We are not dead here at Rancho del Rubicon. We have wished we were. We have wished that we lived alone in a cave so that we could stop being infected with the cold virus that refuses to die and gleefully keeps mutating. Believe me, getting well only to deal with man sickness is enough to make you bat crap crazy, especially when you aren’t sleeping because your own mucus membranes have conspired against you as three in the morning is the best time to ramp up snot production.
To heighten the misery, we have endured deep freeze temperatures, followed by a perfect spring day only to be frozen again the next day. So, you can’t figure out if you have a fever and are chilling and sweating, or just need to turn the heat off.
Work has been kind of busy, too. One of my recommendations has become policy. That is good. Means more work for me, which means I have job security. At the same time knowing that the number of people seeking services from one program that provides milk and food for pregnant women and children has increased from roughly 6,000 a month to 10,000 a month makes my heart ache. It also makes my blood boil that people can so blithely talk about doing nothing, which is the same as letting the economy collapse. The only thing I can figure is that they are arrogant enough to believe that they would be unaffected by the ensuing economic implosion. Then again, people say a lot of things until the fallout sucks the cash out of their bank account.
Added to this Johnny Fun Time is the whole going to school and studying science thing because I enjoy having a cold and feeling like an idiot all at the same time.
I have found some time for knitting, if only to preserve my sense of humor – sanity ran screaming out of the building several weeks ago. I finished a pair of plain socks for hubby for Valentine’s Day. I would have gotten another pair finished had it not been for the fact that labels lie and my ability to embrace knitting denial is legend. Let’s just say that stitches per inch plus yarn weight is a highly subjective method of giving information about how a yarn will knit up. If anyone mentions the s-word (for you non-knitters that is swatch – as in a small bit of knitting to see if you get the Joe Isuzu results) I will say this, I don’t swatch for socks.
I have not finished the second mutant genitals sock. I kind of cast-on for it, but didn’t get the stitches distributed on the needles or start knitting it.
I scored some Opal yarn in the Harry Potter series in the Dumbledore colorway. I thought about getting the Harry colorway to knit some socks for Hubby as he read all the books. Let’s just say that German men must be a bit more secure in their masculinity as I do not see Hubby wearing socks with hot pink streaks and a not quite navy blue. The Dumbledore colorway doesn’t conjure up lumberjacks, either – unless they are of the Monty Python variety. Anyway, I am knitting a pair for myself.
The Leyburn socks are languishing in the knitting basket. They require too much thinking. I have a German foot that hasn’t seen a size 7 since I was 6. Let’s just say that I when I tell someone that I am angry enough to shove my foot up their butt they know two things – 1. it will take the jaws of life to remove it and 2. they really don’t want to find out if statement 1 is true. So, when a sock pattern is written for a women’s size 7 medium, I have to do some crazy math if it has any kind of pattern so the sock will fit my size 10 Flintstone special. Given that the same brain cells required to do all the calculations for my size sock are also needed to do chemistry, well… let’s just say that the knitting loses out.
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