Yes, I am in fact still here.
I’m not entirely sure why I’ve been so neglectful of the blog of late. It could be because I’m not feeling all that interesting, or that the chronicles of what its like in Rochester in late February doesn’t seem all that blog-worthy. Or it could be that I’ve just turned 36, its flippin’ -30 degrees (or thereabouts) outside, my beloved Subaru seems to be rebelling in a big way against the new kid in the driveway (more about that in a bit), I have a single inch-square of emergency Ghiradelli in the house, and I’m hip-deep in grading. BLECH.
So much for my promise not to wallow. My apologies.
On the upside, I’ve learned to make socks. ME. The probability of me pulling this off was really right up there with losing 20 pounds, winning the lottery, or discovering the secret to Barack Obama’s charm (my vote is on subliminal messages, or some kind of hypno-blinking. Or maybe he just smells good). Needless to say, I’m ridiculously pleased with myself. When I turned that heel, it was like the heaven’s parted and the hallelujah chorus kicked in. And don’t even get me started on grafting/kitchener stitch. I was already rationalizing how fashionable it would be to have toeless socks – pedicure socks! Brilliant! – when, quite surprisingly, at about 1:15 am, I got it (Knit, slip, Purl…Purl, slip, knit…..). And behold, there was a toe. And it was good.
OK, I had some help. A lot of help. I took a sock knitting class. For the non-knitters among you, this may sound like a pretty sad way to spend three consecutive Saturday mornings. And I would probably agree that knitting socks sounds about as exciting, say, as a 25-year anniversary “Thriller” video tribute. (I told you I was feeling old.)
But I and my fellow intrepid sock knitters were a united front, giving moral support and sharing mutual tales of woe, until one day, one of us produced…a SOCK. (It wasn’t me – I was in the remedial section). The reception of that first sock by the group was on par with the arrival of a newborn baby. We passed it around, cradled it gently, =at its beauty and construction, and oohd and aahhd at how soft it was.
Now you’ve gone from mocking to pity. But that’s OK. Because I’ve made not one, but TWO PAIR at this point.
These are barrel-distortion induced cankles. Really. Ask any optical engineer. Please.
Doesn’t everyone put their handmade socks on their nightstand? Right next to my copy of Friday Night Knitting Club and my cinnamon schnapps nightcap (like mouthwash, but you can swallow it).
I’m graduating to fingering (sock) weight yarn – the REALLY COOL yarn, on teensy-weensy needles. These things (size 1) are nearly microscopic, and feel so delicate I’m afraid to hold them too tightly (which I feel myself doing, along with not breathing, on account of not wanting to drop a teensy-weensy stitch). My hands have never felt more like meaty mitts as they do when I’m using these needles.
I feel like I’m in the “man-hands” Seinfeld episode.
Quarter break is approaching (have you noticed the correlation between finals week and blog entries? Sheer coincidence.), and I am quite looking forward to spending some quality time with my boys and my yarn. Because that’s how I roll.
(The one cool thing about getting older is that you really begin to care less how un-cool you truly are. Peace out.)
P.S. I think our new too-cool-for-us Scion xD must be sticking its tongue out at our poor lonely Subaru, because the latter has developed a wonderful crunching noise when turning, a gas perfume that’ll knock you over, has burned out one headlight and one fog light (almost like winking), and has begun to sing the siren song of an alternator on its way out. And the check engine light is now on. All in the last week.
There are good reasons for this. One – the inspection is due, uh, tomorrow. Two – we paid off the darn thing. Three – we bought a new, young, cheeky car, and the middle-aged gal’s feelings are hurt.
I’ve tried reasoning with her, telling her that we’re just giving her a break – 50 miles a day for 6 years – you’ve earned some time off, my friend! It didn’t work. She proceeded to short out the headlight-switch wand thingy and chew up the wiper blades.