I am sixteen days away from moving to San Francisco. This means my house is crammed with boxes and every surface is covered with piles of crap I pulled out of closets, some of which I don't even remember owning.
Sadly, I do not have an enthusiasm for putting things in boxes to match my enthusiasm for removing things from closets. Thus, piles everywhere.
The move also entails thrilling adventures like selling furniture on craigslist. This process includes both "letting total strangers into my apartment" and "hoping I don't end up in an oubliette being told to put the lotion on its skin." So far so good, largely because most everyone on craigslist is apparently a total flake.
Though if someone puts me in a dark hole and then makes a girl suit out of me, I wouldn't have to pack any more boxes. So really, it's a win-win.
With all these big changes going on, it's obscurely comforting that some things never change. Like how tightly I knit. Like that familiar self-deception that tells me blocking will TOTALLY add 147 inches to a sock's circumference so that it will actually fit over my heel.
Like this tiny, tiny sock I (accidentally) knit for Megan of the dainty feet.
Or this Ariel-size sock...
That was originally a doll-size sock.