Tonight, we decided to walk down to Barbara's Bookstore to buy a copy of Time Out Chicago, in which the lads of Stitches in Britches figure prominently. Well, for one short article, at least. If you don't live in Chicago, you can read it here.
I'm not one to beat up other writers - dog knows how hard it is some days, but I do wish whoever wrote that headline had not dusted off the "knitting not for grandmas" cliche.
That said, here's hoping the guys get more folks to come out and knit.
So en route to the store, the Fool stopped, looked aghast and slapped our bedroom wall.
"Uh oh," he said, turning his hand over. "Moth."
"Hang on. Let me get the camera."
"You're going to blog the moth?"
Dead moths don't photograph well, so he set it aside to take a picture of tomorrow in natural light (because you all want to see a small blurry brown squashed moth.)
Now I'm going to be up all night worrying about the veritable Old Country Moth Buffet of wool in this apartment. How the hell did a moth get in here? What are the cats doing all day?