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A secret.

I hope you'll understand.


I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it myself.


Look carefully at the nametag.

There is now a boy working here at Three Irish Girls. A very very brave boy who is, to quote author Peggy Vincent, holding fast to a rickety raft of testosterone in a surging sea of estrogen. 

To help him feel more at home, we made him a message board and put a bunch of glittery, flowery magnets on it. That is my understanding of what men find enjoyable in the workplace.

We like him.

But, can I just say?

With no offense intended, dear Aaron?

Boys are weird.


really? REALLY?

Really, this wasn't supposed to be inside the pipes in my basement? REALLY?

Really? This will clog your pipes? REALLY?

Thank you, Mr. Plumber, for telling me this wasn't supposed to there! Everyone remind me never to put these down my sink drains again!

Everyone remind me not to spend a lot of time stuffing this down my 1" drain pipes in the studio! I spent 92 hours doing it last time, folding this giant, rubber THINGIE and pushing it down my teeny tiny drains, and, OH DEAR, it clogged things up! OH NO! The backup in the studio must've been my fault, dang it!

I read on the internet that it would be OK to leave 3" sewer line testers inside the pipes in the basement, but I guess I was wrong.




About Me

It's hard to write an About Me page. That's probably why mine has been sitting empty for three years.

I've finally taken a stab at it, here.  There's even a picture of me on the About Me page.

What else are you dying to know that I absolutely must include?



The yarn studio 'hood.

People don't really say 'hood here. They say, "neck of the woods". As in,  "How are things in your neck of the woods?" Or really, "How're things in your necka the woods?"

But the studio isn't in the woods, it's in the city. I'm thankful for this fact. We can walk to nearly everything. There is a downside though: people are very curious about what's going on in here. They've never seen anything like it, which understandably fuels the curiosity.  But it's a bit like being in a zoo when people press their noses to the glass and knock on the window. I need some window treatments beyond my makeshift curtains. I'll need your help with that another day.

I took a walk around my 'hood the other day. With my pink velour pants covered in dye splotches. With my plaid canvas shoes. With my husband's fleece jacket and my camera. Please send an intervention team. I would not be surprised if the What Not to Wear  people showed up.

They just don't build 'em like they used to.

It took me a while, at least 37 seconds, to figure out that the intertwined letters stood for Duluth Board of Trade.

Awww, a dove. When I was a little girl I begged my mother to change my name to Dove. I asked for it for my birthday and for Christmas. She wouldn't do it.

To get her back, I changed my name to Yarnista.

Everywhere you go, you see the maritime influence. There's that darn Aerial Lift Bridge. Up and down, up and down, up and down for a hundred years. Why don't you learn some new tricks, bridge? Some people have been waiting a long time.

Duluth has skywalks. The university here has skywalks. The skywalks are for your protection. They protect you from the tourists who flock to see the Aerial Lift Bridge go up and down for the one millionth time.

Not everything in my 'hood is gorgeous. There's a little of this:

Which looks kind raw and gritty in a picture, but which you would be unhappy about if it were next door to you. Thankfully, it's not next door to me.

I'm sure you'll see many, many more pictures of this town because it covers 75 square miles and I have so far photographed only 3 square blocks. But that's it for today.






Such is life, isn't it?  First sweet, then bitter, bitter, then sweet.

It can go from this on a lovely April Sunday:


To a lovely April afternoon two days later and a phone call telling you that your kitty has a large mass in her abdomen that is not operable and is surely cancer. The only humane option is to put her to sleep.

Those are the bitter parts of life, the one hour of notice you get before your thirteen-year-old companion passes on.

Little Isabel. She moved with me all over the country. She made it to Minnesota, and then she slowly went downhill. She quit eating and drinking, she lost five pounds.


This was the last time I got to see her. I wanted to have one last picture to remember her by. Sleep sweet, little Bizzybel. Mama will miss you.




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