Rainy Days and Sundays.....
Notice how I have previously arranged the sweater lovingly and photographed it with exquisite care….whereas this time I have tossed the nasty thing onto the couch and, sighing, grabbed the camera. Patience, thy name is most assuredly not Knitingale. But come on—I can hear that Noro calling, begging, PLEADING with me to make it into something splendid, and here’s Samus plodding along. It’s enough to drive a knitter mad…..even if she wasn’t significantly down that particular trail anyway.
There was a reason for the Noah reference; specifically, that the skies split open once again and dumped water on us all night and all morning. I’m so glad we ran our errands yesterday while it was nice, so we had today to snuggle up, knit, and watch our football team humiliate themselves (odd…they knew how to play last week…..perhaps I should send them a note pointing out that, while the other team doubtless appreciates it when you give them the ball before you have to, 4 turnovers in one game is perhaps more kindness than should be shown. Just saying.). I’m starting to think that Northwesterners will be readily identifiable before too much longer, by the persistently frizzy hair and permanent pruning of the skin. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some yards where the pink garden flamingos have been replaced by flocks of rubber duckies…..
Eddie thinks the rain is God’s way of telling him to come sit inside and groom compulsively, and it dawned on me that I’ve never given you any perspective as to how darned big he really is. So, here he is with Mr. K:
See what I mean? Huge cat. He’s a sweetheart, too, as you can tell…but I still wouldn’t be completely surprised to find a dead mailman on the porch one day when Monsieur Stripes starts wanting more challenge than mice, snakes, and voles can offer. “Oh, it’s okay, he’s a sweetie, really. Just run fast…and don’t look like a rabbit. He loves rabbits.”
After the game (game? Massacre. General Custer put up a better showing than this.) I was continuing to struggle with that darned edging (not that it doesn’t look nice, and not that it’s even all that hard….but it requires going back and forth every four stitches between two dpns and a crochet hook and, well, if I wanted a hobby juggling I’d invest in clown shoes and a red nose…you know?) and some show came on wherein people were cooking pickled pigs feet. Hm. Have we not progressed far enough in this country that we can avoid eating feet for dinner? Something just seems wrong there. Besides, don’t pigs have hooves…which would be a bit…oh, what’s the word….crunchy? Disgusting? And what’s next--hoof and snout pizza? Beak pasta with rooster comb sauce? I thought my mom was kidding when she said people eat oxtail. I'm pretty sure there are meatier areas on an ox than the tail. Besides, look where it’s been hanging for the duration of its life. See? Standards, people. We have to have standards.
Then again, I am the most notoriously picky eater in the world—some might say that I have all of the culinary sophistication of a four-year-old and those people would be quite right. Remember when you were a kid and you said that when you grew up no one would tell you what to eat and you’d eat ice cream for breakfast, macaroni and cheese for lunch, chocolate cake for dinner and cookies all day long? Yeah….that still sounds pretty good to me. Only now I want an occasional mocha latte as well. I’m a LITTLE more sophisticated.