A game of "What's That Noise?!" and "Where's That Stitch?!"

I guess my "one of those days" from Tuesday has now morphed into "one of those weeks." It hasn't been terrible by any stretch of the imagination, but it's always the little things.

I was feeling tired and emotional yesterday, and I knew that I had Hank by myself for the evening, since Mike had a late class. I had an ambitious after-work agenda: grocery store, public library, fetch Hank, home. Make soothing dinner based on grocery store additions, watch new Thomas the Tank Engine movie procured from the public library with Hank, grab a warm shower, get Hank in jammies, read books with him, get him tucked in and sleeping, greet Mike, knit, bed. It all seemed very doable.

As I trucked away from campus in my little Honda, I gave my car a pat and told him how happy I was that he seemed to be staving off that new muffler that I can tell he's angling for. The car had been a tad noisier than usual, and in small sedans you need exhaust work every 2-3 years commonly. It's been about 3 since my last foray to Mufflerman, so I knew I was on borrowed time, but I buttered Civic up and told him how proud I was of him. Every pay period has been perilous here lately. We've just had a bunch of necessary expenses all hit at one time. Tuition, books, fee for a licensing exam Mike needs to take, taxes, school clothes for Henry, mortgage, etc. I just hoped to have a bit of a chance to recover.

I hop on the highway, and it happened. You know.

*happy putter* *POP* *BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*

The whole highway turns to stare at you. You slouch down in your seat. You sigh. You may say a very bad word. You get huffy.

I'm so used to this with my car that it doesn't faze me anymore. I've had Civic for 10 years, and like I mentioned, new exhaust work every 2-3 years. I don't even pull over anymore. I just keep driving and pray for Mufflerman to miraculously move closer to my physical position. So, my new evening agenda now looks like this:

Henry. Mufflerman. Public library. Grocery store. Home.

I grab Hank from his after school program and we head to Mufflerman. 30 minutes and $250 later, we emerge with a quiet and happy car. *sighs*

By this time, someone was starving and cranky. And Hank was getting a bit restless too. We fetch Thomas and the groceries (including a box of super heroes popsicles, since he really took the Mufflerman visit better than I did), and head home. Hank bounces around the house while I make us the ultimate comfort dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. I grab my shower while Hank watches Thomas. Mike gets home a few minutes early and is all worried about the car expenses, since his car needed about $300 worth of work last week. It was necessary, certainly, but worrisome, and it takes its toll on both of our moods. This makes me even more emotional than before.

Mike gets Hank to sleep, and as I sulkily work my mom's socks (my very first pair!) I notice that I'm mysteriously missing a stitch. Now. I'm very used to dropped stitches. Because, well, I drop them all the time. And a dropped stitch in knitting is extremely telltale. You see this big gap and then a little ladder of loose yarn where the stitch is unraveling. I've learned how to pick them back up and fix them. On these socks, I'd just started the heel flap, which was probably a bad idea given how porky I was mixed with the fact that I've never knitted a sock before, and the heel is one of the most difficult parts. I had counted as I rearranged the stitches to begin the heel flap, and I had 32 for the flap, 32 in reserve, just like I was supposed to. I knit a row, purl a row, then go back and complete a row of alternating slipped stitches and knits, just like the directions say. Except...I end with a slip, and that just doesn't seem right. Sure enough, I go back and count and there are only 31 stitches there. *content edited for language modesty*

I count my reserve stitches, thinking maybe I accidentally put an extra one over there. Nope. 32 of those, just like there should be. I un-knit a row, hoping to see my mistake. Nothing. I examine the sock in a cranky-like manner under the light, looking for that telltale little ladder. Nothin'

I glared at it for a long time. I considered stuffing it into my knitting bag, but I knew I wouldn't be satisfied to leave it without a solution. Instead of making myself even more miserable by going backward until I uncovered the exact location of the error, I gave it the evil eye and added a stitch. So there! These socks are knit in super fine yarn anyway, you can barely even seen those bloody little stitches. No one will ever know. Except me, and it'll bug the crap out of me, but hey, it was just one of those weeks.