Pinky Promise

During my last bicycle ride, a speed bump unexpectedly rose up to meet me.  And by "rose up", I mean that's what it seemed like.  Actually, it was a case of me falling down to meet it.

Don't worry: My beautiful bicycle is undamaged.  I broke its fall with my body.

In addition to a black eye, a skinned knee, and more bruises than I can count, my right pinky finger is broken, as shown.  And my pride is kinda banged up, too. 

Because this type of break is known as "unstable" (is there a "stable" broken bone?), it will have to be operated on before it can be immobilized in a cast.  I won't find out how one makes a broken pinky finger stable until Friday, when I see the Bone Man. 

I'm thinking there will be some sort of spackle involved.

So for the next little while, keyboarding will be pretty uncomfortable, and knitting, sadly, impossible.  Know what's worse than knitting with a broken finger?  Not knitting.  So bear with me, Gentle Readers, if the blog posts get a little thin on the ground: I promise to heal as fast as I can.

I always suspected exercise was dangerous.  Now I have proof.

Turncoat

As a parent, you try and try to teach your values to the offspring.  Do your best on a daily basis to show them right from wrong.  Help them spot dangerous associations and steer away. 

And then, despite all your efforts to the contrary, it happens.

They make the Wrong Friend:

Yep: Lindsay; Darling Lindsay; girl after my heart in every way; has befriended A MOTH.

She found it sitting on the hot tub cover in the backyard.  Not moving.  "Dead", I declared, heartlessly.  "Dehydrated!" she countered, gathering sugar water and flower blossoms together for its Rock-Star recuperation.  Just look at Mothie!  Proboscis-deep in flower nectar, enjoying my clean china, plotting an invasion into my STASH! Is there no justice?  Have I taught NOTHING to my offspring??

I suppose Lindsay was right, because Mothie revived, and then flew away (Sigh of Relief).  Lindsay was heartbroken: "But she was my friend!" she wailed.  "That sort never appreciate anything, Lu," I try to console her.  "but at least our sweaters are safe!"  She glares at me and stomps off to her room. "Moth-ist!" she says; sotto voce.

There's just NO living with teenagers.

Start-itis

It's 90 degrees, here at Huff House today.  So naturally, I'm sitting under a pile of wool:

There are swatches, too, but I can't show you those yet.  I'm happily poised at the beginning of a brand new September Project.

Is there anything sweeter than the beginning of the knitting?  The idea is still new, the yarn pristine in its ball bands, and no math has happened (or failed to) that could threaten the unsullied beauty of my vision.  I cuddle the yarn in a blissful fugue, imagining its destiny fulfilled.

Oh New Project, I love you to distraction.  My desire to spend every waking moment with you insurmountable.  My other projects simper and whine from neglected corners: I only have eyes for you.  Nothing bad has ever happened between us, New Project, and I can convince myself that it never will.  That's right.  You, deer sweet New Project, will be the design that knits itself; your gauge perfect, your motifs exquisite, your fit divine.  And naturally, you will be finished long before your deadline.  Because that's how perfect you are.  I shall neither eat nor sleep, nor launder, until your completion is assured. 

You are the promise of every knitter's dream: This time, I'm totally going to get it right.