some years are, too.
Here’s a picture of a crocus.
some years are, too.
Here’s a picture of a crocus.
Needle storage for the geek who has everything.
about my daughter Tegan’s (considerable) contributions to her community during high school.
This picture is from the first year.
This picture is from this summer.
So, here’s the thing.
I am, like, the worst Raveler in the world.
I’ve posted 3 projects (and one of them says ‘in progress’, why, I’m not sure.)
I had never, until yesterday, posted on a forum.
I always have to consult my notes about my password. Well, that isn’t odd. I have to write my phone number in my shoe, lol. I remember every time I was embarrassed, any place I’ve been to, and the use of any edible or medicinal plant in my environment. Also old show tunes. Everything else I have to write down.
But I LOVE my Ravelry account. I love going to #knitchat and looking at everyone’s projects. I love what people make. I love knitting blogs (totally) and the posts people make about making their first pair of socks, or natural dying, or the mittens they make. I love the picture someone sent me of a tiny Queen Elizabeth (complete with Corgies) done in knit. And yarn bombing. I love yarn bombing.
I just find that I can either knit or blog about knitting, and there you go.
So I have never participated in the Ravelympics, which involves watching sports and knitting. I am far too competitive to watch sports. I mean, ever. I want the opponent’s team crushed but I don’t want anyone to be disappointed. I cry when they win and I cry when they lose. I’m relentlessly partisan but hate jingoism. It has never worked for me.
I blame my parents. :p
But the US Olympic Committee sent a cease and desist letter to Ravelry, letting them know that this “Watch the games and knit” business infringes on their copyright, challenges the economic security of their multinational sponsors, and DENIGRATES the effort the athletes make to get there.
I feel the need to fight back. I do. I feel like if we let this go, if we let ONE MORE smug little proto-lawyer walk into a community of (mostly) women to tell them that their personal lives interfere with society just by sitting in their own homes and knitting, and his bosses don’t cut him off RIGHT AWAY, we’ve let down our mothers and grandmothers, who fought for the vote, and protected our freedoms at war and at home, and our daughters and granddaughters, who deserve the freedom to become what they want to be.
Whether that’s an Olympic athlete, or a knitter.
I was determined to send postcards, because getting postcards is the most awesome thing in the Universe and probably adds up to 42 in some complicated numerological way.
Therefore, when I went to Forbidden Caverns (north of Sevierville Tennessee) I purchased some, which I wrote, there in the parking lot. The only thing that remained was to get to a postoffice, WHICH, since it was a weekday and the Republicans haven’t completely finished gutting essential government services yet, was open. I even did that. Yay, me.
When I came in there was a fellow talking to the clerk, accompanied by two tiny little blond boys, the elder of whom was doing the “potty dance.”
Elder, in this case, being, like, 3 years old. I alerted Dad and tried to distract them, talking about the Cars movie, until they went out and I purchased my stamps and mailed my cards.
When I came out into the lobby he was still there, and the older boy was crying, holding himself.
By God, he hadn’t peed yet, though. SUCH courage.
i asked Dad if I could take him out to water a bush. Got permission, which, frankly, surprised me more than anything, and took him out and gave him the go-ahead (if you’ll pardon the expression.) That kid had to go. I, with more practice and a bigger bladder, would have been in agony.
I told him what a SUPER DELUXE AWESOME BIG BOY JOB he’d done and returned him to Dad.
There are such small things you can do in the world. For the record, little boy, I know you’re being raised partially by a fireman in Tennessee, who seems to be somewhat behind the curve, as regards child development, and I don’t know what challenges you’ll face. I hope this was the worst one, and it’s clear sailing from here. The nice lady who helped you was a heathen liberal from the North. When someone tells you they’re bad, well, we’re not. I’ll be holding the good thought for you.
And, two pieces of advice.
Don’t panic, little dude. And carry your towel.
Happy Towel Day.
Here’s the thing. I will NOT speak to you unless I feel either
a) it’s entirely safe.
b) it’s unavoidable, usually for some moral imperative.
I just won’t. I’ll figure you’re busy. I’ll figure you’re entitled to your opinion (unless it involves harm to someone.) I’m the Queen of MYOB. If you want to know what I’m thinking, ask me. THEN I’ll tell you.
So, if I have gone to the trouble of speaking to a total stranger and warning her against a plan of action, it’s because I REALLY REALLY REALLY didn’t think I could get out of doing so and sleep nights. And if I did that I lost at least 2 nights’ sleep over it anyway.
So JUST FREAKING LISTEN TO ME.