Snickers and Snickerdoodles and Sock Hops and Socks

My friend Mariomom [sadly, blogless] sent me the following:

A thief in Paris planned to steal some paintings from the Louvre. After careful planning, he got past security, stole the paintings and made it safely to his van.

However, he was captured only two blocks away when his van ran out of gas.

When asked how he could mastermind such a crime and then make such an obvious error, he replied, “Monsieur, that is the reason I stole the paintings. I had no Monet to buy Degas to make the Van Gogh.”

...(and you thought I didn’t have De Gaulle to send this on to someone else!)

Well, I figure I have nothing Toulouse.

OK, that was the snicker. Here are the snickerdoodles:



I was absolutely delighted yesterday morning to see them fresh out of the oven at my friend’s deli in our building. Still warm. Washed down with a pint of milk. *Heaven*.

I rode to the dance with Brother Sushi last night. I had told him earlier in the week that I was only interested in going if he went too, because I wanted to make sure there was at least one person there I knew I’d enjoy talking to. I’ve been having successively less fun at each dance for the past couple of years, and I am not one of those women who Requires Entertaining. But this whole pulling a muscle while line dancing, and then breaking my leg because of the limping, has taken the starch out of me. The bone is healed, the bells and whistles that move the bones are well on the mend, but I’m not as limber as I used to be, either physically or emotionally. And if I can’t do foot-stompin’ rocknroll, or East Coast Swing, then pretty much what’s the point of going?

Brother Sushi has had his own run-ins with the Decrepitude Fairy in recent weeks. And his job is quite physically demanding, so there was a better than even chance that he’d have been too pooped to polka. I told him I would be quite content to stay home with my knitting and an audiobook, and I meant it. I was even a little disappointed when he called to say that we were good to go. But I got in 2.5 hours of quality time with Monkey 1 before he arrived, and a little over one pattern repeat while at the dance.

I had a really good time. Got one lovely, swirly slow dance with my favorite dance partner, got a bearhug and lots of line-dancing time with his girlfriend, and did not tear up my knee or any other body parts while dancing. I’d call that a success.

And there was a new guy at the dance, age-appropriate as near as I could tell, who spent the evening visiting each table, introducing himself, matching names to faces, and going back to check his memory. I didn’t feel any spark when we chatted, or any sense that he was flirting with me, but neither did I sense any overt lunacy on his part. So I will be interested to see if he’s at the next dance. And if he can dance; neither Brother Sushi nor I could recall having seen him out on the dance floor. Meanwhile, I’m not holding my breath.

I have now used up all the frogged yarn from the ill-fated Sabbath Sock 1. And here is Monkey 1, with its heel flap completed, and the first bit of ribbing on Monkey 2:



I am *so* feeling the knitting love today. But I have to tell you, the colors are not at all accurate. This looks like an explosion in a Pepto-Bismol factory. The socks look like someone melted all my lipstick samples from my days as an independent beauty consultant.

LittleBit had an unaccountably free social calendar this afternoon. We went to Big Bookstore, got foofy crème-based drinks, split an herb and cream cheese pretzel, and read books. Oh, and I got ogled while there. I managed to keep a straight face until I got back to our table, and then I told LittleBit, who immediately but quietly demanded to know *by whom*. She is so much fun to tease!

I came home with the summer IK and this bookmark:



Which says, “Live your beliefs, and you can turn the world around.” [Thoreau]. I have it up on the wall, not stuffed in a book. In a book, it would get lost or broken. I've not broken or mislaid a wall, so far.

I almost got to act out my beliefs at the bookstore. I was sitting there, reading, getting a little drowsy from the carbs, when the guy sitting behind us took a call on his cell phone and promptly started dropping F-bombs. Not loudly, but persistently. After five in rapid succession, I did the Mom Spins in Her Chair and Raises Her Eyebrows bit, and opened my mouth to speak. While he wouldn't meet my gaze, he did have the grace to get up and take his potty mouth outside.

What people say in the privacy of their own homes and in their own cars with the windows rolled up, is between them and their upbringing and their individual consciences. But what they say in what is supposed to be a family-friendly forum, with my babygirl sitting six feet away and little kids a couple of tables over, brings out Über-Mom, complete with superheroine cape.

Man, I need a bigger knitting bag. That cape is *bulky*; maybe it's the asbestos?