When Marge says jump

My best friend in the whole world, "Marge" (of the endlessly entertaining speculations on the knitting god pantheon), is taking her qualifying exams tomorrow. This arcane and gruesome time-honored tradition requires a master's student to read, absorb and synthesize a staggering amount of material AND THEN speak about it intelligently in front of a panel of professors.

As a reward, those that pass their orals (hee - orals) are given permission to research and write a book. I think they should get pony rides, showers of glitter and several nights of sweaty sexual congress with the actor or rock star of their choice, but academia has other ideas.

Marge is, by far, the smartest person I have ever met, and she has been working her ass off for months studying for this exam. I have every faith that she will be dazzling in her brilliance. But sending some good thoughts her way can't hurt.

So break a leg, pumpkin. Show those professors who's boss. And just remember, when Marge says "the implication that these concerns are somehow unique to life settlements elides a long history of the commodification of death," you say "HOW HIGH!"

In my news, it's so damn cold here that I keep thinking about "To Build a Fire" and reminding myself not to camp under a snowy branch. I've also discovered, to my everlasting shame as a knitter, that I don't own a pair of gloves. When it's 9 degrees out, attractive fingerless mitts in a lovely silk and wool blend just don't cut it. Since I won't be able to knit a pair of gloves before the next time I venture outside, I'm sticking with My Pretty. I've turned the second sock's heel, so balance will soon be restored in the knitting universe.