I like my surgeon.

This, I feel, is a huge plus. You know, you get referred to some guy with a medical degree…maybe you walk in there and are confronted by a grizzled old troll, maybe you walk in and it's Cary Grant. (Usually, though, it's the troll.)

But I like my surgeon. Nice guy, young but not, you know, too young (hey, this is my first surgery! Hope you don't mind if my mom comes to take pictures of me…), intelligent, thorough.

Some of my liking of him undoubtedly springs from his 90% certainty that we're going to be doing the "zippy" version of things, that he doesn't think things are even half as bad as the nurse led me to think they might be in there, that I'm going to be in on Thursday and out on Friday and back to work by Wednesday the 10th at the latest…yes. Those are the things that make you really, really like a surgeon.

But of course, I have a new problem: what project to bring with me.

See, I still do have that 10% chance that I'm going to end up in the hospital for four or five days. It's a slim chance, but it's still there. So, I want to make sure I'm covered, because the last thing I want to be doing is trying to send my husband into my stash with instructions.

"In one of the boxes {with about twelve to choose from} there's a blue wool – not the dark one, the medium one – and some white wool, but make sure it's the same weight, 'cause there's five different kinds; and also I'll need #6 and #8 needles and the pattern from MinnowKnits II, not MinnowKnits I…"

Fraught, FRAUGHT I TELL YOU!, with peril. No man should have to face the stash closet. Even smart, strong men like my DH are completely emasculated by The Stash.

Also, he will bring me the wrong yarn and pattern and probably needles too (gads, he might even grab the {shudder} $2 plastic needles I ought to throw away but can't because they're the "in case" needles – you know, "in case" the social order breaks down and I can't replace needles that break or something?). And since I'm on drugs, I'll probably snark at him about it, which is both unfair and mean.

But it won't be at bit funny at the time. I might even go into the 'if you really loved me, you wouldn't have brought me superwash!' tailspin.

Yes, that must be avoided at all costs.

But then again, I don't want to show up for a twenty-four hour stay (sixteen hours of which will be spent sleeping, and eight of which will be spent getting blood drawn, filling out forms, and being given long lists of instructions I won't remember about how to tend my healing wound) with a forty pound duffle bag of yarn, either.

I mean. Granted, it's true, but I don't feel the entire world needs to know I'm insane right from the get-go. I prefer to let it dawn on people, you know, slowly.

I'm pondering (and this is probably very silly of me) trying something that doesn't actually have a pattern (yet). See, I got three hanks of truly sexy yarn at Stitches with the wild notion that I could design a sweater with them.

It's Brooks Farm Primero, in colors not listed on their website. It's like…well, two of them are this gorgeous brown; hints of copper and green. They make me think of walking through old trees hung with moss. And the third is variegated, lighter, with white and brown and tan and beige and the same mossy-greenish-brown as the two main hanks.

This is a sexy yarn. It's a yarn that you just want to lie down and roll in. It's soft, it smells good, it makes your hands feel happy. And, by the way, the Brooks Farm folks are darned nice. They put up with me touching Every.Single.Skein of yarn (twice) and were delightfully (and justly) proud of their art. Sherry is a goddess.

I'm sorely tempted to try to write up a pattern over the weekend. My vision was to have a sweater with minimal ribbing, just a little seed or something to keep it from rolling at the bottom, going into narrow bands of stockinette and then with a leaf design around the cuffs and hem.

I know. I have trouble visualizing such things, too. I also can't decide if it is going to be a winter-thing with long sleeves, a summer-thing with sleeve-caps, or a cut-the-middle-thing with 3/4 length sleeves.

I am so not cut out to be a designer. But at the same time, this yarn has been singing to me. (Hey, it's OK – you people already know I'm insane, I can say that here.) (Better not mention singing yarn in the hospital, though…)

Hmm.

Just a thought. Which are dangerous things.

{singing} “Lefou, I'm afraid I've been thinking" "A dangerous pass time!" "I know” {/singing}