The Second Plague

. . . . was an attack of frogs, and here in the Frigid North, there has been a plague of frogging.

See this sock?  I got it all the way past the heel before I realized I hated how the yarn pooled.  ("Pooling" is when the colors of the yarn congregate all in one spot like a bad frat party.)

A little inner voice, the same inner voice that tells me to "back away from the bread and butter", told me "I wasn't going to like the sock, and no, no matter how much I knit on it I was still not going to like the sock". 

I ignored my inner voice just as much as I ignore its advice about bread and butter.

 

I hate it when people say "I told you so", and it's even worse when my schizophrenic self is doing it to myself.

(I'll give you a moment to unravel that one.)

Second to be frogged was yet another sock.  

I was planning to knit the Pomatamous Sock as a gift for someone, but I was almost finished with it when I realized I would like the sock much better on my own foot than on someone else's, but unfortunately I didn't take into account Indian-giving when I cast on, and it was too small for my foot.

(Note to self: when knitting something for someone else, make sure it can also fit me in case I decide to keep it.)

The other thing I had to frog was this cardigan.  This is actually the finished cardigan, but before I finished it, I had the entire back knitted up which had to be ripped out.

Schizo Me told the Other Me that it was going to be too short by several inches, but I didn't listen, and ended up having to frog the entire back section so that I could rework the decreases/increases.

Drat.

My inner voice is a snarky thing.