The incident, summed up in a letter from one son to his brother at camp:
"Gordo was attacked while I walked him. Pit bulls. He has his ass-meat sewn back on."
Would Hemingway be proud?
Lets move from ass-meat to yarnly pursuits, shall we?
More miters. Notice how few stick to the two color scheme. My un-Hemingway-esque tendencies to add more color and detail, revealed.
You'd think I'd have dozens additional, this week both my sons are gone. Its dashed my illusion that if only the guys weren't around all the time, I could catch up on work , the house'd be clean and stay that way, I'd reorganize my office, really get a ton of knitting done, go through the old clothes, finish that backyard landscaping project, make stuff (any stuff! lots o'stuff!), organize.
Not so much. I've been socializing, moving slowly, leaving dirty dishes in the sink (do not tell them! I am the dirty-dish police!) , we've been hanging out at the beach at dusk with wine...oh yeah, I remember, what we used to do 15 years ago before we were parents, what made me think we'd changed or grown? I'd like to tell you I'm off to do some of the productive things I just listed . Instead I set up some double parking out front, I persuaded a friend to come over and go for a paddle and swim.
(later ) Look what she brought me, you know what we'll be doing at night for the rest of this week. At least I knit while I watch, except the killing parts where I need to cover my eyes . Bada BING!