I have new and fabulously glamourous new hair (picture to follow if I get motivated enough to figure out the self timer on the camera; don't hold your breath) thanks to Sweet Tea, who spent 4 hours yesterday cutting it, dying it, putting mysterious highlights in it and even waxing my eyebrows. Not only that, she cut A's hair & fixed her eyebrows too. I barely recognized myself when I brushed my teeth this morning, and believe me, that's a good thing. Sweet Tea is good at this stuff, she is serious, professional and knows what she's doing and as a result, I look like a million bucks. Huge thanks to Sweet Tea and her also sweet husband Uptown Ruler whose house was invaded by women for an entire evening which didn't seem to bother him and who added a tracker to this site for me so I can see where y'all are coming from (bwah ha ha ha.) Also kudos to their very sweet son (Sweet Ruler? Uptown Tea?) who is one of the nicest 18 month olds I know and who did a really great dance with a bamboo cane; I foresee a bright future in vaudeville.
Also, their house is warm. I may have to go back and just stay there, because I have slowly begun to figure out that this house is not warm, has no warmth in it, and why is that? It is because there is no, as in none, as in zero, as in zip, zilch and nada, insulation in this house. This house, which was built in 1925, is made of brick. The third pig, or whoever built this little house, put up brick walls on the outside and then finished the inside walls with nice smooth plaster. If only he had salvaged his brother's work and brought over a layer of straw, but alas, he just used brick. There's no wood, no studs, no sheetrock and nothing between us and the 25 degree weather outside but a layer of brick, which, if you didn't know, is not noted for it's heat holding qualities. That is why I keep ending up staying in bed all day (okay, I'm lazy too, I grant you that): it is the only way to keep warm. I'm sitting here shivering now despite the thermal undershirt, heavy wool sweater, jeans, wool socks and fuzzy slippers - and my fingers are getting numb again.
Yesterday I stayed in bed and knitted. I have to go buy more wool, because my hideously deformed scarf is not long enough. It turns out wool is sold by the gram, like cocaine, and, also like cocaine, you need a lot of grams. The label on my ball of wool said that it would make one scarf. Yeah, for Barbie, maybe, but not for a human being. I've used two balls and it still isn't long enough. It is true that my scarf inexplicably goes from quite narrow to quite wide and back again (it undulates, okay? It's a natural wave phenomenon.) although I have no idea how I keep picking up and/or dropping stitches without noticing. Who cares, anyway? It is a scarf I knitted myself and I am proud. Also cold. Do you think it would be too pathetic to spend the day in the public library near a heat vent, knitting and mumbling to myself? I may yet find out.