Knitting socks is satisfying, but maddening. As I near the toe decreases, I begin thinking about what socks to knit next. I can't wait to cast on for more socks. I eye the stash, which I keep in a transparent net box in the living room (for inspiration). I dig through sock books, and scan patterns on Ravelry. I love pooling in socks, so I am always looking for it in the photos of other people's FOs. But in a way, sockknitting sometimes makes me feel like Sisyphus.
The Noro Jaywalkers are done. Well, one sock of two colorways anyway. The photos show the slubbiness and irregularities in the yarn pretty clearly.
They are really tight; getting them on is like pulling on one-size-too-small support hose. We'll see after washing them if they soften up.
The photos were taken underneath the ornamental plum tree, which is in full bloom,
despite me with a migraine, which is challenging for even the most patient photographer (Sean), because migraine brain functions about as clearly and smoothly as old treacle sludge. "Move your left foot up and turn it out" gets translated somewhere in the depths of my consciousness into: "gronph blutt mrgg flubpt snunkfrz" Huh?
Anyway, we managed, but only with Zoe Godzilla's supervision,
to get the photo shoot done. Later, after two shots of Imitrex, a cup of therapeutic coffee, and a nap with cats, I cast on for these in this.
Brutus says "I never get headaches, but I'm always hungry and you don't feed me enough."
Brigid says "Don't bother me, I'm sleeping. Wake me up only if it's dinnertime."
I'll also be casting on for a pair for my oldest son, Ryan in the next day or so. They've been promised for awhile. I'm daunted by the size of his feet, and the prospect of pushing those 30,000 stitches, more or less, up the hill. Again.