The Law of Knitingale
Imagine you are Ms. Knitingale.
Imagine that you are a moron (I realize this is repeating myself).
Imagine that you are a bit self-control challenged when it comes to collecting scrubs (that is, I am a scrub whore of the worst possible order, and could probably outfit the entire NFL, their wives, the cheerleaders, and several of the players dogs in medical wear if I so chose...which would almost seem appropriate, given that those guys have "soon-to-be hospital patient" written all over them..but I digress).
Okay, now imagine that a friend has offered to sell you some scrubs she can no longer use, at bargain basement prices. Got it? Excellent.
Now, imagine that you receive the scrubs from her in the mail and are particularly enamored of a pair of turquoise scrub pants with a matching top in magenta with turquoise trim (need I say to imagine that you also have the subtlety and good taste of a tiny car full of drunken clowns?). And then imagine that you suddenly notice a stain on the magenta top and it becomes quickly apparent that a sandblaster couldn't get the damned stain out. You do not wish to embarrass your friend by pointing this out to her. You ADORE the outfit and you have absolutely nothing that matches the pants (which are not stained). What do you do? Do you:
A) Sigh, remind yourself that they were ridiculously inexpensive anyway, chuck both pieces, and move on.
B) Consider that the scrub gods are apparently having some sort of unholy union with the knitting gods, try on the pants to see if you even like them when they're on, and then tuck them away until you find a matching shirt.
C) Eat chocolate.
For the record, C is always a good option. Now, if you chose either of the other two, you are not Ms. Knitingale, and you know nothing of the law of Knitingale and you are way smarter than I am and poo to you with knobs on. Because what really happened is that I found a local scrub store that carried that line, found a new shirt to match the pants, and delighted in my luck...until today when I tried to wear the outfit and found that the pants were both too short and too wide and would only fit me if I strapped pontoons to my legs and squatted slightly. Now, of course, the bargain basement scrubs have already cost three times what they started out to cost WITHOUT purchasing a new pair of turquoise pants that actually fit, but the shirt doesn't match anything I own unless I am prepared to look like turquoise beach ball with a stick on top.
Knitingale's Law, I'm telling you. And if you were thinking of pointing out that I could have saved myself a great deal of anguish had I either tried on the pants when I got them OR established somehow what my friend's measurements are these days (she doesn't live close by and we've not seen one another in some time), let me remind you that I am also the woman who took apart a sock for the third time the other day when a beloved friend said it looked too big....and then was foolish enough to try it on when it was halfway unravelled and realized that it would have fit perfectly. It was, of course, a lace pattern that would have been nearly impossible to get back on the needles.
In my defense, I couldn't try it on before I unravelled it because it was on 4 dpns. Still, it seems obvious that a smart woman might have avoided trying the thing on once all hope was clearly lost, sockwise. Then again, if I had, it would have been far too big and Beloved Friend would have been exactly right in her estimation. These things don't occur if they wouldn't be really funny to some sick bastard somewhere.
In brighter news, however, look what came in the mail today:
The sharp-eyed among you will recognize more work of Super MIL--9 more from my wonderful mother-in-law. There are also 5 from Annelle (the lovely black and white ones at the back) and 1 from CCR in MA who has naughtily failed to provide name OR address so that I might put her in the drawing. Tsk. But you're wonderful and I thank you all so very much. The square total stands at......
134. Since I need a total of 180, that leaves just 46 to go. I'm agog. Which is good...the world could use a few more gogs, I suspect....
Oh, and Ed has decided that he needs absolutely nothing in life except this fireplace and this pillow:
He certainly doesn't need any hairless thumbed ones...although he did say to tell Monica "mewowr"...which I'm pretty sure means "Hi, Monica!"