Root Beer

As of late, my routine is something like this: I get up, throw on my dyeing "costume," which consists of black yoga pants, a black shirt, a fleece jacket, wool socks, dye-spattered Birkenstock clogs, and a wool hat. It's been pretty cold here, and the craft dungeon has been a bit chilly, but there's no question that it's a lot of look.

Tonight the husband picked up dinner and was kind enough to bring me a diet root beer, one of the old-fashioned ones in a vintage-y brown bottle. Those bottles just make you want to blow into them while you're drinking, making crazy wind whistle sounds, which is just what I was doing. My husband looked up from his dinner, saw me in my dyeing get-up and said, "You look like a yarn hobo." I couldn't deny it.

Goodbye, Little Lion

Papel. Pel. Pelly Bel. Babyhead. Little Lion. Trotwood. Little Boy. Little Furry Buddy.

He grew into his ears, but kept his kitten voice. Never walked when he could trot. From the little tuft of hair on his left ear to the "racing stripes" around his back legs to his Q-Tip tail, he was the cutest, sweetest, most lovable tabby cat ever, and we told him so all the time.