Happy M-day.

Most of you know my take on this Sunday, straight out of the Old Testament: “Obedience is better than sacrifice, and to hearken, than the fat of rams.” [It’s what the prophet Samuel said to Saul when the king got tired of waiting and performed the sacrifice himself, without authority.] I think parents ought to get way more respect from society-at-large than we do. I also think that taking Mom out to dinner on Sunday, which forces somebody else’s kids to work on the Sabbath, is one of those “close, but no cigar” things. I also think that giving Mom loot once a year does not make up for disrespecting her the other 364 days.

Lark left me a message on my cell phone yesterday: did I want to come to dinner today? This would be a dinner at Firstborn’s house, a dinner I do not have to cook or clean up after, a dinner I just get to show up for, bearing the bag of chips and tub of guac that I picked up when I went grocery shopping last night.

Looking forward to it, dears, looking forward to it.

Here is a link to The Harlot’s post on the intransigence of the hand-knitted sweater. Down near the bottom, that’s where if you listen closely, you will hear me shrieking “amen”!

And another, to the Panopticon’s series of limericks about knitters and knitting. I ordered his book on Thursday night, and there was an email confirmation waiting for me when I woke yesterday.

I also ordered the yarn to make this. It won’t be as subtle as if I used Manos or Malabrigo, but I love Telemark, and I only had to change a few of the colors. This is the yarn I used in LittleBit’s Celtic Icon Jacket and in Bestfriend’s socks. Is this sweater “me”, or what?

I thought this would amuse you:



I guess that makes it official! Because we all know that fortune cookies never lie.

When I went to bed last night, I had just completed the purl-bump for the turning row of the front hem facing. And also marked where the decreases should go on the next row. It was difficult to keep my count straight, what with ents pitching rocks at orcs, and Aragorn singing
“Did You Ever Have to Make up Your Mind?”

As I prepare to leave for ward council, I am midway through the hem facing. The sweater is too big to take for church knitting. And the third baby sock is perilously near its heel flap. So once again I find myself pondering what I should take in my bag.

And hoping that in this ward, they hand out chocolate for Mothers’ Day, in lieu of potted plants.