I say Wip it. Wip it good.

Oh no, darlings. We are not dormant. We are getting ready in a stealthy stitch-by-stitch manner for some wild business of the fiber persuasion.

But we don't want you to forget us so I may be profiling a few BombShells, on occasion, when not with my man on Fire Island (or the other one in Gatlinburg). It is August, after all. And no civilized BombShell actually WORKS in August. We travel. We knit. We cocktail. Hurray!

So, without further ado, meet Wip, Pinky's right hand BombShell.

As you can see, she is a trickster. Her demure manner, her sweet dresses, her bows and baubles, they are smoke and mirrors I tell you. Smoke and mirrors.

Because Wip is the one who whips up little rat babies to place around town. They are pretty cute but don't be fooled. Cuz a rat is a rat is a rat. And Wip knows RATS. As do all BombShells. In fact, that was going to be a part of the manifesto (history of hanging out with scoundrels and/or dancing on bars and/or attendance at Burning Man) but we nixed all that for our all-fiber creed.

So that's our Wip. Sweet. Like burnt sugar. Like spiked juice. Like cotton candy in the carnival house of mirrors. Especially fond of Arnold's Bar and Grill. Especially keen on their Vodka Lemonade. Beware, beware, beware. If you find yourself falling for her southern charm, if you find her hand on your knee while you are sitting at Arnold's bar, know that she is plotting her next Rat Bomb.

There. You have been warned.

So that's all for today. I got the ocean singing me a song, the sun on my back, a man with a handful of oil standing beside me, and a margarita to drink.