No Pussy for Hubster and the Curse of the Swap Sock

First of all, I apologize for the lack of pictures. We've been on the go all day and just got home. It's way after 10:00 p.m., so I obviously have crappy light for taking pictures. Tomorrow, my darlings, tomorrow - I have yarny goodness to show all of you.

The title isn't what you all think (I'm looking right at you, Marin). Hubster may have his share of uh... dancing the horizontal mambo whenever he wishes. Here's the story.

As you know, our Monkey kitty passed away when we were on vacation in October. Because I knew that Hubster loved her so much (and I did, too - although I'll never admit to loving a cat), I wanted to get him another one. My mom was asking me what she could get him for Christmas - always a chore to think up something, because Hubster has no hobbies, doesn't go anywhere unless I'm with him, and entertains himself by teaching himself new computer languages - so I came up with the bright idea of her getting him a new cat. Not to replace Monkey, but to help fill the hole that was left in his heart when she passed, especially since we weren't with her. Anyway, Mom found an ad in the paper from some lady whose cat had had a litter and was selling them. She called the lady and went over, picking one out (oops... a male, which I knew Hubs didn't want), and wound up taking the only female in a litter of eight. She was 10 weeks old. Mom brought the little furball home, and we concocted an excuse to bring Hubs over to visit. Even thought the kitty was to be his Christmas present, we wanted him to have a tiny kitten, so we were going to let him have her early. I didn't get the reaction I thought I would - he seemed sort of hesitant. Hubs being Hubs, he made happy over the wee one, and on the way home professed that he loved her and couldn't wait to bring her home. But something was amiss. Mom thought it was because he was still mourning Monkey. I knew better, but I didn't know what it was.

So tonight, I talked to him about the whole thing. Since Monday is prison day (they wanted me to come on Christmas Eve, so off I'm going), Mom was going to keep the now not-so-small ball of fire until the day after Christmas (ostensibly because I'll be cooking Christmas dinner, the kids will be running all over the place, blah blah blah), which is bullshit because I knew that she and Grandma really loved the beast and wanted to keep her for themselves. I suggested to Hubster that we let them keep her (my mother and grandmother instantly get attached to anything with four legs that's furry and a cat), and we could go to the shelter so he could pick out his own kitty. That was the problem all along. He had wanted to pick out his own, and even though he thought she was darling (she is), he thought it was kind of strange that Mom was keeping her for so long, thereby defeating the purpose of giving her to him early so he could have a kitten. We took the ponchos and backpacks over there this evening (yes, the ponchos are finally finished), and broached the subject of them keeping the cat. My grandmother was happy as the proverbial clam; my mother cried. Cried? I was taken aback. She kept saying she wasn't crying, but the water running down her face sort of gave her away. It turns out that she did indeed want to keep the cat, but she felt horrible because now she didn't have anything to give Hubs for Christmas. We kept telling her that she already had given him something, and just because it wouldn't be the one she bought, it was the thought that was important. We finally compromised by letting her pay the shelter fees. So I imagine we'll go over there in the next couple of weeks, and Hubster can pick out the one he wants, be it a kitten or a full-grown cat. It's good - we'll be saving a poor little thing from death. I just want him to be happy, and the dear man asks for so little that he deserves a new kitty to snuggle with and play with and enjoy.

As we left Mom's house, I asked Hubster what he wanted for dinner. He just wanted to come home; I suggested that we go to this burger joint that has really good burgers and makes up to 10 lb. buns o' joy (they're meant for parties). I was starving, so I wanted the 1 lb. monster (which is really their three pound model with all the trimmings on it). Since I only get mayo on a burger, I figured I could do it. Hubster went inside, ordered it, came back out, and said it would be ready in 10 minutes. When he went in and came back out carrying a tray, I didn't think anything of it. Then I saw it.

It was a Frisbee made of meat.

At least the lady was nice enough to cut the thing into quarters.

I managed to make my way through one quarter (the thing really weighs 1-1/4 lbs.) before I thought I was going to barf. So I wrapped it back up in it's plastic wrap, covered it with a paper plate (it came sandwiched between two and wrapped in the plastic), and we drove around looking for a garbage can to throw it away in. He couldn't carry the remains back inside; to do so would be to admit defeat and suffer ridicule. If you eat this thing fully loaded (the burger, not you), you get your picture taken and a T-shirt that proclaims to the world what a pig you are. It's sort of like the old Farrell's ice cream parlors (anybody remember those?) used to do with The Trough - if you ate the whole thing, they sang to you and gave you a medal. It was two banana splits put together. When I was a kid, I could plow through one of those with no problem. Even now, just writing about it makes me feel ill (the burger, not the ice cream). So let's change the subject.

Lest you accuse me of this being a sort of sentimental, non-knitting post, I'll now explain the second part of the title. Here goes:

I am cursed when it comes to knitting swap socks.

I was on the home stretch on the first sock for a swap pal, having picked up the stitches for the gusset and knitting down the foot. The pattern was Tumbling Blocks (I think I described all this to you in an earlier post) and it was coming out just beautifully. I was even amazed that I had knit it (you know how you look at something you've finished and can't believe that your hands created it?). Anyway, you all also know how I fall asleep at the drop of a hat; that doesn't mean I can sleep when I should, but that I suddenly fall asleep with no warning... like a narcoleptic. I was working on the sock last night while I was talking to Hubster; he walked down the hall to do something and came back in about three minutes. I was sound asleep with my knitting in my hand. So what's the problem, you ask? A dropped stitch? A dropped needle? Nope.

My ciggie was merrily burning its' way right through the ribbing.

Hubster woke me up immediately and pulled my knitting from my hand. I awoke and smelled something resembling burning wet sheep. In my still groggy state, I looked at the sock dangling from his hand. Then I saw it. The perfectly round black sooty mark on the ribbing. Oh shit, I thought. Hopefully, it'll come out in the wash. It was then that Hubs told me what had happened.

SHITSHITSHITSHIT

I couldn't even look at it. It was ruined. I asked him to please pull it off the needles and throw it away. He actually had to extinguish the sock before he could dispose of it. I just sat there, staring at the offending ciggie, which I then smoked to kill and punish it.

So today, I tried to cast on again, but my heart wasn't in it. I'm cursed. That's all there is to it. Oh yes, I'll make it again. It's the sixth time I've cast the same pattern on. At least I have the damn thing memorized.

Now I know why I was so insistent on buying those two extra skeins.