Blofeld

First, a note to anyone who might be feeling bad about laughing at the last post -- please laugh. It became funny about twenty seconds after the explosion, like Saturday-morning-cartoon-funny. I'm fine, even though my frayed eyelashes are still getting hung up when I blink. "Your eyes are fine. Your eyelashes did their job, alright," said my optometrist. "Oh my GOD!" said the girl at the Lancome counter. "I'll take a tube of that lash conditioner, please," said I.


"Who keeps doing that? Guys? Who keeps filling the friggin' candy jar by the coffee pot with those little Baby Ruths? Smith, is that your doing? STOP IT! How many times must I tell you to put stuff in there that I DON'T LIKE? Would it kill you to buy Almond Joys once in a while???"

Damned candy bars. I was just going over there to get a spoon for my very healthy, sensible yogurt, and I happened to open the jar. Now I feel all sugary and ashamed.

On the plus side, the damned candy bars are sitting on a sleeve of Cobweb, about three centimeters away from the start of the cap shaping. I realized the other day that I really don't have as much time as I thought I did before the wedding, so I'm throwing all of my knitting time into this one project until it's done. I'm still loving the lace pattern and the yarn. Putting the Baby Ruths on it showed me that it's going to look good with all kinds of colors, not just coppery earthtones. I think it'd be really nice over something blue.

I also realized that I like seeing knitters' works-in-progress at all stages, and that by saying things like "still knitting (x), but it's too boring to show you", I was doing exactly the opposite. So no more "I'm knitting the sleeve, but who the Hell wants to see a picture of a half-finished sleeve, anyway?" posts. I know I'd want to see a picture of a half-finished sleeve. I love pictures.


Accountant Boy and I were in San Francisco on Sunday. We had coffee at Caffe Puccini. The couple on the other side of the window sat down, had some pie, and then fell fast asleep. His head is tilted as far back as it can go, and his mouth is wide open. You can't see the woman in this picture, but she's face-down on the table. It looks like someone came by and blackjacked the both of them.


My toe got worse, but I still maintain that the nail isn't going to fall off. The force of my will is going to hold it in place. I think. It's not at all pretty, but it's holding its own. On the off chance that you're reading this while enjoying a fine meal, I've made the picture quite small. You're welcome.

Sunday evening, lying in bed, unable to sleep after my ordeal, I complained bitterly to Accountant Boy. "You know, between my gangrenous toe, and my knee, and my crispy hair, and the burn on my arm," because the blast also took the hair off of my forearm, the one I always burn when cooking, "I might as well just admit that I'm turning into a hideous caricature of a person. I'm going to end up wearing an eye patch, rolling around in a wheelchair with a peg leg and a HOOK for a HAND! And my tooth hurts, so I might as well tell Dr. Alves to put a big, metal cap on it, on ALL of my teeth while he's in there. I'll roll into the office tomorrow in my armor-plated wheelchair with my burnt, bald head and my metal teeth and my eye patch, while Buddy squirms in my lap as I try to pet him with my HOOK HAND LIKE A VILLAIN FROM A JAMES BOND FILM AND..."

"...the brakes on your wheelchair will squeak."

"You're an asshole, A.B."

"skrrrreeeeEEEEEEEEEECH..."