Mr. Etherknitter and I fly to visit his family.
Humid, hot, overcast. Dinner at Tango Sur, a wildly popular Argentinean BYOB. Reservations, a table for six, and we bypass the hourlong wait for a table.
Our waiter is Alfredo. He is not unaware of his impact, and poses as he probably has posed hundreds of times before. Do not sigh. I see his future: he woos you, wins you. Soon, his paunch grows. You begin to irritate him with small indiscretions that only he perceives. He smacks you across the kitchen with the back of his hand. You cannot leave and are consumed with self-loathing. No one is happy. Trust me. I am right.
Tuesday. Fiddler on the Roof, Topol's farewell tour. This is my first time seeing Fiddler, and it is a grand way to do it. Topol is magnificent in the role.
We are exhausted. It is 95 degrees every day and every night. The AC at the house is broken. The repairmen have not returned our calls. Sleep is elusive.
Knitting is accomplished every spare waking moment. Smooshy socks see a little bit of progress. The baby blanket is now large enough so that nonknitters do not think it is a hat any more. Circular blankets wean one from the idea of rows (360 st and increasing 8 every other row) towards the idea of process.
More to come.