knit and tonic

On the Spinning (and Not the Kind that Makes Yarn)

As the world turns on its axis, so does my yarn. My yarn, all the projects that have been left unfinished, skeins of wool meant for this or that, lists of design ideas, deadlines, they turn too, in a rash-riddled clump of fiber and dreams, faster and faster and faster.

For awhile, I can keep up with the pace of it all. But a day always comes when I get caught up in the swarm and end up in the epicenter, the eye of the storm, but in a guilt-ridden vortex of inactivity.

I'm stuck.

And I would love, like the multitude of bloggers, to slap a button on my front page that declares I will not knit anything new no matter what until all my UFO's are completed.  Thing is, I just hate making promises I will never, ever be able keep. So, for now, I am "Yarn Diet" Button free.

To me, that whole Yarn and New Project Diet craze: It ought to happen organically, kind of like some sort of industrial action that will prevent me from doing what I want to do. You know, kind of like how an alcoholic who, on purpose, moves to a state with those crazy Blue Laws to keep themselves from buying loads of beer on Sundays.

Actually, I'm starting to hope for some sort of tragedy, like a big, bad sheep strike, a llama walkout or an all and out alpaca revolt so all that yarn stops showing up at my door willy nilly. And, if I'm lucky enough, those spinning wheels will refuse to spin or just plain, get stuck, so I will turn to my stash and actually pull something out of the heap and cast on, and perhaps complete it.

I'm hoping that, all of the yarn and pie-in-the-sky ideas will just stop coming so the cyclone that is my current day-to-day existence will start slowing down. That I will wake up and find myself in, oh, Tahiti, where things go a bit slower. Or Texas. Or somewhere that seems like it would be still. Like maybe a dungeon, a dungeon run by a couple of slowpokes on downers.

My yarn. My yarn. My yarn. Its bounty overflow-ith.

BTW: You gotta hit Elann.com for this stuff (Filati Sailor) You can buy a bag of it for 14 bucks or thereabouts and the colors are breathtaking. Nice stuff for a lousy 14 bucks or thereabouts. . . if you have a place to store it all.

Too Many Yarns (and it isn't my fault)

I was just reading, in the latest David Sedaris novel (see sidebar if you're interested), about a friend and the mother of his friend who both had a worm poke through their skin--on separate occasions--while they lived in the Congo. I'm not sure what kind of worm it was that poked out, because I'm not that far through the chapter, but it sounds sort of gross to me.

Thing is, the real detail of the story says that one of the worms poked out of one of the victim's legs, and I suppose I can handle that, in theory. But on a slightly different topic--and I use the words "slightly different topic" loosely--I heard from the make-up gal from my photo shoot for the You-Know, Gigi, tell an almost entirely different account of a worm, and friends, brace yourselves, but know that this tale has a lot to do with the theme of the post and you must, you must, read through even though you might be prone to a bit of a stomach ache because if you have any knowledge at all of your yarn *just finding* itself onto your front doorstep or into your closet or pocket, or bag, or basement, or whatever unfilled vessel that resides in or near your home, then you will have to brace yourselves and read on. Trust me. (Nonetheless, this might be your ace in the pocket when explaining to your significant other where the heck all that yarn came from.)

So, after a few days with all of us together a year ago during the shoot, Gigi remarked that she had a French friend-of-a-friend who had a parasite. (Not sure if he were French, to tell you the truth, but let's just go with my story the way it is; otherwise, I will have to call her and I don't have her business card handy.)

She said to me, while we were under some sort of a large rectangular umbrella, that she was told that one of her friend-of-a-friends went to the toilet awhile back, looked down toward his behind, and there was a big worm-ish item looping up and looking back up at him. Literally staring at him. Not sure if the worm-item said "bonjour" or screamed, however...

Then, that man, her friend-of-a-friend, he hopped up off the stool and proceeded to run away from himself. In circles. And for all she knows, he's still running away from himself. I will say, however; she did remark that she and her friends drank a lot of wine while discussing the whole event so I'm not sure if he ran in circles or just ran straight ahead.

That's how I feel about all the yarn that has arrived at my front door in the recent days/weeks/whathaveyou.

Too. Much. Yarn. I have ordered and reordered and reordered, and Elann.com now knows when to send me stuff by Fuzzy Logic instead of me ordering the old-fashioned way, by internet. All I have to do these days is answer the door.

So, in my defense, and recalling the premise of the Congo worms and that particular tape-kind that just happened to climb out that guy's behind and proceeded to chase him around the room: Let's just say that, first, I'm not sure how the yarn got here in the first place, and second: I stand by my story that it must be some sort of virus, or maybe I travel too much and have some sort of yarn worm.

And just so you know that yarn up top: Scout custom dyed this yarn for me. It is an amazing washable sock weight that is destined to be a little shrug. I said I loved the Crayola Cornflower Blue and the Robin's Egg Blue color crayons and asked if she could blend them into something wonderful. The item I want to make is the shrug from this month's Knitty. It's called Sheltand Shorty. I cannot wait to cast on. If you are dying for some fingering weight yarn for the same pattern, you now know who to call.

P.S. I have two patterns in the latest Knitscene, the one that will hit newstands and book stores in the next few weeks. Go check them out!

Yarn? Where Art Thou?

I ask you this, and I mean that I am actually asking you this. It is not a rhetorical question. It is a real one: Why is it, I happen upon a pattern that I just have to knit NOW and I just know that there must be a couple hundred yards of an appropriate yarn for the job in my endless stash and then when I check my stash, there is nothing that comes close. Even if I search under my bed and in the luggage. Nothing. Not one hank, skein, ball or wad. There is nothing that will fit the bill.

And I'm not fooling myself, either. I know there have been times when I say the same thing to myself, that there must be something in my stash and then I take a look and, yes, there are suitable yarns there, but for some reason, I'm compelled to buy some "fresher" stuff instead of using the stash-stuff. But this time, I am telling the truth. I am being honest. Honest like crap. You know, honest-honest. (And that is really honest. Crap don't lie.)

I have floppy cotton. I have cotton with slubs of rayon. I have cotton with some bamboo. I have kitchen cotton (see? I just finished a scrubbie thingy.) I have cotton like all get out. But not the "right" kind of cotton. The type of cotton that will stand on end and measures exactly 4.5 stitches to the inch and has that certain je ne sais quoi. You know what I mean. . .

Worse, I won't even wear this until, oh, December or January. But I gotta knit it anyway. Right now.

About the Yogini Bolero: I finished one sleeve for the long sleeve version. I was on eggshells while it was blocking but it turned out just right. That blue linen looks like worn denim and I am absolutely in love with it.

BTW: The Bunny is fine. Her eye is still a little "off," but her hip, the 4-inch incision, is perfectly flat and pink-free. Oh, and get this: Speaking of poop, We finally found something that Rocko won't eat: Huge, long, meaty grubs the likes you wouldn't even believe if they appeared on some sort of crazy Larvae YouTube/World Wide Records show, or whatever the heck they call it.

I relayed the story to our wonderful gardener in whatever Spanish I could muster today about a huge grub that hissed at me and wouldn't exit our backyard. Then, he replied, in perfect English: "So, he stand up and look at you and wave his arms like crazy?"

I shivered and gagged and nearly threw up.

Then he said, while patting my shoulder: "I take care of him. I will bring my big lasso next time. Adios. Oh, and tell your husband Arturo and George will fix the broken sprinkler for 80 dollars. Cash, please."

Life is good.

On Poop and Laughing Hysterically

Well, shoot. I don't know why puppies do what they do even after they are a year old, or why, but Rocko has had his fair share of eating items that aren't normally ingested by regular folk. Sure, if he were to eat a pig trotter or perhaps a pig snout, I'd suggest that he wasn't regular folk, but he has gone way beyond what a cannibal would consider normal fare. Yesterday, I passed the laundry room, and there he was, chomping on a big poop a la The Bunny.

This poop wasn't as big as usual (the surgery), but it was large enough for a couple bites. That guy, he saw me coming and clamped down his jaws so tight he split the poop in thirds and in his wily and doxie/terrier ways, managed to double back and pick up the two chunks that plunked down on the floor before he ran into Girlfriend's room to finish. Many hours later, even though I thought I had managed to partition the laundry room off (this is where The Bunny's stuff is), he came up to me to give me a lick and I smelled a nice lavender scent. After a few minutes, I realized that smell was the smell of The Bunny's new "New and Improved Lavender Scented Clumping Litter" and that was all she wrote. This dude has bad taste. Who'd eat poop? I suppose there are all types that will eat poop. Chuck hankers after a nice coyote poop whenever we take him on the trails. I even knew a gal whose two terriers ate their own and she'd sprinkle stuff on it to make it taste bad (?), to no avail, although I will say her dogs were a couple of dopes.

Which reminds me, one time, my mom and I headed off to Happy Hour at the local chain Mexican restaurant bar. By the time we had taken off, we had already started laughing. She turned to me while she was starting the car and yukking it up about something, but over and over she tried to poke her keys into the car keyhole. She couldn't stick it in, no matter how much she tried, and then, when I spotted a huge magnifying glass on the dashboard and picked it up to remind her how bad her eyesight had become, we started laughing so hard that we couldn't stop. We finally got to the bar and sat down to order a couple of those blended margaritas with barely a sniff of Tequila in them. But, while we were waiting for drinks, the subject turned to poop. I remarked that my siblings sure had a knack for plugging the toilet.

And then she said, "Hah! You think they are bad; I should introduce you to my good friend, Jan. She knows someone whose poop is so thick she has to carry a stick in her purse."

We got kicked out of the bar before our first drink.

Relief, at Last

The Shawl is out of the house! Yowza!

I never thought I'd be so relieved to see something I put so much heart and soul into leave for good.

Talk about Knitting Emotion Overload.

Friends, never ever knit for all the wrong reasons. Knit for the right ones, like these:

• The devil made me do it
• The yarn called out to me
• . . . but it was in my stash!
• I thought I was a size 32 bust and I just had to cast on
• They said it was a "quick knit"
• Dog sweaters are all the rage, and I just couldn't pass on the opportunity
• It's in my school colors
• Eco-friendly--what can I say!?
• I thought of you every stitch I made
• I've finally committed to knit for the following season so I'm getting busy; leave me alone
• I never told you this, but I'm actually a test knitter

So, The Bunny is back from the hospital. She's doing okay. Turns out, she has the beginnings of some kidney disease, which is normal for a 14-year old cat. She also has some pretty huge goiters (it runs in my family) but she only has some minor hyperthyroidism. The doc took out two tumors and you can't even see the suture along her eye. The larger one, the one on her hip, is quite graphic, so I won't show you a picture of that. Let's just say she is on the mend and although we chose not to biopsy the sites further, it appears that she might be cancer free. Fingers crossed.

On knitting news: There isn't much. I have completed the front ribbing for the second version of the Yogini Bolero and will start on the sleeves tomorrow. I have spent the past three weeks in hovering mode so I'm hoping that having an "empty-er" house will revive me a bit.

Oh, and another thing, I was feeling so happy about the apparent absence of the Boyfriend Shawl that I made pork for dinner.

The "Boyfriend" Shawl

This shawl is FINALLY complete. I sucked it up and finished the whole thing over the weekend. This shawl has been the albatross that has weighed me down for at least two years and it is DONE. Done like the hamburgers in California. Totally done, done, done. Done to death. Overdone. DONE. A hockey puck that wants to be called Medium Rare, but, like my dad always said when I muttered the word, "Shoot:"

"Well, we all know what that is, Wendy, 'shoot' is 'sh*t' with two O's."

This sucker is finito.

This is the last time I will make such a huge commitment to someone without a pre-nup. This was supposed to be a joint affair, remember? It was supposed to be a "you crochet a motif/I crochet a motif/a "We Will Make This Together" thing and well, it didn't turn out that way.

I won't re-hash the ordeal, except to say, if this thing doesn't leave the house on Wednesday in someone's suitcase, I will very likely donate it to a very nice person who looks a bit chilly or who has a touch of The Low Thyroid.

Project Details
Name: Don't Ask but it is on page 63 of RY's Classic Holiday Book Three
Yarn: RYC Cashsoft in Tape
Number of balls used: 10 (it called for 12)
Crochet Hook in Size D (3.75mm)
Modifications: Left off the little triangles at the top--didn't think the shawl needed them; left off the fringe
Overall impression: Had I made this the way we meant to (meaning "together"), I would have loved it. It was a long haul making all those individual motifs, but in all honesty, it took me only about 20 minutes for each motif. That said, it is a perfect take-along project. The motifs look difficult, but once you figure out how to make one, you'll have it memorized within a few motifs--unless, of course, the sucker takes you two years to complete like mine did. Putting the thing together was a breeze.

I will never, ever make another one.

Not even for myself.

I never want to see it again.

Whew. Glad that is over with.

BTW: Here is a sneak peak of the little Yogini Bolero I just finished. I'm working on a linen version with flow-y long sleeves, and once that is done, I'll have the pattern edited. I'll keep you guys posted.

Just a Little More Soul Sucking on my Way to Nirvana

Yesterday, after a full session of what I call "running the Yogi Gauntlet" and as I lay there during the loudest Savasana ever in time (didn't manage to get far enough away from the groaner, the snorer, or the heavy breather) I got to thinking that in spite of what I consider a little progress, I'm still pretty dang jammed up, and I have to confess now that it just may not have all that much to do with knitting or not knitting. It has more to do with wives' tales and their orientation. It also has to do with not being able to communicate or to be understood these days.

Just the other day, for example, we were having a conversation about how I was always told that I couldn't swim right after eating. Someone in our party asked, "Is there really a medical explanation for it?" And I said something to the effect: "Probably only a small one, kind of like you don't want to practice yoga right after eating, or say, compete in some sort of a race. But I will tell you what I really think is behind the whole deal. I think this whole 'you can't swim until an hour after you eat' rule is something our parents made up so they could relax after dinner."

Then someone said: "You know, they don't have that kind of rule back home."

"Why?"

"Because we have maids in our country."

Yeah. Jammed up, I tell you. Jammed up completely and totally. And you know how I know? My third eye told me so.

BTW: While my little Yogi Bolero dries in the dryer (Yes! You can throw hemp in the dryer!), I've been working on an old project. But hear this, my friends, don't you dare say a single thing to me about it, okay?

Just. Let. It. Be. I don't want to think too much about this thing or my head might explode.

ETA: If you want to know what this project is, here is a link. I cannot bring myself to type out its name, but if you want to take a look, you'll find it here.

Progress

The Bunny just threw up and I lost my train of thought. Honestly, how she manages to be the world's first bulimic cat who weighs as much as she does is beyond me.

I just was saying that I started a little bolero out of the Hemp for Knitting Allhemp6Lux and I think might be able to almost finish it tonight, especially if the Laker's continue to suck beans and I have a chance to work on it. This one will have little cap sleeves and a self tie at the bottom, something I'll use after a work out to cover my tank, or as a layering piece. I think I will make another version with long flow-y sleeves out of some blue linen. But as far as the hemp goes, this might be a great first project for hemp if you haven't ever tried it before. I think I might use only two or three hanks of it for my size. Each hank has nearly 150 yards, so it is a pretty good value (it's on sale right now).

As far as my slump goes, no worries. Sometimes I just need to start typing without thinking and whatever is bugging me comes out. And since I have visitors this month (The Shawl-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, anyone?), I have been a little preoccupied.

On other news, I hear my book was displayed at the recent Book Expo America. I had no idea!

No Title

The Bunny has some sort of a growth beneath her right eye. It has been there for a couple months and it just started growing faster the other day to the point where I know we should take her to the vet. She's more than 13 years old, I think. I don't know for sure how old she is because we rescued her when she was still tiny. Thing is, she remained so for about a year or two afterwards and Lois kept trying to take her out, so we allowed her to sleep between our two pillows; otherwise, Lois would descend upon her like a vampire in major heat.

But The Bunny finally grew and she still, to this day, believes that she should sleep between our two pillows. Thing is, she's at least 30 pounds. That's 22 more than little Rocko, and we wouldn't ever allow him in in our bed. We fight with her every night so that she will sleep at the foot of the bed instead of at our heads. Lately, she's been sleeping between my legs and man oh man I crave and dream for the day when I can sleep with my legs regular-like. I wake up with a cramp, but I still don't want her to go.

I finally cleaned my office/studio (I feel stupid calling it a studio because we have carpeting) and although I thought when I embarked on the task my mind would instantly clear when all the skeins were put away, still, my mind has not cleared. I want to finish so many things. I wonder why all my UFO's sit on my soul as if they weighed three hundred pounds. I wonder why all of a sudden my father is wondering if I want a blown up picture of my mother even though they divorced a million years ago and she has been dead for about five. He remarried in the 80's and has moved four times.

He tried to put her away a long time ago, just like I put away a lot of projects and dreams: a PhD, a second child, another Clapotis, a knit denim sweater, the idea of wearing a bikini again, a real tan, the ability to pack up and move in the same day. No clutter. Surfaces, Darling.

La la la la la la la la. Dare to be one of us, girl, Facing the Android's Conundrum, Ah, I feel like I should just cry.

The Problem with Promises

Last time I saw my hairdresser, I promised her that I would knit her a slouchy beret. She said that I could choose any color I want--that she wasn't picky--so right after my blow dry, I walked across the parking lot and bought the loveliest turquoise Malabrigo, something that would look great with her huge tattoo of Koi fish and roses, all in shades of green.

That was six long weeks ago, maybe more, come to think of it. Thing is, that yarn is still sitting here looking at me.

I haven't wanted to show up to the salon empty handed, so now I will make a confession: I have avoided knitting that beret for so long that I had to actually revert to coloring my own hair again. Thing is, I'm now my old (before I went to a professional) unintentional mousy blonde at the roots because I completely forgot what level color she was using on me.

In my desperation, I even went so far as to call her up to ask her what color she had been using on me so I could do it on my own at home. I don't know; I guess I was just thinking I could make up an excuse for not coming in that could buy me a little knitting time. But then when they put me on hold and I couldn't come up with a good excuse, just as she was picking up, I slammed the phone down.

What was I going to say? That I lost all function of my hip so I can't come in for her to tint my hair? That I have a serious intestinal condition that prevents me from sitting in her chair for any length of time? Or that, in all honesty, I prefer the mess of tinting my own hair and I really don't mind walking around for weeks and weeks with roots one color and the rest of it another?

Worse, my hair is getting so long I got it caught in the car door today.

(Don't ask how.)

I think I better cast on before all heck breaks loose on my scalp.

A couple things: I found these knitting note cards online awhile back. You can order them as is, or you can use your own Avery-type plain note cards and print them on your own printer. These particular ones are fun because they have stitch patterns on them and the information acts as a little gift to your recipient. You can buy the separate pdf's for only five bucks so you can print as many as you want, or you can get them pre-printed. Oh, and the latest on the hip: Still suffering. I am now starting physical therapy three times a week to see if we can't sort it out. (I'm thinking if it completely heals I should keep the news under wraps. You never know when a good limp imitation will buy you a day at the pool.)

 

Things I Haven't Had and Probably Won't.

Speaking of wieners, I haven't had one in a lot of years. There was a time when I would wait in line at Pinks for a hot dog with mustard and extra onions, well actually two of them, but nowadays, the idea of slim hips sort of takes precedence. Not to mention, they use pig lips and snouts and ears in those things. Not that it ever really bothered me until I read that book by the heir to that ice cream fortune, but still. I haven't had a wiener in years.

I haven't had a lot of things in years, either. I haven't had ice cream, or a Popsicle, or apple juice. I haven't had a donut, or Hula Hula Rice, or a plum, either. I have had pizza for breakfast, though.

I haven't had a massage in five or so years, not that five years for a massage is a bad thing--many people haven't ever succumbed to such a thing in many years more and let me tell you, I had this one and my first and only massage with protest and yes, I took off my undies, and it was a-okay, but I haven't had a massage in five years.

So, today, after I dragged myself to the gym in the midst (mist) of our June Gloom and I saw a guy who I *thought* I knew really well--or, at least seemed really familiar--and after I followed him for, like, an hour, I realized I haven't had sushi in a long time, either. And when about an hour passed and I continued to eye him here and there, wondering where and how I knew him, I finally understood that it was that hand towel he had rolled up and tied around his bald head just so that made me crave the sushi and think he was a chef with whom I was familiar, but I didn't know him at all, after all. He was, actually, just a guy whose head was the right diameter for a rolled up hand towel.

I just asked HWWV if he had seen that guy. He said he didn't. And then when I was just about to ask him how to do that Sushi Chef Rolled Up Head Towel Thing he stopped me with a look. And then it hit me: Ask HWWV how to chop up a duck and you'll hit the mother load. But the head towel? He'll send you to Wikipedia so quick your hair will blow sideways.

So, I met some friends at a not-so local yarn store yesterday. Check out this sparkly lace weight metallic yarn from Artyarns. Gosh knows what I will ever do with it. I suggested to the shop owner that I might make a nice mesh rectangle-y scarf object from it and hang little gold coins from the ends.

From the look on her face, you'd think she'd rather me just unroll the skein and wrap it around my head, Sushi-Chef style, instead. (Anyone know where I can get some little, lightweight coins?)