Slow to Thaw

Today as I was packing up my bike bag, I made sure that pocketcam was stowed in there, safe in its little pink pouch, so that I could take some cityscapes for the blog.

But that was before I realized how finger-numbingly cold it was out.

It's the kind of cold that catches you unawares, the kind where you think you have enough clothes on, only to realize, after the frail sun goes down (at about 4 pm), that there aren't enough clothes in the universe to keep your extremities from turning into ten tiny blocks of ice, and - um - ten other tiny blocks of ice.

So instead I took lap-pictures. Here's the view from my lap, five minutes ago (now the view from my lap would just be a shot of this here computer screen, with this very post on it, like that room full of mirrors stretching endlessly and self-referentially onward).

Exhibit A: I wanted applesauce. It was too late (and too cold) to go buy some, but I had two oldish apples kicking around the fruit bowl, so I made some.

Exhibit B: Sleeping cat. Big surprise, I know. But hey, it appears to be her job. That and a lot of licking herself (and my head after a shower - ewwwww), and a certain amount of decorating the apt with cat-hair.

Exhibit C: Cowl-on-needles. Why? Because I need something I can yank over the bottom half of my face on days like these, and the balaclava I cast on for last night is gonna take too long. So this might be called The Interim Cowl. I made it in this pretty pretty hand-dyed lilac yarn that I bought at last year's Rhinebeck, to match the little earflap cap I'd already made out of it. Which he who shall not be named has dubbed the Little Blue Riding Hood. (After which I promptly removed it, since I hated that moniker) (But it was not as cold that day) (And I still haven't seen him - it's officially been a fortnight, if I am remembering the vague definition of that term correctly)

Anyway. I've got so little to report that it hardly seems worth mentioning. Clearly, I've fallen off the daily posting bandwagon, due firstly to illness and then to exhaustion and persistent malaise following illness.

I coulda beena contenda. Maybe.

I guess I just get tired of hearing myself talk about nothing, too.

I mean, I'm knitting (mostly gifts for fellow cyclists, since everybody's cold). I'm still on a bland awful American-type diet. White bread, for pete's sake. Chicken soup. And I hate eating chicken. I hadn't eaten a piece of animal flesh in maybe eight months, but I was starting to get faint from lack of protein, and my stomach will not allow me to ingest any of my normal sources of it yet.

Where are my vegetables, my glorious fruits? I looked at a bottle of guava juice yesterday and nearly cried. Okay, that's an exaggeration; it was more like a wistful sigh, but still. It was sad.

No guava. No Boy. Sigh.