Everyone, say goodbye to Rose of England. I've finally decided I could no longer work with cotton thread. And even though the lace looks super complicated on paper, it has been rather a snooze to knit, what with all the repeats that just get more endless as the circumference gets bigger. I might try again with some lace-weight cashmere/silk I have...some day. Some day.

Guess what? It's hot. It's global warming. But just found out that we have not one, but TWO more AC units that came with the house (or the that previous owners just left) that are sitting in the attic. Duck dragged it down all by himself this morning as I lay drooling in bed. Like I had gotten enough sleep and wanted to get up but just could not do it. There were greater powers at work. *The heat lulls my eyelids shut every time I open them and that's when I'd have about 3 to 5 minutes worth of crazy wacky heat-induced dreams that eventually wake me up.

Repeat from * 10 times.

The AC unit died after running for a few minutes. We're too hot to retrieve the second unit from the attic.

Things are looking up though! First, it is going to cool down considerably tomorrow, so we don't need no stinkin' AC, take that.

Second, we're going to spend the pleasant weekend in Martha's Vineyard, wooooooooo! Woo! Woo woo.

Have you heard about Netflix's Roadshow? That's the impetus for us going - watching Jaws at the beach! Where they filmed it! - and going biking, which we haven't done nearly as much as we should have so far this summer.

Duck has never been to MV. I went once with a friend when I first moved to Boston. We rented bikes, and at one point he skidded off the road and had his face nearly run over by the car behind him. A nice, rich man across the street witnessed the near tragedy and invited us into his beach house so Rob could clean his scrapes.

While he did that, from the living room I took in the disgustingly gorgeous panoramic views of the ocean, and then took off my clothes. I only had a few minutes to seduce the nice, rich man well enough to get at least an invitation to the clambake I was sure he was going to have that night. Because if I lived in Martha's Vineyard and had a house like that, you know I'd be having a motherfucking clambake every single day.

I'd do just about anything for a clambake. A REAL clambake, the one where you dig a ditch in the sand and cook with ocean water and seaweed and all that magic.

But alas. It didn't happen that day.

Maybe I'll have better luck this weekend. A waterfront Sugar Daddy for Duck and me sure would be nice.

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