we now return to our regularly scheduled broadcast.

This after sitting in the Albany Airport for two days straight, because all flights in and out of Atlanta were cancelled. I guess it's beyond the Albany Airport's friendly Delta Customer Service Representatives to understand that some people actually LIVE in Atlanta and therefore are willing to be put on another carrier to get back to Atlanta, rather than waiting around for eight hours so they can catch a direct flight. I told them to put me on Northwest through Detroit or whatever, but would they? No. I had to sit for days in that freezing airport which closes at 8 PM and wait until they cancelled yet another of my flights home.

I will say this, Albany Airport has a great McDonald's.

Thoughts of the day go to NBF who has discovered the maximum suckage factor of men, and to Rabbitch who is dealing with the painful family loss of Coochie, a fish she didn't really know well to begin with.

HELP! Au secours! Secorra!

I'm being overrun by dogs!

Have I mentioned that my mother currently has nine beagles? (She breeds and shows beagles.)

It's weird to go home again and find that the house has been completely redecorated, that the dogs you remembered and loved have died, and that the ones that are living have either gotten really old or are new puppies of ones who you remember as puppies.

The last thing I remember is taking this picture:

Sam is on the left, Ben is on the right. At the time of this picture, Sam was about two years old and Ben was about three months old. (Sam is not a show dog, but he showed in agility and obedience.)

Now, Sam is eleven and probably won't make his twelfth birthday, and Benny died a few months ago of cancer. The house seems to be missing something without him here, despite the huge number of other beagles.

But the two new puppies Mom kept from her two litters in May are very cute. I'll post pictures.

the good news is....

I won't have any problems fasting tonight for 24 hours (Yom Kippur and all that) because my stomach can't hold anything down.

I came back to work yesterday for a meeting (which means I had to look all dressed up and professional, and very un-schlubesque) and made it through half a day before I crawled out through the courtyard teeming with Federal nicotine addicts and homeless people and McDonald's employees - yes, there is a McDonald's in the courtyard of the Sam Nunn Atlanta Federal Center - and made it past the line of people waiting for the bus to the Federal prison, across the street, past the people in the MARTA station trying to get MARTA riders to register to vote, crawled onto a train, and almost passed out. Thankfully, I didn't, because I had gotten onto the wrong train (Doraville, and not North Springs, this is what comes from not paying attention on the northbound platform), and had to switch trains a few stations later. I'm only glad I got on the 1 MARTA train in 20 that appears to have a working speaker (which means it was blaringly loud and immediately above my head) and the 1 train in 30 that had an operator who announced which train it was at Lindbergh Station, where the two lines split, and the 1 operator in 40 who announced the train correctly. What is that, a 1 in 120 chance?

I fly back home tonight to surprise my mother for her birthday, which very often falls on Yom Kippur, and I might see if I can leer at the new million dollar yarn store which opened up in town and apparently carries everything. One of the reps for Dunwoody Yarn told Christine all about how this woman literally took one million dollars and spent it to open a yarn store in Saratoga Springs, New York. I had my mother call some months ago and ask if she carried Araucania Nature Cotton. She told my mother there was no such thing, only Nature Wool. I figure if she's going to definitively give out such answers, and speak imperiously about it as if she knows better than her callers, when she clearly doesn't, she doesn't deserve my business. Besides, Norma at The Stitchin' Post was one of the two women who taught me how to knit when I was seven years old, so why would I ever give my local business to anyone else?

I was in Dunwoody Yarn one day and this obnoxious woman came in and started going on all about how she went up to this wonderful new yarn store in SARATOGA and how this store in SARATOGA had the most marvelous yarn there blah blah blah.

I flinched.

People like this are why people such as myself, who grew up in SARATOGA, detest tourists. The place exists without tourism. It is a small city over over 25,000 residents. Some people commute to Albany and work for the state (as I once did). Some people work for Skidmore College, where my mother and I went to college and my father taught for over 25 years. Some people teach at one of the siz elementary schools or work construction or work retail or do whatever it is that people do in a small city. They may make more money seasonally during July and August than they do the rest of the year but it's like getting a second job during December.

I once worked at a small, independent, year-round bookstore in the downtown area which had been around for over ten years. The owner was always asked, "So what do you do the rest of the year?" by tourists. His response? "Well, after they shut off the water and electricity and tear down the cardboard walls we use for buildings, we all move to Albany and wait for the next racing season to start."

I plan on bringing back superior New York State apples to Georgia. We're going to have an apple tastes test at work.

migraine, day 3.

And it's only getting worse.

No, I can't go to the emergency room. They give you an injection filled with Imitrex. Which for some reason makes me have the worst migraines in the world. There are no other options. I tell them nothing in that class of drugs works, they give it to me anyway, I want to die.

Dawn (I cannot for the life of me find her blog, anybody know it? She's in RAOK and SSRP? She used the Alice Starmore I put in the SSRP start box) sent me a wonderful RAOK of a buttery yellow Jaeger soft something or other goodness. I stroked it against my cheek. Can you even buy Jaeger in Atlanta? It's marvelous. If I ever get over my migraine I will put up pictures of this and the Scrabble tile stitch marker.

Now I think I am leaving work early. Too much stress dealing with the interworkings of Federal agencies today. The Los Angeles Daily News recently reported that 53% of workers aged 16 and older are functionally illiterate. I believe they all work at the Federal Records Center.

migraine.

won't go away.

wearing sunglasses at work.

people asking me if i had a hard weekend.

wish everyone would shut up and go away.

flourescent lights are the work of the devil.

blogger ate my sidebar.

powerless

That drunken Russian Ivan, as Colin Quinn calls him, left us powerless and me stranded in the rain for hours yesterday, after I had to drive through floods to go many circuitous routes because almost all paths to my house were blocked by fallen trees. The Man Who May Not Live in the House for Much Longer if He Does Not Replace the Front Door Lock as He Promised to Do When We Bought the House in December 2002 was at work until 9 PM, blithely unaware of the situation, and I had no knitting with me. By the time The Man came to his soon-to-be former domicile, it was pitch black outside, and he had to find an alternate means to break in, because the power was not going to magically come on and let us in using the handy dandy garage door opener. What did he do? Complain that the house was covered with roaches because the ground was too wet for them to stay in the ground. Complain that he was wet. Complain that he was cold. Complain that dinner wasn't ready.

*Note: For those of you not in the South, just deal. It's something you just get used to. Roaches (or palmetto bugs, which is what I have in abundance) don't die because even at 30 degrees in the winter it doesn't get cold enough here for them to die. And they fly.

All this leads up to still no power in the house, no pictures of the RAOK from yesterday or the other one referred to, and me being puzzled as to why people as puzzled at my coming into work today. Uh, people? I have light here. Power. Heat. Hot water.

I will complete the RAOK discussion later.

And regarding Kae's comment yesterday, yes, the mail was teetering. It was a tower. A terrifying, teetering, tower of mail.

I've been RAOKed!

Twice!

First, let me explain something.

We get more mail at our house than any ten people combined ought to get. Since only two people live there, it makes the task of sorting the mail daunting. Not all of the mail is addressed to us. Aside from mail addressed to The Man Who Lives in the House and to his Corporation, and to me in my maiden name and my married name, we get mail to my mother-in-law in Virginia (who has never been to my house nor lived in Georgia), one of my brothers-in-law in Virginia (who has never even been to Georgia except through the airport), my late father (who had never even been further south than Virginia in his lifetime, and then only in 1962), my mother (who lives in New York), the previous owner, who was a vice-president with McDonald's and moved in a corporate relocation to Illinois and apparently never changed his address, the McDonald's Corporation (particularly mail relating to lawsuits involving the McDonald's Corporation), the previous owner's wife who apparently put on parties involving thousands of spongy red balls, based on the catalogs we get, and a mystery new person who was arrested shortly after we moved in as part of a nationwide identity-theft ring based in the Atlanta area, who used our mailing address because the house had been vacant and on the market for over a year.

The Man has therefore decided to take all of the mail and hoard it in his office until I sort it. However, he did not tell me he was doing this, and I thought we were just not getting any mail. So yesterday I discovered a teetering tower of mail, about three feet high, that had been piled up since last Friday, and in it I discovered a RAOK from Carolyn - a stitch marker made from a Scrabble tile. So cool! And it's the letter R! Can I say this is the very first non contrasting yarn, non-orange or green stitch marker I have ever had, despite my having been knitting for 23 years? I am so thrilled! I'll put pictures up tomorrow!

the great yarn rearrangement

Yesterday I had to leave work early, so I went over to Dunwoody Yarn to see how Julie was doing. Her mother is incapacitated for the time being and Julie has been great at taking care of the store while Christine has been out. A few months ago, when this happened, Julie worked alone at this, at a new yarn shop, and Julie is a new knitter. Luckily, Nancy and Jean, who teach the beginner and intermediate knitting classes at Dunwoody Yarn, respectively, have volunteered to help Julie out while Christine is out this time. Isn't that nice?

Anyway, yesterday when I went in, the place was a zoo. This is good for the store but the four of us were helping out customers, and Julie was not having luck in ordering poduct or doing inventory in the back room. Unfortunately, just before the rush began, Nancy and Jean began to rearrange the yarn, and they left at 5 PM, leaving all of the yarn in the middle of the floor.

Who does this?

I guess they thought it would be Great Fun! to rearrange yarn, but you can't just leave the store like that! I stayed until 8 PM helping Julie rearrange things, and I still felt bad because I had to leave her there, but it was mostly finished, and she could leave and visit her mother in the hospital. And Nancy and Jean aren't even coming back until Friday!

I think the worst part was during the zoo, everyone, in wanting to show concern, asked her how Christine was doing, which made everything worse, because, well, she isn't doing well, and that just depressed Julie.

So if you go to Dunwoody Yarn, please don't ask how Christine is doing, but do admire the pretty Rainbow Room Julie and I created in the back section, and if you are afar, they do mail order! They carry Ironstone, Cherry Tree Hill, K1C2, Mountain Colors.....

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.*

Thanks for the thoughts on yesterday. As I said, I am on the fence. I do believe people can post what they want to on their own blog. It is your opinion after all. And I am a free speech, anti-censorship advocate, raised by three of the most liberal minded intellectuals from three generations you could ever meet.

Or would have ever met.

My wonderful, left-wing liberal, bleeding-heart intellectual father died on June 13, 2004. He was three weeks shy of his 69th birthday. Despite a very difficult final few years of his life, and particularly final few months of his life, he was the most brilliant person anybody who ever met him was privileged to have come into contact with.

And he would kill me for ending that sentence with a preposition and writing it in the passive voice.

A medieval historian, he claims that he walked onto a college campus at the age of 17 and never left. He had his PhD by the age of 23. He and my mother were married in City Hall after having marched in an anti-Vietnam War demonstration in our small city. He talked to the students at his college (my undergraduate college) when they staged a protest sit-in in the president's office to protest the Kent State shootings. He was the only professor who could or would talk to them. He gave them suggestions for more contructive ways to protest and ended the sit-in, and he marched with them days later in a city-wide protest against the shootings.

And he died in the most excrutiatingly humiliating circumstances anyone could ever live or die in, and he brought them on himself.

I can only hope that the mermaids sing to him.*

I promise a return to regularly scheduled knitting content tomorrow.

*from T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". My father taught this poem in his Modern European Intelletual History classes, and he taught it to me when I was 8 years old and bored with Latin one afternoon.

*sigh*

I have no political bumper stickers on my car.

I have no political buttons on my blog.

It's not that I don't believe in anything, I guess I just tend not to want to clutter up everyone's life by forcing my beliefs into theirs. After all, while I know there are a few of you out there who read my odd ramblings and like my nail polish (this week's color: OPI's Outback Aphrodesiac), I'd rather have buttons that show my preference for, I don't know, musicals over war movies, or the 1920s over the 1960s, or crime dramas over reality shows.

That said, I'm on the fence about something here.

If I were the single-most read knitting blog every day, would I change the way I wrote, how I wrote, or what I wrote?

It's sort of like that whole Charles Barkley thing, where he said he was not a role model.

In Charles' case, he was in the position where his very job made him a role model. And yet he was technically only paid to play basketball.

But people don't blog for money, they do it to, well, do it, I guess. Although there is a certain hierarchy in the blog world and at this point maybe there's some fame involved, a level of queen-bee-ness, if you will. Does that mean there is a responsibility to what is said in one's blog?

In two recent cases, there were hurt feelings. In both, it was merely opinions reflected. However, in one, it was opinions that the entire readership might have interest in. In the other, only about 22 people had an interest in what was said, and those 22 people have a group email address. The other 21 people would have much more limited readership had they posted something similar on their blogs. Could the extreme negativity not have been saved for a group email, instead of a blog that hundreds (or more) people read, every day?

Or should the number of the readership not affect what is posted on the blog?

I guess every time I conclusively feel that someone with that great a readership should have more of a responsibility, I then think that person can do what they want to.

In this case, maybe the discussion would have been dealt with more tactfully offline.

Thoughts?

the gravity of the situation

Yesterday, I told The Man Who Lives in the House that since he sounded as if he were getting as sick as I was, that he should call the doctor at 8 AM, to try to get an appointment that day. At 11 AM, I got this call:

The Man: So should I call the doctor?
Me: Yes, but call right now so you can get in today. I can drive you but only if we're back downtown by 3:30 PM.

At 11:15 I received an email from him, informing me that this website said he didn't have to go to the doctor. Oh, okay. I, for one, get all of my medical advice from a nameless website. (Apologies if the makers of the aforementioned website are reading this, no disrespect intended.) I read that website and it is incorrect. The very first question makes an assumption that one cannot have bronchitis if one has not been coughing for a very long time. Just Plain Untrue. At 2 PM, I received the following phone call:

The Man: So if I call the doctor can you drive me?
Me: Yes, but only if we're back by 3:30 PM. Or, you can take the train back to your car and drive the very short distance to the doctor yourself.

At 2:15, I get a phone call informing me he has made an appointment for today at 9:30 AM, and can I drive him? The reason for this was because the only appointment yesterday was at 3:30 PM and I couldn't drive him. Apparently the second half of my sentence was not comprehended. I was then informed in a sad, sulky voice:


"I can only hope I can make it through the night."

At which point I told him I was going to a bra fitting at Nordstrom's and then dinner with friend's and I'd be home at 11 PM, and that he should take copious amounts of NyQuil so that he was asleep well before I got home. I left unspoken the part where this was for his safety, because otherwise I'd come after him.

The bra fitting was for breast cancer charity. It led to great debate amongst the bra fitters. Why? I have been uncomfortable in my bras for some time now, but I was sure I was wearing the correct size. I bought some bras last week in a larger cup size. The Man asked me what the giant soup bowls were doing in my closet. I wore one of the new bras for the past two days and it was the first time I have not been adjusting, pinched, squeezed, or pulling up my bra straps all day long. I felt like I could sleep in this bra. However, the cups were HUGE. At the fitting, the fitters all wanted me to go up to this cup size. Every bra I tried on supported me well, but there was so much excess material in the cups I could have wrapped it around myself again. However, when I tried on what I knew to be my correct size, the cups fit but I had no support elsewhere. In the end, the fitters decided that I was really my originally determined size, but my breasts had the weight of the larger cup size.

Great.

I cannot even imagine what getting older will be like if my breasts weigh more than they're supposed to. And how am I even supposed to react to that? I can't buy bras that are too big for me, and the bras that fit me don't support me.

And is gravity only weighing more heavily on my breasts, or on other parts of my body as well?

In other exciting news, our courtyard was teeming with Federal police today. A homeless person urinated on the stairs. He was arrested and taken away in handcuffs. Because this is a Federal building, is it a Federal crime to urinate on the stairs, although nobody would have cared if he had done it say, three feet away in the street. Thirty minutes later, ten Federal cops were still swarming around the "spot" on the wall in the courtyard. One wonders what they do when not faced with such excitement.

The gloves are almost done! Then on to...the next pair of gloves!

it's official...

I have bronchitis. And I am on happy antibiotics, which are already making me feel better. Now The Man Who Lives in the House, who pestered me so much about going to the doctor myself, hypocritically won't go to see the very same doctor himself. Should I hide the cough syrup and tissues until he makes an appointment?

While in the waiting room, I knit two inches of the gloves. I am trying to eke this glove out with the same hank of KPPPM so I don't have to start on the next one. I'm not quite sure why I'm so determined to do this, I just am, for some reason.

I stopped by Dunwoody Yarn last night and bought a skein of Artisan NZ Merino lace weight yarn in a beautiful deep green color, and the pattern that comes with the kits you see here. Julie told me everybody overlooks this yarn, and she has three separate patterns for sale for just the scarves. It's been awhile since I did any lace, maybe this will give me the kick I need to start my Charlotte...

rainy days and wednesdays

Everyone go see Lizzi's first pair of socks!

My regular head cold has, as usual, turned into a case of bronchitis. I am susceptible. The worst part about it this time is that since February I have been battling an undiagnosed health problem which has been causing me to cough uncontrollably, which just seems to have gone away, and now this. The doctor's office, while open, does not accept incoming phone calls until 8 AM. Because I carpool with someone, I can't just make an appointment for anytime during the day. I have meetings which have been scheduled with the National Archives people for months now so I can't bail today, and The Man Who Lives in the House, who bought me three bags of cough drops last weekend, seems to not understand that one doesn't chew on five cough drops at a time, so he has singlehandedly gone through two and a half bags already. Yesterday.

I know it's a rhetorical question but why are men so whiny when they get sick?

I fully understand that I am venting in the first paragraph. But The Man came home yesterday going on and on about having to spend all day in a meeting while he was sick and why didn't I make him a doctor's appointment?

To top it all off, Frances came through Atlanta yesterday, and the leaky NEW skylight that was just replaced four months ago started leaking in three places, as well as the hallway in the laundry room. The contractor who installed the skylight has disappeared. Oh, and now that I'm well enough to actually do laundry again, it's raining too hard to do any (I'm on septic, you can't do laundry if it's raining hard outside).

What's a girl to do but watch an Esther Williams movie?

This one was Bathing Beauty and it was really more of a piece for Red Skeleton, as it was Esther's first movie, but it also had Basil Rathbone (post-Sherlock Holmes) and Harry James. Random scenes included a strange class on "Eurythmics" (and we're not talking about Annie Lennox here) where poor Red had to dress in a pink tutu and dance ballet and a swing reinterpretation of Loch Lomond. It was very enjoyable, although the swimming numbers were very amateurish compared to Esther's later ones.

Only one Esther movie left on the Replay. I'll save it for this weekend.

Glove #2 is past the thumb gusset, heading towards the home stretch, and the rain looks to be stopping today.

the sex gloves

Stealing Lisa's term in the comments, the general consensus was that the glove is "glovely" and that my nail polish is bewitching. Thank you, thank you very much. *insert bows to her adoring fans here* The nail polish is Essie's Lady Godiva. My nails are actually a bit shorter now than they usually are, but I assure everyone, I am nowhere close to being a hand model. My fingers are short and fat and stubby. I found that when I stopped biting my nails (only five years ago, which happened simultaneously when I quit smoking) and let my nails grow longer, my fingers give the appearance of a longer, leaner finger, when in fact they still require something like a size 9 ring and are weirdly short for my 5'8" frame. But I thank you for all of the compliments!

I was able to finish the first glove on Friday night, and it took about two hours (or two episodes of Quantum Leap reruns) to weave in all of the ends and make sure there were no holes. Herewith, a picture:I feel very Madonna, c. 1984 with this glove on. Here's a picture of it off my hand, showing it as the Amazing Shrinky-Dink Glove:You've got to love the way that K2, P2 rib streeeetches. The Man Who Lives in the House immediately dubbed it the Sex Glove and wanted...well, sex. Unfortunately, I started coming down with a cold on Friday and the rest of me was Not So Sexy. The Man said there was a real dichotomy between the Sexy Hand and the Frumpy Rest of Me. Isn't he a sweet talker? He insisted on taking a straight on shot of the Sex Glove to show off the True Sexiness of the Glove. I think it shows off my stubby fingers.My cold immediately became full-blown so no knitting for the next few days, but I have managed today to avoid the dreaded Second Glove Syndrome, and I have two inches done on the second glove so far.In more exciting news, Lynn has just started a business called WoolSoup, which offers handpainted fibers in marvelous colors. I was lucky enough to get the entire lot of Fairy Wings, which arrived on Friday. Such beautiful colors!And the skeins are HUGE. To show perspective, I took a picture next to one of my new shoes.Then I realized than none of you knew that I had feet the size of Godzilla, a size for which no shoe company except expensive Italian shoe companies such as Prada, Chanel, and Dolce and Gabbana even make shoes - why do shoe makers make shoes in sizes 6-10, 11? Why do those of us with size 10.5 feet not exist for regular, non-expensive shoe makers? We want to shop at normal shoe stores too! We are not freaks! - so this picture wouldn't make much sense, but you can see my very cute shoes nonetheless, and my obsession with Mary Janes. Here, then, is a picture next to a DVD, which I assume makes more sense to everyone in terms of scale:I don't even know what to make yet with this wool. It feels marvelous. Perhaps an Aran sweater? I haven't made one since...1998? (Have I mentioned that I've been knitting for 23 years, and I just turned 30?) The possibilities are endless. Also included in the package:a lovely cedar and lavender sachet. I just love that smell. Now that my sinuses have cleared and I can smell again.

gloves!

I figured less talk, more do with the gloves was best, particularly since I was on deadline. So, I give you, a partially finished glove!It's the most subtle color of Koigu Painter's Palette Premium Merino I've ever seen. You'd almost think it was one of the solids. I actually have all of the fingers finished now and am working on the thumb - yes, these are fingerless gloves. This picture was taken last night at 8:30 PM. After this comes...the second glove.

By the way, gloves are a tad slower to work on than socks.

the victory of de feet

Lizzi got my RAOK and it has prompted her to begin her very first pair of socks! Oh, to spread the madness of sock knitting around the world. First you think you're just going to try a pair of socks, and the next thing you know, you're buying souvenir sock yarn just like The Harlot on vacation. Lisa got my RAOK and so did Pam. This was fun! I think I'll wait a couple of weeks and send out some more. Weee!

I finished the index finger on my fingerless Koigu gloves last night while watching Million Dollar Mermaid (Thanks, Janice, for telling me about the Esther Williams marathon on TCM!). I didn't quite finish but it was one of the more watchable films in the Victor Mature oeuvre. Does anybody actually like him? What is up with his facial expressions?

One of my employees just came back from Virginia and brought me a brochure about William Haines. The title is "From Films to Furniture: The Extraordinary Careers of Staunton's Own William Haines." The whole thing is a biography of Haines' life, including his great-grandparents' lives and their histories in Virginia, and who Haines knew in Virginia. What's funny is how the name-dropping is written; for example, William Randolph Hearst is not mentioned is a newspaper magnate, but as someone "who was proud of his relationship to the Randolph family of Virginia." Nancy Reagan is only mentioned as someone "whose mother was from Petersburg." Joseph Cotton "was originally from Petersburg." I guess I wouldn't assume that any of today's readers of this brochure would automatically know who these people were. The thing is filled with grammatical errors and typos, too.

More amusingly, among the "great sites" related to William Haines are the Staunton City Courthouse, where "Billy" performed in a production of "The Mikado" (sic), and Stonewall Jackson School, his elementary school. Wow, such a list of historical sites! Staunton will surely be on my short list of vacation hot spots!

i saw a crowd, a host of finished objects

I give to you...the long awaited Zillah!And now for a long, fuzzy shot of me wearing it, taken with my camera when I thought the timer was on and it turns out it wasn't, hence the look of shock and wonderment, and my double jointed elbows:And for a closeup of my perfect Floozy stitch, so good you can't tell where the ribbing ends and the Floozy begins (except at the very top where you can see the red and green meet):So. Now is where I begin my diatribe. Everyone has been going on and on ad nauseum about how much they lurve Silk Garden. Well, let me take a few moments to go off on Silk.

Here in Georgia we have a phenomenon called trash trees. They are these junk trees at the side of the road which might bloom bright colors in the spring but you would never want to willfully plant them in your yard. Silk Garden has something I like to call "trash yarn." It has, liberally sprinkled throughout it, brightly colored gobs of unspun roving which do not blend into what is being knit at the moment. I had to constantly cut out these globs and reattach my yarn. Don't believe me? Here are some pictures, with circles and arrows (and a paragraph on the back of each one) showing where trash yarn apprears, along with one where I put the offending piece of trash yarn right where it tried to show up in the knitting.I also signed up for Larissa's Massive Meathead Knitup. I knit the entire hat in my carpool yesterday. Here it is not sewn up. You can see pictures of it sewn up over at Larissa's place, so I'll spare you that.Now, I've spared everyone cutesy pictures of Beans, because Beans is most definitely Not Cute. He is a Brat. As part of his brattiness, yesterday he decided that the Meathead was tasty and yummy in its wooliness and rovingness and was His, and decided to lick it all over. I give you a picture of Beans when I was having a staring contest with him, trying to take the Meathead away from him.Finally, a Finished Object from the Nature Cotton Along.Design was my own, color was celery. I love the Araucania Nature Cotton and the way it feels! Look at the way the color looks close up:Now that that's done, you won't be seeing any finished objects until I'm done with the pesky gloves. On the plus side, I captured about five Esther Williams movies on the ReplayTV the other night, for some long term glove knitting goodness.