hand eye crafts

 You spend the morning going through some intense stuff in therapy. Your router/receiver combo decides to conk out in the afternoon.  You spend the afternoon at the hated AT&T store* working in person and on the phone trying to get new equipment sent to you. You think about the tooth and the mice and the price of Maddie's insulin going up and how expensive it is to go to the laundromat but you can't get a new washer because of the tooth and the mice and the insulin and now the flippin' router. So you know what you do?  Go to Bruster's and get a big-ass Peanut Butter Puddles milkshake.  'Cause milkshakes help. *This is not just my opinion.  Every AT&T customer I've ever spoken to here HATES that store.  And there are some issues that, apparently, can only be dealt with there.  It's a mile away from my house, but I'll go 5x that distance to another store (if possible), because this one is so awful.

So, I'm a couple of degrees removed from Steve Jones, the judge on the federal bench overseeing the Trump RICO case in Fulton County. The one time I was actually in a courtroom after being called for jury duty, Judge Jones was presiding. When Briton was in elementary school, there was a school-wide "experiment/experience" where, basically, a little town was built.  There were stores, banks, restaurants, a security force, and a judicial system.  Judge Jones came by each term to swear in whomever was to sit on the bench during that term. Not really close, but something I can claim.

 I know this is weird, but hang on. For lunch today, I had canned soup.  It struck me that for as long as I've eaten canned soup, I've felt sorry for carrots.  Carrots seem to be in soup only to add color and allow someone to say, "There are vegetables in this!" But the carrots are sad little cubes.  There are maybe eight in a can.  It's pitiful. I have never liked carrots.  Which made my craving them when I was pregnant with Hannah super  odd.  Even though those pathetic, soggy cubes in soup have no real flavor, I still don't eat them.  But I do think they're kind of depressing.

 Sally Field's In   Pieces  is my autobiography/biography for "F."  As you can see, my own shelves (and chests and steps) are going to provide "G" through "T": Yes, I have a "Q" and an "X."  I'll share when I get there.

I should know not to talk about knitting projects until they are done or very nearly done.  It's the Death Kiss. Goodbye fingering weight feather and fan scarf.

Bear, fish, flowers, raindrops. "Mantelpiece."

 There's an online store --- whose name I cannot accurately remember --- that will make a necklace for you with a photo of the moon on any date you'd like.  I was born under a full moon, it would seem. (And during a snowfall to boot.)  My children, who could not be any more different in almost every way, were born one under a waxing and one under a waning moon.  They are opposites even celestially.