No Top Sheep tonight, just a couple of quickies...(Or, as I said to Rae last night--if you don't have enough yarn skeins for a full project, just throw it together for a scrapmeal yarn-casserole.)
First off, Julie, The Samurai Knitter, this one's for you:
This is my knitting space. This is as clean as it gets.
Roxie, honey, this one's for you.
This is a rare photo of me. This is why, although I treasure you as my weight watcher's buddy (I'm five points over tonight--but the egg nog is officially out of the fridge) I'm not posting my weight.
And this one's for everyone who wants to cleanse their visual pallette and see something adorable and charming:
Now on to a couple of pieces of wierdness:
*I've got a new knitting acronym. We've got WIP's (Works In Project), TOAD's (Totally Abandoned in Disgust) and UFO's (UnFinished Objects) and now we've got MuFOT's (Must Finish, On Timeline) Yeah...having trouble with that--someone cook me up another acronym--because if I can't get toh (typing one handed) to stick, I'm certainly not going to put wings on MuFOT.
* I've hooked my daughter on Junior Vampire Fiction. (Stephanie Meyer's Twilight, Annette Curtis Klause's Blood and Chocolate) I'm going to hell. But we all know this, and I know some of you are looking forward to sharing a glass of wine with me when I get there, and everybody else is hoping that Beelzebub will be hooked on the web by then and I can post from Purgatory three days a week.
* Last night the Cave Troll crawled into bed at 11:00 last night, interupting, well, plans to have something worth interupting. Dad looked at him as he burrowed in and made himself comfortable and said, "Uhm, son, you wouldn't want to go sleep in your own bed tonight, would you?"
"No dad." Said the three year old. "Cuddle mom." Then he looked up and smiled beatifically. "Sorry, Dad." Mate and I giggled to sleep.
* And here's the kicker--Big T is looking for irony. This is a tough concept for most high school students--much less my big guy who still doesn't get puns. The following conversation with him is, I'm sure, punishment for something I did in my youth.
(T) Mom, would it be ironic if Bryar's dead guinea pig, Spike, got killed by someone shoving a spike through it?
(M) MMmm, only if the spikes were made of iron.
(T) I don't get it.