Sockin' it to 'em

So I made my spouse these socks. I make my spouse lots of socks, and he wears them constantly, even the ugly first attempts, because he is a good husband who adores me. (And, you know, because he wants the benefits of being on my good side, such as not having to sleep on the sidewalk when he does something spacey like lock himself out of the house wearing a T-shirt in near-zero weather. Not that I would put any conditions on the wearing of my handknits. Certainly not. No way. Ahem.)

However, these socks are different. Why? They're not exciting. They don't sound fun to make -- toe-up socks in self-striping Regia in greens and tans on size double-0 addis. Straight stockinette, short-row heel, ribbed cuff. I think it was the teensy stitches that sold him.

"These are the best socks EVER," he exclaimed, and proceed to wear them with... everything. Whether it matched or not. Maroon shirts. Black corduroys. Jeans. I drew the line at the electric-blue gym shorts. (OK, so he didn't actually try it, but he was eying them.)

Other people chose to express their admiration in slightly more... lefthanded... ways.

My grandmother: "Those are... perfect. But... WHY?!"
My friend Fae: "Those look... storebought. Um, no offense, that's a compliment, I mean..."
My mother: "No wonder you're going blind."

So, now, in the middle of all my other projects, I'm knitting another pair of socks on teeny tiny wire needles. And I think I want smaller ones. I'm sort of sick, aren't I.

P.S. Lack of posting is due to laziness about the digital camera, mostly. I really do want to have some new pictures up.