Thursday, September 03, 2009


As I Sat Here, Cold and Lonely ...

... a voice came to me, out of the gloom. It said "update your blog, bitch!"

Oops. Even my voices are getting impatient with me these days.

As promised, it is finally time to speak of many things; of ships and shoes and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings. And, of course, of The Sock Summit.

When I first received an email (from the wonderful Jen, who I got to hug in person at last) about "that sock thing the Harlot is doing" and was I going to go? I responded, intelligently, with "huh? What sock thing?" (Hey at least I didn't say "what Harlot?")

I really hadn't read anyone's blog (apart from Mel's, and that's only because he talked to me online and kept sending me links and making me go read stuff) for a really really long time. I had no clue what was going on.

I did a little research. I hemmed, I hawed, I said "yes, of course!" And then quickly recanted and ran back into my cave to sit about gnawing on the bones of small rodents and talking in tongues. I was clearly far too crazy to do anything of the sort, and I would just sit in the dark and filth for a while and be perfectly happy and everyone could just stay away thankyouverymuch.

And then somehow it started seeming like a good idea to pack up the three skeins of yarn that I, in my madness, would be able to have ready in time. I don't know how or why, but I suspect both Jen and her partner in crime, the Tsock Tsarina, had something to do with it.

They are morally reprehensible women and nothing but ill can come of associating with them and their ilk. (Or their elk, for that matter. Wicked bad elk, that one.)

I had been pretty much beaten into submission (which I quite like, in case you were wondering) when Barb B started asking much the same thing. This time I was able to sound a little less clueless, as I had at least figured out what a sock was and where Portland was by this time.

I was still on the fence about the whole thing. There was the matter of money (I'm still paying off the many thousands of dollars in repairs I had to fork out for my leaky condo -- the one I sold at a loss several years ago thanks to a dishonest realtor), the matter of time and childcare (Her Surreal Highness is nine; I can hardly just give her a six-pack and the remote and say "I'll be back in a week, honey", as I could with Mr. Assmuppet), the matter of a car (mine isn't quite dead yet, but it's sleeping. Very, very soundly. And after going almost 400,000 km, wouldn't you be?) and the matter of not having enough stock.

"Pish tush" she said, or something along those lines. (she's always talking about my tush, the pervert). "The booth is paid for, I have a car and can drive us, and bring whatever yarn you have; it'll be enough."

Somehow, in the face of her optimism (and her determined refusal to let me go back to those rodent bones in the cave) I found myself agreeing to all sorts of madness.

Just how mad, I had yet to learn.

(to be continued)


So alright already, when are you going to continue this story? (I know, when you're good and ready)
I don't recall mentioning your tush. Other parts of your anatomy, yes, I recall that. But not the tush.
Pretty big talk from some Italian who's the same height as me.
You leave my elk out of it!
Apropos of absolutely nothing, I am just going to say go read this
Occasionally, we have to listen to our friends. They have important things to say. Plus, it's easier to take risks when not alone.

I look forward to hearing the rest of this story... I've missed your posts.
You had me at rodent bones and filth. When will the story continue?
Girl, you tryinna make me look bad with all this blogging?

(Notice I'm not defending the elk. He deserves what he gets.)

Make with the rest of the hookers and blow, already. Maybe it'll spur me to emulation.
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