hey look, another sweater
I finished the second sleeve and seams for the sweater I designed on line for you. Now I need a thirteen-year-old with ruddy cheeks and seven undershirts to model it for me. It's stiff, but just about windproof.
Now I am using up the odds and ends to make a blankie. (or maybe a bunting. We'll see.)
Meanwhile, I am spinning some yarn for Lucia's inspired sock knitting in public party. I'm at the plying stage and thought I would show you how I handle those runaway cakes of singles. Two wide-mouthed, wider-bellied vases picked up for a quarter apiece on the last day of a garage sale. (I smile apologetically and say, "All I have is fifty cents. I know you're asking a dollar each for these vases, but if you don't sell them today, what are you going to do with them? Would you consider letting me have them at a deep,deep discount?")
Here is Blackjack, aka Jack the Ripper, aka, Jackaroo, my sweet babboo. I have made him a nice loungable nest next to the heat vent under my desk. He is as comfortable as possible and all it would take to make him blissful is a plate of tuna and to get rid of that damn splint.
It's still snowy, and I still hate it. It has passed the pristine blanket of unsullied white stage, and is getting to the soiled and melty stage. Yesterday our writer's group was cancelled due to snow, so one of the gals got on line and challenged us to have a virtual meeting with poems about the snow. Most of them are very sweet, admiring Mother Nature's blanket sort of things. Mine?
Colder than a dead eskimo.
Colder than a polar bear's bedroom slippers
Colder than a tin toilet seat on the shady side of a glacier.
Colder than a witches tit in a brass bra.
Colder than a well-digger's belt buckle.
Colder than a step-mother's heart.
Colder than a spurned debutant. (thanks, Amy)
Colder than shitsicles!