Invective, n.

You can't hear it, but I have been swearing my head off all evening, ever since I found a chewed portion of a partially finished mitten and the ravaged skein of yarn that accompanied it. Thrummed mitten, we hardly knew ye.

Naturally, I slightly panicked and began pulling all my yarn out from under-bed storage and inspecting it closely, particularly the SMOOSHY! and the Wollmeise and the Two Windows. I moved the bed and vacuumed (at 10:30 p.m., you can imagine that I'm probably not too popular with the neighbors at the moment) and promptly began bagging up yarn that was suspect into giant Ziploc bags. If I had the means, I'd toss them in a freezer, but my roommate (who puts up with a lot when it comes to the yarn) would probably not be too amused if our supply of Lean Cuisines and No-Pudge ice cream bars was allowed to defrost in favor of my wool collection.

Upon further research, I have determined that I have carpet beetles, not clothes moths. This is not entirely reassuring. I also do not think I have an infestation. The damage was confined to yarn that was not in any sort of container, bag or rubbermaid bin, and everything that was stored near the damaged yarn lives in large Ziplocs within rubbermaid bins surrounded by cedar blocks. I think the yarn in the closet is safe, merely because I don't open those bins as frequently as I do the bins under the bed. Most of that yarn is also stored in plastic bags, and if it wasn't, it is now.

Tomorrow (or maybe Wednesday — it depends on how tired I am after I get up at the ass-crack of dawn to go vote) I will be completely rearranging my bedroom furniture, vacuuming and spraying some sort of insecticide. When it finally gets cold enough to freeze, all the yarn will be taking a trip out to the trunk of my car for a few days.

I need a stiff drink.