Remember the Stripedy Stockings?

The ones that went on and on and on and on, like Kenny Chesney’s Chris Cagle’s love in that song?



I wore them to church yesterday, because it was so chilly and I only had one knee-high nylon left. Ever since I had that months-long wrestling match with athlete’s foot, commercial stockings get two wearings, period. The first time on the left foot, which was always the healthy foot. The next time on the right foot, which was the cranky foot. Then into the trash. A four-pair box of knee-highs lasts me approximately a week, if I’m feeling girly and want to wear skirts to the office; longer if I’m channeling Kate Hepburn and wear slacks.

Life is too precious to spend washing pantihose or knee-highs. I don’t mind washing my hand-knits, though; the smell of wet wool in small amounts makes me feel all domestic and competent. [And we parents know how rare it is to feel competent, right?]

Anyhow...

I wore the Stripedy Stockings to church yesterday, and they fit impeccably in the foot and ankle, and they curve nicely around my calves, and the K3P2 ribbing is inadequate to keep them up. Short of losing eighty pounds overnight and having them turn into thigh-highs, I think there are three solutions: rip out the picot edging and add another two or three inches in length so the ribbon will strike above the fullest part of my calf; frog them back to tallish socks; run black or dark brown elastic thread through the stitches on the inside and hope that I guess right on how much I need.

But they looked fantastic with my brown plaid skirt, when I wasn’t surreptitiously tugging them up.

I finished the heel on BestFriend’s first sock, which looks like a proper sock and shows no disposition to argue. Then I came home and made a batch of macaroni and cheese and left a message on my home teacher’s phone and put a note on the door in case they didn’t check messages before leaving their house, breaking our appointment for 2:00. I felt as if the Wicked Witch had moved my house overnight, to the corner of Weepy and Exhausted in the heart of Fed-up Acres.

Took another marathon nap, waking fifteen minutes before I needed to be at the potluck and fireside, and feeling disinclined to scurry down to the stake center. A cold glass of milk and some dinner, helped immensely.

Kristen has great things to share, as usual. Check out her quotation on being good [no title for me to link to] and the next one down, on how to raise your energy level.

@Firstborn: yes indeed, I can eat a BigMac. When I was in my mid-20s, I could eat a BigMac, large order of fries, large drink, and then head over to Baskin Robbins for a double-dip cone. My best friend and I did that once a week after Institute choir. And I was about your height and about Secondborn’s circumference. I think there are several factors that jinxed my metabolism: while I have no residual liver damage, that case of hepatitis in 1979 surely didn’t help; my first best friend in Texas was an amazing Southern cook; all those years of fat and starch [i.e., poor people’s food] when I was married to your dad; stress [see factor just mentioned]; and time.

I still have an enormous appetite for food and for life; I have learned to be satisfied in ways that won’t cause trouble. [Plus, I didn’t have enough money in my checking account on Thursday night for a BigMac and fries.]

After dinner last night, I watched all the extra features on my collectors edition of Roman Holiday. Some of you girls will remember my going nutsoid on seeing the costume director in The Incredibles. I don’t remember which of you I saw that with, but she is lovingly modeled on Edith Head, who won eight Oscars for movie costumes. So the mini-documentary with comment by Bob Mackie [no slouch himself, in spite of some of the get-ups he designed for Cher], was an unexpected delight.

Tan, am I imagining things, or is Respighi’s Pines of Rome part of the soundtrack?

Mostly, I knitted. At bedtime I had ten more rounds to go before beginning the gusset increases on the second March Sockdown! sock. And I felt a whole lot more whole and happy than I had felt for much of the day. All in all, a good weekend.