OK, at the risk of offending anyone who drops by, I have to get this off my chest. I hate golf. Always have and always will. But I especially hate it when it becomes someone's raison d'etre, and causes that someone to neglect his wife (who-by-the-way has really been great to him all week). I'm so burnt up you can probably smell the smoke where you're sitting.
I want to bend every friggin' golf club in his bag. I want to throw all his balls into the woods. Golf balls, I mean.
But since this blog is supposed to be about stitching, I think I'll go to my sewing machine and sew the fingers of all his golf gloves up. Every single finger. Except maybe the middle one so that he can get a nice message from me every time he plays. I'll stitch love notes onto his golf towels. I'll fill his shoes with "lost" needles.
OK, I feel much better now. But I'm still not speaking to him. Without going into long and tedious detail, I'll tell you that this is one time that I really deserve to be mad, and by god, I'm goin' with the feeling.