the seconds that you are allowed to enjoy productivity. I crack open my laptop, and it starts...tick tick...check email, respond to students....tick, tick...check job sites, pay a bill...tick...post Carl's Craigslist ad....tick tick tick...write cov-

"MOMMY"

...write cover-

"MOMMY, I'm Tinkerbell and you're Queen Clarion. You have to give me the moonstone and then you can be Terrence and follow me to the island with the treasure."

-cover let-

"Mommy get up now. Follow me to the treasure. FOLLOW ME TO THE TREASURE RIGHT NOW. OR MAYBE YOU CAN BE THE OLD HAG AND I CAN BE SNOW WHITE. MOMMY MOMMY I want juice. No, warm hot chocolate milk. Lets go to the kitchen so I can pick my choice."

What was I doing? Facebook? Email? OH. Cover letter. Note to self: tomorrow, lead with cover letter.

I am glad that there are things to do like Saturday morning yoga with Steph, followed by self-satisfied post-yoga muffins and croissants. Getting away for a few hours a week to tutor has so far been great for feeling like a smart person with something to offer humanity again (and not much else), but it is good to do yoga-type things too. Things just for me.

Blogging is also one of these things...but do you see the clock? It has giant red numbers, and it's ticking loudly. It will probably take me three different runs at my laptop before I actually finish this entry.

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I am spending a lot of time oscillating between two states of being. Some days are spent slack-jawed on the couch staring at the TV and hanging with Wendy, my mind as blank as the view from my back window.

Other days involve working diligently, doing laundry and cleaning and cutting fabric and sewing and sketching and knitting....

On Saturday, as I blasted music from my sewing room and danced around with Wendy, brandishing pieces of my latest creative endeavor, Carl paused, looked up from his endless poking of the coal stove, and asked, "Is it possible that you are bipolar?"

"Anything is possible." (hop, shuffle, skip)

"Not that I mind. I mean, I'm along for the ride. It might be nice to know, that's all."

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We are currently juggling the uphill battle to find someone who will give us a home loan with the prospect of finding somewhere else to rent or buy by May, should we not be able to secure said loan for the house we are currently living in. This is a very schizophrenic set of exercises. Requires yoga-master flexibility in the emotional department. And a good working relationship with Google.

The words here are falling a little flat, but I'm sure you can imagine our situation. Four years of building a place into a home for our family (six years, for Carl), and we might have to walk away from it because no one will give us a loan. Because the housing market is in crisis. Because no one will give me a job. Because it's just not in the cards. I don't know.

No, I do not think I am mentally ill. Just facing down one of those crossroads in life, with what feels like my hands tied behind my back.

On the up side, I have a daughter who puts together outfits like this:

You can't really tell by the picture, but there are sparkly shoes involved. That's good for some daily levity, even if she swings from my legs when I try to strike a warrior one, or drapes herself over my back when I attempt a nice relaxing pigeon pose.

Actually, sometimes, she does it with me. She can pull off a nice tree pose.

OK, I think I've rambled enough. Also, the big red timer has been going off for at least seven minutes. Wendy Her Highness Princess Cinderella requires a slice of cheese (NOT SWISS).