‘Twas a dark and stormy afternoon. Lightening streaked across the sky, and thunder rumbled its angry response. A promise of rain hung in the sultry summer air, and all the world waited, hoping that this parched Kansas land would soon be lush again.

Except for me. I didn’t even notice.

I was under ridiculously bright lamps, trying to settle a score with some silk embroidery I’ve been fighting with lately. I was moving along, rather chipper in mood, actually making progress, when I picked up a pair of tiny scissors to take a premeditated, carefully calculated snip of thread….

You do know the kind of snip I’m talking about, don’t you? The kind that is taken slowly and carefully; the kind that you hesitate before taking, maneuvering into perfect position for the snip? That kind?