waiting to exhale

Today's soundtrack:
"My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors" by Moxy Fruvous

The other night I inhaled a spider while I was sleeping.

It was only the latest in a string of bizarre nighttime occurrences. First, there was the dream that a Canadian Superstore could be found in a little strip mall just to the east of Cellardyke. "Excellent," I said in my dream to Miguel. "I bet they have quinoa!" Also in the strip mall: a dodgy pizza place, a dry cleaner, a pharmacy, and a notary public. Dr. Jung?

Then there was the truly bizarre melding of various households to make up our home here. These houses had everything, even a can opener, but I could not find my dishes. Then I found my dishes, but was stuck back in Calgary/Saskatoon (a bizarre blend of the two, not unlike myself). It came down to a choice: dishes in Calgary, or fancy loft apartment in Cellardyke. I've no idea how it turned out.

Finally, the other night, I am half-awakened by a strange little tickling under my nose. I take an involuntary snort, the tickling stops, and I wake up completely convinced that I've just inhaled the tiny spider that lives in the skylight above our bedroom. The next morning, I jumped out of bed to check if Wee Spider was there. Gone. He's been gone for two days now.

I told Miguel, who reassuring stated that "on average, a human eats eight spiders during their lifetime."
"Yeah, eat. Not inhale," I complained. "No one said anything about inhaling."

However, this past week hasn't been all inhaling spiders. I spent Wednesday (pre-spider) up in St. Andrews with Kristin, drinking and knitting my way through town, much to the apparent disgust of one old man. He turned to Kristin and me... or possibly to the fellow studying by the bay window... and said loudly that he'd "never been so embarrassed to be a graduate of this university". Over the hours and beers that followed, we narrowed down the cause of his outburst to a few possibilities: he was offended I didn't know who Muriel Sparks was, that we were knitting, that we were discussing past teaching experiences, or that the bar service was poor (which it wasn't) and was taking it out on everyone. Or he was a crazy old man. At least I could understand what he was saying, unlike the crazy old toothless woman I met a few days earlier in the bus station. I should start another blog all about crazy old people I've met in St. Andrews.

In knitting news, I finished Herbivore (Rav Link), but as it's still in amoeba-state, photos will follow once I have the chance to block it. I've already started on my next scarf, Nikol Lohr's Woodland Shawl with Wollmeise* 100% in "Rosenrot". Up close, the yarn looks orange and purple, but from a distance, it's a lovely bright red.

The concern, however, is this only leaves me two more projects, a lace scarf I've been working on for Mom, and a lace scarf for my mother-in-law, Angeles. Judging how fast I'm going through these projects (one every three weeks), I'm beginning to doubt that I've brought enough wool with me to survive until the boxes from Canada arrive. I expect this means that tonight's dreams will feature me in a Dali-esque hellscape, searching desperately for quinoa and another skein of Wollmeise.

Of course, I've just realized that I live in Scotland now (did I mention?) and can order Wollmeise without having to stay up until 1am. Hah! This is me, gloating!

Of course, this same me inhaled a spider two nights ago...

* Dear German friends, know that every time I've written Wollmeise today, I've pronounced it in my head as "Wool-meese". Just try and stop me!