I seem to be somewhat confused.
I am very much in the middle of hating small changes, and yet yearning for large changes. I love my blog, I hate my blog. I love my house, I hate my house. I love the holidays, I hate the holidays.
Are you sensing a pattern here? 'Cause I am.
I will admit, dear and gracious reader, to not missing this blogging thing at all. No. Nope.
Nor have I missed being in the basement mucking about or having a Christmas tree crammed into the tiny space we are currently using as a living room area. I have embraced my inner humbug.
Tonight I was tempted by the siren song of the half-knitted scarf that was languishing on my linen closet shelf. I pulled down that ball of yarn, perched myself on the couch, and began knitting and purling like a fiend. For the first time since I was 8 months pregnant. I did not want my drill, or Sawzall, or Fein. I was contented with two wooden needles and a skein of yarn while whipping up a scarf that I do not need or even want.
I also began muttering curses about this latest upgrade of Moveable Type which I am hating more and more with every blog entry that I attempt. And muttering about missing having a life where I could live in EVERY room in my abode at one time without fear of a ceiling falling down upon me. Like the big hunk of ceiling that has now fallen into the laundry room sink.
It didn't help that last night I cracked open a fortune cookie that read:
You will be living in a brand new house within a year.
Instead of thinking that this was outrageously funny, I thought it sounded like a pretty good idea.
I've had forbidden, horrible thoughts where I've yearned to be a (sssh, don't tell!) renter. I know! It's bad, I tell you.
I obviously need a change. But a new house is not in the cards. So, I'll have to think of something else. Something. Something.