Before you say another word, it's not my house. It's my mother's. It's gorgeous. At any minute on any given day, photographers could show up and it would be worthy of a cover shot for just about any magazine you could name, except perhaps American Garage & Car Aficionado, Basement Fever, Ultimate Yard, X-Sports Quarterly because that's her DH's domain and he's more challenged in the areas of organization and neatness. You know those places you see along the highway -- old bachelor farms, usually -- with the remains of a badly leaning barn next to a rock-solid silo, rusted out cars, trucks, tractors and plows blooming in a garden of related parts and forgotten tools, usually some left-over concrete sewer pipe from the highway construction upgrade project a few years back -- all overgrown with weeds and untrimmed shrubs, the tattered tarps (never properly secured in the first place) flapping crazily in the wind? Whenever we pass one of those places, my mom says that that's what her DH's place would look like if he lived alone; if not for her.
In knitting news, I feel like a page out of a favorite new book. I don't know which page, exactly, I'm a little flustered and I haven't finished it yet, but I think there are probably several that could apply. Is there one about ripping back sleeve caps (two of them, because both sleeves were worked at the same time) because the caps were too small and the sleeves too short; working a whole evening on the re-do and then realizing that there were too many decreases; ripping back and
working wasting another whole evening before discovering -- quite late and after thinking (numerous times through the evening) about how well it's going -- that all of the above was accomplished with the "smaller" (wrong size) needles? Here I am -- *waving* -- I'm that page.