Hubby works retail.  I work 9 to 5 (ish).  We often go several days without being able to sit down for dinner together.  When the planets align, the fates allow, his schedule has him home for dinner we tend to cook fancy.  Actually, I’d cook gourmet anytime without an excuse.  Lamb meatballs with a tomato rosemary sauce is one of our favorite dishes.  A little time intensive and the meatballs earn frequent flier miles with the number of times they are transferred to and from the sauce pan, but well worth it. 

I’m knitting a pair of star toe - Cat Bordhi new pathway gusset placement she calls Riverbed - but hey the stockinette is simple - socks. 

I’d be much further along on these socks if it weren’t for the strange vortex that distorts reality I was able to determine my gauge.  Depending on the amount of humidity, if I’m wearing wool or cotton, and if the minute hand is pointed up or down on the clock, my gauge is somewhere between 7.5 sts to 9 sts per inch.  I have even tried measuring the same row twice.  Can’t be done.  I get a different answer because a butterfly flapped it’s wings in some other country. 

Normally, I would take this all in stride.  Except these aren’t for me.  Or for anyone else within reasonable driving distance.  Or for someone who has the same size feet as someone within reasonable driving distance.  I am on my own for estimating fit.  Gauge is all I’ve got and so far it’s not playing fair.

So should I …  A) knit on and hope for the best, B) start over assuming size for the average gauge and hope for the best, or C) knit on as is for the first sock, knit the second sock in the average gauge, write a note to the intended recipient about how the universe conspired against me (and them by association to this whole affair), beg forgiveness that one sock will need to be reknit and could they please let me know which one that is, and hope for the best.

I was a little nervous about grafting the two border ends together.  For no good reason as it turns out that grafting garter stitch is easier than stockinette.  No need to remember what needle has what action occur first.  Knit off, purl on.  Repeat on other needle.    I was also nervous about grafting with the right tension but a quick check showed that was okay too.

Nothing left but the blocking.  (My favorite part by the way.  Blocking is where the magic happens.)

I thought about saving this for F(elines) but as I am already late for D…

I am currently the owner of 2 stray cats - Cleopatra (a short haired calico) and Caesar (a long haired orange tabby).  My first feline was when I was four or five or something.  I named it Duke.  The fact that Duke was a she apparently didn’t register during the naming process.  At that age, I probably didn’t have a strong grasp of the idea that I was a she.  I recall telling my mother that I could hear her kittens inside of her.  (This was the obvious clue I needed to figure out my pet’s gender.)  My mother, of course, dismissed my statement as part of my overly active imagination.  This was routine behaviour on my mother’s part - part of her survival skills I suspect.  I wasn’t wrong entirely.  I could hear the kittens because she had given birth under my bed.  

I realize that not everyone is a cat person.  For example, my brother is more of a dog person.  But I’ve been a cat person from the start.  Their very nature and personalities fascinate me.  A cat can imitate the wide range of human personalities far better than any other animal.  Caesar is the independent loner.  Cleo is clingy and easily jealous.  Cleo prefers me unless she is mad.  Then my hubby is her new best friend.  Caesar prefers my husband’s clothes and fly-tying desk to nap on but when no one is around he uses my wool.  Caesar is smarter but Cleo is sneakier.  Cleo talks all the time about nothing important.  Caesar only makes noise if tuna is involved.  Caesar is half of Cleo’s size but you can hear him coming from the other side of the house.  Both of them think they rule the house.  I won’t admit it to their faces, but they are right.

Remember when I was in limbo about painting my peacock shawl.  I ultimately decided that I didn’t have the talent to hand paint it well or the fortitude to gain the talent - so ivory it stayed.

 But I’d like to think that if I had painted it, it would be as beautiful as this one. 

I was gifted the perfect tote.  Why?  Because I agreed to pass it on.  Kindness, not the tote.  I’m keeping the bag.  Any takers?  The first three people to leave me a comment will be the lucky winners.  Sometime in the next 365 366 days a little gift will arrive at your door.  Something crafted just for you.  Why?  Because I know you’ll pass it on to three others.  Just the kindness, not the gift.  :)

Not too long ago, Shannon asked for volunteers to be recipients of her talents.  I couldn’t raise my virtual hand fast enough.  I have first hand knowledge of how creative and talented she is with her sewing machine.  And I love all things purse, bag, or tote-like.  I collect them . . . for my knitting projects.   Other less important items like my drivers license, credit cards, keys, and cash range free in my car, house, office, and desk.  Since I have a confirmed and uncurable case of starting projects faster than I can finish them, my need for all things purse, bag, or tote-like continually grows.  Thank you, Shannon!  This little tote is just right for socks.  Or mittens.  Or a scarf.  Or a hat . . . 

I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t surrounded by books, fascinated by books, and consumed with a need to read . . . everything.   

On my nightstand - some finished, some not started

When I was young, our local library was a small rural place.  But it had a great selection of children’s books.  I was allowed to check out six at a time and I did so nearly every week.  The ones I still recall vividly are the Indian in the Cupboard and the entire OZ series.  Junior high was A Wrinkle in Time and the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. By high school I had discovered Stephen K*ing.  He is still the only author that has ever made me physically ill (IT) and given me repeated nightmares (Tommyknockers).

Started but not finished, yet.

At some point in my adulthood I asked my mother, a former English teacher, for a list of must read by the time you graduate high school books.  The premise of the request was that works of literature, movies, and even paintings often refer to other works of literature.  Without knowledge of the latter, the first fails to deliver the full intended message.  I felt pretty good that while I had read less than 33% of the books, I could summarize the plot for nearly 85% of them.  The Count of Monte Cristo has become my new favorite classic.  I now know that the Last of the Mohicans has a pivotal character never seen in the movie, Doctor Zhivago is worth every page, and that Voltaire has a wicked sense of humor. 

On a related topic, my mother never kept it a secret from her students that she did not enjoy science fiction or horror stories.  I will never forget the day I came home for a visit during my college days. She insisted that I read a short story that one of her students had written for an assignment that she thought was very well done in spite of it’s gory plot. I, in turn, insisted that she read the first 50 pages of the novel IT even if it wasn’t her genre of choice.  Apparently she failed to tell her students that her daughter didn’t share her dislike of sci-fi and horror.