I am looking at a rare solitary weekend. John is going to the cottage with a bunch of guys, ostensibly to paint it. Ronan is going to his girlfriend’s cottage, and Aidan is doing something or other that does not involve hanging with Mom. Which is fine. I have plans. I have a dinner with the women whose men will be up north with John. I have a piano lesson. I have a date with my aesthetician for some lady grooming. I have the dogs, the garden, and a fat book to read (“A Little Life” by Hanya Yanagihara. 760 pages, fine print. “A devastating read that will leave your heart a few sizes larger” – Observer.)

When I’m not enlarging my heart through literature, I may pick up a secret old lady pastime I’ve been doing most of my life. Not, not getting tipsy on sherry and dressing up the cat. I do needlework. Counted cross-stitch, mostly, but some embroidery. It’s not really a secret. I learned it in grade school, actually, because that’s the kind of skill the nuns of Sainte Marcelline thought a young lady should have. Later, it became something to do with my hands when I quit smoking. These days, I have to wear readers to do it, because, you know, age. Never in my wildest fantasies did I think this would be my idea of a fun thing to do on a weekend, but I’ve grown weary of drug-fueled orgies.

I jest, of course. I am not weary of drug-fueled orgies. Truth is, I’ve never been invited to one, and if I were, I would not know what not to wear.

The thing is, I don’t really like most of the things that one cross-stitches: samplers, cushions, eyeglass cases. Fussy, floral stuff from another age and generation. Apparently I’m not alone, because a brief search through the Internet all sorts of patterns inspired by, among others, Game of Thrones, Hamilton and Stranger Things.

Hamilton-1024

Stranger-Things-1024

GofT-1024v2

I think I must do the Stark sampler. It may be the nerdiest thing ever, which is also to say the coolest. Even my kids would think so.

So I’ll be over here if you need me, stitching away with my readers, a glass of sherry by my side, with a cat wearing a little fascinator.

I jest, of course. I don’t have a cat. Or a fascinator.

Have a great weekend.

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