Shit.

Remember the ugly socks? (If not, they're sport socks I knit last winter with a test-dyed yarn that was really ugly.) I've worn them about, oh, five times. Today I had them on, with my feet up on the foot stool, and the Goober walked over and said "Look, Mumum. Hole." and stuck her finger through the sole of my sock, between my toes.

I jerked off the sock, saw the hole in the bottom, and yelled, "SHIT."

The Goober giggled and said with that perfect intonation kids do, "SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT!"

I had actually gotten her to quit saying shit and start saying oops. Shot that all to hell today.

Plus there's a bloody damned hole in my sock.

Bugger.

Plus, the new J D Robb novel is out, and the husbeast was a prince and brought it home for me today, so I sat down and read it. I decided to knit while I was reading, because I'm an idiot, and inevitably screwed up the Russian Prime and now I've got to pull it off the needle and rip back two rounds.

I've also been doing unsanctioned knitting. Should be photos tomorrow; it's not much, and it's going fast. Should be done tonight. You won't be terribly impressed, but I'll own up to blowing the 'project monogamy' thing less than a month into the whole idea.

Damn it, I don't wanna rip back the Russian Prime. Or darn the damn hole in my sock. Or try to convince my kid, AGAIN, to quit saying 'shit'.

Shit.