(not to be confused with the Olympic Post Olympics)
Today -- now that monogamous knitting to a crazy deadline is over -- the wreck of a house I call my home has had a brisk and inefficient cleaning, The Boy returned to school after a week's vacation, and the crisper drawer in the refrigerator has been relieved of last month's vegetables that were on their way to becoming biological agents sufficient to peg me as a national security risk. And I can think about knitting again. There were hours there last week when what I was doing didn't seem like knitting anymore. It was fun, but in a strange way, fun like drunken sex in college: you think it will be fun before hand, but during . . . who bothers to pay attention?
(Yes, my mother reads my blog. She knows I was a good girl in college. I had a couple a' keepers as roommates. I learned -- in spite of my attempts to ignore them -- all about the dating practices of the normal. Me? I spent most of my college years as a half-elf named Bixlione, pining for the DM of my Middle Earth parallel existence and boning up on randomly generated monsters and Druid spells for my ninth Ranger level. Things are not so different now, actually. I knew about drunken college sex from a strictly anthropological point of view. Kind of like how Katie Couric knows about the bobsled.)
As I rest my Pronator Teres for a full eighteen hours, I see there are many things now crying for completion. Three different socks, that overpriced Kim Hargreaves scarf which you should by no means fall for (I'll tell you that story sometime), the Irish Moss Mister sweater, and the Poetry In Stitches sweater -- a popular contender for a starring role in the March issue of the blog. Meanwhile, I want a pair of Latvian mittens like Stephanie's. I want a warm handspun hat like Juno's (I've lost two others this winter). I want to cast on for the Vivian Hoxbro wing shawl like Barbara had at Spa (I do have the kit). I want to knit some mittens for the boy so he'll leave the Dulaan pile alone. I want to knit a little mobius out of chunky handspun just like the one in the new Knitting magazine. And I want to knit a Norsk Strikkedesign sweater like Adrian showed off as her Olympic knitting at the Team Boston Chocolate Buffet that Cara hosted on Sunday (oh, and I wouldn't mind a pair of her pirate mittens either).
See what hanging out with knitter's gets you? Temptation. And sixteen days of Olympic Knitting monogamy has turned me into a rapacious wool-eating she-beast. Now there's a creature Gary Gygax left out of the Monster Manual.