The Fair Fifi, all of five.
Pete turned the corner and found me locked in a life and death struggle with insulated pants. He stood there for a few seconds, chewing over the idea that his lovely wife could be outwitted by textiles, then asked, “So…what’re ya doin’?” I quit struggling. There was nothing to do but pants myself and start over.
II.
People are so interesting!
III.
Yesterday, Miss Sasha posted on Facebook that she was dashing off to a taco meeting. Suddenly the problem with all meetings I’d ever attended was clear to me.
IV.
Three boxes arrived the other day from a friend in Trenton who knew me when I was Me. My friend had lost a friend who crocheted lap blankets for people in wheelchairs and this yarn was just sitting in my friend’s house for a year and a half. I put away two of the boxes to protect the contents from yarn predators who might be people who are cats, but the third box contained very large granny squares for the cat blanket project. I was speechless. Later, when I could speak, I told my friend I wouldn’t let her or her friend down.
Poor Impulse Control 
I have flannel-lined pants. When you owe temperature, they are terrific.
(We began to run small temperature deficits up here in Minnesota a few weeks ago. I don’t think we are in an actual deficit state, because then we might be forced to borrow degrees from China, but we have, on some days, run in the negative numbers.)