Sock of Doom has left the Building

The SoD have been mailed (and delivered by now. I love you UPS!) and I can now resume normal life until one of two things happen. I could a) get more socks from my target to finish and mail, or b) get killed off by my assassin. I think the smarter among you will hope for option B, as it means you only have to hear about this crazy frigging war one more time. I'm hoping for option A, since now that I've killed someone, I want to kill more. This is getting fun, y'all! Anyway, a funny thing happened on the way to mail the socks. I was so obsessed with getting the last 7 rows done, I uh-huh'ed myself into taking my neighbor to the convenience store. She came over and found a crazy person mumbling to herself about ribbing and mail options. Since she desperately needed milk (or something, my memory is a little fuzzy here), she got my kids shoes on, herded me into the car, and drove us to the store. She went in to do her shopping, and I sat in the car knitting and bitching about how long it takes to switch between knit and purl stitches (it makes a difference, really). We were on the way to the Pack and Mail when I came out of my fog long enough to moan that I forgot my camera and would have no pictures of the finished socks for my blog. I made that poor woman drive me home (hey, it was my car!) and sent my long-suffering oldest son in to get the camera while I started binding off. This is the same precious boy who asked me what I was making for breakfast yesterday morning and was told to make himself a peanut butter sandwich because "mommy needed to finish killing someone." I will be taking donations for his future therapy bills as soon as I figure out the whole PayPal thing. With camera in hand, we were on the way to the Pack and Mail once again. I finished the bind off in the parking lot, to the tune of whining from the backseat (something about hungry, bored, and alpaca fuzz) and laughter from my driver (she crochets, so she doesn't quite get it).

I made the neighbor model the socks before I stuffed them in an envelope. She now wants a pair.

The cashier at the Pack and Mail either thinks I am a terrorist, or a harmless lunatic. If the feds show up at the door soon, we'll know which. And in case you were wondering, this is the aftermath of frantic knitting and lunacy on the car dash.