But Can She Spell Potato?

It's been an odd couple of days, hasn't it? On Friday, my parents' house was broken into - they live in rural Maine, for crying out loud, and the idiots who broke in did more damage to the door they kicked in (it was deadbolted, if that tells you anything) than the value of anything they stole. Mainly, they lugged off my dad's guitars, which is really sad (one of them was his 50th birthday gift...). It's maddening, to say the least, and is making me rethink my recent fantasy about having a little house in the woods, complete with a flower garden and tomato and strawberry plants.

But they came down here anyway, and brought me down a bed as well as my desk, book case and sewing table. Yay! It's an odd thing to be 37 and be sleeping on either a pull-out couch or an air mattress, I just have to say. My friend D. came to visit as well, with her daughter L., who saved the day because my parents were slightly wigged out at the prospect of being here at my sister's house with all the grandkids in CA.

I also made some amazing blueberry muffins and a mediocre lasagne, and lost a battle with a 23-pound plastic container of kitty litter. Don't ask. It wasn't pretty and I may have a permanent scar.

In between all the commotion, I've been pondering the Sarah Palin dilemma while knitting a new pair of socks in this unbelievable alpaca yarn...I swear, I would eat it if I could, it's just THAT good. Wilbert (or "Yogurt", as L. liked to call him) seems to approve:



On the other hand...at least this election won't be boring. At least Nader can't come along and say they're all alike (which he no doubt will, but it's a more difficult argument to make these days). I'm pretty convinced, though, that there is a special place in hell for Joe Lieberman, and that if Al Gore had his druthers, ol' Joe would be out floating on one of those melting ice caps.