I finished secret stitching #2 last night. Took an hour. When you are ready to throw up your hands with a project like I was yesterday, it seems like it will take forever to complete. But that's an illusion. And now it's winging its way to a lucky recipient. We get the computer back Monday so we should have pictures again soon. If only I had remembered to take a photo of ss#2 this morning.
I have rejoined the Stitching Olympics. I packed only three things for the flight to Fla. 1) doghouse sampler 2) anniversary prize (giveaway coming soon!) and 3) Toy Gatherer with the Tacky Bob. The first two are only allowed out on the plane. I am going to be a chess widow for the weekend, and I hear the weather is going to suck, so it looks like a lot of Stitching Competition in the indoor arena.
Just so you know, I wasn't making fun of the cripples* in the paraolympics. I was making fun of myself. Because I do not make fun of the developmentally delayed, only a little when they deserve it. Did I ever tell you this story from bringing Yay-o to Thomas? On the train, this little boy was banging his head against the window. He seemed like he was all there, just a kid doing those weird things that kids do because they simply do not place enough value on their brains. Anyway, the father says, "Don't do that; you're going to catch retarded." Catch retarded. I came thisclose to walking over to say that the only danger of the kid "catching retarded" was the danger he had from catching it from his father. Only drop some eff bombs in there, because you cannot say enough of them when you are at Thomas the Tank Engine weekend. Anyway, the dude doesn't like me mouthing off to guys who are bigger than him, so I shut my mouth and hoped no one else had heard. It all makes me so sad. Because one day Yay-o is going to be an adult and people are going to say shit like that right to her face. Having her in our lives has been a blessing--and the dude and I hate the way that word has been coopted, so I don't use it lightly. I know I've written about that before.
* I once read this awesome essay by a woman with MS who "reclaimed" the word. It reminded me a lot of why my own father describes himself this way. (Nancy Mairs, "On Being a Cripple")