knit and tonic

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.

Trying to Laugh it Off

It is hard to find nice looking reading glasses, you know, the ones that don't necessarily make you look like you are blind as a bat or ones that magnify your eyes to the size of melons. Usually, the reading glasses I find at the drugstore give me that middle-aged look, not that being middle aged is bad, or that cross-dressing is bad, or that someone who puts pink rinse on their gray hair rather than the usual blue is bad, either. It's just that I need to hang on to whatever thread of youth I have, and wearing reading glasses on the stationary bike at the gym sort of smacks of being middle aged, especially when they keep slipping off the tip of your nose when you are trying to read your large print best-seller novel.

Speaking of the cross-dressing reference, I thought that I wouldn't mention it, but I'm listening to Ru Paul's music at the moment and I just have to say that I went to the gym at my not-usual time. I didn't run into the interesting guy who always eats Hawaiian food out of a container whilst circling the cardio area, and I wish I did--just to mention it in passing and good old fashioned reverie. Instead, I happened upon the guy with the french manicure. He was walking out and I noticed he was wearing his gym shorts, a cute top, and sensible black heels. So, I quickly searched my gym bag for a few seconds, and coming up with nothing, I grabbed my Blackberry and texted HWWV. I wrote:

"I was just thinking that guys who cross dress normally don't have very good taste in shoes."

And he wrote: "Let me guess . . . You don't have your little memo pad with you today."

Then I wrote: "You're right; but I just had to say, that guy who does the female impersonator stuff just left the gym with a guy outfit and heels."

And he wrote: "Oh yeah; I've seen him. He does have bad taste in shoes. But he sure has a mean hair-do, even after a gnarly spinning session. I know this."

It is good to have someone in your life who understands you.

Back to the new glasses. The good news is, I finally found some reading glasses that I really like at Target for only a buck in the dollar bin. (Score!) I actually managed to wear them all day without losing them or sitting on them and I even chit-chatted with a nice and cute checker at the Whole Foods Market for a few minutes. You know, all in all, I could say I had a five-star day.

The thing is, I managed to wear these new specs the entire day without anyone pointing out that the sticker that said +2.00D was still on one of the lenses, and this sticker was stuck over my good eye, to boot.

BTW: I'm working up a pattern using the Damask, and I'm thinking a cute cardi, something you could throw on over a tank or even a bathing suit in a pinch. I'm sort of stuck right now, though because it is a lot like linen and other natural fibers and I want to put something lacy at the bottom, not necessarily lace, but something airy and I'm sort of not quite at the crossroads with the idea, if you know what I mean.

But at Least I can Pedal

It's hard not to feel sorry for yourself when you are sitting outside of the yoga joint, watching Girlfriend through the window doing her practice without you. It's hard because the hip, well, it ain't so good and all one can do without making things worse is the stationary bike or the elliptical trainer. And who likes those things? Especially when those are the only two choices. I mean, let me tell you, the stationary bike sure loses its zing when that is the only thing one can do.

So here I am, sitting in the tearoom at Yogaworks, the best yoga gig in town. HWWV is inside there taking pictures of all the kids doing their yoga and I'm typing this. I feel like I'm complaining, and I guess I am.

And I know someone will say, "but you have it good, I've had a hip replacement and I can barely walk." And then a next person will say, "barely walk? Barely walk? It would be a dream to barely walk! I can barely crawl." And then the next person will say, "hah! That'll be the day when I finally crawl again! Most of the time I just lay there."

"Yeah, but I have to lay under a volcano! One that always erupts! Right on my face!

"Volcano? You're lucky! A volcano! Just think of the beautiful sight of an erupting volcano! I have to lay on the asphalt and one of those asphalt rollers rolls over me day after day! I'm absolutely smushed!"

And so on and so on and so on and so on.

Now that I have that off my chest, I just bought 10 balls Rowan Damask and I think I shall make some sort of cover up for the beach/pool/yoga outfit (since I'm only a poser these days). I've started to write down the pattern and we'll see how it goes. The yarn is just beautiful. It looks even better when near a nice cocktail. But we all know that knitting and drinking don't go together, right? [Hah!] Which, reminds me of a funny story my friend Scout told me the other day. She told me she was talking to a close knitting friend and I guess he had a few beers. Anyway, he was knitting away and realized that he made a mistake and had to rip back a ton of his work.

And then, after he finished ripping, he discovered that he hadn't made a mistake after all, that he ripped back for nothing. That's what you get when drinking while knitting.

Off to drink and knit.

Preventive Swatching

Most days, I'll be sitting in the LYS, and if I am there for more than, say, 10 minutes straight and paying attention to the conversation, invariably two subjects will be discussed even for just a second. The first one is aches and pains or whoever is sick, has been sick, feeling like getting sick, or managed to miss the latest breakout of the flu, the runs, or chickenpox or who has a suspicious rash. The second subject is swatching.

Usually, the swatching conversation is carefully sprinkled throughout whatever other conversation is going on. It's a subtext, the elephant in the room, the one question that begs to be asked and answered whenever someone's project goes awry, doesn't fit, or doesn't turn out like the one in the picture.

(Whenever someone asks my favorite LYS gal: "Do I need to make a swatch?" She always answers: "Only if you want it to fit.")

So, yesterday, when I walked into the LYS a couple of the gals were actively ripping a garment. The first thing that popped out of my mouth: "Did you . . . "? and after a couple of glares in my general direction, she said she did but the thing stretched as she knit it. Then I said, but did you make a big enough "one" so you could see if it stretched before you cast on? (No answer.)

Now that is the kicker, isn't it? To make a swatch large enough to see how it behaves when washed, hung, or shaken? To see how it acts when it is steamed? To see if it shrinks? To see if it drapes, bags, or sags? Trust me; I know how it feels to really want to cast on a new project, but having been burned too many times to name, I make a swatch pretty much no matter what, except for when I make socks.

I guess swatching, even though it's difficult to make yourself do it, pays off in the end. Plus, there are multiple uses for swatches if you hang onto them. Just think of all the wonderful things you could use them for.

No Sense of Urgency Here

Don't you hate it when you buy some new yarn with all sorts of sugarplums dancing in your head whispering to you about how glorious it will all be, how that scarf will make you look once you finish it in an absolute flash, how that market bag will feel in your hands all stuffed with the stuff you should stuff in a market bag, especially since the yarn probably must be totally organic and all, why else would you make a market bag out of it? I mean, you wouldn't be making a market bag out of the stuff that probably must be organic unless you're going to be greener than any of your next door neighbors (or at least look greener).

If you ever get around to knitting it, that is.

So that's where I am today. At least in my head. Remembering how I felt when I bought this stuff. Remembering what I planned on making with it. Remembering  all the emotions I was sure I'd feel when the projects were finished.  Beating myself up for never getting around to starting the projects. Beating myself up for not even winding the yarn yet. Beating myself up for beating myself up for all the projects I wanted to make but never got around to.

Now I'm wishing I could knit with my toes. Wow, that is really stupid. Who'd want to knit with their toes? Especially since the person in question has perfectly good fingers. Perfectly good fingers that haven't knit a stitch in days. Perfectly good fingers that haven't knit a stitch in days and that haven't even touched the new yarn except to take a picture of it.

Time to shut up.

BTW: Here's a picture we took at the studios last week. From left to right: Shay Pendray, Me, Eunny Jang, and Kim Werker. Lot's of fun and a really great group of people.

On Travel and Hamburgers

There's something about getting out of town that is ever so slightly cooling or heating, and whichever way it goes, there is something healing about it.

Anyway. When I was sitting and waiting in the Green Room for the Knitting Daily TV show (taped in Oh-Hi-Oh!--See your PBS listings for the first show in July) with a group of gals who I can only say probably get out a heck of a lot much more than I do and are much more composed than I am, when I got called by the make-up artist so she could give me a look-over for the shoot, turns out, she had to re-do my make up from square one because the age spots were showing and, anyway, the eyebrows were a little thin and did I know that I could use a bit of brown powder under the jowls to make them disappear?

I told her, "yes, I know that the brown powder is supposed to work because, after all, I try the trick everyday to no avail and that the thinness of my eyebrows is something beyond my control since I have been in the habit of plucking out every white one that pops up."

"Well, that explains it," she remarked. "You'll have to start tinting them unless you want to be bald in a year or two. I'm thinking you can do the job whenever you tint your hair; you know, just dab some of the tint you use for your hair onto your eyebrows."

Then I said, "The thing is, my drapes don't match my valences." (Or, should it be: My valences don't match my drapes? or, The shades don't match the valences? . . . )

I suppose things could be worse.

We got home safe and sound, to honks and horns and birds flipped here and there on the freeway. Boy, what a difference. And can I just say that I won't be ordering hamburgers here anymore? I'm convinced all my talk about the great burgers in Cleveland has stunted whatever progress I've made on the establishments west of Ohio. Take a look at what they tried to serve us on the plane over Albuquerque.

To think I was a vegetarian for over 10 years until I got over it. Now I'm wondering if I should re-consider the deal.

On knitting news: If you are ever in the Cleveland-near-Avon area, visit Birds of a Feather. This is a wonderful shop. (They actually have nesting birds in the eaves of their barn [not that they'd be happy to hear this].) I absolutely loved visiting. The setting is amazing, and if you happen to quilt, too, the entire downstairs is devoted to quilt fabrics and I tell you what, it all makes me think of my grandma Helen and how she's about 94 these days and doesn't remember me or recognize me anymore (she's the one who taught me to knit and has lost her sight.) The second-to-last conversation I had with her was about how she wished she could knit again. The last conversation I had with her was about how much she missed her daughter--my mom--and how hard it is to be nearly blind. If only I could take her to a place like this so she could feel all of the fibers and see all the colors again.

BTW: If you are in the Cleveland area, I would also suggest you see some of the many cemeteries. They are abundant and you just might see a burial or two from the Civil War era. Amazing and dashing and sad and morbid and wonderful all at the same time. Girlfriend, when I told her about it all, said that she didn't want to get out of the car. I asked her why, and she said she didn't want to step on dead people.