Enough with the snack knitting. I am back to this freaky Fair Isle with a vengeance.
If you are joining this late, just dive back into the archives if you’re inclined. Or just wonder at the weirdness of it all.
No time to chat except to say that I feel like turning 50 has ignited some sort of alteration in me, some fundamental shift in the way I see things. I remember my mom when she turned 50. She got a lot more . . . frank. It was breathtaking, how suddenly she shed her veneer of Alabama southern female superfakeyniceness. Coming out of a divorce will do that to a person. She was a lot harder to be around, but she was easier to understand. When she was mad, she was obviously mad. She stopped making that sniff sound that we all knew was the sniff of disapproval.
Sometimes I catch myself being like my pre-50 mom, and I really, really want to get past the constant impulse to be liked no matter what the cost to me, no matter how much I give the benefit of the doubt to people who don’t merit it. Do you know what I mean? THIS IS A REVELATION, y’all. I am TIRED OF BEING NICE.
The new frankness. For instance: These photos were taken with my camera’s supercheesy filters. I am not apologizing for that. TAKE ‘EM OR LEAVE ‘EM.