Hives

I never meant to be a collector. Freezer full of sock yarn? A rational 'safe-storage' plan. Bookcases stacked to groaning with books about quilting/knitting/soap making? Future reference. Giant plastic storage crates of tiny little snowmen? Girl's obviously out of her tree.

This little fuzzy snowdude is a Boyd's. I scored him half-off, at an after Christmas sale in a sleepy little town where most of the commerce that happens is the sale of sixty-nine cent polar pops at the local gas station. It was several years ago, and I was only in the sleepy little town to visit the local quilt shop, which was closed on a Wednesday (?), and having lugged all the Becher children out of the truck, I was damn sure going to buy something, even if it killed me. Five kids in a gift shop... yeah, it nearly did. Five beanie-babies later, I spied this guy in a basket by the register. Score one for the mommy.

Here is a scary, cross-eyed pic of what happens when I love on the cat. Yep. Those would be hives springing up all over my face. (I've since touched up those white roots, too.)

Today's trauma was a trip to the ob/gyn. I accidentally giggle-snorted when the receptionist asked why I had been neglecting my annual exams. Oh, gee, lemme think on this one...

'cuz I don't like flashing my hoo-hoo at tired old men? Does that answer the question? Gah.

On tomorrow's agenda, pics of a bunch of new Kaffe Fassett fabrics what just arrived at the shop, as well as a quilt block from Jaye. It's huge and gorgeous and I'm turning it into a medallion quilt top. I'm mailing you some new dots, Miss Jaye. Fresh off the UPS truck! Be back here tomorrow when I hatch the plan to stuff Gaylen's comment box with snarky holiday fun whilst she is otherwise detained. Maybe we'll have a contest for outrageous holiday-hell stories. What do you think?
Smooches, pooches. C