Comes a time in one's life when one, or you, or I realize I may have become what my grandmothers most feared: Trashy. My mom is not keen on Trashy, either, but she has rather different ideas what constitutes it and also a sense of humor that my grandmothers perhaps never had the comforting feeling of distance from Trashiness to acquire. They would have been more comfortable with something like this.
I realized I had sunk into the gutter when I looked at the deathless piece of fiberart I was concocting and realized that I was indeed embroidering a beer label.
Shiner, if you have read the blog over at NH Underground is a nectar, a proof that God wants us to be happy, an anodyne for the pain of the world (and knees). It's also not available north of Virginia, so we don't get it often, like only on archaeology gigs in Texas, and it is possible that I am affected by the context I find it in. A Shiner Bock and Salt Lick barbecue constitute a SERIOUS candidate for the Best Meal in the World, particularly when you have a hangover.
The lady at the quilt store said "I hope it's not Bud Lite." At least, by local standards, I am yuppie Trash.
Meanwhile, it's sneeting outside. We see deer daily, eating wild rosebushes and my pussywillow, poor things, and the squirrels I usually don't see that often, who don't wreck my birdfeeders, are frequent visitors. Some people talk about daffodil sprouts; here, you'd need an auger and a laparoscope to see them through the snow.