Today tastes of rosewater, of vanilla extract, of tobacco. I am sucking on a hookah, and want more than anything to spit the foul thing out. But it's attached to the ventilator.
So I knit. I have finished the knitting of the sweater, a ribbed cardigan (raglan, v-neck, black and skipper blue. The body is black and the sleeves are skipper blue with a narrow stripe of black around the left bicep. The neckband will be skipper blue in seed stitch, for those of you keeping track.) It's been my travelling companion for weeks now, from the sofa in my living room to Mischief's housewarming party, to the couch in the lobby at work where everyone knows me by sight. Some stop to chat about who they knew that knit (mothers, aunts, grandmothers, cousins, younger selves), others tell me that they used to, but can't find time anymore (cough) bullshit--we all have the same 24 hour spinning span; time is where you make it (cough) and one has taken crochet hook back in hand, and shows me her projects as she completes them.
One passer-by tells me that one day, ONE DAY she is going to be right there as I finish, and see the final result. I plan to wear this wool sweater to work in the fall and winter (and I'm learning that when you drive a convertible, the cool season spreads out like a fat woman's thighs when she sits) and I plan to make sure to mention that THIS was the project I was knitting on this spring.
So work sucks, and I can do nothing right. But I can rip back the seam on the side and re-work it till it comes out right.
After work I went to FourBuck$ and had a cup of Chantico. It's drinkable ganache--Heathcliff in food form. Dark and wild and brooding and bad for you. I finished seaming the sleeve I had been working on this morning when the clock dragged me away to slog through the workday.
Shrug. No brilliant insights this time, folks, just a sleeve and two side seams, and a cup of hot chocolate.
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