So, I have a 17-year old daughter. She's awesome and never ceases to amaze me, but this time she made me speechless.
This daughter of mine, Snickerdoodle, saw my computer window open to The Harlot and while she was waiting for her sister (Tootsiedoodle) to get out of the bathroom, decided to read.
And she laughed.
And she was mesmerized by Stephanie's little leaves.
So I gave her my copy of The Secret Life of a Knitter and she was hysterical.
Now comes the best part.
My daughter, who won't even use the phone to order pizza because she doesn't like talking to people she doesn't know, WROTE TO MS. HARLOT. Sent her a long, comfortable, chatty, cozy email about the fact she lives with a Knitter (bless her heart, she doesn't realize I'm only a knitter) and she wants to get her mom some of the yarn described in her book in the chapter about Sinead's socks.
MS. HARLOT WROTE BACK. Told her about several soft and pettable yarns, and turned her over to the very capable (and enabling hands) of Sheri. Snickerdoodle couldn't understand how some yarn could be there some day and not there the next, or why there were more colors in stock one day and then 50 more the next. (Ah, little one, you will learn.)
So the one who describes herself as a never-knitter bought her mom for her birthday (yesterday) TWO skeins of Fleece Artist. One in midnight, and one in amethyst (my birthstone).
Really, do I deserve a child like this? Or wonderful kind people like Stephanie and Sheri in my life? And Fleece Artist?????
(And Stephanie, I totally love the fact that you said "fancy-arsed hand dyed" in your reply.)
I'm a lucky woman, indeed.