Thirty-nine

days until we move to Whistler. Resisting the urge now to curl up in the fetal position and whimper about how there's barely a month left and the kids are undoing my sorting and tidying almost as fast as I can do it. Of course, it takes a lot less time to unsort and unclean than the reverse.

I ought to download all those interesting yarn shots I took just before the computer crashed yesterday, but it's the end of a long office day and I'm fried, so I'm going to be the ultimate geek and relate the dreams which my Beloved and I had last night.

I clearly immersed myself very successfully in Chaos over the last few days, (which is depressingly apropos for our family) because I spent much of the night trying to devise a way to graph my 6 year old daughter's behaviour, certain that I could generate a strange attractor diagram and form some sort of unifying theory about her behaviour. I suspect the truth will turn out to be that a butterfly flapping its wings on the other side of the world is the cause of her latest meltdown.

My husband, Mr. Tough Guy Fighter Pilot, dreamt he was posted to Iceland. Glancing out his office window, he saw a transport plane go down in flames and on his way to render assistance, was temporarily diverted by the latest issue of Martha Stewart magazine. Oddly though, it looked like it had been hastily assembled in rough draft format, and he realized with horror that the plane had in fact been carrying the entire editorial staff of the magazine. (Yes, we subscribe, but he umm.... only looks at the recipes. Honest.)

Tomorrow I'll get back to yarn. Assuming, that is, that the giant swirling formation of cumulonimbus presently over our house doesn't send us running for the basement and take care of this decluttering business in one fell swoop. Gotta love life on the prairies.

PS - apologies to all Bloglines subscribers - I messed up somehow just now, and it appears that yesterday's post is going to publish all over again.