This wonderful thing is cheerfully stolen from this fantastic site and so so apropos since I'm going on over to Drinking Liberally in about an hour after whinging on about my horrible hangoveriness yesterday. Ah, addiction. Where would we be without it? Don't answer that.
So my mother has taken up knitting again, inspired, no doubt, by my continuing stream of bizarre-o hat confections. Except of course, this is my mother, who has more in common with Martha Stewart than the hipster queens of stitch n' bitch, and she views it as an exercise in, among other things, applied mathematics. She has books and books of Aran sweater patterns and cardigans with sheep on them, which, I must admit, are looking cuter and cuter to me as I grow in age yet not, apparently, in wisdom. She makes swatches and figures out how many stitches she has per inch. She unravels stuff if it isn't working out. She knits whole sweaters and she has a box full of nifty knitting gadgets that I don't understand. If that is not enough to impress you, how about this? She can make buttonholes and she has an elderly paperbound book called the Applied Knitting Architect which has, gulp, no pictures and lots of math. She called me this morning at 8:30 to tell me that my fear of the hat pattern in one of her knitting books was silly and misplaced, because all I needed to do was transfer the whole thing onto four needles and then whizzyfooop the perled stitch under slip, kazumpwuggle, run the yarn through and there you have it, Felicity, honestly, it's the simplest thing. Mmmm hmmm. Whatever you say, Mom.
Other than that, I have no news at all. I could wax politically furious about South Dakota's plan to outlaw abortion, and I might yet, but not right now. Right now I'm going to clean up the kitchen, keep on cooking a big pot of chicken chili verde which I really hope is done before I leave for DL, and, well, that's about it.