I am blogging now, fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to get myself together for class, as an alternative to throwing myself on the floor and tearing off my epidermis.
Exegesis: I am very allergic to perfume. Nasty allergic. Last semester, someone used a Guess perfume sample--one of those little cards the women at the perfume counters at department stores spray with the latest scent (after dousing you with said scent) and insist you take along--as a bookmark in a library book about archaeology. I don't know how long it was there, but by the time I got to the book, every page in the two inch thick tome reeked, and I sustained an attack getting my class readings done. Until I discovered the offending sample card, I would've sworn that someone had soaked the whole thing in some sort of laundry detergent.
Well, apparently the culprit is a serial perfumer. I bought my textbook for this class used, and what do you know--I open the thing, and a distinctive laundry detergent scent wafts up in my face. Martha offers a remedy for odiferous books, but it takes a month--not to mention two lidded garbage cans and kitty litter--to take effect. My class will be over and done with in another three weeks, so my better option is to suck it up. Mark my words, though, if I catch the culprit, retribution will be exacted.
In knitty news, I'm making this with this.
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