Les Chaussettes, Elles Sont Fini!

It seemed only appropriate to make the announcement en français, as these are Child’s French Sock from Knitting Vintage Socks by Nancy Bush.



I like the pattern very much and will almost certainly make a pair for myself, sometime down the road. Mine will be 100% wool. This is a nice yarn, and I think/hope that Middlest will like how these feel, and I prefer 100% natural fibers on my own feet.

[Middlest, honey, do you want me to mail these to you c/o your friend C, or keep them here for your arrival?]



The flowers, alas, are not my own. A friend and colleague received them yesterday at work. I told her that I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved them more. [Well, other than me, of course!] They smell as good as they look, and I learned something. My friend meticulously de-pollinated the star lilies, because their pollen stains everything it touches, and you can’t get it out. Who knew that flowers had a scarlet-letter thing going? [“Stay away from that lily, dear. She’s pretty, but she’s been pollinated. And more than once. And we don’t know by whom.”]

Anastasia is next, and I want to figure out a big-needle project for the knitting equivalent of a weekend tryst. Something that won't get me in trouble financially, morally, or calorically. [Speaking of which, have you tried the Wild Cherry M&M’s?]

Thank you for your kind words yesterday. I went to bed last night around 11:00, again sans LittleBit, and woke up this morning to a glow of light out in the living room, and my first thought was, “The hall light is still on? She didn’t come home last night? I’m going to embroider her a new one.” But there she was at the computer, with freshly-shampooed hair and a lovely smile for her cranky mother. No UIL rehearsal last night; she worked a shift at the restaurant for a friend who has the flu, and stayed to help close for the night.

I think I am going to have to ask Brother Sushi to step way outside his comfort zone and pat my shoulder and say “there, there” while I snivel, tomorrow night. I have two songs alternating in my head: a parody of Tevye’s words, “Would it spoil some vast, eternal plan, if I [had a decent] man?” and “I'm much too young to feel this d@mn old.” What I really, truly want is a good guy of my own, one that I don’t have to send home at the end of dinner. One whose job description includes “there, there” and other forms of comfort.

It’s spring. We just had a full moon. And I suspect that one of my ovaries is still yodeling.

Aughhhhh! I’m going to talk it over with the Man Upstairs while I figure out what to wear to work. And probably for the entire 25 miles there. And possibly on the trip home. I just have to figure out how to word it differently, to get a different outcome than last time. I remember coming home from an attempt to get to the young singles' dance, with a driver who could barely see to drive and nearly got us killed, and falling to my knees in my room and praying, “I want some righteous male attention.” The next day, I was introduced to the children’s father.

I will laugh about this in a week or two, and definitely in a year or two, even if I’m still single. I just don’t feel like laughing now.