whether report

There is a merterologic high to the east of us, and a low to the west off the ocast which is a condition that invariably produces strong, dry winds. In other locations, such winds are called Santa Ana, or mistral, or other evocative names. Here, the local weathermen took a vote and decided to call them chinook or coho or some other salmonish term. I just call them a bastard. They are the kind of winds that make squirrels chase dogs and mild-mannered housewives take an axe to the neighbor's dead plum tree. People with wind chimes should not be surprised when they are silenced by a shotgun at three AM if the east wind is blowing. I'm afraid that it has gotten to me. I got the wind in my ears and have been re-arranging shelves. I am even, God help me, arranging books according to size, rather than according to topic and author. This is madness, but only by doing this can I get everything into the space. It's like defragmenting a hard-drive but not so efficient. We had some electronics that had given up the ghost, so this morning we took them down to "Free Geek," where they would be repaired, or canabalized for spare parts, and anything workable would go to charity. And having cleared that much more space in the garage, I realized that if I shift these books over here and those over there and get rid of the magazines I have saved for 15 years and never looked at, then I could move some yarn out of the pantry . . .

DH and the cats have wisely settled in out-of-the way places. And the smell of moth balls is giving me a headache. Or maybe I've tweaked my neck. And if those damn windchimes don't stop tinkling I'm going to DO something!t But the yarn is now in only three spaces instead of five. Stash consolidation is a goood thing!