Archive for April, 2011

So, I can’t remember who it was that commented that maybe we should wait until after the spring melt before we laid new carpet in the basement, just in case, you know, but whoever it was that said it, I concede the point.




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Well, it turns out that weeping tile around your house foundation is for groundwater, not for spring runoff.  Important distinction when they’re laying new carpet in your basement.  So, Duc and his wife and daughter got 2/3 of the carpet in, and were set to come back and finish last Friday, when we found a little water in my future Playroom.  We postponed the installation of the rest of the carpet and spent the weekend in rubber boots, mucking about in the back yard with shovels, way too much snow, hoses and submersible pumps and the like, and first thing this morning I call the guy that did the basement work in the fall and invited him back to see what’s happening, in the hopes that there is a way to fix it that doesn’t involve excavating the whole yard.

In the meantime, we are using the postponement to really go through our belongings and weed out lotsa stuff (as I think I mentioned).  Today’s culls include some old VCR’s, the electric keyboard on which Geoff started his musical performance career (I think it was the Great A & W Root Bear Theme Song, circa 1992) and some old brass-and-glass side tables.  I used one of my mother’s tactics; Andy came over yesterday and I sent him home with a box of Random Stuff.   Better he should deal with it than me.

Today’s errands have to completed in a timely fashion this morning, since I am expecting delivery of a package this afternoon.   No, it’s not fibre-related.  I know this because Mike is just as excited about it as I am. And it’s a large package.

On a fibrey note, I was being very disciplined yesterday afternoon and working on the Teardrop Stole when I discovered a horrible thing:  a whole pattern repeat ago (18 rows) I had missed a plain knit row.  The result was that the teardrops were offset by one stitch and the result was definitely all wonky.  I have tried tinking this pattern in the past, and it’s a horrendous task, so I said one to the knitting gods, and I frogged  it.  I frogged lace.  In laceweight. You know what?

It worked.  I did not miss any stitches when I was picking up, I did not cause any insurmountable ladders, and I did not say a single bad word.

*I do not knit because I am patient.  I am patient because I knit.*

Repeat * * until I believe it.

This is how badly I want to start on Echo Beach. So it’s knit a few rows, check the fan and dehumidifier placement and progress in the basement, throw on the rubber boots and go out to check on the pump in the back yard, knit a few more rows.  Life goes on.  It beats the alternative.


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In between beating my breast in anguish and trying to remain calm about the water in our newly “waterproofed” basement, we have been going through some old things.  Picture frames, racquets of all sorts, school supplies and more school supplies, books  (we are parting with 7 boxes of books.  This is like giving away our children.  Not our favourite children, mind you, but we are somewhat attached), and the coup de grace, old medals.  Mike has really bought into this de-clutter thing, and parted with at least half of his soccer medals.  The man has a great memory or a vivid imagination, because he would pick up every medal, turn it over and read the back, and wax poetic about the players he coached on that team, the games and tournaments they played in, and in a few cases, particular plays that stood out in his mind as being great enough that it was obvious his players were listening to their coach.  I was unable to call shenanigans, because during the soccer years, I have just not been paying that much attention.  We also found a couple of bowling medals, which is strange because none of us have ever bowled (or at least bowled well enough or often enough to get any sort of recognition for it).  We tossed ’em.  We found one bronze wrestling medal (Geoff’s) which we tossed.  I don’t think he needs it for his trophy case.  He was 8.

Then, we found this:

The only athletic medal I have ever gotten.  Here’s the backside:

In case you can’t read it,  it says “The Pethic Push  1996”.  Now some of you may think this has something to do with childbirth, but while I was relatively proficient at that, it was certainly nothing medal-worthy.  It had nothing to do with drugs either.  No, the real answer is rooted in New Year’s Olympics.

We were spending the holidays with Mike’s Mom and Dad, and had been invited to the neighbors’ house for New Year’s Eve.  When we got there, we were split into teams, and forced to do activities like shoot pool, darts, putting of golf balls on the indoor greens (this was quite a nice house), and play shuffleboard.  I don’t remember details of the competition, but apparently my partner and I won the shuffleboard part of the contests.  You may be excused for thinking that Pethic is the name of the host of the evening, but that would be wrong.  The story told me (and it may or may not be true) is that years before, Brian the host, had borrowed the shuffleboard from a friend named Pethic, and just never bothered to return it.  I never met Pethic;  he may already have been deceased when I won my medal, but that was Brian’s story and he was sticking to it.  He said that naming the event after the albeit reluctant equipment supplier was as good as returning the shuffleboard to its rightful owner.   Remind me never to lend Brian anything I might want back.

And that’s how I got my medal.

In keeping with the spirit of last evening, I tossed it.



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