Sunday, July 24, 2011

Dresssed to the Eights

I was sitting on the sun deck when I saw her.  Honestly, it sounds more glamorous than it is - the sun deck is just a covered part of the ferry I take to and from work every day. 

But anyway, there I was sitting on the sun deck when she came walking past.  She was dressed, as they say, to the nines.  Or perhaps at least to the eights.  A smart suit in crimson.  Stratospheric heels.  Bobbed hair.  She was, by all appearances, a very attractive young woman of approximately 25.

I was working on a sweater for Mrs. TSMK.  Nothing too fancy - the Edda pattern in Kim Hargreaves' new Whisper collection.  It calls for cotton, but with our climate I was going with wool. 

The sun deck was quite full - and the only open seat was on my bench.  I wondered.  Would she sit down?  Perhaps she'd want to chat about the sweater and I could enjoy an afternoon cruise across the sound talking with a beautiful young stranger. 

She sat, and I kept working on the sweater. 

After a few moments, she began searching for something in her bag.  Finding it, she pulled out a small container of lotion.  Leisurely, she began applying it.  First to her hands, and then to her shapely legs.  A floral scent filled the air.  We weren't chatting, but I wasn't about to complain.

And then, things took something of an ugly turn.  Those stunning heels came off.  The lovely scent of lilacs was immediately impaled on the rusty spike of foot odor.  And not just any foot odor - but the kind of odor you might expect if a teenage boy put his gym socks near your face.  The kind of odor that makes you reevaluate your love of Stilton cheese.  The kind of odor that people emigrate to avoid.  Powerful stuff.

I kept working on the sweater. 

At the halfway point in our voyage, she began again began rustling around in her bag.  The lotion was but a memory.  The heels were still off.  She pulled out toenail clippers.  I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking I'm making this up.  And I wish I were.

Feverishly, I worked on the sweater. 

After performing their assigned task, the toenail clippers went back in the bag.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  The odor was still present - but the personal grooming had stopped.

Or so I thought.  She rustled around in her bag a third time.  I was praying for a hairbrush.  Or perhaps a tube of lipstick.  But it was not to be. 


Wow.  Just wow. 

I turned my body slightly to the right, to try to avoid the plaque-spatter that seemed inevitable from the frenzied flossing to my left. 

I finished the row, gathered my things, and left the sun deck for the main cabin.  I don't know what manner of personal grooming followed the flossing.  I don't want to know.



  1. Great Achilles Warrior who hales from the far reaches of the East! The tale of near olfactory destruction by the sweet Siren's song is one that few brave men are able to escape. Thankfully she didn't turn into some pre-historic dactylic creature and take you back to her lair and force you to observe more grooming!

  2. CAN'T. STOP. LAUGHING....and gagging...

  3. ...and will you ever be able to look at that BEAUTIFUL sweater-to-be in the same light?!

  4. Just found your blog! What a hoot!
    Will plaque splatter come out of wool? Thank the yarn gods for Woolite, or Dry cleaners!
    I am putting you on my "favorites" list. Nice to know there is another guy out there who is straight, enjoys women, and also doing handwork. I am a crocheter, retired, widower, with lots of free time. Haven't mastered the whole knit,purl thing. Find this so much easier.

  5. Found your blog a couple of days ago and have been backreading through posts - love it so far! I'm so glad you didn't hang around for what came next!