I'm trapped in my room because I am so effing fed up with my so-called family.
When I was a teenager my mother used to, on occasion, exclaim "you Morrisons think you're so smart!" and we would all roll our eyes and smirk and go on being whatever we thought we were being - clever I suppose - or smart asses or indifferent for sure to any emotion our mom might have been feeling. And as clever as we were - we actually thought that she was a Morrison and so that comment was inherently, well, stupid. And now, seventeen years after her death, I long to phone her up and tell her I get it. I really get it. Because those damn B**gells think they are soooooooo smart. They are so smart that they will refuse to understand you unless you get the word exactly right. They are so smart that if you say "irony" when you mean "hilariously inappropriate" they will look beautifully blank as if you were speaking some other language - maybe trailer park trash talk or menopausal woman speak.
And so, I sit here in my office unwilling to start another hat (I've knit about eleven hats in the last few weeks) or meditate or work on one of my novels. I'd rather sit and stew and write about that.
Perhaps I'll post a hat photo or two. In this photo is the brilliant Sally - my dearest step-daughter who is 13 - what a gorgeous patootie wha?
and this one is "Wooly Mammoth"