Okay, first of all, I should be writing a cover letter…I have a (sort of? maybe?) agent who has a (kind of? maybe?) line on a publisher who (may? perhaps?) would like to publish my already self-published books.
Perhaps, you can see why posting on my blog is sort of a sneaky-evil relief from that sort of weirdness… unfortunately, besides a day of napping, all I’ve got is fiber content.
The napping was actually vital, not only to my mental health but to the mental health of all my nearest and dearest. It appears that one cannot subsist on four-five hours a night for more than two weeks without suddenly morphing into a RAGING FUCKING BITCH whose foul temper threatens to decapitate all within scratching distance. My children were ducking yesterday evening, and the spouse actually cooked and cleaned–and ducked.
I think a nice lie in tomorrow might keep us all breathing here for a while yet, but I’ve got to make sure I don’t get that way again. I was not pleasant to be around in the same way an acid-oozing poison toad is not pleasant to eat.
But now to the fiber content…
I stopped by Babetta’s today–which I shouldn’t have even dreamt of doing, since I was just at Stitches last week, but I needed a b-day present for a friend, and, so there I was.
There was a book on two socks on one magic loop. Can you see where this is going?
I thought you could. Two skeins of exquisitely died Louet Sales silk/merino and a 32 inch set of addi turbos later, (btw? it’s too short–I really should have kept hunting for the 36″ers) I was home with my gift and a new obsession. I cast on while watching Beowulf (it’s still awesome, even on the small screen, and still as queasy for those of you who like your blood off-screen) and towards the middle of the movie, Chicken was suddenly right in front of me, peering at the amazingly iridescent yarn (colourway peacock, dyed by Cherry Tree Hill) on the needle loop.
“What?” I asked, hoping I didn’t just miss that flash of Ray Winstone’s amazing animated ass as she stood.
“I’m just admiring your ultimate knitting cool…” she breathed, and Ray Winstone’s ass ceased to be important.
“That’s cool?” I asked, making sure.
“Oh yeah…” Bless my little Chicken…she’s 13…I don’t think I’m going to hear that from her again in a long time.