Struggles

It occurs to me that for being a knitting blogger, I'm terrible at actually getting enough knitting done to show off here. I don't really have an excuse, but maybe this glimpse into my typical day will give you some idea of how I operate.

I present to you "Yesterday."

Try to go back to sleep after John goes to work. Fail miserably.

Resign myself to staying awake, despite feeling tired enough that murder seems a sensible punishment for anyone who looks at me.

Waste three hours catching up on reading the archives of Yarn Harlot's blog while debating if I want to try and catch up on Critical Role.

Get urge to knit and start looking at patterns.

Stumble upon this and realize just how much of an amateur I am. Send to knitting friends so they, too, can also both be amazed and horrified.

Remember that I have a hank of red lace weight with enough yardage in my stash to complete that pattern, but that it was supposed to be for a different shawl. Actually, two different shawls. It is a huge hank.

Start trying to talk myself out of making the Magnum Opus up there.

Call in reinforcements to talk me down. 

Find and purchase this alternate pattern instead.

Realize that it's after noon and that I should probably appease the badgers that are apparently living in my stomach first.

Remember that I got soft pretzels at the store the other day and have a delightful lunch out of a couple. Reaffirm that yellow mustard is the only real topping for soft pretzels. 

Ultimately decide against watching Critical Role since one of my favorite twitch streamers was starting soon.

Waste an hour watching and chatting before I remember that I want to knit and have just bought a new pattern.

Start digging through the stash and decide to use the Malabrigo lace that had been purchased for a completely different pattern.

Debate over color order for a while.

Realize that I would have to go dig out needles, beads, stitch markers, and hunt down a cable.

Decide that the pattern is most assuredly not being worked on today.

Switch gears and decide to work on John's socks instead.

Waste another half hour looking at sock patterns.

Middle sister asks if I mind if she came over to play Skyrim. Tell her no, I don't mind. She pretends I told her that she can't come over at all, making me worried that I upset her. 

Decide that I really need to look into the return policy for children. I mean, Emmy was my 4th birthday present. Maybe mom still has the receipt.

Ask Emmy nicely to bring me a glorified coffee milkshake from McDonald's, because it sounds good, damnit. 

Fight with ball winder and try to wrangle John's sock yarn into submission. End up having to hand-wind over 200 yards of yarn.

Emily shows up with no drink in hand. Give her a pouty face and send her out to fetch me one. 

Decide that maybe I will keep her after all. 

Finish winding yarn and realize that I have to go find my needles. Do so, cursing a bit.

Cast on using logical inferences about the size of John's feet.

Get a couple of rounds done and look at sock funny. Realize that it looks awfully small. Reassure myself because he's got tiny ankles.

Stop and look again. Confer with knitting friends and laugh because I'm always so paranoid.

Notice that my nail polish looks pretty damn good with this yarn.

Get hit with a wave of "everybody hates me because I'm so annoying and no one ever wants to talk to me again." Post these thoughts to facebook. Get immediate reassurance that I am, in fact, not as terrible as I think. 

Say goodbye to John on skype chat because it's time for him to go to practice. Ask him before he leaves if he minds grabbing me something to eat on the way home because I had a craving.

Continue to reluctantly knit on the socks, afraid to get too far with them in case they don't fit, until twitch streamer ends.

Sit socks aside and proceed to make dinner for the rest of the family. Not done out of any feelings of love, but out of survival. They were looking at me like one looks at a pound of bacon. 

Realize that I am going to have to wash dishes. Curse at husband quite a bit. Dishes are his job.

Make a seemingly delicious meal of fettuccine alfredo (jarred sauce, you twits. I don't love my family enough to make it from scratch) with the leftover sautéed mushrooms and onions from yesterday's patty melts and homemade garlic bread.

Listen to the happy growls of satiated pack of slobbering beasts family members.

Decide to sit downstairs with Emmy and watch her kill dragons. Continue to knit half-heartedly and finish cuff.

Get excited because other favorite twitch streamer is starting. Watch, chat, and knit until John comes home.

Get excited again because he brought food. Eat dinner and tell him to go wash a foot so I can try on this sock.

Resign myself to the fact that I actually have to touch his foot. Question why I ever thought knitting socks was a good idea.

Barely get sock over heel, but realize that it's loose around his ankle. Think maybe that it's something to do with the fact that the sock is only two inches long at this point. 

Confer with knitting friend, who suggests toe up instead for better customization. Laugh at her because I don't want to frog this stupid thing.

Send him off to do dishes and knit another inch. 

Try sock on again. Same results. 

Confer with knitting friend again. Marvel at the cartoon character-like proportions of my spouse. Try to come up with a thousand different solutions.

Realize that I am, in fact, going to have to frog.

Rip sock apart.

Sit knitting aside and mutter dark thoughts.

Eventually shower and go to bed.

Wake up this morning as John's leaving.

Try to go back to sleep after John goes to work. Fail miserably.

Resign myself to staying awake, despite feeling tired enough that murder seems a sensible punishment for anyone who looks at me...