Blanket Fetish...

I'm a certifiable crochet-aholic...I crochet everywhere--at home, on the train, at my mom's house, even at restaurants and movies. I'm addicted. And it's a good thing too, since this means that my entire family now has homemade scarves, and I've just completed my very first blanket. I made it for my brother G (we all call him G, though his full name is George. Since he hates the name, we call him G--it makes him sound like a hoody kid, but he's not). I didn't make it for him because I chose to; it's more like he nagged me to death about me making him a blanket. He's got a bit of a blanket fetish. He gets very, very attached to blankets. He still has his baby blanket (though now it looks more like a rag) and keeps it on his futon. Twenty-six years old and he still uses his baby blanket. He also has this big San Francisco 49er blanket that looks sort of like fur, but isn't. He calls it a picky blanket because he likes to lay under it and watch tv while picking little pieces of lint off of it. It's amazing that there is anything left of the damned thing. G really wants a new picky blanket, but for now, he'll have to be satisfied with this: