"There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere . . . "
- Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
I managed this far sans crochet hook (mine is en route from eBayland) using sewing thread and imaginative curses. For the rest, though, I'll wait for the hook (the cats are beginning to twitch when I reach for the needles).
I've heard people speak of experiencing a "summer of sock" but I never really understood it.
I'm learning. This little guy will grow up to be a custom fit sock for my mom, knit from stash Lorna's Laces (stash! When was the last time I knit from stash?). I can't give you more vivid yarn details because I lost the bands long ago, but it has a palate of pinks and greens.
Luckily, Mom is in love with the colors, because I sure am not. While the hues are gorgeous on the skein, to me, the resulting fabric looks like melty cotton candy that's been dragged around the fairground on a hot August day by a rambunctious six year old boy. Which makes this sock a bit tough to knit, but considering I completed 3/4 of the sock in one day, I think I'll manage the rest.
Poor Charade is getting only a row of my attention per day right now. The Mom Sock is priority, as all good Mom Socks should be. I plowed through the heel while Mom was available for try-ons in order to get a perfect fit; now to rib then replicate sock two before returning my full focus to the Charade.
I've been very lax about the Mystery Stole prep, especially considering I intend to take it with me to Greece. I bought 4,000+ yards of School Products fine white silk that I've no way to skein, which has been giving me nightmares of late. It has collapsed in a tangle on my living room floor and I'm trying to ignore it. I blame Mom for conning me into that purchase (love you, Mom! Now come back and wind my yarn, please!)
I have 1200 yards of grey lace weight merino somewhere in the stash that I can't find. I plan to use beads, as prescribed, yet I've no beads at this time and I'm not sure where the most convenient beads might be located near my office and I'm too pressed for time to mosey far. Yeah, I'd say I'm relatively scattered regarding this project, which typically bodes well for the finished product. And vacation knitting always has that extra special flair.
Thank you all for your wonderful reading suggestions! The poll is still open ~ I'll let you know over the next few days which book has been chosen.
I think we got stuck at Day Four, in Athens. I'm leaving us there for a while because, do you know what? I've had it with the planning ~ I am not even capable of booking a hotel so what's the point? I've caught myself humming the catchy Greek phone recording under my breath one too many times today. We're winging it, peeps.
No more schedules; it's Wednesday and I'd rather post cat pictures and it's my blog so there.
(yes, she's all naked again. It's summer-shave-the-cat season here in the City.)
See, it wasn't just the Baby Surprise Jacket torture prompting that disgruntled expression. Roxie always stares at you as though a dog just peed in her kibble and you are responsible.
Did you know that Pericles ordered construction of the Parthenon beginning in 447 BC? And that the structure was built on a prior foundation of an earlier temple dedicated to the goddess Athena? 447 BC - that's old. Roxie is old too, but even she is not that old.
She already suspects something amiss. This little girl can smell a vacation approaching and there begins the mischief vengeance. I think she has a touch of Death-Eater in her sometimes. Once the suitcases emerge, the game is done. It's all swishy tails and scorned litter boxes and cat vomit decorating the Manolos.
This is what she looks like while leaping onto the bed. Which can be very disconcerting at 3am. Especially if you aren't wearing your contacts when she lands claws-first on your face. The resulting pain and blood can be a little stunning, too, although these are nothing compared to the exciting rush you will feel when the howling and hissing begin as the other cat, who has just been dislodged from her snuggly spot underneath the tangle of your hair, joins the fun. After that, the night calms a bit, affording you a few moments to dab your wounds and morn the shredded pillow case while enjoying a background chorus of noisy kibble crunching and the occasional sensation of cold, damp noses cuddling against your neck.
The icy patty-paws I can deal with, but cat breath is less than comforting in the dead of night.
(And also, I will be mysterystoling. Don't ask me when, but I bet I can round up some stash yarn for the task.)