We just returned from a little trip. The trip was good. We had snow.
I got to finally, really, wear hand knits (I'm wearing the Monkey Bones Super Slouch...hooray!) and we threw snowballs at each other which, as it turned out, wasn't half bad, especially since I have a better arm than my little sister. Her boots, however, warranted her extra points.
We also visited a really old mining town in Colorado. And on our way there, it was just treacherous. We teased my sister, Dooze, about the Donner party, a bit of history about which she had never heard. We told her that her thigh meat would be mighty tasty should we get stranded.
And, after a drink at an old bar,
But the problem was, before we left home, I had carefully packed in anticipation for the trip. After much thought--and you knitters know exactly what I'm talking about--I decided to include an unfinished, but almost finished, pair of socks that I was going to *finally* finish for a dear friend of mine. I put the project bag in my carry-on and blew a sigh of relief when the TSA didn't say a word about my super sharp pair of circular needles. The 32-inch ones.
Truthfully, the trip was perfect, except for one thing.
I forgot to bring the yarn.