knit and tonic

Musings by the Pool

Not needing to fake a limp after all, I got my day at the pool while everyone else played at the theme parks. I did get one day in, and let's just say, Disneyland was so crowded and boy, do I mean "crowded."  We're talking, every single person from Arizona must've been at the joint, plus all their relatives and favorite baristas.

I finished the crocheted market bag ("Pouch Bag") for Girlfriend while I was alone at the pool. I figure she can use it to tote her bathing suit and all the other stuff that goes with it with her to Summer Camp. This was one of those perfect projects and even though I subbed a much heavier and larger gauge yarn and it turned out a little on the long side (it nearly tracks the ground when Girlfriend carries it), I'll make another one out of this Gedifra Tiago and make a few adjustments. See how the bag tucks into the bottom part? Very cool. It took two balls of each color.
Being alone at a crowded pool has other advantages, especially when your iPod is battery dead and have nothing else to do but knit, crochet, and people watch, AND you have your little memo pad with you.

Musings by the Pool

I have never understood why so many guys go to the pool and leave their bright-white Air Jordan's on the whole time. Don't their feet sweat? Why must they stay on? Are they hard to get off? Are they hard to get back on? And if these guys are coming to the pool to just sit there wearing their Air Jordan's then why are they at the pool, anyway? I don't see a book or anything. One of them could at least come with a book or a magazine. That alone would restore some of my faith in Air Jordan-wearing young people.

If you came alone to a crowded pool would you jump in and do a series of handstands under water?

Why do so many people slather on a ton of lotion on and jump right in?

And why do some people, when they come up for air, spit water out of their mouths into the pool? Just think how many gallons of spit that pool will have in there in two hours' time.

On other news: I have begun the process of making some of my patterns available for retail in local yarn stores and online stores. I will still offer pdf's here and I am slowly changing their layout to match the look of my printed ones. Since I am not bound by space with the pdf's, some may have a few more pictures than the printed versions. As time permits, I will very likely add a photo album that will show more views so those who have printed versions can access extra pics if they are available.

Oh, and that picture. HWWV thinks it is hysterical and I'm not sure why.

Purchase Without a Cause

So I'm at the yarn store again today and one of the gals was crocheting a market bag out of some of my most favorite yarn, Gedifra Tiago. And wouldn't you know, the stuff was on sale for 40% off--don't know why, it better not be discontinued because argh I have a pattern in the you know using it--and next thing I know, I buy enough of it to make not one, but two market bags.

Yeah, $50 worth of yarn for two market bags.

Market bags that I can get for a buck at Whole Foods. Ones that stuff won't fall out of.

Ones that are already sitting in the back of my car waiting to be filled.

Three of them.

Yeah, that's right. I already have three market bags in the back of my car.

And only four waiting to be hand made. By me. (Two Tiago's and two out of that Berroco NaturLin)

Gosh knows when I will find the time to make them. Someone, please, call the authorities.

P.S. We may be visiting the "happiest" place on earth this weekend. The in-laws are here and it is looking like I'll have to go along for three days. I suppose I could fake a worse limp and sit by the pool, crocheting, instead.

Knitting, Funny?

I was just saying (before I accidentally deleted the post that came before this, the one that I hope is like this one, oy) that embroidering balls is a heck of a lot more laughter inducing that knitting is. Just yesterday we were having our Temari class and Betty asked, "Hey Leslie, why are you working the three inch-ers instead of the suggested four incher-ers?"

"Because I like smaller balls," she replied.

Hilarity ensued.

After everything calmed down and we got to serious stitching again, Betty said to Leslie, "My balls are bigger than your balls."

Hilarity erupted once again. (Ball jokes sure are cheap, but I tell you what, they are effective as all get out.)

Oh, I wish knitting were half as funny as stitching Temari balls.

Knitting just isn't funny. Consider running into a gal whose knitting is just so awful that you are speechless when she presents it to you? I remember a time when someone showed me a baby cardigan, it was so full of dropped stitches and twisted ones and uneven stitches and whatnot that my mouth went agape. But what did I say? I said: "It is just lovely."

I mean, what else could I have said? Could I have said: "Wow, lady! You did a boat-load of crap of knitting on that garment, woweeee! Have you considered taking up Paint-by-Numbers?"

That said, I'm thinking that the Knitting isn't as funny as stitching Temari balls. I can't even consider laughing about someone else's dropped stitch(es). Imagine laughing at someone's dropped stitch, or worse, an uneven hem, or even worse, worse worse, a wonky mattress stitch. Just imagine what would happen if you openly mocked a knitter's work while in a group. You might get your eye poked out or something.

HWWV took pics at Yogaworks today, where Girlfriend was having a class. Here's a sample.

Moo

It has been awhile since I have been to a yarn store. I mean, I went to one yesterday for a little while, but it had been a week or 10 days or somewhere around that since I last went to one. I'm finding I go to a yarn store these days more for the entertainment value, or for meeting a friend, or for saying hello to whoever is there that day or looking through a book or two.

Lately, I think people are becoming more and more openly and what I think overly critical of the patterns, books and sweaters that are on the shelves, on the tables, hanging on the sample rack, etc.

So often, a new magazine will come out, and a group of knitters will pour over it, and criticize each pattern as they turn the pages. The criticism is harsh, or at least in my opinion, harsh, and I have begun to wonder why. From what I can see, there is a huge range of styles available for just about everybody, save for some that come in sizes above 3X-large and I understand there is a need for a wide range of sizes. But, why all the chatter about how fugly a particular model is? Why all the chatter about how one wouldn't be caught dead in something or other? If you look on public forums, there are way more discussions about how a particular magazine or pattern doesn't pass muster than discussions about something more relevant, constructive or positive, like maybe a technique or how one could customize a particular pattern to fit their own personal style. I understand that it is easy to complain at times, though.

Thing is, as I have become more involved in the behind-the-scenes part of the knitting world, I have made new friends, friends who are a part of the old and new guard of this so-called knitting world. When I hear the harsh and open discussion about my friends' designs, things I know they worked hard on, I cringe.

When I walked into the yarn store yesterday after what I considered a long hiatus, one of the gals looked up and said, "Oh! We were just talking about you this morning," for a second there, I got a little worried.

BTW: Have you seen these mini Moo Cards? Oh my. You can upload as many as 100 of your own photos and they will print them on these tiny calling cards that have your information on the reverse. I picked a handful of some of my favorite images from Knit and Tonic, and ordered some. They arrived yesterday. I am positively smitten.

Nothing Like a Fish Eye Lens to Keep Your Spirits High

The hardest part about my current situation is that I have slowly, ever so slowly, given up on my usual routine. I no longer do The Yoga, except in my dreams--and in those, I've been chronically late or arrive with boots on that can't be pried off. I no longer "work out" (I sort of just go through the motions). I still do, however, enjoy a round of people-watching every now and then, and to tell you the truth, that is what keeps me showing up at the gym.

The other day, on my one of two days that I actually did any physical activity, I noticed a lady about three treadmills down wearing a giant visor, a polo shirt, some nice, white clam diggers, and a full-on plastic, red, white and blue lei. As a bonus, when I looked to my right, about two treadmills down, I spotted a probable office worker, most likely a guy from the IT department, running like a crazy man. That sight, on its own, wasn't anything special, but add to it a pair of Dockers, some black socks, regular walking shoes, a button-down shirt and a lanyard with a company ID card a-bouncin' left and right, right and left, and it became a very special day, indeed. Notwithstanding that I was actually moving, other than the kind of moving I've been doing these days: knitting and purling.

Not that knitting and purling is bad. It's just that I'm more used to pining over the knitting while I'm doing something physical or at least walking the dogs. Nowadays, the reverse is the reality. I'm knitting and purling and wishing I could actually walk the dogs without lumbering here and there, feeling punished, old and in pain.

I was a little sad yesterday after the news, and there is more sadness today. But the good new is, I don't have to have a hip replacement. The bad news is, I'm probably facing some sort of hip surgery, but we shall see. I will visit an orthopedic hip-guy next week and fingers crossed he will think this tear I have in the lining between the ball and socket of my hip can be helped with physical therapy instead of surgery. (What is torn is called a "labrum," if you're interested. The guy who caught a glimpse of my personals, the one who held my legs up over my head while I threatened to faint, told me that he only saw torn labrums in girls who do the high kick for a living, so I should feel secure.)

But on more interesting and less depressing news, HWWV borrowed a fish eye lens and we all had a turn last night.

BTW: I also finally had some inspiration for that Allhemp6Lux--a summer cardigan that can double as a little cover up for a tank or bathing suit, something that can be worn between seasons, too. Now that I have finally finished that one project (it is for Stitch Diva), I can get down to it. I'll cast on a swatch tonight in between cookies, juicing a million lemons for future sorbets (sis has a tree that was absolutely leaning over with the fruit) and making lip gloss for Girlfriend's friends at school. I have a feeling the lip gloss will come first.

 

Little Did He Know, I have the Higher Kind

Geez, I don't know how the old broad in front of me managed to enjoy her MRI without taking her clothes off, but let me tell you this, I had to take it all off and I got a bonus round to boot. This isn't my normal post, but truth be told, the MRI is nothing to be afraid of. What you have to be afraid of is the hot-ish doc, the one handling the syringe and long needle, the one whose helper insists you remove your underpants even though in the end you really didn't need to. Add to that the fact that as you lay there in the CT tube you nearly faint from seeing the long needle sticking into your hip joint on the monitor in front of you and when you nearly pass out, the wise doc lifts your leg up into the air, and when it doesn't work, he lifts both your legs into the air just like you used to do to Girlfriend when you changed her diaper. All this, to keep you from fainting.

"You have the low blood pressure to begin with," he reported knowingly while he held my ankles in the air (and my you-know [and I'm not talking about the book] is in the air, too). "Usually the ladies your age have the higher blood pressure so they have the reserves when the panic sets in. You should have had a salty and sweet beverage before you came in."

"You mean a Margarita?"

"That, and some chips," he said with a wink, and then he put my legs back down. Everyone grinned.

Just then, I realized he looked like a young Mick Jagger. Good thing I didn't tell him the truth, that I, in fact, have the higher kind of blood pressure. Today was the first time I didn't shell out the truth, for once in my life I didn't spew out the facts. I was speechless.

This is some new yarn I scored. If you don't like the usual hemp, you should give this newest stuff a shot, It is Allhemp6Lux from Hemp for Knitting. I'll admit that I haven't knit a swatch yet, but from the feel of it, I could swear it is something entirely different than the hemp I know, but maybe it's just more like the final product after many, many washings. I can only imagine how it will drape right off the needles. If you grab only two hanks you could make a summery scarf just to try it out. I have about 10 hanks! I can't wait to cast on for something fabulous. Hopefully, I'll be dreaming about it tonight, rather than my hip, the one that's leaking that dye my Mick shot into it.

It Must be all the Knitting

For the life of me, I must be insane or am on the brink of being insane, or just plain nuts. I just spent the last half hour looking for our iPod Shuffle. I had it in my hand and was walking to my office, thinking of sharing some photos from the weekend (we roller skated!) and next thing I knew, the Shuffle was gone gone gone.

Where'd it go?

So I retraced my steps. I retraced my steps back into the bedroom where I finally opened the curtains at what, five in the afternoon? No, I didn't drop it there. Then I went into my closet and reopened my top junk/lesser underwear drawer where I had just scrounged for spare buttons, you know, the ones that come attached to a jacket or shirt (I stuff them in there). I thought I might attach one to a swatch I'm sending to IK, but no, I didn't drop the Shuffle there, either. So I then went to the laundry room. Not there (I was clutching it as I put some wash in the dryer on my way to my office).

So here I am typing this post and I realize my sweats are sort of feeling tight around my hips. Ugh. I must have stuffed the Shuffle into my waist band on my way from one place to another without thinking.

I'm either suffering from some sort of dementia or I am completely and totally bonked out.

Honestly and truly, if this continues, I'm going to have to resort to some sort of Help. I feel so cluttered. Congested. You know, like my closet is a complete mess and everything is falling off the shelves and I can't make it stop. [Note: to say my closet looks like a cyclone hit it is an understatement.] Worse, I keep having dreams that I'm in college and I can't remember what class comes next, or what building it is in. So I wander here and there and say to myself, "Horror! I haven't been to my English class in weeks. I'm going to fail!" And then the part of my brain that's still conscious (I never take down my guard, friends, I'm a Type A ninja that way) pipes in and says, "Wendy, you are dreaming. You are no longer in college. You are allowed to relax." So, after a couple months of this reoccurring dream, last night I had a new one. This time, I forgot where I worked and kept getting lost on my way there, and then I finally think I find the parking lot and after I pull in, I realize I am still wearing slippers.

Which reminds me, I once knew a woman who would only make right turns when she drove. Never left turns. She was absolutely terrified. Anyway, she finally developed a very specialized, fine tuned way of getting to her job about 20 miles away without ever having to make a left turn. Then one day, there were workers on the road, and a detour.

She went missing for awhile. How long is still under heated debate.

BTW: I'm just really busy with a knitting/design job. And after I finally finish this one project, I need to take a day and de-clutter and finally fold the laundry. I can't concentrate. But, I did have a wonderful Mother's Day with my sister, her husband and my family. We even brought Chuck and Rocko. I actually got some knitting in, too. Oh, and BBTW: I'm having an MRI of my hip tomorrow.

No Picture Necessary

I just used that new Veet hair remover, the one you can use in a shower. On the commercial, there's this long-legged gal frolicking here and there and let's just say, if you're anything like me, one view of that commercial, and you'll buy into the scene, hook, line and sinker.

So I sat there tonight, on the couch. I sat there and saw the commercial again and remembered I bought some and ran upstairs thinking about this Sunday, Mother's Day, and how we'll be roller skating around Dooze's "outdoor roller rink" (it's really a giant painted parking area in front of her house with a big boom box sitting nearby) and how cute I'll be with pig tails and shorts and really smooth legs.

Newsflash: If you read the label carefully like I did, you'll read how you shouldn't go out in the sun for at least 24 hours or more after you apply the stuff. Worse, you can't reapply it within 72 hours, much less slather on some self-tanner any time soon.

And now that I'm out of the shower and I'm realizing it only worked in spots, truth be told, I'll have bearded legs by the time I can actually go out on the "rink" with my new roller skates, pig tails and shorts.

Such is the life of a 40-something wannabe roller derby queen.

I guess things could be worse. I suppose I could be that gal on that one divorce court show whose fake tooth flew out on national TV. Even worse, I suppose I could be sitting in the tub with a green mint mask on my face and musing about whether or not it's better to collect stamps, or coins.

"Productive Knitting" Oxymoron? Anyone?

My friend, who could probably be your friend by now based on the number of times I've mentioned her, the one whose cousin plays guitar with his toes and who has a knack for the malapropism, when I called her today for a break in what has been a three-day knit fest (one word: deadline) she said, "Oh! You must have ESPN! I was just thinking about you and boom, the phone rings and it's you!"

Well, she got me thinking about what I was hoping this week would be: a week full of Productive Knitting.

Now, that, my friends is word misuse if I ever heard one: Productive Knitting. Sure, it's a bit more subtle than her remark about ESPN or the remark an old colleague made to HWWV when he walked into the office with a new suit ("I love your entourage!"), but Productive Knitting is about as crazy-weird when the two words are put together and just about as good as any decent malapropism should be, maybe even better. But I'm a knitter.

Sheesh. Knitting these days, at least for me, is about as slow going as ever. And I'm not sure if it is because I have been interrupted constantly (The Bunny throws up a hairball, the dogs fight over it. Girlfriend spills a liter of apple juice, then stands there crying while I try to finish a row. Girlfriend continues to cry while I try to finish another row. I think I see someone running through my backyard in the reflection of my reading glasses. It's a prowler! It's a coyote! No, it's that wad of tissue I keep meaning to pick up off the grass! And then I hear a crash coming from inside the freezer. Seems one of the shelves has collapsed under the weight of all my Lean Cuisine's.)

Oh, and guess what? There aren't any activity points attributed to Knitting in the online Weight Watchers activity list. I checked. If only those people over at Weight Watchers had any idea.

The good news is, at least my neighbors very likely think I'm having a week of Productive Knitting, what with all the closed windows and such. They know, in the same way I know what they are doing too--the Italian Restaurant Neighbor just got a huge LCD panel even though he's never at home--that when I sneak out to the mailbox wearing pajamas and no makeup or bra along with that very old T-shirt from Hallmark with a picture of Maxine splashed on it and the words: "I had a tummy tuck this morning. I tucked it in my pantyhose," that some really great and super productive things are happening under our roof. You know: Productive Knitting.

If only they knew.

Mother's Day

Proof I don't get out enough: We go to the local civic center to watch Girlfriend do a couple dances with her troop and we escape across the street while the adolescents and cheerleaders do their gigs and we're sitting there at this upscale-ish steak joint and upon hearing the music overhead I say, "Oh, they have good taste! They're playing Elvis Costello!"

"It's not Elvis Costello, love, it's that guy over there in the corner, the one playing the piano." (HWWV)

So then, I say, "but he sounds just like him!"

A few minutes pass and we're enjoying the tunes, and next thing I know, the performer whips out a bugle and starts playing it with his mouth and his left hand, and continues the piano with is right hand.

But the wine was uber expensive and the steaks . . . let's just say that the guys sitting at the bar with us, all of them wearing way more jewelry than I would ever, had their fill. I wonder where they put it all. I swear, the guy next to me got a steak that would feed my family plus my brother, my sister and probably my mom, too if she were here.

Which reminds me, when mom said she'd make dinner for all of us, she'd buy the smallest steak and maybe two potatoes and call it a feast. When she lived with us while she was going through chemo and radiation she said she'd shop for us and come home with an onion, a potato and a bottle of wine.

She had a problem with quantities. We were always hungry. When we were kids, if we drank a quart of apple juice in a week's time, she'd wonder what was wrong with us, why did we drink so much juice?

And that is how it all was. Forever and ever, that is how it all was. And I didn't like her very much. I didn't like her but she was nice to me. She made me things. She made me spangled eye patches to wear to match my dresses and I was always angry because she'd use double-sided tape and smush it all against my eye. She put drops in my eyes that hurt and she made stinky cooked carrots that she burnt on the stove top and we'd throw them up onto the ceiling and they'd stick there. When they fell down, she never mentioned it. She never mentioned the fact that we'd throw our overcooked hamburgers out into the field across the street while she wasn't looking, either.

I met someone the other day who said she didn't speak to her mother anymore, or at least she didn't speak to her but once a month to try to make contact. It made me feel guilty.

My heart would break if Girlfriend decided that she hated me. I love her. My mom loved me. I know it now, after all these years how much, and as much as I want to go back through the years and hoist her back from wherever she is now and scream "I LOVE you, I DO!" the only thing I can remember about her right now is the last time we spoke. I was sick and my voice was gone. I was sitting in the car in a Target parking lot and I called her. She said hello and I said mom I wanted to say hello I hope you are okay today, and she said I don't know who you are. Who is this? and hung up.

I sat there weeping in my car, and then my phone rang. It was her sister. She said, "Wendy, your mom remembered you just now. She wants to talk to you."

"I will never forget you" is what my mom said.

And that was the last thing I ever heard her say.

BTW: I'm in a crocheting mood. I wish I was in the mood to finish projects. This particular one is a knotted poncho (yes, a poncho) from a Rowan Magazine a couple years back. I'll have to go and check the edition and get back to you on it. I will say that I screwed up on it a few times before I realized that it was knit from the bottom up. Oy. I'm such a top-down thinker.