Major coziness score! I took a trip to Lancaster and managed to convince my wallet to buy me all of this, including the most gorgeous locally made sock yarn. And this tea? It’s only the best thing I’ve ever consumed! Shopping small pays off tenfold 👍🏻
I’ve recently gotten back into Disney’s Descendants, because I have very little
self control and when something I like comes back to life I tend to make grabby
hands as soon as humanly possible. And since I’ve “matured” in the past yearish
since I’ve last really thought about it, I’ve develop some rather interesting
headcanons/reinterpretations for Carlos de Vil. Specifically that his character from the movie,
and the books, is completely off for me. Yeah, yeah, he’s a sweet sinnamon roll
and blah blah blah. Sure he’s cute, but he’s also the son of Cruella de Vil, a
woman so extra and so completely devoid of subtly her name is literally Cruel
Devil and lives in a place called Hell House.
So you know where they went wrong? They didn’t
make him a fucking diva. I mean, they already lost a golden opportunity not
giving Ursula a fucking son, because you bet your ass he’d be a fucking queen
and that would be the single ballsiest thing Disney could possibly do, but this
is a close second. So grab a soda, get comfortable, and buckle up bitches.
This is a BUY or DIY post for these knit or crochet mug sweaters with poseable “arms”.
The BUY prices range from aproximately $18.75 to $22.50.
You can also purchase a pattern from mugsweater for $5.50 and DIY your own - both knit and crochet versions are in the PDF file. If you choose to knit or crochet your own mug sweater, this is an absolute beginner project.
The basket was full of dyed skeins of wool and linen thread.
Some I had been given by Jocasta, some I had spun myself. The difference was obvious, but even the lumpy, awkward-looking strands I produced could be used for something. Not stockings or jerseys; perhaps I could knit a tea cozy—that seemed sufficiently shapeless to disguise all my deficiencies.
Jamie had been simultaneously shocked and amused to find that I didn’t know how to knit. The question had never arisen at Lallybroch, where Jenny and the female servants kept everyone in knitted goods. I had taken on the chores of stillroom and garden, and never dealt with needlework beyond the simplest mending.
“Ye canna clickit at all?” he said incredulously. “And what did ye do for your winter stockings in Boston, then?”
“Bought them,” I said.
He had looked elaborately around the clearing where we had been sitting, admiring the half-finished cabin.
“Since I dinna see any shops about, I suppose ye’d best learn, aye?”
“I suppose so.” I dubiously eyed the knitting basket Jocasta had given me. It was well equipped, with three long circular wire needles in different sizes, and a sinister-looking set of four double-ended ivory ones, slender as stilettos, which I knew were used in some mysterious fashion to turn the heels of stockings.
“I’ll ask Jocasta to show me, next time we go down to River Run. Next year perhaps.”
Jamie snorted briefly and picked up a needle and a ball of yarn.
“It’s no verra difficult, Sassenach. Look—this is how ye cast up your row.” Drawing the thread out through his closed fist, he made a loop round his thumb, slipped it onto the needle, and with a quick economy of motion, cast on a long row of stitches in a matter of seconds. Then he handed me the other needle and another ball of yarn. “There—you try.”
I looked at him in complete amazement.
“You can knit?”
“Well, of course I can,” he said, staring at me in puzzlement. “I’ve known how to clickit wi’ needles since I was seven years old. Do they not teach bairns anything in your time?”
“Well,” I said, feeling mildly foolish, “they sometimes teach little girls to do needlework, but not boys.”
“They didna teach you, did they? Besides, it’s no fine needlework, Sassenach, it’s only plain knitting. Here, take your thumb and dip it, so …”
And so he and Ian—who, it turned out, could also knit and was prostrated by mirth at my lack of knowledge—had taught me the simple basics of knit and purl, explaining, between snorts of derision over my efforts, that in the Highlands all boys were routinely taught to knit, that being a useful occupation well suited to the long idle hours of herding sheep or cattle on the shielings.
“Once a man’s grown and has a wife to do for him, and a lad of his own to mind the sheep, he maybe doesna make his own stockings anymore,” Ian had said, deftly executing the turn of a heel before handing me back the stocking, “but even wee laddies ken how, Auntie.”
I cast an eye at my current project, some ten inches of a wooly shawl, which lay in a small crumpled heap at the bottom of the basket. I had learned the basics, but knitting for me was still a pitched battle with knotted thread and slippery needles, not the soothing, dreamy exercise that Jamie and Ian made of it, needles clicketing away in their big hands by the fire, comforting as the sound of crickets on the hearth.
Nicholas Wilde is such a fucking PTA Dad. I don’t know why I’m thinking about this right now but it might be because now I’m working with the schoolboard before my grad program starts and I just can’t believe how right I was.
Nick is a fucking PTA Dad.
And because of that, his style of revenge is just actively being as kindly passive aggressive as he can.
He’s the sort of person who will knit you a tea cozy in the shape of a giant hand with its middle finger sticking right up. But he used only the best wool and your favorite color scheme.
Like here, I wanted to get you something nice.
But also, fuck you and your budgetary plans for the Spring Fling. I will not skimp on streamers, and you’re a weak ass link to the K-5 planning committee if you think I am.
Things get pretty heated at the afterschool parent meet and greet.
Because half these husbands wives have received a passive aggressive gift from Nicholas Wilde. But Judy really can’t do anything about it.
As if he’s going to apologize for Brenda wanting to use cream napkins instead of eggshell GOD people open your fucking eyes.