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That's right. I finished knitting my first sock. There it is, on my unwashed foot, which is on my dining room table. We are nothing but class here at Chez Poppy.

Are you checking out my backside? Well, you should, because that's one fine-ass heel turn right there.

Keep in mind that this sock (and its eventual mate, which I started this morning) are a gift for one of my readers. Who knows? It could be you. And there it is, parked on my sweaty foot that hadn't been bathed in well over 12 hours, on my legs that haven't been shaved in a long, long time. Happy birthday! I love you! Have a bunch of my DNA and some hand-knit socks as a token of my fondness.

Speaking of sock-knitting ...

On Thursday, while Clara Jane was at daycare, I finally got myself down to Knitorious' lovely new home. One of my favorite things in the world happened while I was there. I overheard the owner talking to an employee named Rachel, to which I called, "S T L Rachel Knits dot Com?" Because yes, I've reached the point of geekdom where I refer to people by their URLs. No, she was a different Rachel, and I babbled something about Rachel and I both having blogs, and hoping I'd run into her at the store, since she works there.

"What's your blog?" Rachel #2 asked, and I told her. To which she, who had been soft-spoken and quiet to that point, squealed, "OH MY GOD! That story about your neighbors' dogs having sex in your yard was so funny!" Which, of course, led to me telling the story of the dachshund/sheltie/beagle unholy union to everyone at Knitorious. I would like to think this is why they allowed me to paw through a box of yarn that was delivered while I was there, thus making me the first knitter in St. Louis to own a skein of Jitterbug sock yarn. In Marble, for those of you keeping score, although I very nearly bought Jay instead. Fire was in the running, too. Oh, let's be honest: if they'd offered me a hank of each color in exchange for taking off my clothes and running around the block, I probably would have obliged.

Several times of late, I've gotten emails from readers to the tune of "I think I saw you at Hartford/Trader Joe's/Spanky's/parked outside Jeff Tweedy's parents' house, but I was afraid I'd bother you/embarassed to admit I read your blog/concerned you'd think I'm a stalker if I did."

Please. If you see me in public, by all means say hello! It makes my day. Truly. As much as I love making a fool of myself on the internet, I live to make a fool of myself in public. Please don't deny me these opportunities. Without constant attention, I wither and die. You don't want to be responsible for that, now, do you?

I will promise you, however, that if you come up to me at a restaurant, I'll do my best to keep my feet off the table and Clara Jane's hands out of her pants.