Clang Clang Clang goes the . . . . crochet hook

Happy Valentines Day! Today, for one day, I will really try very very hard not to annoy my husband with the sound that makes him grit his teeth, hunch his shoulders and sometimes emit a gutteral sound through his clenched bearded lips. You see, we are a - well, I guess you would say, a mature baby boomer couple. After dinner I change into my jammies and perch on the couch with my puppy sleeping on my lap,various crochet patterns strewn to the right, my kindle and Iphone balancing on the arm of the couch, a large basket of good ideas at my feet, puppy's afghan to the left with survivors of various unfinished projects stuck like magnets to everything. Typically, I have my glasses perched on my head, or to my side, since I can't see with them and can't see without them. So to crochet, they are absent, but if something peaks my interest on the tv, I have to use my hands like scurrying mice to try and locate the glasses, usually unsuccessfully to pay attention to what my husband might have commented on by saying, hurry up Ellen, look at this, did you see that, oh geeze! Well anyway, this is quite a lot of paraphernalia that I have surrounding me, and yes, paraphernalia is the right word because that is associated with addiction, and I have already admitted that I have an addiction to anything that is crochet. Oh, and I also have this other weird habit, I can't drink in the living room because I have a fear of spilling on my stuff! So from my spot on the couch, there is occasionally a need to get up, or to move, to take my turn on Words with Friends, or get a drink from the glass on the kitchen counter, put the puppy out or bring the cat in - well you get the idea. Now if you look at the beautiful picture that forms my banner, it is a painting of Lydia Crocheting in the Garden, and just so you are not romantically thinking of a Downtown Abbey dowager writing this post, let me inform you that I look nothing like Lydia. So much sitting at work, so much sitting to crochet, and the inactivity of winter have changed my front porch into a multileveled parking garage. As my grandson Marcus likes to say, Nanny, you are fat. I have continually corrected him to say, I am not fat, I am just fluffy. So invariably, there comes a time in the evening when Nanny has to move, perhaps for one of the many reasons recited above, or maybe because I have fallen asleep, hook in hand. Whatever the reason, this sudden shifting of the mountain will usually be preceded by the search for the crochet hook. This is in deference to my husband who equates the sound of a crochet hook hitting the hard wood floor with nails on a blackboard. I check the various tiers of the multilevel garage, dig my fingers deep into the recesses of the couch, move cushions, lift afghans, shift patterns, check behind my ear, really a scanning that rivals the 20 point check at the car dealer. Not finding the hook, (which should be my first clue of trouble) I carefully rise from the couch, only to hear it! The slow motion, surround sound, tumble to the ground of my favorite Boyle J hook, twirling, schussing, the triple jump, flying camel, the futile attempt at a catch, and then it is done, hard metal hits hard floor. Clang! I quickly apologize, yet again, to my poor husband who has begun his ritual reaction to this horrid sound. I truly am sorry, because there are some sounds that just chill me to the bone as well, so I can appreciate his distress. Honestly, I kind of like the sound, but then I am weird when it comes to crochet implements. So today for this beautiful Valentine's day, no candy for my love, just a clank free evening. Hmmm, I wonder if I could crochet a cover for my crochet hook?