You Think You Know
It is Friday morning in Biology 212 lab class. The assignment is to map the human circulatory system, in teams, on a life size drawing. There is only one way to do this, really, and that is by sitting on the floor around the giant piece of paper and leaning over it to draw and write stuff in. With me so far? Okay. Now, imagine this: the young, male teacher comes over to lean down and whisper conspiratorially in your ear that you might want to either avoid leaning over the paper or perhaps tie a jacket around your waist if you do. (Already you can tell this is going nowhere good, can't you?) So now, you reach back to see what the problem is (thinking perhaps that your shirt has pulled up slightly and your low back tattoo is showing and maybe he has a thing against tattoos?) and discover that your reasonably modest, mid-rise jeans have fallen slightly lower and you are now displaying fully an inch of panties for all to see. Thong panties. Yeah, that's SO the impression I was hoping to make. But wait. There's more.
Now imagine that you flee to the restroom, face flaming, to adjust things and, as you do so, you look to see which thong you were flashing. And was it a simple, dignified white or nude one? No....I'm come to realize that the universe fails to run correctly if I am allowed to maintain any sort of dignity. Get this: it was a pink and gray cotton, Felix the Cat thong. Swear to wool. No, I do not have any explanation for being an adult who owns an assortment of thong panties with cartoon characters on them. I suspect that there IS no satisfactory answer for that one. At least I wasn't wearing the "Snoopy as Joe Cool" ones. Or "Hello Kitty".
"So, what did you do today, Honey?"
"Oh, not much, dear. I did flash my entire biology class while wearing a pair of cartoon thong panties!"
Yeah. It's been a good morning. My only comfort is that the teacher in question is a brand new father and, as such, is so sleep deprived that he may well not remember the incident. Or may believe it to be some sort of strange, cartoonish dream.
The morning, however, is not too much out of line with yesterday. I didn't manage to flash anyone yesterday, but I did turn the heel on the Jaywalker sock and finally tried it on. Sort of. See, somehow I failed to comprehend that the Jaywalker stitch pattern, lovely though it is, also makes a somewhat tight, not-terribly-elastic weave. So although I have made socks with fewer stitches on the same size needles without trauma.....this time, there was trauma. Specifically, I can wear them if I heavily grease my feet with lard first. And suck in my calves. With minimal sobbing (okay, lots) I unravelled the Lorna's Laces yet again. I think it will take a brief rest now, while I contemplate how very much I hate knitting. Hate it. Monica, the colorway is Mt. Creek--and for a bar of chocolate and a knitting pattern I'd deliver it right to your door this very instant. Did I mention that I hate knitting?
We shall respectfully refrain from pointing out that the "hatred of knitting" lasted all of 20 minutes before Ms. Knitingale cast on another sock. In her defense, it WAS at least a different yarn.
The sock needle holder--you guys are going to hate me but I have no idea from whence it came. It was a gift from a friend with whom I have sadly lost touch (not by choice) and I recently found that even her blog has shut down. I really don't have a guess as to where she got it. Don't worry, though. If one more pair of socks goes south on me, I'll be giving away every single wool-associated thing in my house to the first person who backs up to my porch with a U-Haul.
The same sort of yarn gremlins seem to have Irish relatives as well, as our beloved Jo of Celtic Memory Yarns seems to be having the same sort of altercation with a Michael Kors sweater and a ball of cashmere. Jo, I feel your pain. Just remember, we knit because.....we knit...because...hang on, I used to know that....we knit because....oh, yeah. Because it's such a relaxing hobby.
I was delighted to find so many Pratchett fans out there! I love them all, and have a particular love of Greebo, the "old softy" cat of Nanny Ogg. I can never pick a favorite of his books, but Wyrd Sisters was up there. So was Hogfather, though....and really any of them that have Twoflower the tourist. Yeah, I know they're making fun of Americans with that character. It's okay--we probably deserve it.
It's been a traumatic 24 hours. I think I'm going to go stroke a cat and write "I will try my sock on BEFORE I've traded several precious hours of my life for it" 500 times. And maybe read a Pratchett novel.