Sundays are for crafting. In between rounds of laundry and cleaning and naps (another reason I don’t have children: these are MY naps), I like to make things. Something about the connection to all those women before me who sewed and knit and baked makes me feel peaceful.
Then this happened:
That’s my unfinished cross-stitch of Marilyn Monroe, in the drawer where I hide it from the cats. Somehow when I was working on it last, I failed to notice how disturbing she looks. At some point she’ll have eyes and lips, but in the meantime she looks like Leatherface got ahold of her.