a big old yarny mess

My poor husband. He went into the living room Saturday morning, and was practically attacked by the yarn scattered around the room. The basket pictured is just one he filled with knitting detritus. I admit, I'd been working on swatches for The Knitting Guild of America's Master's Level I course until about 3 in the morning, and was not inclined to clean up after myself at that hour.

In my defense, not all of it was mine. Okay, so I am the only one who actually brings yarn and knitting supplies into the house. But once they're here, I'm not the only one who makes use of them. Ian and Seth have found many uses for my skeins. Yarn bombs are a big hit. So are yarn "laser" grids, in which the boys crisscross yarn throughout the house and then shimmy over, under, and around the strands like it's some acrylic-based museum security system. (They're not allowed to use the good stuff.)

So, I repeat, the yarn ... not all mine. The needles on the other hand ...

Charles wants me to sign an affidavit accepting responsibility in advance in the case of his accidental death by knitting needle puncture wound.