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So you think I'm a grownup?
Dec. 7th, 2006 05:39 pmLet me tell you about the socks I'm wearing today. I've been longing to tell you about my socks ever since I first got them, which is quite a while ago now, because I adore them madly; and what else is lj for, if not to share the things you adore madly with your friendslist?
To begin: they are especially pretty, as striped socks go. I say this with confidence, as I am a connoisseur (connoiseuse?) of striped socks and possess all manner of them. They are a good sort of stripe, not too thin and not too thick, and the colors are wonderful, brick red and heather grey and cream. They're the right weight for a Georgia autumn, not the heavy lambswool of a good winter sock nor the flimsy microfiber of summer. Really, the only thing that stops them being perfect is that they aren't knee socks. And I would like them anyway, if the weight and color were the only things setting them apart from my wardrobe of stripey socks. But they are not. No! No!
So here's the second thing: they have a message woven into the toes. A hard-to-read message, in cursive that looks as though it ought to be legible but really sort of isn't, and they say either "Love My" or "Leave My," depending on how you squint. They are like a dadist's tiny and inexplicable project, and I have no idea how they wound up in a sale bin at Walgreen's, but there they were, and the second I saw them I knew I had to have them.
Are they the first socks ever to make no semantic sense whatsoever? This question I cannot answer for you. All I know is that every time I think of them, which is embarrassingly often, they make me smile.
:::
Today I spoke to one of our supers over the phone. He's out recovering from hernia surgery just now, and when I asked him how he was doing, I got a bit of a TMI response. I mean, there was talk of catheters, which I don't really mind, but one doesn't expect to hear that sort of talk from someone one barely knows, does one? Anyway, I was sort of glad we were having the TMI discussion over the phone, not because of its squirmy nature, but because I couldn't stop thinking about this, which I nearly choked to death while listening to a couple of weeks ago. And I expect that most people might not take very kindly to people giggling silently over their beds of pain.
I do hope he gets well soon, though. I'm not that much of a nine-year-old.
To begin: they are especially pretty, as striped socks go. I say this with confidence, as I am a connoisseur (connoiseuse?) of striped socks and possess all manner of them. They are a good sort of stripe, not too thin and not too thick, and the colors are wonderful, brick red and heather grey and cream. They're the right weight for a Georgia autumn, not the heavy lambswool of a good winter sock nor the flimsy microfiber of summer. Really, the only thing that stops them being perfect is that they aren't knee socks. And I would like them anyway, if the weight and color were the only things setting them apart from my wardrobe of stripey socks. But they are not. No! No!
So here's the second thing: they have a message woven into the toes. A hard-to-read message, in cursive that looks as though it ought to be legible but really sort of isn't, and they say either "Love My" or "Leave My," depending on how you squint. They are like a dadist's tiny and inexplicable project, and I have no idea how they wound up in a sale bin at Walgreen's, but there they were, and the second I saw them I knew I had to have them.
Are they the first socks ever to make no semantic sense whatsoever? This question I cannot answer for you. All I know is that every time I think of them, which is embarrassingly often, they make me smile.
:::
Today I spoke to one of our supers over the phone. He's out recovering from hernia surgery just now, and when I asked him how he was doing, I got a bit of a TMI response. I mean, there was talk of catheters, which I don't really mind, but one doesn't expect to hear that sort of talk from someone one barely knows, does one? Anyway, I was sort of glad we were having the TMI discussion over the phone, not because of its squirmy nature, but because I couldn't stop thinking about this, which I nearly choked to death while listening to a couple of weeks ago. And I expect that most people might not take very kindly to people giggling silently over their beds of pain.
I do hope he gets well soon, though. I'm not that much of a nine-year-old.
