I had to take my embroidery machine to be serviced yesterday. This required a 40-mile drive into the city, and will require another 40-mile drive to retrieve it when it's ready. I'd sooner walk barefoot on hot coals.
But I made it to the repair shop without incident.
While I was in town I went to visit my sister.
She has the meanest dog in the world. Sparky was a rescue dog. He'd been "rescued" and returned to the shelter more than once because of his foul temper. He is about the size of a squirrel, but he thinks he's a Doberman. When a visitor arrives, he barks and snarls and nips at ankles. And don't even think about coming within six feet of my sister, or he will try to eat you up.
As we were sitting in the living room, commiserating about getting old, my sister expressed concern about what would happen to Sparky if she were to keel over unexpectedly (yeah, we had a real uplifting talk). I said, "You'd better hope he dies before you do, because NOBODY will take his mean ass."
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After The Husband came home from work, we went to see The Granddaughters and to deliver them some books my sister sent them. The Little Rotten Baby was in rare form. She has learned to hold up four fingers and say, "Four." Her mother has no idea where she learned this. Her sisters deny teaching her. Evidently, she learned it from a kid show.
She's 18 months old. She was totally over saying and showing "four" by the time we visited and would not do it for us.
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