Morning drink of water with Mama Sharon.
...Now Mama has wandered off with a few Peeps, and these are still slaking their thirst, before realizing the panic (loud peeps, skittering fluffing, a few wing flaps on their way to catch her up) of Mama-less-ness.
It all began with the Rowan Knitting Magazine, which is full of highly stylized photo layouts, featuring knitwear designs that are tres chic (in a fashion runway-sort of way). There's something that always amuses me about this publication, perhaps the seriousness with which they seem to take themselves...and gets me creating a running commentary in my head of the circumstances by which these attractive waifs in their kilts, ball gowns, and heavy eye-makeup came to find themselves in the English countryside. Like, how came the gothic, sulky anorexic with teased hair to be draped against the manor gates? Was there a sudden wind storm that blew her in from London? (This is most fun to do when browsing with my knitting beloveds, on the shores of scenic Moosehead Lake!)
So while browsing a knitting catalog recently, I jumped on the Rowan photos. Notice below, that there are very purposeful holes created in the sweater, on the fellow's right shoulder:
The text at left reads: "Damien was resigned to the fact that, even in the rural English countryside, he was beset by besotted and admiring females who frequently rent his designer knitwear."
And here we have Bess:
The tiny little writing (size .02 Micron, my favorite precious, Mom Only please, pen) reads: "'Oh drat,' thought Bess. Her mother's penchant for designer and embellished handknits had resulted in the seafoam tank top, which featured unfortunately placed areola-like accents. One seemed to hover by her left armpit."
Happy Weekend and Happy Solstice!