I have a sock. A lonely sock, waiting for its mate.
This morning I cast on sock #2, and by the time Neta was about to come home from daycare, I was ready to start the heel (and this time I knew what I was supposed to be doing).
When I started the first row of eye of partridge, I realized I have an odd number of stitches on the needle. WTF? I’m supposed to have 30. Let’s count that. 31. Let’s count that again. 31. Poop. Poop. Poop.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Let’s count how many stitches I have all in all. 61. There should be 60. Hmmm. Let’s take a look at the cuff. Yep. It starts with 60. Hmmmmmm. Let’s see where it went from 60 to 61. No can find. No can find. No can – cr*p! There’s a yarnover right there, where the cuff ribbing end. No wonder the color is pooling differently on this one.
Think positive. What if I were to just decrease that extra stitch? What if I were to just drop it? But the pooling… er… not perfect… will hate myself for all eternity for not putting in just a little extra effort to do this right. Grumble grumble. Let’s rip it. I could sure use a glass of wine right about now. Why do I never keep some wine in the house? So what if we never drink?
It’s 5 hours later. I’m making good progress and should be back at the heel by the time I go to bed. As for that glass of wine, better late than never. There’s a bottle of muscat chilling in the fridge for me. To life, love, and dead philosopers. L’CHAIM.