In Which I am Subjected to my Flatmate's New Bridal Magazine

Skip is not engaged. She used to be, to a whiny Southerner, who demonstrated the wealth of his people by doing dumb shit like signing her up for about 58 years of bride-mag subscriptions. The groom-to-be is gone, but the monthly overdose of lace remains. She loves these things.

"Look!" She'll squeal: "this dress looks like the skirt was made of noodles!" She'll flip pages, rapid-fire: "Noodles, noodles, noodles!!!"

I hate bridal-mag day.

What About Harry??

me: how come I never get knitted socks??! (indignant face)
her: oh, Harry, you got a hat for Christmas
me: right, but then you knit him kilt hose, and then a sweater, and now more kilt hose
her: Harry, I'm dating Sasch. I'm not dating you. We just live together.
me: .......
her: anyway, you grumble about my knitting. He never grumbles.
me: its because he's a knitter. You're all crazy.
her: See? That's why you never get knitted gifts.

Skip Loves Pandora

and she won't stop talking about it. And I have to admit, its kinda cool. We've been listening to some serious 80s pop tunes, and there's been a lot of good stuff. Now she's complaining about knitting the cuff to these kilt hose. To listen to knitters, it seems like:
1) there is nothing more difficult, frustrating, or miserable than knitting, and
2) they cannot do without it.

I, of course, do not knit. I do not knit with a vengeance.