the social butterfly that I am

Last summer was really busy. Last summer was cool and not terribly sunny, but we had all sorts of things to do that didn't involve heat or sunshine — like climbing outdoors, or the MINI celebration — and the week when it was terribly sunny and warm, we spent at the cottage soaking it up. It was a good summer.

This summer I had intentions. I was going to relax. I was going to update this blog more than once a week. I was going wander around Toronto taking photographs, and maybe take long walks to the Beach. It was going to be so good.

Well, now I know that this summer is making last summer look like a sleepy church picnic.

As far as I can figure it, we haven't had a single weekend without some pre-scheduled social event-type thing since June 26. Since then, there have been three trips to the farm, one trip to the cottage, one soccer tournament, one World Cup final (go France — oh, wait), two birthday parties, Las Vegas, one wedding, one visit from the adorables, one slightly hare-brained sausage-making scheme (that was last weekend), and more spontaneous barbeques and hostings than I can remember.

Coming up before the equinox, we have another wedding (out of town), a houswarming (ours), another visit with the adorables, and at least one more birthday, possibly two. Oh, and Iceland.

It's still a good summer, but I feel like I'm going to die from social exhaustion.

And also, more pertinently, it is making me a failure at this whole "keeping my intentions" thing that I had vaguely had going. I haven't had time to go through all of the photographs from Vegas (300+) or the sausage-making (~200 — and which is exactly what it sounds like, by the way), but hopefully I will, soon, and then I will blog about it, because I know that you are all waiting with bated breath.

...
Meanwhile, you can have a mildly amusing photograph, evidence of my last-ever attempt to wind a centre-pull ball on my own:

Dyed in the Wool mediumweight in "Vixen," Bailiwick sock pattern
Yes, that used to be one ball until it gutted itself — literally. Or, as Pd said, "Oh. It exploded."