I'm always cold and I walk around the house in a pair of slippers and a cardigan sweater, even in the summer if it's windy. I have come to accept the fact that everyone around me will become perfectly comfortable at the precise moment my blood starts to slow down and freeze, so I have quilts and afghans on both love seats, and my trusty old cardigan.
I crochet. Just the other day I pulled out my winter project, which has lasted me for three winters so far, including a time out for a Gryffindor scarf: a king sized afghan. It takes a while because I only know the single chain, so the thing is basically a huge potholder. But I'm in no rush and it's a relaxing hobby. And huge potholders are very warm.
I collect novelty teapots. It's the only thing I collect actually. I like teapots that look like trees or cottages or animals, anything as long as they don't look like teapots. Our first Christmas together Tom bought me one that looks like two men carrying a dresser with a cat sleeping on it. Someday I'd like to have a wall of built-in bookcases where I could scatter my teapots in amongst the books, all together but still spread out.
And, most relevant right now, I drink hot tea. I suppose in some parts of the country it's very common to drink hot tea in your early thirties but here there's only one kind of tea: iced, and usually in a bottle with a Lipton label. But not for me. No, I drink tea without tags, made from herbs with names other than 'tea leaf'. Valerian root, chamomile, peppermint, rosehips (what part of the rose is the hips?) and orange peel. Mix them all together and you have my nightly wind-down. And it's putting me to sleep right now. I'm a sucker for the boxes is what it is. My daytime tea comes in a box with what I am convinced is a fictional teacup on it, but one which I really want nonetheless. My bedtime tea comes in what I am convinced is the most timeless and point-perfect box ever. Just look at it; every thing in the picture says "sleepy", from the night shirt to the radio to the roaring fire. I want this image in a painting, to hang in my bedroom. Not a Warhol soup can, I'll admit, but much more relaxing.
Walking through the house in a cardigan sweater, a steaming cup of sleepytime teddybear tea in my hands, sitting down to crochet my blanket in front of a bank of novelty teapots. I should just sign up for AARP right now.
1 comment:
You know, when you write something like, "What the heck is X?" in a blog, you can fully expect at least a half a dozen people to give you the electronic version of the Hairy Eyeball and say, "You're on the internet -- LOOK IT UP!"
Having said that, for some reason the seed-bearing fruits of rose plants are called "hips"... you know, the round red things that form after the petals fall off the flowers? I hope you've actually seen a rose that has managed to be fertilized and produce hips, but if you haven't, do a google image search on "rose hips". Different varieties/species of roses produce different-looking hips, but they are all the fruit of the rose plant.
And they are a great source of vitamin C, so if you ever happen to find yourself in the middle of nowhere suffering from scurvy, find yourself a rosebush and chow down.
And now, back to your regularly scheduled blog.
-=cst
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