Actual Size

I'm home from my wanderings.  My husband emphasized to me that my actual time away was "ELEVEN WHOLE DAYS".  He also has discovered that he is "Only ONE Person!" (not sure what his count was before this).  In my absence, Mount Washmore, the active Laundry-cano in our home, erupted.  I think more than once.  Objects in mirror are closer than they appear:

And no, in case you were going to give my family credit for at least sorting it into these baskets, they didn't.  In fact, it even gets better:  In the laundry room, I have installed one of those plastic grocery bag storage devices you get from Ikea.  I use it to hold orphaned socks until their mates can be located, or I lose the will to search, whichever comes first.  While I was gone, this happened to it:

That's right.  Every single sock that came out of the dryer for eleven days was placed in it.  Which means that my family is unaware that the pairing up of clean socks is a MANUAL PROCESS.  They actually think this device will do it for them.   

I'm calling it Soxidermy.  A realistically preserved, wall-mounted head, made entirely of abandoned hosiery.  Its eyes follow me around the room.  Creepy.

Once I get to the bottom of this, I'll mount an assault on Mount e-mail, the active correspondence-cano.  Then I'll start winding yarn for the KAL.  I don't love this order of operations, but the clean underwear-o-meter went into the red around here sometime last Tuesday, so desperate times call for desperate measures.  We who are about to fluff and fold salute you.
 

Bootstraps

Nothin' ever kept a good woman down for long, and a bad one gets up even faster.

First, let me apologize for my last, possibly whiniest-ever, post.  I appreciate your patience with me while I retreated to a dark corner to lick my wounds.  As a general rule, I don't approve of self-pity, but I guess we all fall prey to it from time to time.  Thanks for not pointing out, Gentle Readers, that ALL of my problems belong to the First World, and are pretty puny compared to what others endure.

Thank you also, to my kind, understanding, and loving Flight Path Mystery Knitalong participants.  Your generosity is making it possible for me to correct my yardage error in the kits without also running out of groceries.  We who are about to snack salute you.

Thanks also to the Universe, for keeping me ever humble, and always introducing lessons to me about the way things are, and the person I am.  I'm rarely happy to receive these lessons when they come, but they are always the ones I remember:

Yesterday I sat down to post my thanks to the KAL knitters for their understanding and kindness.  I was confident in my ability to do this, in spite of having lived in the Seventh Circle of Computer Hell for the last week.  The consequences of having to replace ones Operating System are dire, but I was happily starting to recover from the shock, and put the episode behind me.  And that's when the hard drive crashed.  It literally made the sound you hear when Wile E. Coyote drops off a cliff.  And then the monitor went black and all this code started flying up the screen, just like in The Matrix.  An hour on the phone with Microsoft confirmed my fear:  My hard drive had taken a Dirt Nap. 

Having no computer whatsoever is a lot worse than having lost all your data, so I can now personally attest that everything is relative.  Phillip, it should be noted, is not, um, Hardware-Actuated.  That is to say, he'd rather have a $2000.00 doorstop than take a screwdriver to a sick PC.  And I don't blame him; that sort of adventure is not for the, shall we say, Cerebral Set.  He advised me to leave it alone, permanently, and use his machine until we could save up for a new one for me.

But a friend pointed out to me that hard drives are pretty much the only moving part in a computer, and as such, likely to wear out and need replacement.  The matter-of-fact way she said it made me think "Hey yeah!  It's not like you move to a new house because a lightbulb burns out..."  And with that, the Real Mary, the Take-No-Prisioners, Yes-Of-Course-I'm Gonna-Cut-That-Sweater-With-Scissors Mary jerked out of her self-pity fugue.  I went to the electronics mega-mart.  I spent $70.  And I got out the screwdriver.

It wasn't even hard.  I taught myself how to turn a sock heel, for crying out loud.  Compared to that, Hard Drive Replacement is about as challenging as Donut Eating.  And, as it turns out, even more satisfying.  I'm not ashamed to tell you I feel just a little bit smug about having taken control over the problem.  It made all the other stuff that's been going on seem more manageable, too. 

I am Knitter.  Hear Me Roar.

Answers to the Name "Lucky"

Thus Begins my Tale of Woe:

My computer broke.  And "broke" here means that I had to reinstall the operating system, and either relocate/reinstall everything in the whole digital world that matters to me, or learn to live without it.  3 day Odyssey.  Lotsa missing e-mail.

I have a cold.  The hamburger-throat, soaring fever, streaming face kind.  Makes me DELIGHTFUL company, as observed by my family, who go back and forth between taking pity on me and avoiding all contact in fear of infection.  Typhoid Mary, Table for One.

My editor would like me to hurry up, already, with my review of the page proofs for my new book. This is a grueling process by which I look AGAIN at everything I said, and everything I made, and everything there are pictures of.  And there are more than 300 pictures.  I hate to seem ungrateful, but I'm kinda tired of this book now.

A certain Knitting Superstar, whom for now we'll just call Ms. Crazy Pants, would like me to participate in a train wreck freak show beauty pageant showcase of knitting teachers where, let's just say we'll be impressing people, but not with our knitting. No pressure.

I made a knitalong.  My first one.  And I worked super-hard on it, leaving nothing to chance.  I strong-armed my friends the yarnmakers to get involved.  I got hundreds of trusting souls to sign up for it, and to buy a pattern they couldn't even see.  I hired the best technical editor in the whole wide world to make sure the pattern was perfect - after all, can you imagine what would happen if all those knitters got mad at me for some stupid mistake?  They are KNITTERS, after all.  They have access to many sharp, pointy sticks.  They all trusted me to do a good job.  And then the Gods of Arithmetic kicked me. Hard.  In the teeth.  It seems that I caused, through my uncanny ability to get the !*@(^!(?  numbers wrong, All of the Yarn kits to be short of yardage.  And not a little bit short.  Short by about HALF, as far as I can tell.  Of the many and varied Dumbass Mistakes I've made, this one is more embarrassing than most.  The knitters are being really nice (mostly), but until I can make it right (which requires yet MORE intrusion on my poor friends the yarnmakers), things are gonna be pretty ugly. 

And that's how I know I've somehow run afoul of the Universe.  All the signs are there: Technological Malfunction, Physical Torment, Public Humiliation, and Math. It's official, Gentle Readers.  I'm that crippled one-eyed dog they call "Lucky".