Two Funny Stories (for free)

First, though, the yarn. The yarn is Koigu and, since Koigu does not give their colors names, I'm afraid I can't identify it any better than that. Except to say that it's both stunningly beautiful and a stubborn bastard. It is now in its fourth sock incarnation. In a perfect world, yarn would be able to talk, and would tell you exactly what sort of sock it might like to be knit into. I, for one, would welcome a quietly whispered "No, no--don't try to make me into a feather and fan sock. I will pool like a sonuvabitch, and I won't even feel badly about it." A girl can dream. Currently the Koigu is being made into a different feather and fan pattern than the first one I tried (fewer stitches) and, so far, is holding its own. Time will tell. As to naming it, I personally would have called it "Wine Country" (because it has lovely wine tones along with the greens and teals, and because I can be a bit fey at times), but that's just me. The Koigu people, for some reason, have not come to ask me to name their yarns, so it'll be our little secret.

Oh, and Monica, thank you so much for your helpful auction hints. I will use many of them...especially the tantrum part, I suspect. And Lilly, I must get a copy of that book. I am already working on my derisive retort. I have 8 years before I'll be allowed to use it...but I want to be ready.

So, the funny stories:

1. I stopped at Target on the way home to pick up a couple of essentials. Since I was there anyway, I did a bit of clothes browsing (and bought nothing, thank you, even though my purse was positively laden with my first paycheck in over a year--make with the kudos fast, while I'm still behaving), and happened to find myself near the changing rooms. As I wandered, I became aware of two young women in adjoining dressing rooms, each with a large pile of clothing. They were obviously good friends, and were coming out at intervals to inspect each other's outfits and give a thumbs up or thumbs down on each look. At one point, one of the women emerged wearing a cute enough top, but a perfectly dreadful pair of denim capris. She was a pretty thing, but the pants managed to turn her lovely curves into something unspeakable. Because I am fascinated by human interaction (yes, yes--and because I'm nosy as hell) I watched to see what the friend would say about this outfit. Evidently she agreed with me, because she looked the first woman up and down and then said "Well, I like the top. The pants, though....well, they're pretty bad, huh?"and giggled. There was an uncomfortably long pause, long enough to make me look up at the glare on the first woman's face as she replied icily "Amanda--these are MY pants. I wore them here."

Oops. Now, I think there are some lessons here for us. For instance, if you are blessed with the kind of memory that I--and apparently Amanda--are (that is, it's like one of those things...you know...water goes out and spaghetti stays in? yeah, one of those), it is not a poor use of your time to examine your friend carefully before going shopping so as to memorize her outfit. Lesson two: if you do manage to forget what your friend is wearing and commit this type of faux pas (because of the aforementioned water-go-spaghetti-stay perched in your head), it is good to have a great poker face. Because, while I would have immediately started laughing nervously and apologizing pointlessly, Amanda did not. She didn't even pause. She just replied with great conviction "No, they're not." Such was Amanda's conviction that her friend actually stopped and, for a fleeting second, looked down to see if she really was wearing her own pants. Now THAT'S a poker face. Amanda, you are the queen of the baldfaced lie. Lesson three, though--if you are one of the Amandas of the world, for Pete's sake speak up while I'm still at home! If my pants make my ass look like it's building another room, I need to know about it before I'm out in public, 'kay?

2. Mr. K and I enjoy an idyllic existence, and I love him very dearly. We rarely argue, because we rarely disagree on anything. However, we have had a bit of a difference of opinion over the issue of dirty spoons. Specifically, the ones that Mr. K uses to dish up food, or to spread the sauce on his sandwich for lunch. Once finished with them, he places them in the dry sink, with nary a drop of water, the better to concrete the spoon to the sink and drive me nuts. Every day this week I've come home to find that I had to scrub the sink again, because whatever he's using on his sandwiches is second only to rubber cement in terms of staying power. We've discussed this. Since the spoons haven't yet figured out how to rinse themselves, though, it hasn't changed. But you know, life is short. I have a good husband. I have a happy life. It isn't worth it to argue or get upset about such a little thing. Armed with the advice of a good friend, I placed a Tupperware bowl of soapy water in the sink this morning for Mr. K to drop his spoons into. So happy was I with this mature handling of the situation (odd for me) that I could hardly wait to tell him. "See?" I said giddily. "You don't have to rinse it or put it in the dishwasher or anything. Just drop it in the bowl. I'll move it to the dishwasher later. You don't have to mess with it, and I don't have to scrub. How great is that?" Which, of course, means "please praise my brilliance", but you probably guessed that. But instead, he said this: "That's great, Honey...but I'm out of sandwich meat. I wasn't going to make lunch for myself today."

Mr. K said that this is the first time in his life that he's ever been threatened with great bodily harm if he didn't make a sandwich. I'm suspecting a nefarious plot, though....I actually gave him the rest of my black pepper turkey for his sandwich. I'll bet that was his dastardly plan all along.

You may knit on, good people. I'm going to go move my spoon. And check my butt in my pants, since I don't have Amanda to do it for me.