Tuesday, March 31, 2015


For the past twelve years, I've been doing life as a big sister. I'm getting pretty good at it too, if I do say so myself. I mean, we're not kid detectives or anything, so I haven't gotten to save her when she opens the door to a burning room and sets off an explosion that rivals Mount Saint Helens, but hey, this isn't 1970s TV either.

We've been watching a little Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries lately, FYI, so perhaps The Squirt and I are a little chummier than usual.

Well, except for the part where she just totally sweet-talked me into handing over my journal for her to read, when everything in it is still pretty relevant to life and I'm not really comfortable with my life being smeared all over social media.

On the okay side, she doesn't even have Instagram, so I'm probably safe for now. Unfortunately, she knows too much now, so either I'll have to buy her copious amounts of chocolate to keep her from spilling everything, or I'll have to kill her and spend the rest of my life in prison.

Neither of those options sounds all that great, to be honest. I mean, I've heard they have great food in the state pen and all, but orange really isn't my color, if you catch my drift. And my budget could in no way support buying out the Hershey's Chocolate Factory once a week either.

Other than that, for the most part we get along pretty well. The journal-reading isn't a huge deal anyway; she usually keeps it to herself.

I think.

Come to think of it, some her friends give me funny looks...

Okay, we're not going to go there. Never mind.

This post is not going completely in the direction I thought it would, so let's quit while we're still ahead. Happy last day of March!

Monday, March 30, 2015

Not Alone

Friday night at youth group, we watched The Master Designer, ate copious amounts of sugariness (in the form of really, really, good ice cream), and played dodgeball.

If you must know, I hate dodgeball.

Hate it. With a vengeance. I have horrible memories of being slugged in the face with a soccer ball that almost busted my glasses. Tears occur in almost every game.

Friday night was a little different though. Our beloved youth pastor moved away and our senior pastor took over the youth ministry, which meant that he got a bunch of new, soft, lightweight balls that are more like bubbles. They don't throw too well either.

So I wasn't scared enough to cry. I was scared enough to hide behind everyone taller than me, which has the unfortunate side effect of making me the last one in for my team.

That was when I learned that I'm not that bad at the dodging part of dodgeball. The balling part is terrifying, but I actually didn't do too badly dodging. Plus I caught one and got the team back in, which was pretty impressive considering it was the first night I'd actually made an effort to play hard and not just survive.

I was so, so sore Saturday. And Sunday. And today...but that's not the point. Besides, it's a little embarrassing to describe my limping across the stage while the other members of the Praise Team held their sides and guffawed.

At the beginning of a round of dodgeball, we stand at the back of the volleyball court and face the opposite team. I was hanging as far back as I could go and thinking how huge the other team looked. From my angle it seemed that there were 20 people across the court and only 5 on my end. I couldn't see the equality of the teams.

I think that's sort of how it is with us, in our spiritual battle. We get caught up in how evil Satan is and how massive his army is, and we fear for our very lives. We're the noisiest army around because our armored knees are clacking against each other like my teeth chatter in a full blown NE blizzard, it seems.

But we can't see both sides. All we see is what's before us, the opposing army preparing to charge with swords drawn and glinting in the sun. We're afraid because the battlefield looks like it's a thousand evils against one little light- you.

We're wrong. It's not just you against them. It's us against all of them.

What I couldn't see on the volleyball court were the ten other people on my side, the other people fighting next to me, for the same cause. I felt alone, but I could not see the big picture.

God can. He sees the odds exactly as they are, not based on what we see down here or what we feel like.

He sees the truth.

And the truth is that we are not alone. We never were. We never will be.

The truth is that in the end, God wins and Satan gets whomped. Good wins, evil loses.

The truth is that even when we feel like we're the only one trying to do anything God's way, like it's down to us, there are thousands upon thousands of other believers around the world that God is working in and through to further His kingdom. We are not alone. No matter what we face, God is by our side and He says that He is working all things for our good and according to His plan. Maybe we can't see the rest of our team, but they're there and we aren't fighting this battle alone.

We are not alone.

Take comfort in that.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Sticky Stuff

I've started like 5,000 drafts today. Nothing sticks.
 So here. Have a look at some laminin. This stuff is inside you, holding you together. It has a really cool actual definition, but I can't remember that at the moment. Suffice it to say it's the sticky in your cells that makes them stick together.

And it's shaped like a cross.

I think God is trying to make a point here.

He's holding us together. Literally.

So have a great weekend. Stick to God.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Knitting Conundrums

I'm in a conundrum.

A knitting conundrum, to be exact.

I'm knitting my first pair of argyle socks. You know that. I'm way proud of them. They were coming along terrifically Sunday afternoon- I'd finished the body, shaped the heel, and I was ready to start the colorwork on the leg. They looked great.

Then I looked at my pattern and almost screamed.

Apparently with colorwork they recommend that you go up a needle size to prevent your gauge from shrinking. In argyle, you know, you're working with two colors on the same round, knitting with one and 'floating' the other behind your work according to which color a certain stitch should be knitted. The little floaties on the back tend to get pulled really tight unless you're an experienced colorworker, which makes the knitting all bunchy and gross. I get that.

I knew most colorwork was supposed to go up a size.

What I did not know or like was the fact that every freaking pattern with colorwork on it said that at a certain point you were to change to larger needles. Every single one.

I was knitting on a circular size 0 (2mm), which I'd ordered on Amazon (just a hint, if you order tiny needles like that, get metal- the wood just snaps into little pieces). I did not have a circular size 1 needle. Nor did I really wish to spend any money acquiring one. I'm mostly broke these days.

Okay, I thought,  just try it with the 0s and see if it works. If it doesn't, you'll think of something.

The little voice in my head whispered, Yeah- ripping it out. You should probably just go ahead and order the extra needle. You'll need it eventually for something else anyway. 

None of my brilliant brain contusions satisfied my conscience and my wallet at the same time, unfortunately.

So I checked with mi madre.

She's a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of girl, just so you know. But in this case, she said firmly, "Order new needles."

My heart sank. Here I was, with a gorgeous sock almost done, and the weekend not even over yet, and I couldn't knit another stitch until at best Thursday, because I'd have to deposit cash in the bank on Monday, wait for it to show up in my account (probably Tuesday), order the needles, and even if I rush shipped them they would in no way be at my doorstep in fifteen minutes.

Basically, I had nothing to knit.

For me, that is a fate worse than death. I knit more or less constantly.

My momma gets that. So as I was freaking out about not having a workable project going on, she suggested brightly, "Find another project then."

In the words of Gru from Despicable Me, "Light. Bulb." (I cannot tell you how many times I've quoted that line to myself...)

If you must know, I'm a small project kind of kid. The longer the project, the more bored I get with it. That may be why I knit so many socks- I can have them done in a week or two.

I pulled out my copy of Knitting Reimagined by Nicky Epstein (which, by the way, is awesome, and if you're a knitter, you need it), and started flipping through page after page of elaborate sweaters and shawls.

All big projects. Granted, they look really awesome, until you see the part where she says that this particular sweater could take up to six months to finish. That just deflates me. I have neither the patience nor the willpower to knit one project consistently for six months. Probably I don't have the budget necessary to purchase yarn for a six-month-long sweater, either.

I was about to give up and just try to survive the next week without knitting when I spotted a really cute tunic tank top. With pockets. And braided straps across the back.

710 yards of yarn. Average time frame: one to three weeks. And it's really, really cute. Knit on size 8s, so, like, compared to my 0's, it would practically fly by. I'd post a picture, but I don't want to be sued if I bust any copyright laws, so I'll check on that and perhaps post a picture of the completed project at a later date. But I can post pictures of my own work, so here you go. I'm almost ready to shape the armholes, and I'm considering a band of dark blue just before that, to give it a little touch of Scotty flair.

 That last picture is of a pocket I made. There's two, but this is the only one that's completely done. I love it. The technique for making them was a little unclear, but since I'm a night owl and pay no heed to the whole "no intense knitting after 8PM" rule that seems to be a given among knitters, I got it figured out around 10:30 Sunday night, to my utmost joy. It was a little tricky not to leap up and down and wake the house, but the screaming-at I'd have gotten kept me quiet.

Then I found out that the local Hobby Lobby had just opened, so boy howdy you better believe I was over there yesterday afternoon getting some 2.5mm circular needles. They had one length: 16 inches.

I thought, okay, cool, that's long enough. When you make toe-up socks, you can use two circulars of the same size, or one really long one. I saw the 16" on there and assumed it meant that the cable was sixteen inches long, which is plenty long.

That was not what it meant.

From tip to tip on that bright red needle is sixteen inches.
That's way too short. But I can probably make it work. 

So now the question is, do I finish the socks or the sweater?!?!?!

Monday, March 23, 2015

Wow God

So I debated calling this post "Wow God Moment", but that's not completely accurate. Then I was going to go with "Wow God Day", but, nope, that's not right either.

Wow GOD Weekend is more like it. But really, everything about life lately has been 'Wow God' so I just went with that.


I'm so glad you asked. It's been a weekend. Let me tell you, it's been one heck of a weekend. And I think every day since Friday has been a Monday in some way, shape, or form.

Saturday afternoon SW and I went to SetCon for Mary Poppins. That was fun, especially when the Music Man (our dear, balding choir teacher) brought us Subway for lunch. Like, dude, you are da bomb.

I ended up pretty much covered in paint. I still have paint on my hands, two showers later. I have scrubbed and scrubbed my grubby hands, and that pale blue primer just will not come off. Blech.

Saturday night our church had a chili feed thing happening, so the DaddyMan and I decided to ride our bikes over for some chow.

Our real bikes.

The kind that you actually have to work to make them go. In the words of our dear Spartacus (pro cyclist Fabian Cancellara) "Yes, I have a motor on my bike. In fact, I have two. One is called my right leg, and the other is called my left leg."

Boom. We cool.

Except for the minor detail that I was blogging right before we left, so I had the presence of mind to grab the sweatshirt that I didn't need and the backpack I didn't need, but not the helmet that I did need.

Understand that in our family, we always wear helmets. Since I was like, tiny.  I've seen waaaay too many wrecks in Le Tour De France and Paris-Rubae or Paris-Nice to not wear a helmet. I've been in waaaay too many bike wrecks not to wear a helmet. It's just life. Ride a bike, wear a helmet. Easy.

But I forgot it. Just walked out the door.

We were almost to the local Godfather's Pizza when I realized that my hair should not have been blowing quite so emphatically in the wind. "Uh, Dad? We have to go back," I called.

"What? Why?" he asked.

"Turn around," I replied.

He did. I could see the confusion on his face as he studied me. Then- lightbulb. No helmet. "Oooh, you forgot a helmet." Dad paused for a second, analyzing the situation. "well, let's go, then."

So we turned around and headed for the house. On the way up to the church (with the helmet), almost every corner reminded me of the horrors that could have happened. I took one corner really slow after I got my helmet, realizing just how wide I'd taken it the first time and just what could have happened if I'd slipped off the pedal. My front wheel bobbed and swung toward my foot, and I was reminded of the dangers if the wheel had come just a little further and clipped my toe.

Maybe I'm paranoid.

Maybe I'm an old worrywart.

I think I'm just reveling in the awe of a Creator God Who must have been personally escorting me when my lack of focus got me bareheaded on a bike.

Then there was Monday. Today in choir we sang not a note. Not one. The Music Man was working with the program crew and the rest of us yahoos were chilling on the risers. I was chatting happily with my friend Kelly (names have been changed to protect the innocent) when the pianist, Brenda, started shooing us out the door and into the hall. I caught a brief glimpse of someone lying on the floor in a litle ball, shaking.

Maybe we've been watching too much Emergency! (as if that's possible, right?).

I knew what it was.

Seizure. I witnessed a seizure.

It was horrible. Terrifying. I looked away and reached for Kelly. She looked me in the eye and smiled gently. (One thing about Kelly- her smile lights up the room, let me tell you.) "Did you see?"

"Y-yeah. Seizure," I mumbled, clutching my backpack to my chest as tears sprang to my eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah. Sure." No, Kelly, not really. I just want to cry and cry and cry, but you're all so unruffled and I can't cry right now because nobody else is worried, I screamed silently.

Another teacher came out of her classroom and she wasn't happy. "Look, you guys, be quiet. I have students testing right now!"

Brenda, bless her heart, explained that somebody was seizing and we had to be in the hall for a little bit and we were a little shocked, so we almost had an excuse for the noise.

Being yelled at never sits well with me. So the tears that were growing in my eyes were threatening to overflow when we were told to move on into the auditorium and wait a little bit until we had a plan. I sat by myself. If I cried at school, I sure didn't want the whole freshman choir class to know about it.

After a few minutes, the Music Man came in and told us that it was okay, the kid was fine, we could go get our stuff. I stumbled along behind Kelly and Marie, still biting my lips ferociously. Just don't cry, Scotty, don't cry. It's okay.

I thought I'd be fine, so I headed for the cafeteria.

On Mondays, lunch is not open campus, so all the senior and juniors and everybody in the building is crammed in the mess hall. It's really, really crowded. I hate crowds, especially when I'm not completely sure I'm not about to burst into tears.

The Music Man came up behind me and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, you okay?" he asked, his forehead wrinkling in concern.

"Kinda," I tried.

"Just so you know, she's fine. Seizures aren't a huge medical problem. They're terrifying to watch- I've seen a lot in my day- but as long as they're short, they're usually not a problem. And she's had them before. It's okay. But you have a sensitive heart, and I appreciate that."

I swallowed. "Thanks." I smiled and nodded. Then I turned and beat it out of the cafeteria. No way could I be in there without bawling.

SW showed me a little garden courtyard off the commons when I first started taking choir, and it's always been my special spot. Lately it's been locked, but today, praise God, it was open. I bolted in (or out?) and almost instantly started crying. I just walked in circles and stared at the ground and cried.

Then somebody knocked on the glass window. I looked up to see LarryBoy, a senior I barely know who's in Mary Poppins ensemble with me. He's super extroverted and wild and friendly and he scares the freaking crap out of me, to be honest.

I was like, "No, God, You don't get it, I can't deal with LarryBoy and tears and people having seizures all at once. Please, make him go away."

God, apparently, had other plans. Larry came out (or in?) and brought two chicks with him. "You okay?" he asked.

Um, no. Do you not see the tears streaming down my cheeks? Do you not see that I am majorly freaked out right now and you're not helping so please go away?!!?

"I'm just freaked out," I said, trying to stop crying.

"Oh." He looked a little out of his comfort zone. One of the chicks stepped in.

"You should come with us," she said sweetly, holding out one hand.

I avoided the hand, watching her warily. Strangers aren't my deal, and I've definitely heard the lecture about 'don't go places with people you don't know' a time or five million. "Where are you going?"

"To Youth Alive. It's like a youth group," Larry jumped back in.

Youth group? Bible study? At school? Like, whaaat? I couldn't deny that I was interested.

"My name's Ruby. You can sit with me. I'm one of the leaders," she offered.

Larry spoke again. "Me too."

I stopped dead in my tracks. My ears have failed me, I thought.

"I know, I don't look the type," he offered.

Tell me about it. Whoa, God, I so totally goofed on that one...like, and he's actually a Bible Study leader? Oh man. Oh crap. 

I had totally pegged Larry as a bad guy. He frightened me, I couldn't understand him, he was wild and outgoing and he didn't seem to care that I was shy- I assumed he was just another rebellious teenager on the road to ruin, intending to take as many people down with him as possible.

Boy was I wrong. Bible study was awesome, I totally needed that today, and it wouldn't have happened without Larry. I guess I pretty much owe him an apology.

I'm learning that I tend to make assumptions about people based on first impressions, and that's not working out too well. God's been teaching me to look beyond the first glance and give people a chance before I label them 'bad guy' or 'good guy'.

But think about it. If somebody hadn't started seizing in choir, I wouldn't have been in tears in the courtyard, and Larry and Ruby might not have invited me to Bible Study, which I totally needed. So basically, what I thought was horrible and scary, God used to get me involved in a great group of kids.

Talk about 'Shades Of His Grace.'

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Sleepover Shenanigens

Last night I had the honor and privilege of having my best friend over for a sleepover.

By which I mean, a sleepover. In which we actually slept, because we're cool and smart enough to do things like that. We even fell asleep before 11PM, which was like, wow, are we even real teenagers? 

To which I reply, most definitely yes. We're just more sensible than some. 

Sort of. 

That's totally not why we almost killed the pancakes we made for breakfast this morning. And by killed I do not mean 'did a really awesome job with'. We'll get to those in a minute. But first, I may have done something very mean. On purpose. 

I may have given the SongWeaver the worst disease known to man. 

Or knitter, at least. 

I handed her my toe-up-socks pattern book. "Here, Song, look at these. But you might get the bug, so maybe you shouldn't, but do it anyway because they're awesome." 

Hey, at least I gave her fair warning, right?

 Her face says the worst. She's probably got the virus. I'm a terrible friend.

But that's SW and I. We're always trading knitting bugs. And it's awesome. For instance, she gave me the colorwork bug last night in exchange for the toe-upper.

Usually Daddy makes pancakes on Saturday mornings, or, he used to, until Momma got on this whole eat-healthy kick that sent us diving into textbooks learning all about the crap that's actually in our food. Now we don't eat pancakes a lot. But if we do, Dad is the Official Maker-Of-Pancakes. (because Pancake-Maker is just not a cool enough title...told you I was a teenager.)

But last night before bed we were talking about breakfast, and I reminded Dad that the SongWeaver doesn't eat meat or dairy, so please, don't make pancakes 'cause she can't eat them. Which actually wasn't completely true, because I later found out that she only skips dairy when she's busy with singing in choir or musicals or such nonsense. We still woke up with pancakes on the brain, though, so the SongWeaver and I decided that we should definitely make pancakes. 

By ourselves, because we can. 

I don't think either one of us had made actual legitimate pancakes before. But whatever, right? How hard could it be? I grew up on a stool at the stove watching my dad make JayJay the Jet Plane shapes with the batter. Easy enough. 

We pulled out the ingredients and I started throwing them together in a big bowl.
The SongWeaver was in charge of stirring. 

At this point, I glanced over at the recipe book and nearly died. "Uhhh, SW, I think I messed up." 

Of course, being the sweet friend that she is, she came and took a look. "Yeeeaaah, you kinda did."

Apparently, according to the recipe you're supposed to mix your milk and egg and other various liquidy stuffs in one bowl, and your flour and sugar and other solidy stuffs in a separate bowl, and then you mix them together. I neglected that part of the instructions and simply tossed everything in one bowl. 


SW was like, "But, I don't understand, Scotty, you're such a cautious knitter, like, you would never, ever do something in a knitting project without checking the pattern and here you are just like, throwing everything together and the instructions go out the window. How does this even work?" 

She was right. In knitting, not only do I check the pattern before every freaking thing, I've been known to double-check and triple-check. And then I'm still scared to death of misreading the directions. "I have no idea," I replied. "But maybe since eventually it all goes in one bowl, it'll be okay and we can just move on."

Thanks to some sage advice from the reigning mother, we carried on with the show.

The first round went fairly smoothly, other than the fact that I almost drowned the pan in olive oil when I tried to grease it. 
They were gorgeous. The pan was warm and the oil was spready and it was great. We were so proud. Or at least, I was. I can't speak for SW. She speaks for herself.
But that face would indicate that she was satisfied with the results. (sorry, dear, I had to post it.) 

We kept going. I slopped another quarter cup of batter in the pan. SW yelped, "Wait, Scotty, we need more oil!" 

I was like, hang on, I practically drowned them the first time, why the heck do we need more already? 

But the resident baker was standing by and she agreed with SW, so more oil we got. 
Fast forward to almost the end of the batter. The stove was practically off, but the cakes were still getting singed in places and being mushy in others. So we smushed them down against the pan. And SW made an airplane to commemorate JayJay. (those extra globs are clouds, by the way.) But the pride and joy of our first pancaking experience was yet to come.
SW made a heart. It was lovely. As you can plainly see. All swirly and girly and totally SW and I. We ended up cutting it in half and splitting it between the two of us, because that's totally us.
By the end of the baking, we were pretty much fifty kinds of happy and five thousand kinds of starved. But not too hungry for one last picture, because best friends are never too hungry for pictures. Even in pajamas.

Friday, March 20, 2015

By Definition

I was flipping through my journal and spotted some interesting calligraphy today (That's what I get for calligraphing at night LOL). The theme was Definition. I know a lot of people who act like they're defined by lots of different things. Like

  • What people say
  • What their parents think of them
  • What they can do or contribute
  • What the world says they're worth
  • What's "wrong" with them
  • What they know or how many IQ points they think they have
I could go on and on and on. But I'm not going to because I think you kind of see what I'm saying. Maybe something comes to your mind that defines you or someone you know. And maybe, to an extent, it's true. Maybe once upon a time, it was true. 

Maybe once, you were the kid who couldn't do anything right by your parents standards or your teacher's standards or your friends' standards. Maybe once, you were the kid who just couldn't pass that test because of something going on at home that you couldn't fix, something that frightened you and upset you so much that you just couldn't think. Maybe once, you were the kid that everyone seemed to whisper about.

Maybe once, life stank and you didn't understand and it hurt and you felt so alone and you just wanted to give up.

But not anymore.

That's not who you are. That's not who you have to be. That's perhaps who you thought you were because that's what you were taught was true. Perhaps that's who other people tried to make you be.

But not anymore.

That's not what defines you.

In 2 Corinthians 15:7, we are told that

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, the old has passed away, the new has come."

The new has come. When you trust in Christ's work on the cross to save you from your sins, He saves you from yourself as well. From the too-high expectations that you or someone else had for you, from the labels that society asked you to wear, from the mistakes you once made.

You're free.

Those old things that you thought defined you are gone. They're untrue. When they ruled in your life, it was the effect of the hold Satan had on your life. But when you trust that God is the One True God and He is the only one Who can save you from the wrong things you've done, He takes control. He defines you. And God is Truth. He's not going to lie to you about who you are or what you're worth.

When God is in control of your life, He uses words like these to define you:

His Child 
Joint Heir with Christ
Seen By God 

And so many more. It's all through the Bible, people. I've heard the Bible described as God's Love Letter to us. He died a horrible death for you. 2,000 years before you were born, He wanted you. He's loved you since eternity past and nothing, neither height nor depth, angels nor demons, things present nor things to come, nothing can separate you from His Great Love (Romans 8:37-39). He knew what you would do before He created the earth, and He loved you anyway. Nothing can stop that love.

Let Him define you. Stop listening to what other people tell you you are (I know, it's a day-to-day struggle and won't happen overnight). Listen to the God of the universe, screaming, "I love you, I love you, I love you. I see you and I love you because I made you and I want you. You. I love you."

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Socks. Are. Life.

I'm a knitter. We've discussed this.

I'm also a huge fan of socks. I love them. They're great. If you can't think of anything for my birthday, socks are terrific.

So it only makes sense that, wild knitting adventurer that I am, I should take up some double-pointed-needles (DPNS, to use the local knitting lingo) and cast on for a pair of ski socks for the DaddyMan 18 months after my BFF taught me to knit. I'm one of those people with an insatiable curiosity for all things knitting. When people make a comment about how hard a project is, my natural instinct is to go find a pattern and make some. 

In the knitting world, socks are generally projects that inspire abject terror in new knitters, which I definitely was at the time I cast on my first pair. For good reason. There's all sorts of frights, like the possibility of twisting your cast-on stitches, and that evil kitchener stitch, and gussets, and the like. I should have been scared to death. My personality screams that. 

Because I'm pretty much scared to death of a lot of things. Like dodgeball, and the dark, and guys (as we discussed yesterday), and doing things without a 9,000-page instruction manual. Not my cup of tea. Or coffee. Or hot cocoa. I'm just running scared. 

But I'm not at all afraid to knit socks when 18 months ago I couldn't even purl. It didn't phase me. I still look at patterns and go 'oh, but this would be so much cooler if ______.' And I try it my way, and it looks horrific, and I realize that okay, maybe the pattern designer was right when they did stockinette stitch instead of ribbing. 

So anyway. December 2013, I cast on a pair of gray and black socks for my dad's birthday coming up in June. Only I did so on the road to my grandpa's house for Christmas. 

My grandparents don't knit. My aunt and uncle don't knit. My mom knits, but not socks. 

In short, I left all my knitting brainiacs at home. I was seven hours away from anyone I knew who could help if I got stuck. 

Which I did, pretty much immediately. There's this one little part in the gusset that I had no idea how to translate into common English. Now I do it all the time and in my sleep, but I was clueless. 

Thank heavens for technology. 

Namely cell phones. 

I texted my mom's friend's daughter, the knitting whiz. "What does this even mean?!?!?" I begged. 

She gave me two options that she thought it probably meant. 

She was right. It worked. And the socks were awesome. I'd love to post a picture of them, but my dad wears them like every freaking day so right now they're either on his feet getting stinky, or in the laundry basket stinking up the rest of the laundry. So sorry.

I've made six pairs of socks since. I'm hooked. 

My current WIP is my first attempt at argyle, a pair of brightly colored knee socks for my Sparky friend Annie. They're also toe-up. I attempted my first pair of toe-uppers about a month ago, roughly. They came out pretty well, I think. Except my gauge was off, so the socks I thought were for preschool/kindergarteners turned out a little too small. They're more for the six months to a year age bracket. But whatever. In my house, we've gotten used to surprises.
These are what I ended up with. Pretty cute, in my opinion. So I was now hooked on toe-up socks. 
These are the ones I'm working on. The yarn is a little more wild than I expected, which was another surprise that I've got to work around. With the patterns in my book, the only ones I have the tools for at this time are lacey, and it's not recommended that you use really flashy yarns with lace, because it takes away from the lace and leaves people going 'hmm, is this supposed to be a patterned lace or is just a bunch of mistakes.

Which isn't really what we're going for, you know? 

But my point is, I'm a lean mean knitting machine. Heavy on the lean and knitting, light on the mean. My favorite, favorite sockish yarn is Patton's Lace, because it's super soft and pretty and comes in like a gazillion awesome colors. The only downside to my sock addiction is that it's getting expensive, and with Hobby Lobby opening in my town later this month, it looks like I'm going to be broke for a looooong time. Oh well. 

That's pretty much what I'm up to right now. So now you know. My secret is out. I have an addiction, and it's getting more expensive than cocaine. It's called knitting. I do take orders, if y' all need socks; just leave a comment and I'll get back to you ASAP. 

Adios, amigos.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Sick Days

The Squirt sleeps.

Right now.

It's 1:44 pm. She's asleep. I can hear her snoring. (don't tell her I said that because she insists that she does not snore. But she does. And has been doing so with great gusto the past few nights. I am just sayin')

This from the Squirt, the kid who would not sleep. Seriously. When she was a baby, she refused to sleep. We joke that she thought 'sleep is for the birds; I got too much growin' up to do to waste time on that rubbish!'. (I slept through the night at 8 days. I was the easy baby.)

Yet now she sleeps.

My very much unprofessional diagnosis? She's sick. Runny/stuffy nose, threatening to chop off her nose, sleeping in the middle of the day... I say she's catching Daddy's cold, or whatever crap is floating around our lovely, agricultural Midwestern town on this particular day. This time of year, it seems like we have a new virus going around every day. Fun fun.

As the oldest child, I have acquired many wonderful quirks simply from my place in the family line. I worry about people. I'm working on it, but when the Squirt is sick, just, like, no. Not okay. Big Sister freaks out a little. And I don't have a nursing degree or anything, so I'm mostly clueless about whatever might be ailing her. 

Great, right? 

Since Momma's workin' in the church office today, Squirt and I are more or less home alone. I say more or less because, while Darla is still lurking somewhere around the premises, she's not really much help with anything. So we might as well be alone.

Momma left instructions for the Squirt to rest this afternoon. If Momma's not freaked out, my brain knows there's nothing seriously wrong. But I'm an oldest child and a certain degree of worry is the norm for me when it comes to sick little sisters. 

Squirt went into her room to rest and I pulled out my phone. Time to alert the Prayer Chain. 

Yes, I have a specific group of contacts in my phone that's called Prayer People. And I do not hesitate to text them. Even for sisters having day that looks like this.
People prayed. Squirt slept. God is working. 

He's also been working on me this year as far as loving people goes. I tend to be more apt to run away from new people than to actually, like, love on them the Jesusy way. 

Especially guys. No offense, dudes, but that's just me. So on the Praise Team, I mostly keep to myself because A) I'm no people person, B) I'm generally the only girl, and C) I'm definitely the youngest. It works. I do my thing, they do their thing, we all live happily ever after. Roll your dice and move your mice, and nobody gets hurt. (If you don't know what that quote is from..you have not lived.)

But the past couple weeks God has been like, well, let's try something new. So He threw in a new drummer, who shall, for purposes not to be revealed at this time, remain nameless. 

The guy's nutty. Daft. Incorrigible. Inscrutable. I looked up a whole bunch of words that describe him and wrote them down for later use in our frequent arguments, but I'm not going to post them right now because I'm on a roll and I don't want to get up and go find them. 

He's also incredibly, weirdly, beyond-my-level-of-comprehension-ly, awesome. We're actually sort of friends. And I'm more or less okay with that. There's part of me that's still kind of like 'oh crap, he's, like, a lot older than me, and what does this even look like to everyone else,' but God's been working on it. Well, He's been working on helping me not care. 

So anyway.

I'm still not sure what possessed me to do this, and I'm even less sure what I was even thinking when I decided to blog about this for the whole wide world to see, but I texted him. Because at our last practice he stole my phone and texted himself from my phone, so we're sort of stuck now. Every once in a great while he texts me and even less frequently than that do I text him, but today I did. It's weird. But it's also kind of okay.

My message was simple. "Hey, can you pray for my little sister today if you think about it? She's sick-ish and still has ballet later today." 

I'm telling you, my hands were shaking. I'm sort of a little protective when it comes to what people think, and I have a tendency to feel like everyone is analyzing and cross-examining everything I do. So texting some dude is pretty much not even in the same universe as my comfort zone. But God has very little regard for comfort zones, except that He really has fun telling people to get out of them. And He definitely wasn't kidding when He put it on my heart to ask Drummy Dude to pray for Squirt. 

DD is one of those interesting people who takes like 9.74 seconds to respond to a text. He agreed to pray. And he managed to make me laugh. Because I've been taught to thank people when they do favors for me, so I replied and said 'thanks a million' or something to that effect.

And he was like, 'Mmhmm.' 

Which is so totally Drummy that I laughed out loud. It's not that funny in retrospect, but I know him a little bit (sometimes that's really funny...other times it scares me to death) and I could totally see him saying that and the Awkwardness-O-Meter would be like through the roof. 

"You text like you talk. That's cool," I said. 

And now I would love to post a picture of his eyebrows vanishing into his hairline, but I don't have one, because A) that's, like, 789,654,231 gazillion light years away from my comfort zone, B) I'd have to ask permission and with Drummy that sounds like a really weird conversation just begging to happen, and C) just let's no, because I'm still a little uncertain that everyone won't have a heart attack if we're friends. So I apologize. Use your imagination, please.

"Well yea". His punctuation (or lack thereof) is making Grammarly threaten to sue me. Just saying. I couldn't completely ignore the 'um duh, come on, you're weird,' tone in that text either.

"No, really, some people don't," I shot back. Seems like I'm always defending myself around him. But that's my personality so whatever. 

His reply? "Ha"

I laughed. And it was great. Because we really spend more time arguing than laughing. 

I felt way encouraged, weirdly enough. Sure, he agreed to pray for my sister, which makes everything 6, 987, 541,230 times better, but the fact that I wasn't freaking out that all the little old ladies in church were going to have seizures was all God. Because I have this picture in my head of what I think people at church expect of me, because I've been raised in a Christian home all my life, and I was saved when I was like 4. Sometimes I feel like everyone knows I'm a Christian and that God is a big deal to me, so I must be perfect and know like all of the Bible by heart ( which, for the record, I don't). 

And for that expectation, texting drummer guys that are guys that are like 5 years older than me sounds kind of not okay. Being friends with them is on the fuzzy line too, which doesn't help, like, at all.

Anyway, before I run out of characters or spill my whole life story and all the pitiful excuses that go along with it, I need to go study my verse for AWANA tonight (there's that good girl expectation again).

So let me just say, if you all could say a prayer for my Squirt, that would be no end of awesome. And to GOD be the glory, because He's teaching me friendship with guys is maybe okay. And because of a lot of other things that I don't even know how to express. Thanks, God. You rock. 

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Simply Tuesday 2

 It's back. That plain-jane day in the middle of the week. The day that we all wake up and squeal with delight because we realize that yes, we really did survive another Monday. The day I list 20 things I'm thankful for. So let's get a move on, because I sat here and stared at my computer screen for like twenty minutes trying to decide what to blog about before I realized that "Glory be, it's Tuesday!"

  1. Cold weather seems to be moving in again!!! (I'm majorly a cold-weather girl)
  2. I have brand-spanking-new pencils that are all flowery and girly and yeah that's me right there.
  3. Small group tonight with the coolest group of girls like ever.
  4. Chowing down on The Squirt's made-from-scratch brownies while blogging.
  5. The smell of whatever that stuff is Mom uses to clean the stove- white vinegar, I think..smells amazing.
  6. A BFF that says things like 'okay, that made no sense but I totally understand you somehow.'
  7. Pink headphones, because, well, why not?
  8. An incredibly patient and pushy piano teacher who pushes me to be better and helps me understand music completely.
  9. Painting my Momma's nails like every other night because I buy cheap nail polish that chips off.
  10. So much green in the world today for St Patrick's Day
  11. Those random people seriously text me at ten till eight in the morning when my brain isn't even turned on...you know who you are.
  12. Again, a really awesome choir director whose nerves are all on edge...pray for him, y' all.
  13. MOPPETS babysitting, because, pretty much, I love it. And the pay isn't bad either. :)
  14. Sllllleeeeeeeepppp.
  15. That one splotch of yellow paint on the back of my jeans that just isn't coming out in a hurry.
  16. Drops In The Ocean by Hawk Nelson, because like, new favorite song. 
  17. Grammarly, for reminding me that weird is spelled w-e-i-r-d and not w-i-e-r-d
  18. Finishing all 9 of my library books and actually enjoying every one without any nasties
  19. Crazy choreography in Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious that boggles the brain.
  20. The awesomeness of plain-jane Tuesdays in which to relax and do nothing, at least until you realize in a panic that 'oh boy, I have to be at ______ in like, right now!!' because that's just hilariously awesome.
And that's a wrap, ladies and gents.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Makin' Music

Last night I had Praise Team Practice at my church. It was about an hour of bliss. I just freaking love making music with the team. Even when the Drummer Boy and I are at each others' throats 89% of the time. There's just something really cool about praising God with a bunch of people who love music as much as you do. And when you do cool things like throw in a guitar stop and do a drum carry, or when you put a Leslie Hammond whirling speaker under Trading My Sorrows- it's just fantastic. I've literally jumped up and down after some songs at practice. (I have yet to do it during church, but just give me a couple weeks; I'll get there.)

The first week I played with the team I had no earthly idea what to do. I'd never played on a team before, so, while I could play the chords, I didn't necessarily know the part about changing chords with everybody else. Or the part about, yes, there's actually like 5 variations of the B chord and if you hit the wrong one, everything sounds like a bull moose with a fog horn. 

Yeah, it's that bad. I had a lot to learn. I still do. But now that I've been working with them for five months, I've sort of gotten my bearings and we can do cool stuff now, like change tones from keyboard to organ. We sound pretty cool most of the time if I do say so myself. 

One of the hardest things about it is shoes. 

Yes, shoes. No matter what shoes I wear, my left foot is always throbbing by the time we're done. The reason being that I pedal with my right foot, so I'm standing with all 104 pounds of me on my left leg, and after an hour and a half of that you get a little sore. I just can't seem to find any shoes with enough cushion. I've resorted to bouncing up and down on my right foot between songs, to even out the pressure and give my poor left foot a break, but that's a little awkward in front of the congregation, if you know what I mean. I've restricted myself to only hopping during practice. And even then, Spock (the drummer) still throws me a couple funny looks if he's actually paying enough attention to the world to notice the bouncing pianist.

Temperature is also an issue. After about two songs, my body temperature is up and I'm sweating. So I take my jacket off. Fair enough, right? Should fix the problem?


About a song and a half later, I've got goosebumps running up and down my arms. When we sound really good, as we tend to do, I get super excited and then I get cold. Really cold. And it's hard to play a keyboard when your arms are jiggling from the goosebumps. You know? 

So on goes the jacket.

And two songs later it's off again and the back of my neck is startin' to feel like I'm in the Sahara Desert at high noon. You just can't win.

And then on Sundays, I show up at 7 AM (praise team is one of the very few things that can get me out of bed and showered and semi-awake before 7... I know, I'm such a lazy bum.), bright-eyed and bushy-tailed because playing just jazzes me up and I don't even notice that it's the crack of dawn. I get so excited it's not even funny. I also get so excited that I'm literally shivering. So after we run the set, I put gloves on to warm up my hands, and all the little old ladies that show up ten minutes before church starts are just starin' at me like "whaaat, look at that little whippersnapper over there, Margaret, she's wearin' gloves inside the church!'

I'm just like, okay. #praiseteamprobs

Well. That was teenagery. I mean, I've taken a few selfies in my day, but hashtagging (or pound-sign-ing, if you're the best CEF WY director I know) on a blog? Wow. What am I coming to?!?!?!


Thursday, March 12, 2015

A Cause For Celebration

 Today's a special day on the funny farm. The house smells like cake and frosting, with a hint of dirty dishwater wafting from the sink of dishes I haven't washed yet. Every now and then I can almost smell the Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream that Mr. Schwansy (our affectionate nickname for our Schwan's man) hasn't brought us at this point. There's a green sticky note on the counter with my to-do-list for today. We're working it down pretty quickly, which is surprising, because usually The Squirt and I are terrific procrastinators when it comes to cleaning.

So why the sudden inspiration?

Simple: In approximately seven hours, we're having a party. With a bunch of people at our house. So the place had better be clean. 

Why the party?

Also semi-simple. Today we're celebrating my Momma's birthday! Hence the cake, the ice cream, and the rapid shortening of the to-do-list.

The only reason for the dirty dishwater is, well, we ate breakfast. Not nearly as interesting. At this moment, I'm receiving a lecture from the Squirt about the delicacies of dish-washing, which would be interesting, except I really don't care a whole lot about the exact temperature in which it is proper to wash dishes. (She's got this thing down to a science. It's a little scary)

The game plan for this particular birthday is pretty basic. For a birthday. Momma's working in our church office today, so Squirt and I have the house to ourselves, which makes party-prep especially easy. The cake has been made and frosted, courtesy of the family baker, and it's chillin' on the counter. We still need to wash dishes (as illustrated above), vacuum the bathroom, clean our rooms, and I need to sweep the kitchen. But I thought I'd put out a special birthday shout out to my mom. 

You're the greatest. Sometimes I forget to tell you, but you are. Without you, I'd be a train wreck. You keep things rolling at home, and if you weren't around only heaven knows what the house would look like. I know you pull most of the weight around here and I really appreciate that. Like, really, really. 

We have some funny moments together, Mom, and that's awesome. I know girls who are always fighting with their moms or vice verse and it just ain't pretty. I know I can come to you with everything and you won't yell at me until you've heard the whole story. And if I need yelling at, I also appreciate that I can count on you to take care of that. Some moms just don't discipline their kids, period, and those kids aren't any kind of fun to be around. I'm really glad you're not raising me like that.I know you love the crap out of me and want what's best for me. You're awesome!

I love you so, so much, Momma. You're the best Mom in the whole world and one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me was you. Happy, happy birthday!!!

All my love, 

Wednesday, March 11, 2015


One of my favorite days of the week is Wednesday. We're crazy busy all day, so by 5:30 I'm ready to hit the sack and saw some logs. But the day's not over yet, so God gave me a little pick-me-up that's 1,000,000,000 times better than caffeine.

It's called Sparks. It's the third age bracket in the AWANA program (the first two are Puggles and Cubbies, but our church doesn't do Puggles, regretfully). I'm a Leader In Training for about 2 hours every Wednesday night and I love it to death. I show up exhausted, hungry, and a little crabby sometimes, and I leave feeling like SuperWoman.

What's the magic formula?

Kids. Eleven wonderful, hilarious kids with some of the brightest smiles you'll ever see.  My group of kiddos is the greatest. From J, who's always pretending to be a duckie, to B, who meets me at the door yelling "I have a verse! I have a verse", they're incredible. I'm not going to use their real names here for privacy purposes, but like I said, they're awesome.

Our oldest (or at least tallest) is Mr. Duckie. He pretended to lay an egg a couple weeks ago, but he forgot to tell us leaders that he had done such a phenomenal thing, and I stepped on his baby chickie by accident. He set to hollering and bellowing till my ears almost bled. It was hilarious. Mr. Duckie is a goofball, lemme tell ya.

Next in line is Mr. Chicken. I'm not sure who started the whole 'let's pretend to be animals at Sparkies', but these two have taken it to a whole new level. Last week I broke up a play-fight in which the judicial Mr. Chicken was attempting to butcher the honorable Mr. Duckie. It's actually really hard to break up something like that while laughing hysterically, you know?

Then there's Miss Elsa, so called on this blog because instead of the Sparky bag, she brings a big tote with Elsa on it. She used to be really shy, but wonder of wonders, she warmed up to us and now she's as peppy as any of the boys. She's also one of our more studious kids. And her hair is really soft and fun to play with.

Elsa's main man is Liam, who has no fascinating story behind his blog name. I find it odd that he's one of the wilder ones and she was super quiet, and now they're best buddies. He's really speeding through his books and is already in his Review Flight. For now he's actually the only one who's finished his book, but he and Elsa have started a friendly war over finishing and she's running full steam ahead too. 

Then we come down to Annie, a special friend of mine. For a while she played a little game with us- she'd pretend to be feeling ill halfway through Game Time, we'd send her to her mom just in case, and then her mom would bring her back to us in the middle of Verse Time. But we're getting that straightened out, thanks to my older and wiser boss women who can tell when kids are actually not feeling well and when they're faking. Annie's a sweetheart, though, and she's always begging for piggyback rides. I bet her love language is touch. I call her my Gummy Bear.

We'll call my next friend Lief because he's got really cute red hair. He's super mild but also really loving. Very snuggly. And he tries really hard at his verses, but he doesn't study at home much, I think. He's also smallish, so games aren't his deal either. He's the group joker most of the time. Last week he brought his pet rock and fed it Doritos. 

The next two simply have to be told about together, though it's our hardest battle keeping them apart. Cowboy Kid and Andy are absolutely the wildest pair we've got. I think they're cousins, and they're always at each others' throats. Horsing around, wrestling, fighting over who's going to play the next time (usually it's neither one of their turns, oddly enough), and of course they're the same height so they're forever arguing about who's taller or who gets to stand on which end of line. Our Games Director has the kids stand in height order from tallest to smallest, causing no end of pandemonium. CK and Andy are really good kids, but they're quite wild if you put them together and don't keep a sharp eye on them. 

Last week Annie brought a friend, a kid we'll call James. He's pretty well-behaved, but crazy stubborn. We had one leader (teasingly) threaten James with the frightfully funny demise of having his arms torn off and being hit with them if he didn't keep his hands to himself. We all laughed - especially James - for a few moments, but the lesson served its purpose and we had no more trouble with poking fingers. 

Our shortest is Bubbles, called such for her lively, bubbly temperament. I pray for her a lot because she always comes reeking of cigarette smoke and I know her home life isn't too spiffy. She's another one that's warmed up to us a lot, and now we have trouble keeping her calm.
The last two are Patrick and Lisa, a brother-sister pair that's only recently started coming. Last week Patrick's dog died so he was a little glum, but it was really sweet to watch Lisa cheer him up. Lisa pretty much only wears pink - a girl after my own heart!! She absolutely adores her big brother, but sometimes he doesn't feel like having her hanging around all the time, so Lisa and Bubbles are getting to be really good friends. A week or two ago our Counsel Time leader told the kids to put their hands in their laps, and Lisa very politely raised her hand and asked if she could still suck her thumb. The leader barely missed a beat though, which I thought was terrific (she has like six kids of her one, though, so funny questions like that probably come up often for her), and replied, "Well, try not too." I barely managed to not burst out laughing. 

Lots of laughing happens in those two hours. I am so blessed by those kiddos, it's crazy. They actually teach me a lot, too, about being cheerful all the time. But I have my own verses to recite tonight, so I'm going to go look them over before we head off to AWANA. Sayonara.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Simply Tuesday

It's Tuesday, folks! 
One of my favorite authors is Emily P. Freeman. She wrote a book called Graceful, which I absolutely love and recommend to every girl from seventh grade through college. She also does this little thing called It's Simply Tuesday, where people post things they're thankful for or just moments from their day. Usually on Tuesday (imagine that). So I'm going to celebrate today's awesome Tuesday-ness and list 20 things I'm grateful for. 

1. Sleeping in!! I'm a big night-owl, so I'm more prone to sleep in than go to bed early.

2. Magenta nail polish- girly girls unite!

3. Chamomile tea

4. My laundry basket is finally semi-empty

5. Yesterday I got an email from my favorite CEF director informing me that I could work under 
     her at Christian Youth In Action this summer

6. Isaiah 54:14 "you shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear; and from terror, for it 
     shall not come near you."
7. Knitting socks!!

8. The sun is actually shining and I can hear the little birdies chirping because it's warm enough 
     to open the windows

9. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

10. Blue jeans

11. My momma's birthday is in two days!! (she's gonna be like, what, 29?)

12. My aforementioned Momma fixed my necklace so it's wearable again

13. Days in which we have literally nowhere we have to go until I have rehearsal at 7pm

14. A really great musical/choir director who pulls what's left of his hair out trying to help us               make the best musical in the history of everything

15.  Waking up to messages from my big sis

16. Bright pink slippers

17. All you lovely people who take time out of your day to read this!

18. So many weddings coming up this summer

19. We serve a God Who Sees 

20. Moments of quiet in which to bask in His Grace!

Isn't God good?

Monday, March 9, 2015

Hello World

Greetings, esteemed bloggers and readers-of-blogs. Today I have officially plunged into the wild world of blogging.

Right. You knew that. 

Moving on.

I got started with blogging because my mom's pretty good at the trade. She's been at it for as long as I can remember, which, granted, isn't very long, but whatever. Seems like a long time. But I guess when you're in the ninth grade everything seems like a long time. 

She's funny, too, my mom. Sometimes her blog is downright hysterical. (check it out here) Pretty much, we're just a bunch of wackos straight out of the funny papers. Take, for instance, the time my sister tried to break out of the house at eleven pm. Or the time we almost got snowed in at a rest area in the middle of nowhere. Or, if we want to get really bold, the time my dad tried to take a bath with all his clothes on and no water in the tub. (Okay, so actually he was fixing the faucet. But it still looked pretty funny.)
Let's just say I live on the funny farm and leave it at that.
Only I don't actually live on a farm. Yet. We're looking into a house fifteenish miles away from where we're currently abiding. I tell ya, you wanna buy a house, prepare to wait. And wait. And wait and wait and wait and wait and wait. I guess God's making sure we really do want the property. So we wait patiently until He says okay, cool, let's do this thing.
Patiently... riiiight. Like, not. Patience really isn't my thing. But between God's grace and determination, we're working on it.

If we move, we could have cats. Plural. We got one cat now, and let's say she fits right in around here. Loony as a bird, only not quite so smart. She runs into walls and stuff. Plus she has the habit of scaring the daylights out of poor unsuspecting teenagers in the middle of the night. Darla the Dummy, we could call her. But anyway, if we moved, we could get more cats, as long as they were outside. Cap'n Dad grew up on a farm with no inside pets, so one cat in the house is quite enough for him, thank you very much. We could have outside cats now, if we wanted, but we live in town, and waking up to cats smushed all over the road isn't our idea of pleasant, if you catch my drift. In our family, we girls get pretty attached to the little furry idiots, and finding them smushed is definitely a cause for tears. So like I said, we wait, and if we move, we can have more cats. 

About the folks. Cap'n Dad's approaching 50 at about 80 miles an hour. Well, maybe not quite that fast, 'cause he doesn't much like to drive fast. That might be why he walks to work. He also might walk to work because we're a one-car family. 

 You already met my mom, briefly. You can get to know her more by checking out the link up there. She's pretty awesome. As long as she's had coffee. Lots of coffee. It's her thing. I think there's coffee in her veins. Black, decaf, so strong her spoon stands straight up in the cup. Personally, I'm not a fan of the stuff unless it's about as pale as the moon. 

 Then there's my sister. She makes some mean brownies. Well, I guess she makes a mean just about anything. Real handy in the kitchen, that one. (then there's me- I have trouble frying an egg.) And she draws well, too. Also, she wants to be a cop when she grows up. She likes watching the old 60's show Adam-12 and it inspired her. We're big on the old shows, you know, the ones that are actually clean and worth spit. 

And me. Not much to say there, as I suppose if you want to know about me you'd just keep reading my blog. Or if you're reading my blog, you might already know me, which would be cool. I knit and read, and now I blog. My WIP for now is a pair of toe-up socks. The size is kinda wacky, so I'm thinking about selling them at the local yarn store. Maybe sometimes I'll post things to sell on here. Definitely I'll post pictures. 

But not today, because right now I'm going to fly off and see if the washing machine's empty because my laundry basket is gettin' pretty full. Adios, people.