The Husband gets home in an hour, I'm trapped, waiting on the laundry to regurgitate my 'painting togs', and the children are all in from the merciless humidity and are grazing and debating which flick to watch. Ahhh, summer. Later, when it's cooled down a bit (say, eight-ish?) the bugs will be out in droves, so that to be outside is to be heavy into the 'blood donation' thing, but with the added benefit of brown bats swooping past your head. Smart little creatures... knowing to hunt the juicy ones what just et.
I'm in the midst of a major de-stashing, and some of my fellow bloggers are going to be mightily startled by what the postman is carting their way. I hope I do not offend anyone by the offerings. Just stuff I am forced to liberate from the depths of my (currently still over-crowded) "craft room". What a pretty, clever euphemism for "stash-sucking-hole"... Now, if I just had some quilters who were licking their chops for some free fabric...
Evidently the lure of a sunny day was too much for the kids. They are back out there, knee-high in the grass, with the 'baby' (now two, but he's still the baby) doing his best to keep up. The tree fort is base, from what I can make out, and there seems to be a rotation for who is allowed off the fort. Looks like 'Hogan's Heros' from here. Guess that'd make me Klink?
(brief laundry interuption)
Note to spouse: You simply *must* stop/cease/quit rolling your black dress socks into the gob of undershirt/underwear that you insist on balling up and tossing into the hamper like a little laundry bomb. I just did a bleached load, and your socks are looking a little rough. I can no longer be trusted to undo all the stupid crazy you lob at me. I love you, and you're cute and all, but dammit, man, quit the subterfuge. Now. (End mini-rant.)
I've decided to stop posting pics of future Monkey socks, but instead will try to post a pair a month. If the heavens will allow, this should give me time to keep a Monkey going all the time, and still have time for other knitting goodness... like the washcloths Janice is collecting for the sex-workers of Vancouver. A good, yet strange cause, but I know from personal experience, that when you're so down and out there doesn't seem to be any air left to breathe, a little thing like a cloth to bathe with can seem like a gift. She has an address posted to mail them to. Just scroll down to hunt it.
Well, everyone has returned, and evidently they require more feeding. Huh. Who knew popsicles weren't filling? (yeah, I tried to warn them...) Little man needs a dipe-change now, and laundry-foiling spouse has just called en-route to home... type at y'all later. Cami