True Confessions

Here's the lowdown on the Fair Isle hats I've been showing you:  

I knitted both of them while watching the Olympics on TV last year, because I am utterly incapable of simply sitting still and watching TV all by itself. And yes, I watched a lot of the Olympics, even the equestrian stuff where they make the horses dance around to music, which I find both fascinating and disturbing.  

Anyway, the hats turned out prettier than they had any right to, all things considered. Unfortunately, they are also the most worthless things I've knitted since the Horrible Purple Cloche Hat that made me look like some kind of conehead mutant.  

You can't tell from the photos, in which the hats were arranged to show off all the pattern bands, but both hats are supposed to be tams. I say "supposed to be" because I fucked up the gauge on the ribbing (the stretchy stripey part on the bottom, for you non-knitters) and it turned out too big, and while it may fit somebody with an afro or a monstrous big head, it doesn't fit me. In fact, both hats have a distressing tendency to fall down over my face, and while a Fair Isle balaclava may be novel and chic, it needs eyeholes to be functional. FML.

I'll probably end up weaving some elastic thread through the ribbing to make it fit -- but with my track record, that will probably take another year. At least. On the bright side, the winter Olympics are coming up, giving me another chance to knit some hats that actually fit.  


The lowdown on me and the Dreaded Thing:  

I have to be ready to leave this Monday. However, if I continue to prepare at the rate I have been, I will not be ready to leave until three Mondays from now.

I've always been somewhat of a procrastinator. "Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow," that's my motto. For a long time procrastination wasn't that bad of a strategy, because I'm one of those people who work better under pressure. Or, I used to be. Although this is only a temporary state, the fact is, I currently possess only part of my usual stamina, making procrastination a bad, bad strategy. But old habits are so hard to break, aren't they?  

Have you guessed yet that this entry is part of my strategy of procrastination? Yes, the sad truth is, I should be doing stuff like laundry and dishes, making to-do lists, washing out litter boxes, starting supper (potato soup, because I have about 20 pounds of potatoes that urgently need to be used up), and I don't even know what else because I've procrastinated even thinking about all the crap I have to do. Bleh.  

Also, I'm still kind of obsessing over the fact that I have almost no pants that fit. At least, no pants suitable for the near-100 degree temperatures forecast for Phoenix next week. I found a pair of capris with a drawstring that I can cinch up, and that's about it. Arghhh! Incidentally, my "kickboxing" bruises still haven't faded, either.

So, I give up. I'm just going to drag my reluctant, unprepared, surly, bruised, one-panted ass down there and let the chips fall where they may. Being the "weird" one, I'm going to be gossiped about no matter what, so I may as well make it interesting. I think I'll hang out in the golf club bar a lot, too. That will really supply them with some gossip fodder.

Okay. I guess I've procrastinated enough for now. I'm going to go do ... something or other. Knowing me, probably whatever is least urgent.   

In an alternate universe, right this minute, I'm packing for an Amazon expedition, and it takes me about five minutes because all I need is two sets of clothes, one pair of shoes, and some underwear. And a toothbrush. And some Deep Woods Off. And I'm not freaking out over having to socialize for hours and hours and hours for days and days and days.    

 Goddamnit. I suck so bad at this.