These pictures were supposed to be posted yesterday, for Eye Candy Friday. So how about you play along?




I have not been around here much because I have many burdens of the employment variety, the brain-suckage-ness of which has struck me dumb and dumber.

Tired and tired-er.

Bitch and bitchier.

And I really don't want to talk about it.

It's as though I've reached a saturation point, and the warm, moist substance that continues to fall on my head now goes pretty much unnoticed, except for the occasional smear I find inside my shoe.

And I really don't want to talk about that.

Itty Bitty Booty Committee
I have no idea why this picture is sideways.



Anyway.

This is all the knitting that has been accomplished around here over the last four weeks. Two tiny socks. And I only finished the last one today, so I could add a picture for this post.



The Specs...

Pattern: Ribbed sock pattern, made wee-wee tiny.
Yarn: Leftover brownish blend sock yarn.

Otherwise, I don't want to talk about it.

What Once Was Ingenue, is Now Old Again.
In the time I have spent on the knit, unknit and reknit of Ingenue, I could have bred, birthed and raised up my own baby sheep to adulthood, and then knit her and her mother a matching mother-daughter sweater set.

And what I have to show for all that, is not a lot.
And after that, I don't want to talk about it.

The New Face(book)of Friendship and the Spoiling of Time.
Yeah. I joined. Under pressure. I kinda don't get it, but that doesn't keep me from looking at my page several times an hour a day, checking and rechecking for FB's special purpose to be revealed.

Two things I am greatly enjoying about FB: 1) Smartassing via comments with my handful of friends. 2)I stalked out my best friend from middle school and we've been having fun catching up. She is one of the happiest "friendship" memories of my life (yeah, the whole 50 years of it) and the cadence and tone of her written communications feel like home to me. She lives near the cottage and we're hoping to meetup some time over the next few months.

I think a part of me was expecting FB to be like blogging, but more interactive. But it isn't, and never can be. And that's a good thing.

And about the potential (ha) time suck and triggers for latent, obsessive behavior patterns...I don't want to talk it.

Wrapper Up In a Butterfly Net
One thing I can say about blogging that I am appreciating at this moment is the freedom to create obscure subject headings.

Anyway. I certainly have more to talk about, but I am trying hard not to Barf the Brain, as I am wont to do in these increasingly infrequent posts.

So, g'day.

Labels: I Work Too, Knit Done, Pho-Ho', When Knitting You is Hurting Me

We're back from the cottage. We stayed until the ice melted.
Well. Almost.



I may share more about the ice watch, later this week. For now I'll just say that watching the ice melt is not as cushy a job as it sounds.

Random is as Random Does
1. ::Spoiler Alert:: While standing in the checkout lane at the grocery store yesterday, I read on the cover of a magazine that there is a huge surprise birthday party in the works, for Baby Suri.

My thinking: Isn't the first birthday a surprise all by itself?

2. The lady in front of me at the check-out placed all her items in the middle of the conveyor, leaving a nearly perfect four-inch margin on either side. And she didn't just set the stuff down. She organized and stacked it into neat little towers. Box on box, yogurt on yogurt. ::But The Cheese Stands Alone.::

I am proud to say that I successfully fought the urge to bowl her groceries, with can of soup. However, in keeping with that instinct to ensure and perpetuate a sense of balance in the universe, I splayed my grocery shit all over the grocery docking area. For good measure, opened and flung about a box of elbow macaroni.

3. I made that last part up.

4. ::Spoiled Spoiler Alert:: My sources just informed me that Baby Suri is actually turning two.

Who put the random back in random? I did. That's who. And don't ever forget it.

But I'm sure that Suri is still feeling the surprise from that first one. And I'm not just saying that. Because I'm an idiot.

5. So now we're calling her Toddler Suri?

6.Ever notice those people who neatly organize their groceries in the shopping cart? I do not understand this. It's not like the bagger boy keeps it all straight and that it doesn't all end up in the same place anyway; overcrowded in a grocery bag, on top of the bread.

7. I am not a neat grocery cart keeper. I am not a neat anything. Remember my messy purse? My car currently looks like the inside of my messy purse. Minus the tampons. As of yesterday. ::Gotta love finding a cache of feminine hygiene under a backseat, in an emergency. Although my husband might not agree, based on comments made after his last ski weekend with the guys. They took his car. That time it was plethora of pads.::

8. I finished a sock. The yarn is Opal something. The color is Rendez-Vous.



9. I have recently decided that I only want to knit socks. This creates a certain amount of cognitive and emotional tension seeing as how I have 2 skeins of sock yarn and a basement full of the other kind.

10. I started a new project. A sweater. It goes by the name Wicked. .

10. a. After casting on the 126 stitches, and knitting four rows in the round, I decided that the yarn and the pattern were not a good match. It looked assy.

10. b. I ripped it out.

10. c. I spent the better part of Wednesday looking through pattern books for a more appropriate pattern for the yarn. ::I MUST knit the yarn up as part of Mission Possible 2008. It's on the list.::

10. d. I kept coming back to Wicked.

10. e. In an IM Wednesday, I shared my despair with good IM listener Kristi, who told me that she loves the Wicked too and plans to knit it someday. Evidently that Kristi has a powerfully therapeutic way about her, cause next thing I know I'm typing "Thems fightin' words, bay-itch. Wicked is mine. You're goin'daaown."

10. f. I did a swatch of the neckline pattern on a smaller needle and with a minor adaptation of the pattern. It looked much less assy.

10 g. I cast on again, the 126 stitches in the round. At the end of the first round I was startled to find that I was two stitches short from being able to complete the last section of pattern.

10. h. I re-read the instructions and found, much to my oyster-fork-to-the-eye-inducing rage gentle chagrin, that I was supposed to cast on 128 stitches, not 126. I did not catch this error the first time around (and around) because it was not as obvious without the slight, self-imposed change in the pattern.

10. i. I ripped and re-cast.

10. j. I knit around and around. It looked good. It felt good. Life was good.

10. k. This morning I picked it up to take a picture for your blogging pleasure.

10. l. I found that my sweater is not only Wicked, but Twisted.



10. m.

11. I have most recently decided that I only want to knit socks.

Labels: When Knitting You is Hurting Me, Wild aRandoment

Why you hate?

Okay. I guess that’s not exactly fair.

The Knitty Kitty is, as of yet, not quite knitty or kitty.
I’m up to the eyeballs. ::And In more ways than one merely unknitty kitty.::

But I don’t have any eyeballs.
And I don’t have any embroidery thread.
And I don’t want to go to the store to buy something.
Or anything.
And I don’t want to stuff the damn thing.
Or sew its cute little paws to its little striped body.

Evidently I’m not a knitty kitty kind of gal.

And I ripped out that Cherry Hill scarf, again, and started knitting the yarn into a runner for my dining room table.

Seven inches in, I hated it.

So I ripped it again.

And then I looked at all my new yarn, and had a yearn.

But then I thought to finish Cakers’ Willam’s L’il Step-Bro sweater before she grows out of it.

But I can’t find the pattern alterations.
I know I wrote them.
On a piece of paper.
Like a scrap paper.
But not that scrappy.
Like in the bottom margin of a Dulaan hat pattern.

I was so careful to keep this precious paper, that I put it somewhere special. And secret.

Isn’t that special?
And it really shouldn’t be a problem just counting some stitches.
And writing it all down again.

But I don't want to count.
I don't want to write.
I want to sit.
And knit.

Like something I haven't done in over a week.

And still, that damn unknit kitty.

Giving me a mournful look.

With only his mind’s eye.

With only a mind that’s still only stuffing.
In a bag.

Now you’re getting this.
I know you are.

And don’t get me started on that.

And I’m ridiculously overwhelmed with work. And stuff.
And it is showing no signs of stopping.
And if my mind wasn't so bleary-eyed,I'd see something clever to say.

When I’m stressed, like this, I talk to myself.
A lot.

But I’ve reached a new level.
With this.

Now I talk to myself, about myself.

Behind my back.

Send booze.

And eyes.

And minds.

And stuff.

Labels: When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Put Your Camels to Bed.

You Think You Know. But You Have No Idea.
For the past 25+ years, I've been operating under the belief that "Heart of Glass" was my all-time favorite Blondie song. Two weeks ago, after driving around town listening to a newly found Once More Into the Bleach, I made a startling discovery: My favorite Blondie song is actually "French Kissing in the U.S.A."

I know.
I felt like such a fool.

I started knitting about 18 years ago. A friend first taught me how to knit a washcloth. Then she taught me how to read a pattern. And then I taught myself cables, intarsia and bobbles, in about a month's time. When I made my first sweater and came to the "picking up stitches" part, I asked my friend what to do and she said "do just what it says, pick up and knit." So that's what I did.

Fast forward--->A week ago, there abouts.

I was finished with the body of Sahara and was ready for the sleeves, starting with the picking up of the stitches, using the method started 18 years ago, as follows:

1) With right side facing, and knitting needle in hand, stab blindly into the fabric.

2) Take a sip of blush wine, being careful not to choke on ice cube.

3) Continue stabbing motion until a strand of yarn shows up on the needle, appearing as a new stitch.

4) Chug whatever is left of the wine-turned-to-water, from the glass.

5) Knit the recently stabbed stitch.

6) Sneak a shot of now-ex-husband's Wild Turkey.

7) Repeat steps 1-6, replacing shots of Wild Turkey for Blush Wine, sans ice, until required number of stitches have been picked up.

I think you get the idea.

The above steps, sans booze, applied to the armholes of Sahara, did not go well. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that the resulting product looked to be quite unwell. Queasy, even.

Of course, I kept knitting anyway. And blamed it on the yarn. Yeah, the yarn. It was, um, moody. Yeah. And all it needed was a good strong knit, including a well excecuted series of short rows.

Ha.

First, I blamed it on the short rows. But in my heart of hearts, I knew I did those right. This time.

So I googled.

And I learned.

And I wondered: How is it that I'm the last to know that when instructed to "pick up and knit" stitches,I am not to pick up an already created stitch, but instead create a new one, a la hooking the yarn through the tiny girl parts of the stitch? And that there is no actual knitting in "pick up and knit?"

Being a bit lazy stubborn in nature, I pretended this ill-be-picked up-thing was going to work out, up until the sleeve was almost done. Then I did a try-on. Then I ripped.

Then I "hooked" up some new stitches, all good and proper.

And then I somehow put the stitch markers for the short rows in the wrong places. This happened when we were in the car, heading north.

Since I had already successfully executed the short rows in the recently executed sleeve,this mistake was easily blamed on my husband, who was driving the car. On purpose. I know.

So I ripped back to the pick up line and started over.
This time I thought the sleeve was going well.
But when it was done, and I tried it on, I saw that it was poufy.



In the directions for the short rows, you are instructed to go 2 stitches past the last wrap, then wrap and turn. Initially I was a bit confused as to whether or not I should go 2 stitches and wrap the third or wrap the second stitch. In looking at previous short row instructions in the pattern, I strongly wondered if they were telling me to wrap and turn the second stitch. So I did.

Given the resulting pouf, I wondered if I had wondered wrong.

After a quick email exchange with Wendy ::Who has been very busy with photo shoots for her new book, so I was very surprised at and appreciative of her almost immediate response. She must get up very early.:: I found out that I actually did the short rows properly and she suggested that I do more decreases.

Which I did. And it was better, but still poufy. Even my husband said it was poufy, and he usually tells me that I am too critical of my knitting.

And now I'm torn.

I really wanted the capped sleeves. But all of a sudden, I'm way over this little desert voyage on the Sahara.

I'm tired of knitting it.
I'm tired of ripping it.
I'm tired of thinking about it.
I'm tired of writing about it.

I got sand in my 'gina and my camel toes are begging for a cool dip.

Even though I don't exactly know what went wrong ::Maybe I have small armpits?::, if I were to try the capped sleeve again, I might reduce the frequency of the short row wraps, and maybe wrap on the third stitch after all. Or cast on for a smaller size sleeve. In a look around blogland, I saw that some finished Saharas had the pouf and some didn't. So yeah, that was helpful.

On the other hand, er, arm, a completed, sleeveless Sahara is just a rip, two pick-up lines and a lacey border away.

And it doesn't help that I'm being taunted by this:



The yarn store near the cottage had 25% off all Rowan. So you know, I had to. ::I also learned that Rowan was bought out by Coats and Clark. I know. What would a couple of 200 year-old explorers want with a yarn company?::

I'm kind of tired of cardigans, so I think I'll do that pattern as a pullover. And yes, I realize there is a stockinette pullover with that trim in the pattern book, but I want the texture of the cardie, in a pullover.

All of a sudden I can't stand the sound of my typing voice. So I'm off for a cuppa and a rippa and to enjoy the sights and sounds of this:



Umm..that would be rain.
That's okay. I didn't recognize it at first, either.

p.s. Thanks for the props on the glasses. I wore reading glasses from 4th grade through my thirties. My closeup vision is now perfect, while my distance is deteriorating a little every year. Suckage.

Labels: Bag-O-Hair, Knit In Progress, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Not Necessarily in That Order.

The Knuttins


The weekend with the family was fab. The weather was perfect and the only plumbing-related near-catastrophe was a backed-up sink from my having stuffed too many egg shells into the garbage disposal.

But if one is going to exercise one's unalienable right to be a total plumbtard, there's no better time than when surrounded by the loving support of family.

My 76 Year Old Mother: I never would've put all those shells down the disposal.

Me: So where were you 20 minutes ago?

My Mother: What?

Me: I also stuffed a paper plate down there.

My Mother: You did what?

Me: And an avacado. And your camera case. And a tampon. And an ovary.

My Mother: Over where?

If you can't beat 'em, mess with 'em.

As The Egg Turns
We are now home from the cottage. Up until late Tuesday, Cabana was still awaiting further orders on his job, so we stayed at the cottage until late Wednesday. It was actually a good time to leave, as it was getting too hot for even being at the lake. ::Yes, there is such a thing. Humidity,heat,sand and no-AC are the classic ingredients for a motive-for-murder cocktail. And the water temp had reached 84 degrees.::

Boys With Fine Asses Like Girls Who Wear Glasses.
I got new glasses. I really, really like them. As in, I really, really keep going to the mirror to really, really take another look. My husband really, really likes them too, and keeps really telling me so.





Except for weekend mornings or evenings after work, I wear contacts, mostly for cosmetic reasons. I'm now rethinking that habit. And can't help but wonder if I've reached a new level of old, to recognize that I look better in glasses than without. And most amazing of all, I could give a waxed ass.

The Saga of the Saharried Knitter
To be continued....

But only after this sneak preview.
Of a sleeve.
About to meet its maker.



Actually, we've already met.
Twice.
But more on that later.*

Straight From the Sole
En route to the cottage, I usually take my potty breaks at Burger King. While the B.K. loos in northern Michigan are not luxurious by a log shot, they are usually clean and smell mildly pretty.

On this last trip we stopped at McDonalds because Cabana wanted their coffee, but not near as much as I wanted to wipe my ass with this:



Yep. That's toilet paper from McDonald's.

When it's just dangling off the roll, it appears to be of normal width, if not thickness. ::The thickness is Casper the Ghost-like.:: However, when you give it a friendly tug, it turns to that. And yes, I actually stole a wisp of toilet paper for blog fodder.

I wonder what gauge it gives?

*I had meant to give a full update on Sahara in this post, but the post had already grown longer than Great Aunt Nee-Nee's left boob. Besides, it can't hurt to have a post in a back pocket, along the lines of Aunt Nee-Nee's right boob. And I'm tired.::

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Cottage, Tree From Where I Fell, When Knitting You is Hurting Me, With Grace My Ass

Absquatuknitting
I have not yet blocked Ariann. And/or my boobs. I don't know where my life goes these days. I do know that it hasn't gone blocking.

A long, long time ago, I pledged five items to the very worthwhile Dulaan Project over at Mossy Cottage.

I'm not sure when I made this pledge, but I do recall thinking the July 1 deadline seemed like months away. Okay, maybe it was months away. But it seemed like months away, using Football Standard Time.* And then I kind of absquatulated from thinking of it again, until a couple of weeks ago.

I also kind of absquatulated from my duties to post this button on my sidebar.



I think a good place for the button on my sidebar would be where the Run-A-Go-Go button is. You know, for the event that expired April 1?

::Sidenote to Ryan: I've been trying to make myself feel better by reminding me that I'm a pretty small frog in this international knit pond and therefore am taking comfort in the knowledge that you've been getting lots of big-ass press from the big-ass frogs, representing all time zones, real or imaginary*.::

Most important is that I will deliver.
That is the most important thing. Right?

My first Dulaan item is this children's sweater from Jil Eaton's Minnies.



I chose this pattern because it matched the yarn I wanted to use ::Gjestal:: and it seemed like something I could whip out real easy.

Rip out real easy is more like it.

I can't even begin to explain how it was that I could not follow this simple, 10 stitch chart. You'd think I'd figure it out by looking at it. Me too.

Actually, it was that confidence of my ability to "play it by eye" that tripped me up in the first place. I actually know exactly what happened, but it's too embarassing to say. Yes. There are some things that are too embarrassing for me to share here. Plus, if I tell the whole story, I fear that people will suspect I am too stupid to be entrusted with the care of a five year-old child, and call protective services.

If I tell the whole story, some of you might determine that I am too stupid to live, and start a knitblog fundraiser to get me a well-deserved mercy killing. ::Ke*vork*ian is my statemate and he used to offer intrastate discounts...::

I finally wrote the damn chart out, row by row. By the time I cast off for the back, I was doing pretty well without chart or row-by-row instructions. But when I started the front, I started up the same play-it-by-eye mistakes.

Visitation Absquatulation
I'm pitifully behind in email correspondence and blog visitations and comments and facial hair maintenance. ::Last week I found a pube growing out of my nose. Not my nostril. The top of my nose. Age is a mother plucker.::

I have three days left of work before summer hiatus. I'm not really all that excited because The Three Days of What Lies Ahead is going to be the equivalent of being behind in the 4th quarter of a championship football game in that: 1) I'll be intently focused on goals 2) Time will feel like it's passing slowly but, 3) I'll also know the constant sensation of running out of time. 4) There will be lots of interference. 5) When it's all over, I'm going to smell real bad.

*Football Standard Time: You know how your husband/boyfriend/cable guy says he'll be ready to leave/eat/install cable line as soon as the game is over? And then you ask, "How long?" And he says something like "There's just 12 minutes left in the last quarter?" And 30 minutes later you ask "How much longer?" only to learn that there are still 9 minutes left? That, my friends, is Football Standard Time.

Labels: Bad Sports Metaphors, Charity Knits, I Work Too, Knit In Progress, Now You're Whining, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Andy, Did You Hear About This One?
March, 2001. We were driving home from a family gathering, listening to an R.E.M. CD, while four-month old Cakers slept in the back seat. When Man on the Moon came on, Cakers immediately woke up and started crooning, like only a four-month-old can do, with lips formed in a perfect O, and that delightful scowl of concentration. She sang through the entire song, and when it was over, fell right back to sleep.

And then, from no where, I had a vision of my daughter, several years down the road. And it went something like this:



In my vision, the skirt was culottes, the Crocs were pointy-toed granny boots and The Cakers' hair was painted several shades of Seared Retina. But I swear, those were the tights. Striped, and just barely matching anything else in the ensemble, minus the hair.

After receiving the visual anointing, I had a strong sense of rightness about this child, followed by a brief wave of nausea, then goose bumps. I loved Andy Kaufman, although I can't claim to have ever understood his genius. I have a feeling my own Miss Thang will be leading me down similar paths of enlightenment, whilst performing high wire feats on the last of my aging, decrepit nerves.

And for the record, I didn't buy her the tights. They were a gift from a relative who never heard about my vision of Cakers while goofing with Andy and Elvis.

Why yes, those are moose on the t-shirt. And she did wear the outfit to school. We are pretty much hands-off when it comes to letting the girl pick her outfits, as long as bits and pieces aren't showing anywhere.

A little while later she was running around the neighborhood with this addition:



I'm thinking maybe I'm the one who should be wearing the life jacket. For the next 13 years.

If You Believe, There's Nothing up my Sleeve
Then nothing is cool.



Parts are joined.
Let no woman rip asunder.

This sweater is one p.b. hair from being an unhappy memory.

In relation to the above statement, following are sub topics on the matter, too sore to be discussed at this time:

1) One sweater. Three buttonholes. By three different fathers. Baby Daddy number three had a genetic predisposition for being inoperably useless.

::Have you ever tried unknitting an improperly created button hole? I have. The buttonhole in question will join Twinkies, cockroaches and stories about Anna Nicole Smith, in post-apocalypse infamy.::

2) I think Ariann is going to be too small. I admit to shooting for a closer fitting size, because the last two sweaters I knit for myself ended up being a little big through the chest and therefore kinda frumpy. For Ariann, my stitches were a little bigger than the required gauge, which I hoped would give my posse and me some psychological jiggle room.

3) I'm going to proceed with the sweater as though none of these words were ever written and read or uttered and responded to at the salad bar. ::Did you know that the voice of tapioca sounds just like Kyra Sedgwick?:: Besides, this sweater cannot be ripped. ::See item 1) regarding buttonholes and cockroaches.::

Hearts and Crafts

My current struggles with Ariann have commandeered all creative energies. The Travails of the Tell Tale Heart will be continued at a later date. Okay, I've been spending a little too much time at the Heart Candy site.

I'm knitting a doomed sweater. Have some heart.

Labels: Deep Shit, My Daughter Scares Me, The Heart of Man, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

1) Had a great Mother's Day. Cabana pulled together a fine spread of t-bones on the grill and aspergrass and I hardly had to do a thing but sit and grin. Okay, I helped a little by soaking the asparagus real good, because I happent to think that sand belongs between butt cheeks and 'ginas, and not the in the folds of a favorite veggie.

2) Got lots done on my second Ariann sleeve, which started out looking good but is now a perfectly puckered twin to the first sleeve. This sleeve in the round stuff is kind of painful. It's like singing the camp song Found a Peanut. It starts out fun and energetic, but by the time you "died anyway" you're ready to grab the bottle opener and head for the 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.

3) Cakers scored three goals at the soccer game on Saturday. She was thrilled on the inside, of course, but acted all shy and stuff on the outside. While she definitely got her game on, she also benefited from a little help from the opposing team's goalie, who managed to tie himself to the goal net with the string of his shorts, then couldn't get it undone. It was only after our team scored another goal and the poor kid brought the net down on himself while defending his post, he was set free by his father. Who was not happy.

Tie game?

4) At home, after the game, Cakers did what any 5 year-old would do on a beautiful Saturday afternoon: Sit atop a pile of wood chips, on a Talbots dress bag.



5) I bought some yarn. It's Lavold's Cotton Patine in a purply color. I bought it online, on sale, but can't remember where and for now, I don't care. It's headed to the Sahara. That is, if I can remember the password to open the pdf file.

I tried to get a clear shot in the outdoor light, but the Ched was having none of it.



6) Speaking of Cheddar, we had a health scare with him last week. It started out as a little limp but when he started walking like a drunken Cheesehead ::Is that redundant?:: we took him to the vet. My first and most serious fear was that he had cancer, which the vet was worried about herself, until the x-rays came back. Seems our boy has really bad arthritis, which is better than cancer, but can be debilitating.

The vet put him on a medication that seems to be helping, but there are some health risks with it, which I should NOT have looked up on the internet. But I did. Ahem. To me, the risk is worth it because if we didn't treat this as aggressively as possible, we'd be facing a quality of life decision about now. Labs gotta walk.

He definitely is feeling better, even though first thing in the morning he's still gimpy and his back legs tend to wind around each other, like a twist tie. The weird thing is, aside from the limping he showed no other signs of being uncomfortable or otherwise "pouty" as labs are wont, when feeling wonky.

7) Gotta go.
Have a Monday, everyone.

Labels: Fur, My Daughter Scares Me, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

I have a cousin, several years my elder, who was twice widowed by the time she was 30. Both deaths were accidents and occurred on the job. Husband number one drowned while working on a bridge and number two was electrocuted.

I was still in college when the second tragedy struck. At the risk of sounding cold-hearted, I was largely unaffected by these family tragedies, in that my cousin and I were not close. In fact, I think the longest conversation we ever had was at Uncle P00t’s pre-mortum funeral, a couple years back, ::Uncle P is still kicking, btw:: when I said to her “I hear you’re a soshul werker.” And she said “Yep.” And I said “Me too”. And she said “That’s great!” and then there was an awkward silence and averted eye contact and then I walked away.

Anyway.

Like most of the kin on that side of the family, Cousin Annabelle has blackish-brown hair, and like many girls in the 70's, she wore it long and straight. The day after her second husband died, she went to the beauty salon and had her long, straight blackish-brown hair cut short, permed into tiny curls and dyed platinum. Just in time for the first night's viewing at the funeral home.

When I find myself rolling around in fields of woe and self-pity, I sometimes think of Cousin Annabelle, showing up at the funeral home in her freshly-cropped, frizzy, platinum ‘do; her scalp still burning from the process.

And then I think of her friends and family members, struggling to come up with the exactly right thing to say to this beautiful young bride, with the mind-boggling bad luck. I imagine these people rehearsing aloud, their selected lines of condolence, on the ride to the funeral home. And I can’t help but smile, when I picture them stricken speechless, at the sight of her.

I don’t know exactly why Annabelle did what she did. But I do know that shock and grief are notorious logic benders. I also know that the brain, in its most primitive mode, is a wickedly genius survivalist.

Maybe she was psychotic with grief, when she made the hair appointment.

Or maybe she was crazy like a fox.

Maybe she refused to take this battery of hell, lying down. Or at least lying down as a brunette.

Maybe she thought blondes have less pain.

Maybe she wasn’t ready to share her despair.

Maybe she wanted people to wonder about her hair, instead of the horror.

Or maybe she just wanted people to look at her hair. Period.

Because how could the first thing out of anybody’s mouth be anything but: “Your hair...you've changed your hair.”

Wherein She Tried Her Hand as a Quick Change Artist
An hour before we left for the cardiologist appointment last Monday, I was scared. While a part of me knew we were riding a wave of internet-induced, psychological hysteria, another part of me that knew full well that bad shit happens as easily as the good. And the bad shit is just a phone call away. Or an appointment away. Or a police-officer-ringing-the-doorbell-at-2-a.m. away.

In the event it would be a long wait for any good/bad news at the doctor's office, I packed up a knitting package for butt-ugly Ariann sleeve #1. Then, about 15 minutes before we were supposed to leave, in a flurry of non-knitting-related panic, I determined that the nearly done sleeve was too ugly to live, and ripped it back to within two inches of its life. And instead of worrying about what could lie ahead, I spent the ride to the appointment picking up live, lacy stitches on the freshly ripped sleeve.

I have mentioned this before, that I hadn't been happy with that sleeve for a long time. Therefore, from a logical standpoint, the decision to rip was a sound one, if not a tad impulsive. Subconsciously, I was probably thinking that if later in the day, some cardiologist hands me my heart on a platter, I will not receive this platter with a less than perfect piece of knittery in my lap.

Doctor: I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news….”

Me: I just ripped this sleeve out this morning. Look how far I’ve gotten already. I’m still having problems with that SSK stitch, though. Does this look wonky to you?

As you now know, the news on my husband was good.

Unfortunately, not so much for the second first sleeve.



It looks like it has a knit-in elbow bend. Maybe I'm a genius after all.
But ya know, bad knitting is kind of like a bad hair cut.
You can always grow it back.

Thursday's Sky. Friday's Eye
Candy

Labels: Deep Shit, The Heart of Man, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Hat's a Wrap



You may recall my plan to cleanse my knitting psyche while reducing yarn stash, by knitting hats for charity through the end of January. Those are the last two of my cache total of six hats.

I just love The Player. Not only does it produce an upbeat product, the larger stripe blocks create the cognitive illusion of quick knitting. Okay, it is a quick knit anyway, but it feels even quicker with the stripes.

Pattern: Bonne Marie's The Player
Yarn: Encore worsted, two strands held together.

I used a size 10 needle instead of a 10.5 because, well, it was the needle sitting closest to me. On the multi-color stripe number I added stitches and length to fit a larger noggin.

The hats are going to a local homeless shelter. We're currently under a winter storm warning and windchills over the next two days are dipping below the zip.

How Now, Knit Cow?
I had hoped the knitting of the hats would open my dried pea brain to the richly reconstituting forces of the knitting universe, whereby the path to my elusive happy knitting grounds would be illuminated.

Evidently the universal muses in question have checked themselves into a co-dependency rehab program and I've been told to figure it out on my own. So I resigned myself to the pain of my reality: I'm in a boner fried knitting funk.

Before starting anything new, I have resolved to finish my Polar. As of last night, I am up to the arm pits on the front piece. I was planning on adapting the collar to be more of a turtle and less of a cowl.



At this time, however, I continue to possess a strong urge for math-free complication-free knitting, so have decided to go with a collar like this:



I guess you can't see it well, but it's like a boat-neck turtle. I'm sure there's a real name for it, but apparently I'm also in complication-free blogging mode and not inclined to look it up. The collar is knit as part of the sweater front and back, and sewn together at the sides.

Polar is an easy knit sweater and goes fast, but I'm bored out of my ever-lovin' with it and am currently looking forward for some signs-of-spring knitting.

Arianne is my first choice in that department, but I've yet to find some yarn for the project. You may recall that one of my intendments for 2007 is to knit at least one garment in the yarn suggested by the pattern designer, Arianne was also my selection for that honor.

Last weekend there was a huge sale at a local yarn store ::60% off all yarn for part of the day:: but during a pre-sale recon flight, I found they didn't have enough of my desired brands and/or colors.

With a focus on reducing my stash this year, I'm wasn't going to settle for sale-available-only yarn, so I skipped the sale altogether. Besides, this particular yarn store drives me crazy with how they organize, and it's small and I wasn't inclined to be fighting the crowds for yarn I neither want or need, because it's on sale.

I was disappointed that I wasn't going to have some New-Project yarn to motivate me through Polar, but I'll survive. I was able I to fondle some of Bonne Marie's recommended yarns for Arianne. After feeling some up and feeling some down and plucking a couple from my velcro cuffs, the hands-down winner was Berroco Cotton Twist in Sea Glass. But they only had two skeins of it at the yarn store, so I'm looking elsewhere.

All that being said, I think my first post-Polar project is going to be the baby Williamsbro for Cakers, from Cornelia Tuttle.



This sweater will not be made up in the required Noro yarn, but the lovely and washable and practically Cakers-proof Encore, instead.

Or maybe I'll just take all my knitting and stuff it in a bag and lock it in a closet and take up lounge singing.

Got Runs?

I'm walking some ass, my peeps.




Fur Goodness Sakes



Now I gotta see a weatherman about a snow day.

Labels: Charity Knits, Fur, Runagogo, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Me and Knitting have had a recent parting of the mind and are currently emotionally estranged. Knitting, being the sweet and tender soul she is, blamed herself right off the hat.
Absolutely not, I said. It's me. I've changed. I lost my path. You deserve better, and I'd understand completely if you decided to move on.

But sweet, charitable Knitting agreed to stick it out through this period of Turds und Wang*, with only two stipulations: 1) The relationship will be on a platonic basis for awhile, defined as "No Addi turbos or high end yarns." ::Snort. As if...:: 2) No more speaky German.

*It's a German thing, meaning a period of turbulence or pre-menstrual psychosis.

What's all the rest of that mean?

Well, off the top of my head, it means hats. Lotsa hats.




Okay. Just four hats.

The top hat, is Bonne Marie's ChicHat pattern, in two strands of Encore.

The green and pink number is also in Encore and the pattern from Last Minute Gifts. And here's a surprise: I think there is a mistake in the pattern. I shoulda caught it. But I didn't. I made the children's size and it calls for a cast on of 72 stitches, in a worsted weight. They must grow 'em large in the Land of Last Minute Gifts. I just hope I can find an adult recipient of willing to wear green and pink in the same hat.

There is supposed to be a pom-pon on top of the green/pink one too. But there isn't. When I was a kid, I could never make the pom-pon. When ever I tried to make a pom-pon, it always turned out looking like an armless yarn doll.

Being an all grown woman ::and still growing! Yeah for me!::, I kind of thought I could figure out the pom-pon. But no. It was actually looking pretty good, up until it exploded.

Heh. I always wanted to be on the Pom-Bomb squad.

Hat number 3 is Bonne Marie's H2O in some yarn my mom gave me. I lost the labels, but I think it was Jiggle something, like Jack and Jiggle, or Jiggly With It.

Hat number 4 is Encore again, and this pattern

And this little short-rowed bane of my current knitxistence is Knitty's Tychus. ::Is it just me, or does that sound like a nasty?::



It's a real fun knit and should be pretty easy. The yarn is Encore, as should be the name of the pattern, seeing as how I've knit, ripped and knit again, the same 7 rows. For some reason, I just can't count straight for this. And as I look at this picture, I see that I'm going to have to do it again. Again.

So whazzup widdall da hatz?

I dunno. I suddenly was tired of thinking about big knitting. My current sweater project (Polar) is almost to a point where I'm I need to do some mathematical calculations to get the neckline/collar I desire. It's not a big deal, really. But it seemed so. A big deal.

And that's when I realized that I had a strong need for my a kinder, gentler, less calculating knitting. I had a vision of knitting being smooth and graceful, like two lovers running through a field of daisies, or a T.V. commercial for self-heating K-Y gel.

I want my knitting to be spontaneous and easy. I want to sit in my favorite spot and have it drop out of the ceiling, like an oxygen mask on a jet plane.

I want my knitting to be less thinky. And more fun, with dignity.

So I decided to shake off the ennui and cleanse my mental knit palette with some something easy, like hats for charity. Because I already had a bunch of yarn out for the last horizontal striped scarf, I figured the transition to hats would be astro-glide smooth.

But first I had to leaf through a gazillion books and loose sheets, in search of the right patterns. After I found the patterns, I needed the proper needles. So I opened my needle drawer, to face this:



All of a sudden, knitting hats felt about as easy as catching dust bunnies with a blow dryer.

But I persevered. For charity.
This perseveration for charity will continue through the end of the month.

And now that I have you bored to tears and totally convinced this should never be a blog that offers All Knitting All the Time , and stick to making shit up and playing with my food, I bid thee adieu.

Labels: Charity Knits, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

If when you die you get a choice between pie heaven and regular heaven, choose pie heaven. It might be a trick, but if not, mmmboy. -Jack Handey

In January, I started the ABC-along with A for Acceptance. Of my Ass. ::Review here. If you're feeling lazy, here's a brief recap: I was not handling well, my mid-life love handles and ASSociated features. While living in a van down by denial, I was pretending my ass was the same as it ever was and dressed it accordingly. With poor results. Under the influence of newfound levels of Acceptance, I vowed to be the bigger woman and buy my new body some new clothes that actually fit.::

Fast forward some months. I said I loved me, but I lied. Okay, I didn't lie, exactly. I hedged. I did take myself shopping, but the plan to find an updated, tucked-in image, got all tucked up.

While I didn't find the look I was looking for, I did find:

1) The miracle of Cellulight. You know,that special lighting in department store dressing rooms that awashes every dimpled ripple in a unique hue known as Dead Fish Underbelly.

2) That before I could tuck in a blouse, I had to tuck in the rolls of me underneath, which adds inches to the waistline waist area, and is a tad uncomfortable.

3) There are no Kleenex in dressing rooms.

4) There should be Kleenex in dressing rooms.

5) There is no booze in dressing rooms.

6) There should be booze in dressing rooms.

So,my Newly Accepted Big Ass Wardrobe ended up being three Calvin Klein ribbed turtleneck sweaters from Costco, in maroon, black and cream. ::Shut up. I hearted these garments all winter. They fit like a dream and looked great with the Gloria Vanderbilt elastic waist khakis, also courtesy of Costco.::

In March I ordered a cache of spring dresses from a favorite catalog, in what I presumed to be the appropriately larger dress size. A size, mind you, that I had never worn before. This larger dress size thing was kind of painful at first, but then I was okay with it. Because I was all about the Acceptance and shit.

Well, out of the five dresses I ordered,four were too small. That's right. The dresses I ordered in a size larger than the largest I had ever grown, were too small. The one dress that did fit was a black tanky sheathy thing, made out of that heavy spandex fabric that looks good on everyone.

Acceptance my ass. The bitch is going down.

I started to watch what I eat and exercise more. The watching the eating was not a huge adjustment, because during the school year, I really eat pretty well. I eat breakfast and usually a healthy lunch, with a snack in between. And almost always a healthy dinner, with lots of veggies.

I then upped my 30 minutes per day on the elliptical to 40 and resumed my pilates workout. Several weeks later, I hopped on the scale. Nothing new.

A few more weeks pass. Same hop. Same result.

Says my supportive husband: "Just think how big you'd be by now if you weren't doing anything?" Blink.

One day at lunch, a friend tells me that her personal trainer told her that women our age need to do at least 50 minutes of cardio at a time, to get into our fat stores. Oh.

So I upped my elliptical to 50 minutes. Nothing.

Then another friend told me that she heard the elliptical is not a good workout for women our age because we work it too hard and when we work it too hard for too long periods of time, our brain thinks we're going to overburn our fat stores so it slows down our metabolism. Oh.

So I started walking. 50 minutes a day, 4-5 times a week. Nothing.

In late May, I upped my walking time to 1 hour and 15 minutes, 4-5 times a week. Nothing. By the end of July, still nothing.

So, a few weeks ago, I'm talking to yet another friend about my frustations and she says that her personal trainer said that walking is a good supplemental activity and better than sitting on the couch, but it has very few fat burning or cardio benefits, unless you're speedwalking. Oh. That. Bitch.

When did the simple math of calories burned vs. calories earned get so damn complicated? If you don't eat enough, your brain thinks you're starving, so it slows down your body's metabolism. If you don't work out hard enough, your brain thinks you've got a bad attitude and punishes you by only burning the light and fluffy calories. If you work out too hard and for too long, your brain thinks you're fixin' to wander the desert for the next 300 years, so shuts down the metabolism. And now I learn that merely walking an hour a day, is not only a waste of time, but puts unnecessary wear and tear on the taxpayers sidewalk.

Of course, I tried the speedwalking. For two blocks. I stopped because I was afraid that my brain was going to be so embarrassed for me that it would tell my body to speedwalk me into 5 o'clock traffic.

Where am I going with all this? I'm kind of confused myself, but I think a segue is strolling the parkway.

Giving up on Futility
Remember the only dress from the batch I bought that fit? That dress is very important to me. Not only is it one of about three things in my closet that actually fits, it is also a symbol of hope. Hope that the world can be a fair, sensible place, even if 4 out of 5 dresses don't agree.

The recently DeCeCeased CeCe was supposed to be a companion garment to that dress, for fall. It was to serve as a little fashion coupe de grace for the terminally enlarging, on a deadline. So her failure to thrive was a double wham slam on at least a couple of my personal agendas.

But the only thing I'm giving up on at this point is futility. Before the Yarnball-Formerly-Known-as-CeCe had cooled in the bag, I had purchased two new cardie patterns on-line, neither of which worked out.

Next, I scoured through some old magazines and books and came across the ol'Cafe Cardigan from a 2005 Cast-on. I always loved that pattern and was real excited when the Sierra gave me perfect gauge.



After some email consulting with Cafe Cardie pioneer Bron, it was gonna be a go. And then it wasn't. It was the fabric issue again. After casting on and knitting a couple inches on the back, I realized it wasn't the fabric that the pattern was looking for, again. It's weird how sometimes you can't tell about the fabric until you get the whole thing going.

Then I happened upon this ol' fave from a Mission Falls pattern book. The Trudie Cardigan.



A quick little swatch with ruffled embellishment, found me singing the Got-Gauge-and-Fabric-Hallelujah chorus.



::I've actually got about 4 inches done on the back of the sweater, but Blogger wouldn't let me...well...you know. I should have known better, really. It is, after all, a day on Earth.::

As of this morning, according to my scale I have suddenly lost seven pounds. ::Same scale that I heretofore believed only registered gains and losses in 10 pound intervals::

Unfortunately I haven't noticed any changes in how my clothes fit, except maybe the back strap of my bra is a bit looser. And I guess my socks are feeling kind of baggy around the ankle. And that notorious little problem area behind the knee ::knee elbow?:: is looking pretty good, after all.

I don't know how this happened so quickly. Maybe my brain told my body that stupid is as stupid does and that I got gauge and fabric after all, and to throw me a fucking bone?

Or maybe my brain told the bod that we are in desperate need of a little insurance, vis-a-vis documentable encourgement, so I won't pull that speedwalking stunt again. Otherwise, somebody's really gonna get hurt.

Either way, giving up on futility works for me.

Labels: When Knitting You is Hurting Me, With Grace My Ass

We decided to return a day earlier from the cottage than originally planned. Left behind were my in-laws, who this morning called to report that the 2nd story of the cottage was registering 100 degrees. At least ::thermometer only went to 100::. When it's this hot at the lake, you're in a constant state of mildew and it was definitely time for the cozy comforts of home refrigeration.

I did finish my Ribby Shell. I love both the pattern and the fit. The yarn: Not so much. My initial impression from the mirror was not that bad, although the fabric was kind of heavy. It wasn't until I previewed the 16 fugzillion model shots that I realized that boobs and pink sherbet-y swirls don't go so well.

::16 fugzillion is a butt load of ugly pixel. So ugly, in fact, I was forced to take to the drink, mid-photo-stream. And this is the best shot, but only after lopping off my head.::



In fact, based on my review of the pictures, Boobs + Swirls = Impression of One Hung Low. Which, by the way, is an entirely wrong impression. My body may be falling to hell in a handbasket, but I'm happy to report that the girl things are falling at an equal rate, in perfect symmetry.

Behind the lens, the photographer was so frightened by the psychodelic view of his lovely bride askew, he was compelled to shift his aim to more pleasing appendages. Much to Cheddar's et. al. apparent relief.



::It really does look better in real life, although the ribbing came out a little tight and I'm frequenty pulling down the muffin top.::

Pattern: Bonne Marie's Ribby Shell. Size 37.
Yarn: Plymouth Sunsette(Print version).
Issues: The pattern was a fun, interesting knit and very well written. I wasn't crazy about my yarn choice and resulting fabric. Next time I might try it inside out. I kind of like the other side of the rib.

In Our Next Episode of How Marcy Got Her Effing O Back

Now you CeCe it.



Now you don't.



Don't miss it.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Cottage, Knit Done, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

When a man is tired of pants, he is tired of life; for there is in pants all that life can afford.-A Webpage Devoted to Putting Pants on Famous Quotations*

I have finally panted my way across the the finish line in the one-woman race against logic. Yes, the 4-6 Hour pants project from Last-Minute Knitted Grifts is done. I didn't keep track of how many hours it took me to finish (who does that??). I do know that I cast on three weeks ago and didn't knit every day in that time frame. I figure I have at least 20 hours invested in the project.

Anyway, this is a good news story for you and for me. The good news for you is that after this post, you will waist no time further reading my crotchety tirades on the topic. The good news for me is that my family can now safely return home. I've missed them.

All that being said, before we get the final product, I'm gonna need to bitch just a little more. ::Remember, I said "after this post, you will waist no time further ..."::

The Finish Whine
First of all, I need to say that this is my maiden voyage in trying to explain a process through captioned photos. Secondly, I need to say that I am a person who is easily confused. In other words, my attempt did not go well.

The directions for finishing the waistband include the use of live stitches still on the needle, being joined to purl bumps (I keep wanting to call them Britney Bumps), previously marked with scrap yarn.

The following series of photos illustrate the process as described in the book. In the first picture I am supposed to slip one stitch off the knitting needle with a sewing needle which has been armed with a length of yarn that is three times the circumference of the waistband, which came out to 60 inches. Of yarn. Threaded through a sewing needle.

After I slip the stitch onto the sewing needle, I'm supposed to pick up the first bump, and join them together by pulling the 60 inches of thread through the stitch and the bump, all while holding the waistband down.











Once the stitch and the bump become one lump, you are supposed to pull the scrap yarn from the bump. For the record, I hadn't gotten that far in the above photo series.

Here's the boggler: That was just one stitch, which means there were 115 more stitches to go. Each requiring the same exact treatment, to be commenced after I cleared up the rat's nest left from the first one.

That's when I had an epiphany: This is some fucked-up repugnant shit.

So, after detangling the quagmire, I wrestled the once live and now dead stitch from Britney's first Bump, revived it with some mouth to mouth (which may have included a bit of Vanilla-Rum-and-Vernors-tainted drool, and put it back on the knitting needle.

Then I did something really crazy. I cast off all the stitches.

Here they are, being sewn to The Bumps. Quick and easy.



Here's a close-up of the final results. Ain't she purty?:



Now the burning question: What were the designers of this pattern thinking? Is the field of knit pattern design becoming the new playground for sick fucks who enjoy toying with the trusting knitter's sanity?

Now, the second burning question: How many of the 4-6 hours were assigned to this task?

I'm tellin' ya, if I would have had to endure 115 more experiences like I had with the first stitch, somebody woulda died.

And honestly, by this point in the post I had hoped to have some clever and witty observations. But I'm so over this pattern. And the topic. And I'm tired and had a bad work week past, and have a worse one coming. So with that, I introduce to you, the final product:



Oh Pants, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, in the howling storm Has found out thy seams Of crimson joy. And with his dark secret love, does thy thread destroy. -Same Website

*I had no idea there is an internet subculture devoted to replacing key words in quotations with the word "pants." The quotes at the above-linked website are pretty stupid at first glance, but by the time I finished the list, I was giggling through tears. Okay, maybe that was the stress crying. I had a bad day at work on Friday. I can't write about it, of course. And there's probably more waiting for me tomorrow. So you go hug somebody. I got a knitting book to burn.

Labels: When Knitting You is Hurting Me