knit and tonic

Gotta Have it Now

I'm sweating more right now than when I was running like a madwoman on the treadmill three hours ago. Fingers crossed there aren't hormones involved. Imagine: Early menopause.

But anyway. I stopped off at the LYS yesterday to pick up a bit of that Alchemy Bamboo for a reader who wants to do a Dream Swatch head wrap thing, and surprise! I walked in and discovered that everything in the store was 40 percent off. Forty percent off? Don't they know how much damage I could do with a promise of 40 percent off of everything?

So I immediately dialed up a friend in the area who knits and needs to know about this sale, and fast.

Ring ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me. How are you?"

"Fine? What's new?"

"What's new? What's new? Would you believe that they're having a sale over here? Everything in the store is 40 percent off! I just popped in and they told me. It's a surprise sale! You gotta come over!"

"Which store?"

"The yarn store!"

"The what?"

"The yarn store!"

"...What yarn store? I don't know anything about a yarn store! ...Who is this?"

"It's Wendy!"

Click.

(Ooops. Wrong number.)

So I copied John. I had to make a pillow, too. Well, a swatch pillow at least. Funny thing, in the heat of the 40 percent-off, Skies-the-Limit Frenzy, I bought an extra skein of the Noro Kureyon I'm using for the swatch pillow *just in case.* Turns out, it only took two skeins. Isn't that just the way these things work out? (But it was on sale!)

Oh and yeah. It just hit me about why I was sweating. I've been hanging out over the hot washing machine for the last hour and running up and down the stairs to check on the felting action of my swatch pillow. I tell you what: If it isn't early menopause, it's your memory.

At Least Everyone Loves an Oompa Loompa (Sp?)

I used to have a boyfriend who had a flair for the Dramatique. He'd tell me stories of hand-me-down shoes, and how he'd be so horrified that he'd fake a limp while he walked to school so no one would know there was a hole in the sole of his right shoe.

I can't say that I've had to endure a hole in the sole on the right, but today I did a bit of tap dancing when I discovered that my Mystic Tan had run down my legs and pooled around my ankles and toes. Oh man, they've sucked up so much fake-tan dye you could see the streaks on my feet from across the other side of a small-ish lake, or maybe from the top of a Ferris wheel--or if you have particularly bad eyesight--from across a crowded room full of naked clowns wearing those crazy clown-type shoes.

So anyway. At the grocery store just now, every time someone looked down toward my feet I did a little tap dance or jig or a quick two-step in hopes they wouldn't see the streaks. You'd think I would have glanced at my feet while selecting shoes, but I grabbed what I grabbed and this is what happens when you grab what you grab after you have stood in that little booth that sprays fake tan. Oh well. I guess there are worse things. (Does anyone know how to remove self-tanner? Or smooth it out with something other than one of those heavy duty sanders, the ones with those big, orange electrical cords?)

If it weren't for John's lovely gift-y swatch-y pillow thing, I'd be disgusted with my day. But here it is and isn't it grand? Seems we've been swatching, both of us, and ending up with some fun items. He made a pillow and now I have the Dream Swatch which is also on The Garter Belt these days.

I am still feelin' the Green and Blue, so I thought I'd make a mate for the swatch pillow my buddy John made. Of course, I'm copying his but I can't help it. I mean, this guy designed knitted boxer shorts in the latest Knit 1, and well, he's just basically inspired. I'm not sure I'd wear the hot pants he also designed for that issue, (well, if I were 22 again, I probably would, but in sport weight), but we need designers like him around, don't you think? Why not have a little fun with the knitting thing? I think knitters take themselves a bit seriously sometimes. And, let's face it, after awhile you run out of new things to knit.

By the way, two things: First, I just got this gorgeous yarn from the Flash Your Stash Organizer, Wendy Wonnacott, and I have to show it to you. It is from Posh Yarns and it is cashmere and silk. I just have to make something fun and I'm thinking a dickie, but that may be a stretch. Also, kpixie just got a huge shipment of one of their new lines, Lana Grossa, and I'm thinking a little yarn is just the thing to soothe my orange ankles, toes and heels right about now. (Like I need any new yarn. Oh...)

Man-Rules and a Free Pattern

Some days I wonder how men can get away with spending so much time in the bathroom.

Us girls, well, we're in there for however long it takes, and that however long it takes is typically 20 minutes fewer than the man's version of however long it takes.

So I'm wondering if I should start taking my knitting to the bathroom with me? I suppose the man-rules won't apply to me, so I won't have a never-ending allotment of bathroom time. I can only imagine that I'll be reported and someone would call the authorities or the the police, child protective services or maybe the paramedics if I spend more than, say, one-half minute in that little room.

Back in the day when I worked in a big corporation (the little corporations I worked for apply to this, too), the guys thought nothing of rolling up a newspaper or magazine and sauntering over to the little room. Decades would pass before they alighted. Calls would come in and we'd all know that they were currently "indisposed" (reading or maybe just sitting there or passing the time) and that the call would have to be returned later. Same goes for fire drill.

Why is it the other sex has this "I have to go now" privilege? Would I be in trouble if I took my "I have to go now time and knit?" If I did, wouldn't it be a hoot?

Better get a cushy toilet seat cover, or maybe knit one for myself. (Actually I was thinking about designing one for laughs.) Oy. Of all the things.

Oh, here's the Alchemy Bamboo swatch that I kept knitting and knitting and knitting. Once I got to about 49 inches I decided the swatch was a head wrap thing. So take a look at the sidebar, Free Patterns. It's there for you, should you decide you have one skein of something wonderful. I'm calling it Dream Swatch. Because it is.

Do You Want to be Known?

Do you want to be known? Do you want to be recognized? Or do you want to just live your life? Do you want to sit and eat, not thinking of how you look while you enjoy your cheap wine and fries and watch the crazy guys pass you a hundred times doing wheelies, there, while everyone watches them go by and secretly wonders if those motorcycle riders will crash and roll and if we'll see their body parts bend and tuck and twist on the asphalt?  And if it did happen, would you blame the guys for forever altering your psyche? For forever altering your being because you saw someone do a wheelie and crash there on the Pacific Coast Highway blacktop while you sipped cheap wine and munched on fries and now you can't wipe it out of your mind?

What would you do? What would you do if you had a of couple choices, or maybe just one, or maybe three? Would you want to be known as a student of the Stitch? How about an artist-type, you know, a visionary, but one that could be fleeting?  What about a crafty girl who can stick to it? Or would you be happy with Mom and Happy Husband, one Child, a dog named Chuck, a cat named The Bunny and a (new) Fish named Myrtle?

Or none of the above?

But I do love to knit. And I do know that what I just wrote doesn't make much sense. This weekend was one of those Odyssey weekends with a wild Girlfriend on the Verge of Potty and no naps. I've also been battling a neckline  for a sweater I'm designing that can only be described as Ripped Out a Few Times Too Many to be Perfect...so there you go.

But in our real life, we found ourselves on the beach in Malibu today after a dirty, greasy lunch among the "biker types" and a cheap-ish bottle of wine (which equals heaven, I tell you--well, at least if you have some fried calamari or some steamed crab to accompany), and decided to hit the sand on the way home with my bamboo yarn and the still undecided "Is it a Scarf or a Headband Thing."

So I was there, posing like all get out and after Girlfriend nearly drowned in an unexpected wave, a woman laying there in the sand hailed me over. The waves were crashing.

Her: "Mhhm.. nhmm?" (Her hands making motions. I couldn't hear her.)

Me: "Huh? What did you say?"...and walking over.

Her: "Mhjmmm.?" (Hands making more motions.)

Me: (Thinking: Oh! She's deaf! She's asking me if I know sign-language! I do! I do!)...So I sign to her: *Hi! How are you? Is everything okay?*

Her: "Heh? I was just asking you: Do you knit?"

Me: (Pulling the needles and the Bamboo out of my pocket and feeling like an idiot about the signing thing) "Yeah!"

Her: "I just knit a table cloth and the woman, she pay me $300.00 for it!"

Me: Wow! That's great; that's more than I could make, knitting a table cloth. I mean, no one would pay me to knit a table cloth first of all, because, well, there's too much thinking involved and I'd make these terrible mistakes and it would probably take forever, because I don't really do lace all that much. You must have the patience of...well, you know, a Saint who has patience! Can't think of one off the top of my head. But I'm impressed. Three hundy? Woah, baby!. You must be quite the talent!"

Her: "...Eh. I knit to relax."

The Three C's

There's another side to the "I Knit" story. I have found, many times, that if you are not immediately labeled Cute or Crafty or Clever, you might be lucky enough to hear "Oh, you knit? I'd love it if you would knit me a sweater," or

"Oh, you knit?...
I found a bag of knitting in my late grandmother's closet. It must be 20 years old. I think it's a sweater that hasn't been completed. Can I bring it over so you could finish it for me?"

"Oh, you knit?...
I haven't pulled my hook out in years. I used to love to make those granny squares. Would you show me how? I've forgotten."

I used to hate all that, until today. Today, I have a whole new appreciation for the "Oh, you knit?..." thing. I do I do I do.

There's a gal at Girlfriend's co-op preschool who is an optician. From what I understand, being an optician can be a nice profession. Trouble is, the the mother who was talking at her this morning for about forty minutes (or long enough for me to glaze-coat the insides of 52 toddler-made bud vases) didn't get the memo that an optician isn't a medical doctor.

...Or that they prescribe glasses, and not drugs or treatments for something called a "coated tongue."

Now, I'm not certain what a coated tongue is, or what one looks like, but after overhearing this lengthy, descriptive, and relatively one-sided conversation, I am pretty darn sure that I'm not interested in finding out.

Friends, there are worse things than letting people know you're a knitter. (Just think of all the stuff people could ask us to do or for more information on. I say, let's just stick with the knitting thing.)

BTW: This is what I ordered from LesBonRibbon.com. The ribbon is vintage and it is to die for. The brown and blue ribbon at the top is so amazing in person that I am certain I will have to design something just to show it off. (Kind of like buying an outfit for a new pair of shoes.) This place takes PayPal (very convenient) and there is just so much there, you'll go bonkers or maybe even temporarily blind from all the shiny, lovely schtuff. Oh, and do you see the two flower belt buckles I got for Girlfriend?

Trying So Hard Not to be Cute

Sorry no pics today. HWWV is sipping really old scotch and rubbing elbows with folks I'll never meet. That's cool; I can dig it.

I am struggling tonight. I am struggling so much with so many things and feelings I don't know where to start or how to frame it so it doesn't sound like a complaint. And it probably is a complaint when it comes down to it, but I just don't want to use this forum for a complaint. I don't complain. Complaining makes you frown. (And frowning causes wrinkles.) There are enough complaints to go around, already.

How do I say it? How do I frame it? Do I weave a tale? Do I make it plain? How about some quotes? Or a joke, or maybe a story?

None of that. None of that is right; I'll just tell it to you straight.

It's stuff you already know. It's stuff you've already heard. It's stuff you've endured; it's stuff you've suffered through or laughed about or, like me, complained about. Or maybe you don't really care at all.

<ready, ok!>

Someone, a gal I have known as a neighbor and now as a past-neighbor, told me that she thought it was cute how I was knitting.

I told her I might have a book someday and we are exploring it.

"Oh, that's even cuter!"

<End of complaint.>

Always on My Mind

  I think her name was Susan--I'm too lazy to look back at the comments--but she pointed out, after I mentioned that I had completed yet another pair of new socks, that I had two other pair up there on the sidebar entitled, On the Needles, and what about those?

What about them? Well, I guess once you take the time to actually list an item on your sidebar, that means it has been on the needles for, say, about 24 hours at least?

I cast on for those newest striped socks so quickly, I hardly had time to list them at all, much less take note of the ball band or the washing instructions. But let me tell you, the yarn is at least an aran weight, so don't be too appreciative of my knitting speed.

I suppose, in my self-induced dearth of ball-band info, I'll throw the socks into the wash, and if they felt, well, they're witches or non-virgins or whatever reason it is for which those crazy people wearing pointed hats throw people and things into water.

Ok. So I've got something on my mind. Well, actually two. First, the guy, the one who does the loop-d-loop around the cardio area at my gym with Chinese take out? He is officially gone. I asked around and, news is, he did enough weird stuff to be asked to leave the premises. Shoot. Last time I was asked to leave the premises was at the cantina on my 30th birthday--and that was a long, long time ago. Thinking back, I suppose it was a good thing they asked us to leave. By that time, we had been there for over nine hours, and every time someone cracked a half-way decent joke, someone else would slap the table with their hand and the beers would fall off the table and down to the ground. (I argued that the management should have fixed the wobbly table leg so that sort of thing wouldn't happen, but if you're slapping the table hard enough for the beers to go sliding down the table, you should pretty much retire for the evening--even though you're forced to order another round due to all the broken and spilled bottles and such...Unless, of course, if it were a supremely funny joke. If that is the case, all bets are off.)

Anyways.

The second thing that's on my mind is, even though it looks like there are a heck of a lot of On the Needles items, there really aren't. I've pretty much retired the idea of that cotton robe for the time-being. Once I finished and wore the Italian Intruder Shawl, I decided there wasn't much use for a robe. And then those knee socks with the Vesper sock yarn in the Knit and Tonic colorway: That first sock is so terribly cool I don't know if I can stand the ecstasy of another. Yikes, if I even dared to finish a second one, I'd actually have to wear the pair and worry that all that knee-sock bliss would be melted down to "I wore them already," or "I have to wash them" sort of thing.

I honestly don't know if I can stand all the reality amidst all the dreamy stripe-y revelry of it all.

But isn't that just the way the "knitting thing" is? Aren't we all dreaming while we knit? And if we aren't, doesn't knitting just become a job, a chore or maybe a goal or something that goes down okay, but for the life of you, you can't exactly recall the taste or the top note or the exact name on the label?

This I can remember: Koigu (in any format). I can remember anything Blue Sky Alpacas. I can remember Clapotis. I can remember Fad-Classic. I can even remember that little A-line thingy I just designed for Girlfriend (although I have conviently forgotten the yarn I used); I can remember Carnival Shawl, too. Of all things, I can remember the Carnival Shawl...

Uh oh. Come to think of it. I better hurry up and finish those four remaining motifs. We're talking four weeks and counting, friends...(I guess I could think of it as one motif for each week. Or maybe one bottle of something-something, or maybe four more chances to start a diet, or maybe four more pair of quickie socks, or . . . just enough time to . . . ?) Oh man. Must. Finish. The. Shawl.

Sunday Afternoons

So, oh well. My only bra broke yesterday and I had to go through one of the most joyless activities a woman can go through on a Sunday afternoon. Yes, you got it right: I had to wait in line at the Macy's Bra and Foundation department....For over 30 minutes.

I don't know what it is about buying a bra. But I tell you what: whenever I need one, it seems like someone just yelled, "Bras, 89 percent off!" or something of that nature, because just about everyone with a boob or two ends up in line in front of me over at the Macy's Bra and Foundation department. And if I look around, it seems like we all share that same, Need-a-Bra Expressionless Expression.

If you've ever shopped for one on a Sunday when you could be at home knitting instead--and you're over 18 or have been lucky enough to experience Prom or Wedding Angst, you know exactly what I mean.

Yeah, you're probably wondering what's up with the one-bra action, but truth be told, I have a few others. I do. It's just that they either have flaps that come down for nursing or maybe they have enough wires to send off sirens whenever I get within two miles of the nearest airport security area. Not to mention I own a pair (a pair?) of those rubber boob covers that stick directly onto your skin for when you want to wear something that is sooo sexy you can't even get near a top that has straps. It's a good thing I've only tried the contraption (contraptions?) on once, because, and I tell you the truth, wearing one of those numbers will pretty much send whatever sexy thoughts you thought you had right out the window, and quick. You're better off without the sexy outfit. Put on a bra that is comfortable and have a bowl of popcorn, instead.

So enough of that.

I did finish some socks. But I couldn't tell you what the heck they're made from. Shoot, last night in a minute or two of major cleanup fury I threw out the ball band. All I can recall is that the yarn is from Italy (great wines from that region) and one ball makes two socks. This stuff knitted up quickly. I actually finished one whole sock--the foot and toe portion--in as long as it takes to drive to the beach and back from our house this morning. And that is less 25 minutes each way.

I'm working on that Blue Sky Alpacas pleated skirt in a luscious brown alpaca (from Blue Sky Alpacas/kpixie.com). At first, I was going to knit up the longer version, but I'm feeling jaunty. I think I'll do the mini instead and add some lunges to the old routine or something.

Girls in Boots

(So they're having a camp out at Girlfriend's preschool. Fun, games, s'mores, Kumbaya, all that stuff. I think they'll even manage a pancake breakfast in the morning.

Call me a party-pooper, but you couldn't drag me with promises of Prada and champagne to a deal like that.

The other mothers tell me how much fun we'd have, camping out with all the other families and the children. All the snacks and games and the guitar playing. It'll be fun fun fun.

Fun? You call more than 50 children under five and a medley of bored teenagers hanging around over by the swings, fun?

No, not even six new Chanel lipsticks would lure me. Gratis Gucci. Not a chance. Shoot, I wouldn't even go if they gave away lobsters.)

So this is what I was working on the past few days. Something for Girlfriend. I spotted a little girl sporting an A-line dress with go-go boots the other day and I decided right then and there that Girlfriend needed something like it. I remember wearing lots of dresses a la Marsha and Jan Brady with go-go boots, too.

Of course I was probably more of a Cindy-slash-Jan Brady rather than the elusive Marsha, but I did have a couple a-line dresses and a pair of black patent leather (read: vinyl) go-go boots that were so to die for that, to this day, I still dream about them.

Oh the fashion of it all. The sheer go-go-cool of it all. Those boots. Those boots.

Those boots stunk.

I wore those boots so often that after awhile, they began to stink. I remember years later asking my mom whatever came of those fantastic go-go boots and she told me that she had to throw them out. She said, they stunk so bad she had to keep putting them in the garage when I wasn't looking.

But I kept retrieving them.

Then one night, the Go-Go Boot Struggle finally came to a head. Mom decided the things had to be banished for good. So, she planned to come into my room while I slept to take them away.

Thing is, she told me, she snuck into my room and couldn't find them.

Turns out, I wore them to bed.

Yup. Gotta get some more go-go boots. Two pair. One for me and one for Girlfriend (that breathe).

BTW: I made up the pattern as I went and the V goes in the back. I'm going to look for a skinny, white leather belt to go through the loops instead of ribbon. And wouldn't it be so great if I could find a white plastic belt buckle in the shape of a flower!? Oh. The Brady Fashion of it all!

(Oh, and if you're in the mood, there are two new patterns over at the Garter Belt.)

To Belong

I'm thinking it is fairly obvious that HWWV and I don't look alike. We are as far apart in looks a couple can be, really.

Today, Girlfriend pointed at me for about the hundredth time and declared, "you have yellow hair."

I have yellow hair.

When I went to the Bay Area to celebrate my grandmother's 90th birthday, my mother's sister--my aunt--brought out a picture of a man who I had only heard about; he was someone I had never seen before.

My sister and I huddled over the picture. It was a picture of my biological grandfather, my mother's biological father.

Herman was my mother's father in the real sense, but only by marriage. Grandma was married earlier, before World War II and her husband had to go to war. Mom was born and was raised by her mother's mom, while grandma worked as an accountant's assistant. When her father finally came back after the war ended, he gave his daughter--my mom--a five-pound box of chocolates and turned and walked away. The war or maybe something else was too much or maybe they all grew apart. Seven years separated them all.

But I finally saw his picture a month or so ago for the first time. Nearly 70 years after their marriage, and taken maybe a year before my mom's birth.

He had yellow hair.

And my brother's eyes. And my sister's jaw. And pretty much nothing of mine (except for the hair). But that is okay. Oh boy, if anyone in that room knew what I felt the moment I looked into my mother's father's eyes. The man I never knew and the man no one ever ever ever mentions. The man who my mom never really knew, either. (And I wonder if she minded? And did she ever see this picture?)

Later, I told Shorty, my grandmother, that I saw her ex-husband's picture, the one taken on their wedding day. "You mean Herman?" she asked. "No, grandma. I mean, mom's dad. You know, your first husband..."

Blank look and then. "Your mom's father. yes. I remember him. I don't think I told you, but he used to live in your town, you know, the one you live in now."

I can't help but wonder what Girlfriend thinks when she looks at me. Does she wonder why we don't look alike? Even her sense of humor is different, sort of like we don't have a heck of a lot in common. It's the yellow hair that separates us in the strangest way, I think, but I can't say so for sure.

(HWWV, when we first met, he used to say I was exotic.)