bloody but unbowed

I have just spent the day in an all-in, no-holds-barred, teeth-knees-and-elbows allowed, down and dirty wrassling match getting the taxes ready to take to the accountant. When it comes to data and numbers I have serious blank spots and have learned to just chuck every-fucking-thing into the box and hope that God will sort it all out while I sleep. She doesn't, of course, so once a year I have to sit down with with the gunnysack of bills, receipts, check stubs, and those greasy little statements the money people send you before Valentine's Day, and try to get it all organized, lined up and tidy with hands and faces washed and socks pulled up. And by God, it mostly is! I have paper cuts, staple punctures, and a nice bruise from tripping over a box of paper crap that was headed to the recycle bin, and I have piles and stacks of papers that have been sorted, paperclipped, labled and damnfuckingwell organized and I think I'm going to have a drink now.

Many of you asked if I name all the yarn in my stash. Imagine me speaking in a fluting, musical voice with stars in my eyes and fluttery movements of my hands. Why yes, yes, I do name all my yarn, The little dears feel ever so much more special that way. And I stroke them and call them by name every chance I get, because my yarn loves me - everyball and gram, be it wool or silk or cotton or even those sad little acrylics. And they all deserve love equally, don't you think?

Now the real Roxie snaps back into focus: grubby slippers, ratty sweatshirt, and bags under the eyes. And the voice is less like a lilting flute and more like an ill-tuned banjo. DO I name ALL the yarn in my stash? I can't even keep track of all my brothers' kids' names, and they've been around for between 3 and 4 decades now. Do you honestly think I can remember EVERY scrap of yarn in my stash? I remembered Fred because I was trying to channel Lenny from "Of Mice and Men" (I will love it and hug it and pet it and stroke it and I will take care of it and I will name it . . . ." And I couldn't remember what Lenny was going to name the bunny. So I called it Fred. Or maybe George. Wotthehell. It's YARN! Who CARES what it's name is? And don't act like you don't remember where you got certain skeins in your stash because I know better. You may not have named them Fred. YOu may have named them, "That wonderful yarn I got from Galad when I won her contest." Or "The alpacca I had to hide from the husband because I spent too much on it but I HAD to have it!" or, "That cheesy glitter acrylic. I should never buy yarn after drinking margaritas with the girls."

And even though we name and remember our yarns, if you turn out the whole stash, I will bet you money that you find something that evokes the querry, "Where the heck did I get this?" Go on. Turn out and sort through your whole stash. PRove me wrong. If I can take on my filing system and emerge victorious, I can do anything!! Yeeeha!

(where's my drink?)