Every so often, events conspire to work out perfectly. Usually, it happens in a Murphy's Law, "ironic" kind of way: rain on your wedding day and all that. Today turned out to be the opposite of that: a perfect example of perfect timing. I had to have minor gum surgery last night. It was a local-anesthetic-only kind of thing, uncomfortable and squick-y, but not serious. I distracted myself by planning cables for my next sweater project. (You know you knit too much when . . . ) Now, this was my third go-round with gum surgery (the others were in my braces-wearing, wisdom-teeth-getting days), so you'd think I'd have learned that oral surgeons are lying liars. When they say, "Oh, yeah, you'll be able to go to work the next day", what they mean is "Prepare to spend the next three days whimpering on the couch, dribbling soup down the front of your pajamas." Oh, and "a little sore" is code for "eating anything more firm than applesauce will be impossible. Just give it up." Fortunately, the weather cooperated with my stunningly miserable mood by being freezing cold, windy, and rainy/snowy. I snuggled on the couch wrapped in blankets, knitting and watching flurries blow by. And dribbling soup down the front of my pajamas.
Oh, also, if you have your own run-in with gum surgery, learn from my fail: don't eat really salty soup. Just don't.
Last year for Christmas, Shiny New Boyfriend gave me a beautiful prezzie, with one condition attached.
I had to agree to marry him.
Well, it was a beautiful ring, and I like him a lot, too, so I agreed. We haven't set a date yet, because we wanted to live together first and get used to each others homicide-inducing quirks without the added pressure of planning a wedding.
He moved in about six months ago, and so far we're murder-free. This is surprising, because apparently, I roll myself up in the covers at night like a burrito, leaving him shivering and resentful, and he puts his dirty dishes in the sink to age properly before he puts them in the dishwasher right next to the sink, instead of putting them in the dishwasher in the first place. In spite of this, we still like each other a real whole lot. We're looking forward to many long years of finding new ways to drive each other crazy.
(The Best Roommate Ever is now renting my parents' basement apartment about 15 minutes away. She's family.)
Why do I persist in thinking, "Man, if I had to stay home sick, I'd get all kinds of knitting time in!"? No. When I am sick I feel far too crappy to do anything other than lie there in a little ball of misery until the illness gives up in boredom and goes to find someone else to torment. I woke up yesterday morning feeling like I'd been beaten all night with a sack of oranges. I asked my sweetie, "Why, WHY did you beat me all night with a sack of oranges?" He said, "Well, you've gotta tenderize 'em somehow." Turns out I was coming down with a nasty little stomach virus that has left me fetal on the couch for almost two days straight. It's been awesome. I'm mostly vertical now, which is new and exciting. All this illness has given me time to ponder the great mysteries of our world. For instance: why do they make thermometers shaped like that? You have to hold them in place with your hand or they squirt violently from your mouth and hit your reflection in the bathroom mirror. They should make some sort of flange or grippy part that you can hold with your teeth so you can do something useful while finding out if you have an actual reason for feeling like death. I complained about this to my sweetie, who helpfully explained, "That's so they fit better in your butt." Um, no. "This is an ORAL thermometer." "That's what you think!" "It's an ORAL THERMOMETER, dammit!" "Oh, no! Have I been using it wrong? I'm so sorry!" Then he collapsed into giggles while I glared and told him, "I don't love you enough to lick your butthole." He's still giggling now. One day my revenge will come. One day . . .
No word yet from the job interview, and I have progressed from being on pins and needles to being on nails and railroad spikes. And possibly cacti. Yesterday, after a grueling morning of having my gums violated by a sweet little sadist named Missy, who is concerned about my periodontal health and thinks the best way to fix things is by JABBING THEM REPEATEDLY WITH POINTY OBJECTS until I want to give up military secrets just to MAKE HER STOP FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, my sweetie took me out, to take my mind off things and possibly to keep me from chewing on the actual walls in my call-back-related anxiety. We had a tasty tasty lunch at Atlanta Bread Company (oh, bagels. Why must you be so delicious?), in front of their wonderful snuggly warm fireplace and ice cream from my favorite ice cream place which was located RIGHT NEXT DOOR. (Was there ever a clearer sign of God's sanctioning of tasty noms? I don't think so.) Then we went to Eat. Sleep. Knit. I had never been before. OH. MY. GOD. When I asked the very friendly staff lady the whereabouts of the Malabrigo, she said, "In the warehouse in the back." I might have had a yarngasm. An entire warehouse? Filled with Malabrigo? Yes, little Kimmy, there is a Santa Claus. I then asked, "Do I ever have to leave?" and she said, "No! You can live here!" I love her. She thinks I was joking. The joke's on her; I'm moving in next week. It was, to put it lightly, incredible. Rooms upon rooms of yarn, all beautifully organized by type and color. A warehouse of Malabrigo and Blue Sky Alpaca and Misti Alpaca. The entire building was redolent with that delicious, dyed-wool, vinegar-and-sheep smell. Did I mention the WAREHOUSE of Malabrigo? I feel dizzy just thinking about it. My sweetie bought me Christmas yarn, because he is the perfect man.
What do you do when you find that the place you fought so hard to reach is a dead end?
After much flailing and bitterness, I'm finally coming to terms with what I've been slowly realizing for several years now. My job has hit a wall, and in spite of all my efforts, there's no way for me to fix it. There's no chance of promotion unless someone dies (don't tempt me), no ability to move laterally within the company, and no possibility of getting another job in the same field unless I want to move to a different city.
I've been exploring my options, applying for jobs and debating going back to school. I really really don't want to have to go back to school (I did that already! I worked really really hard!), but I've found I've really painted myself into a corner by becoming so specialized. Hence the flailing and the bitterness. And in this economy, I hate to complain about my job, because at least I have one. It pays me small but adequate amounts of money and gives me health insurance. But I need new experiences and new things to learn. I need new ideas and new challenges. I need things for my hungry little brain to munch on so it doesn't shrivel like a raisin and crawl out of my ear to find someplace more interesting. I had a job interview last week. Keep your fingers crossed for me.
After much fuss and bother and a seriously long hiatus, I finally finished the Peacock Feathers socks. (Also, admire my pillows. I got them on clearance (snoopydance!) from Urban Outfitters. They are by Masha D'yans and I loooove them.) Anywho, back to the socks. They are by Cat Bordhi, from New Pathways for Sock Knitters. She calls it Veil of Leaves, but I think it looks more like feathers. The yarn is Dream in Color Smooshy, a gift from the inimitable Treats for Breathing.
I made a vow to myself that I would knit at least one pair in each new sock architecture from Cat Bordhi's book. One down, one on the needles (pics to follow), six to go!