For the past few days, I haven't been able to do as much knitting as I would have preferred, for several reasons:
1. I've really gotten into my book (Stephenie Meyer series, so can you blame me?), and while I can knit while reading a manuscript, or something on the computer, I can't knit and hold a book at the same time.
2. Netflix didn't send The West Wing, like they were supposed to. Bastards.
3. Our TV has been completely inaccessible in any case. Two weeks ago, the plumbing in the apartment above us sprung a leak, and damaged our dining room ceiling. Our ceiling needed to be sanded, sealed and then repainted. No big deal, right?
Yeah. Except for how, if we didn't want all of our furniture dripped on, we would have to move said furniture elsewhere. The dining room, which normally looks like this:
So instead of knitting (or reading), Dave and I spent our evenings moving books and bookshelves.
I tried to convince him to try a little ballroom dancing with me, since we now had the space, but it didn't quite take.
But where, you ask, did everything go?
What an excellent question.
The living room, which normally looks like this*:
In other words, Hell.
Hell with nowhere comfortable to sit and knit. So, like, the 7th circle or something.
Having moved everything out of there on Wednesday night, we put everything back last night. Dave threw out his back, and I'm spending all my time obsessing about how the books are no longer alphabetized properly. It's all willy-nilly! Fiction crammed in with nonfiction! Helprin next to Lindsay! It's anarchy!
Clearly, I need to get back to knitting asap.
* Sans the cat looking like a demon in the bottom right-hand corner. That's a trick of the flash. I swear.