If the Sock Fits...

So life has reached a better level recently, because I discovered something. Something marvelous.

I can knit socks.

I love it! I am more relaxed when I have a set of needles in my hands, wool with a built-in pattern, and a good episode of Monk in the DVD player.

I have finished my first sock, it fits, and it looks marvelous. I could never have anticipated the joy of decreasing and increasing stitches, the kitchner bind-off which leaves no seam, and the smooth, glossy pages of my new Nancy Bush pattern book. Perfection!

A perfect relief after the horror of the fair.

Tuesday I had to go take pictures and record the results of all the competitions. I worked hard to get all the names right, all the breeds of cattle, pigs, and other livestock down straight in my notebook. I braved crowds, ate elephant ears, everything I needed to do to fit in with the group.

And then it rained.

I was soaked to the skin. My shoes squeaked. And I was pretty sure the mud I kept sliding around in wasn't really mud at all... And the mad heifer that got loose tried to kick me and kill me, and it took thirty guys to finally pin him (it?) to the wall. And the cell phone got soaked and wouldn't turn on, much to my horror, and it took until just now to turn on, though it keeps turning back off and I am gravely concerned.

So today I made a decision. I would pull out my boots, my Docs, and wear a pair of old jeans. I would put my stuff in my Ugly Brown Bag, the bookbag I bought because it was so drab I thought it was cute. I would slap the pigs to keep them moving (yeah, that never happened) and make myself fit in completely.

But then the pig chased me, squealing, I fell in grossness, and then the real horror occured. My bag, the Ugly Brown Bag, was knocked over into the mud and into, far worse than mud, the water. But the most terrible thing was this: my digital voice recorder was balanced neatly on the top of the bag. It fell into the puddle. The guy who knocked it over laughed at me, at the dripping recorder, and walked away. The bag was soaked, my notes were soaked, everything from the emergency poncho I had brought (after the horror of yesterday) to the camera to the new sock was soaked. And the bag was filthy, perhaps coated in something worse than mud, but I don't know.

I am finally dry, the sock is safe.

But the fair is now EVIL. I will never enjoy such a horrible thing again. Gone are the days when I could look out at the pens of cows and rabbit cages to smile at the little furry things with soft noses. I cannot look at a pig, no matter what a cute face they had, without having a sense of dread.

I am a city girl.

I came home and scrubbed myself with every soap I could find, I tossed my filthy clothing into the basement as quickly as possible.

I petted my puppy, who is CLEAN compared to the horror.

I knitted.

And now I am going back to my tiny tube, to add on three more inches and stop for the evening when it's time to turn the heel. Tomorrow I will take pictures, I will get results, and then I will GET OUT. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

And if a chicken so much as looks at me, I am stopping at KFC on the way home, to revel in the sweet taste of vengence and mashed potatoes.