Happy Shoes (Or Splint, as the Case May Be)

A very smart woman once told me, “You get to wake up and put on your shoes and they have to wake up and put on their own shoes.” 

What does that mean?  That means that usually people who are messing with you, are being unreasonable, or are in general behaving like giant douchebags are usually miserable in their own right and have to walk in their own miserable shoes while I can choose to walk in my own shoes, and my shoes are what I make of them.  I can wallow, or I can breezily move along, move along, nothing to see here.  It doesn’t change the douchebaggery but it does affect how the douchebaggery makes me feel.  Friday I was getting down about it.  Today, fuck ‘em.  I’ve got my happy shoes on. 

That wise woman?  Also said in a moment of perturbed frustration, “I often ask myself why everyone else gets to be an asshole and I am not allowed to be.” 

Answer?  Because I’m not an asshole. 

That wise woman?  My sister. 

It’s been a tough few days at the Conniption Knit household.  Between a nasty coworker, of whom I have contemplated knitting an effigy and perhaps turning it into a voodoo doll or maybe just burning it (must use acrylic if burning, because wool doesn’t burn once the flame source is removed) and some nasty comments from aging family members, there’s been not a small amount of grumbling.  Add to that a Hallmark Holiday for which someone (not me) dropped the Hallmark ball and hurt someone’s feelings and a slip that resulted in a possibly sprained/broken foot/ankle (not me, but my husband), and mix in a little PMS (not my husband, definitely me) and you’ve got yourself a cauldron of blah that envelops a house and wraps it up in smothering arms, much like the Midwestern heat and humidity that’s gripping the area for the last week. 

The only thing going well?  The knitting.  I’m just about to the toe on the first sock of my Not Quite Mother’s Day Labor Day socks for my mom that she picked out when she was here the week after Mother’s Day.  I’m debating the pattern for my Not Quite Father’s Day Labor Day socks for my dad.  And I’m really enjoying the Viper Pilots I’m doing for my sister’s Not Quite Birthday Finish Them When I Can But Aim for Labor Day If She Can Visit Then birthday socks.  I’ve also cast on a baby blanket that’s thankfully due after Labor Day.  Labor Day is the new Christmas. 

There’s not a lot to take pictures of, however.  The Mother’s Day/Labor Day socks are the only things with remarkable progress on them.  The rest of it is no more than swatch size.  That’s the breaks when you have a full time job and a full time life.  Perhaps I should quit giving myself deadlines and simply finish projects when I can.  But I have six things on the needles.  Eight if you include hibernating items.  

Otherwise, it’s been a pretty low key habitat.  Father’s Day sorta sucked for Mike.  His mother missed giving him a card and his grandmother has reached Crotchety on the age scale and combined that with loose lips at Father’s Day Dinner.  He got irritated with me because he decided to clean a little bit and since I was on a different floor in our house, I didn’t know it and so didn’t pitch in.  Then, yesterday at work, he slipped and fell and possibly broke his foot/ankle or stretched tendons or something.  He needed help this morning getting his socks and shoes on.  Poor guy.  It’s work related, so he’s going to see the worker’s comp doctor (and I’m gearing myself up to start the insurance fight that’s inevitable when he has to deal with worker’s comp claims).  I’ve got plans to try to make it up to him, but those plans include an oven, which I discovered on Friday is out of commission.  Our heating element disintegrated, so the big meal I was going to make very likely won’t happen for a few more days while we wait for the parts to arrive in the mail.  Ah, the power of the internet.  What would have been a $150 service call is only a $50 repair and the heating element looks like it just plugs in.  It’s probably for the best since the dinners I made both Friday and last night resulted in flames. 

No, I didn’t burn the house down. 

I was making mashed potatoes (instant, since I’m not that interested in the real thing unless we have guests) and the milk and water always boils over on me.  Usually I catch it before it escapes the pot.  This time I didn’t and it pooled in the – what are those bowl things called under the burners? – the burner coaster and because the element was on hi to boil the milk/water for the potatoes, it caught fire.  Apparently I didn’t get it all cleaned out on Friday because last night when I used the same burner again, it caught fire again.  And I always get confused as to what I can throw on what kind of fire in the kitchen, so I just blew the flames out.  Luckily it was small enough that I could blow it out, but I believe I’m going to locate the fire extinguisher we have in the kitchen and prepare it for use.  I know flour puts out an oil fire, which I learned the hard way, but now I’m afraid to put water on any kind of fire.  

flour to put out an oil fire back in 2006.  Yes, I got a new stockpot after that.  And yes, I took pictures of it.  I had a blog back then too.

But the best part?  Neither dinner was ruined.  It makes me feel like Tom Hanks’ character in Cast Away when he gets a fire going the old fashioned way and dances around the beach dancing and shouting, “Look!  Look what I have created!  Fire!  I have created fire!” as if I can control the whims of the flame. 

However, it’s not an experiment I’m wishing to repeat.  I got lucky twice.  Perhaps a third time will bring the house down, literally, and what then?  There’ll be no more shoes to happily put on.  At least I know my yarn stash will be okay.  It’s all wool at this point.


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