Summer hours start at Scripps this week. I’m still in Afghan-land (about ¼ finished with the third), so the extra hours to crochet will be very nice. I’ll post pictures of all three once they are all delivered and the packages opened. Social media and surprises are a dangerous combination, so I refuse to mix them until they are no longer surprises.
I’m not sure what to do after I get out of Afghan-land – I can see the light at the end of the tunnel! It isn’t the train! – but I think I might have an idea. I have a Greenleaf Beacon Hill dollhouse sitting partially finished in my mother’s garage. It might be nice to set it up on the kitchen table and see how much more of it I can get done this summer. At last glance, however, Hunca Munca and Tom Thumb were having babies in the dining room. This is a problem, but nothing a little scrubbing won’t fix (okay, a lot of scrubbing).
With the dollhouse, of course, comes bad Victorian romances. I’m not reading, I’m writing, and loving every minute of not worrying about cliché or even quality. Dovie and Royal Whitlock live in the house with maids Betsy and Dinah. There may or may not be a baby on the way eventually. She was the governess to his super-wealthy family, but he’s the second son so he won’t inherit and it’s plausible for them to marry. I know, it’s such trash but it’s such fun! Why is this stuff so easy and the novel so hard? My guess is expectation… Probably this is the closest Dovie and Royal will get to having their story in print. It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid.
I read back through this post and realized that I’m really a sixty year old woman, or twelve. These are the hobbies I usually refuse to talk about, because if there is anything more ridiculed than a girl playing Savage Worlds games it is a thirty two year old who (ahem) “collects” dolls.
I swear… my home features no chintz, and no quilting, and the embroidery is all shockingly modern in nature. There. I feel much better now.