Breaking the Boyfriend Curse - A Formula

So, I gave the tall man the sweater on Monday, and here it is Thursday, and can you believe it, he hasn't dumped me. Take that boyfriend curse!
So, when exactly do you knit your boyfriend a sweater? In this case, it was kind of, what came first, the sweater or the boyfriend -- I had been wanting to knit the Cobblestone Sweater from the minute I got my hands on the Fall Interweave, and really, I was just looking for an excuse to knit it. That's not to say that I didn't want to knit him something, I did. So the bottom line was a classic SAT tautology:

I want to knit the Cobblestone sweater (I want to knit x)
I want to knit him a birthday present (I want to knit y something for z)
I will knit him the Cobblestone sweater for his birthday. (I will knit x for y for z)

Not quite E=mc2d, but brilliant nonetheless! If you can plug your desires into that simple formula - knit him a sweater, or knit him socks, or knit him anything you damn well please, and don't worry about any silly curse.

Not only have I cracked this simple equation worthy of DaVinci Code notoriety, I discovered something else. I have more in common with my mother than I thought I did. Whenever I visit my parent's house, it can be 9:00 a.m., it can be 3 p.m., it can be right after eating a giant Thanksgiving dinner, and my mom will ask, did you have enough to eat? Knitting this sweater for a 6'4" guy, I was constantly asking myself "is it big enough?" and relatedly, "do you think I have enough yarn, do I have enough yarn?" Of course, I ask myself the same thing when I'm knitting for myself. Am I following the pattern? Yes. Am I on gauge, yes? Did I buy the recommended amount of yarn? Yes. So, the question really is as silly as "have you had enough to eat?" after scarfing down turkey, stuffing, potatoes, string beans, carrot soufle, and pie.
But, I was really worried this time, not play worried, like when I knit for myself. I tricked him into giving me his chest size (hey honey, what size suit do you wear, Robin is knitting her boyfriend a sweater and he's about the same size). I tried subtly asking him how long his arms are, not an easy question to throw into regular banter, and I got an answer I'll just keep to myself. So, while we were at Stitches, four women holed up in a hotel room, knitting in bed, I had Kate call her 6'3 boyfriend, and had him measure himself, as well as his 6'4" brother. They were inches over what was called for in the pattern (22 inches from the arm pit to the bottom, and a 22 inch sleeve from the joining of the yoke to a bit passed the wrist!)

Now, I was really nervous -venturing beyond the parameters of the pattern! So while I had 20 balls of Kathmandu Aran, at a 100 yards a ball, and the pattern called for 18 balls, I still bought 6 more balls from Webs. And lucky that I did, because I did need one - sigh of relief. Sweater complete, it fits, and I didn't run out of yarn.

Sorry the pictures suck - I was right down to the wire when he came over on Monday. I'll try to get better pictures when he actually wears it. The fit was perfect, although the sleeves at the bottom were a little loose for his taste - a little rolling at the bottom, and all was well. What you really can't see in these pictures is how beautiful this yarn is - it's a dark green, with flecks of reds, yellows, and more greens. It has a smidge of cashmere in it, and it is yummy. And, if you're looking for something to knit for yourself - lookie here - the new Winter 2007 Interweave Knits preview, in which Miriam Felton, of Icaraus and friends fame, has a new pattern in Kathmandu -

And, as you know - I have no need for a formula for myself - I see it, I like it, I knit it - this might end up in my queue - because I love this yarn!

Rhinebeck 2007

After the buying free for all that was Stitches (yes, I have a camera, yes, I will blog about my purchases), I wasn't completely looking forward to Rhinebeck. The weather was iffy, I was broke, I need more yarn like I need a hole in the head, and I was broke. So, when Courtney bailed due to impending childbirth, and the trip was a 50/50 no-go, I felt a strange kind of relief - I was going to be saved from the crack, er yarn. But, Kate really really wanted to go, the trip was on, and we were in the car, at 7:00 p.m. on Friday, heading towards Rhinebeck. As I was getting in the car, my almost five-year old niece called to chat:

Niece: Aunt Wendy, I think it would take 57 days to walk to Florida.
Me: Interesting.
Niece: And it would take 39 days to walk to Colorado.
Me: It would take less time to walk to Colorado than Florida, why is that? Colorado is farther.
Niece: Because Mickey Mouse lives in Florida.

And, from that, I kind of just let my stress about money go - there's just no logic to things, really. Who cares my bank account is empty, Mickey Mouse lives in Florida!

Last year, I stayed at the Bates Motel, where one would certainly go to kill oneself, in I think Hyde Park. This year, since we waited so long to book a room, we stayed at the Pleasant Valley Inn, in, where else, Pleasant Valley. The last five miles of the trip were something straight out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was rainy, it was dark, it was windy. The roads were slick, and twisty. Kate's hands gripped the wheel, her nose was practically pressed against the dashboard, trying to see. We found our motel, grabbed our stuff, and hustled to our room, 103. All of the rooms were numbered 101, 102, 103, except this one -- Room 23. Outside Room 23, a man in a black hoody lounged in a beach chair. Others milled around in the doorway, wearing boxer shorts and wife beaters. Iron Maiden blasting, the proprietor of Room 23 said "if we're too loud for you girls, just let us know!" We ducked our heads, nodded, and kept moving - into the room, and safety. At one point, while we were watching t.v., the music went off, and all I could hear was a loud buzzing. Uch, I said, they must have blown out their speaker, that reverb is killing me. Kate got up to investigate. She peaked through the blinds, but as she was standing there, she noticed the sound was coming from our room - our refrigerator. She yanked the cord out of the wall, the noise stopped, and we immediately went to sleep - enough time awake at this not so Pleasant motel.

Luckily, between the evening and the morning we only spent 45 waking minutes at what we would come to call Hotel Meth, featuring lovely decor, like this lamp that I found in our closet. In the morning, I ventured into the shower - I turned the water on, it was cold, I let it run. I started to smell something, something that smelled, well, like ass. As the water got hotter, the smell got more pungent, like the smell of warm death, as Kate put it. We quickly got dressed, grabbed our things, and bolted passed Room 23. The door to Room 23 was open. I peaked inside - they're were mattresses strewn around the room, litter, clothes, but there were also tools, and saw horses, and sketchy equipment lying around as well. Between the smell from the water, and the makeshift industrial look of the room, there was only one explanation - we had stayed at a meth lab. Hotel Meth.

We tried to return the key, but drat, the door was locked! Were we going to be stuck at Hotel Meth for all eternity!!!! Luckily, some woman poked her nose through a curtain, and pointed for Kate to just leave the key on the windowsill. She dropped the key, and we made a run for it.

And, we ran towards food, preferably not laced with crystal meth. We stopped at a roadside mom and pop farm stand, and they directed us to the historic Red Hook diner, in historic Red Hook, dubbed the "cutest little town ever," by Kate.

The Historic Red Hook Diner is modeled after the original Silk City Diner, so we felt right at home. And boy did they make us feel at home, as they stuffed us with pure, unadulterated maple syrup, sweet potato pancakes, homefries, omelets, and sausage with gravy and biscuits:

Shockingly well-rested, and clearly well-fed, we were ready for Rhinebeck.

Last year, I arrived at the fairgrounds early, snuck in, and bolted for the Socks that Rock. This year, I have unknit STR's all over my house, 2 skeins sacrificed to moths, and laceweight purchased at Stitches. We got to the festival at 11:00, totally skipped the Fold and Brooks Farm (which I also purchased at Stitches), and while we did start in Building A, home of both vendors, we were relaxed and uncrazed. Within minutes, we ran into Carol, our Black Bunny proprietress, and Laura, co-author of an upcoming Interweave book, with Carol and Lisa, of Rosies.
Carol and Laura had left Philly around 5:00 a.m., and while Hotel Meth wasn't exactly the Four Seasons, or Motel 6 for that matter, I was glad we had each invested $30/night in order to avoid that ungodly morning start.


So, what did I buy? I completely forgot to photograph them - but, I can tell you, I spent under $100. And, you know, I really didn't have to restrain myself from anything - I was just enjoying the fall weather, the beautiful scenery, and making friends with the livestock. I did buy sweater quantity worsted from Shadyside Farm, no gimics, no fancy multi's, just a solid chartreuse from the sale bin, that I completely snatched as someone else was waivering on reaching for it. I also got a fingerless mitt kit from Carolina Homespun in pinks, and sweater quanity Morehouse bulky, which I'll chat about below. Most importantly, however, I got the knob to fix my wheel. I wish I remembered the name of the vendor - this guy helped me out last year, and he was equally helpful this year. Both years, I pointed to a part on the wheel that I was missing, and he went into his secret tool box, and found the part I needed. When I got home, I had a terrible head cold, so I wasn't in the mood for spinning, but I did need to know if it was going to work. So, I quickly banged in the nob, threaded the bobbin, and spun for a few seconds - lookie! There's take-up! I have a brake! I can make yarn. So, I'll save some practice spinning for later in the week, when it doesn't feel so much like exercise.

By lunchtime, I had still not bought anything, and Kate was the big spender - sweater quantity at Green Mountain Spinnery, and sweater quantity at another small farm that basically sold Green Mountain Spinnery. For lunch, we stopped at the 4H counter, and I had my now traditional lunch - lamb chilli.
I love supporting 4-H, anything that brought livestock to Warminster, PA is a gem in my book, as many of my friends were 4H'rs. (I was not - my cityfolk parents knew nothing of cows, bunnies and farming). There is something strange about chowing down on lamb, when you're surrounded by very much alive sheep, but ah well, it's just too good to resist.

So, like I said, I made friends with the animals, did my Dr. Doolittle thing, instead of buying their wares. Here are some of my new friends - alpacas, and goats, and rams, and a turtle - oh my!






And, here's the lovely fall foliage:






And then, it was time to sit down, beat.

We left the fairgrounds at about 4:45, and went to the Morehouse store. Last year, going at the same time as the closing of the festival, the store was a madhouse. This year, we completely beat the crowd, and were able to poke around at our leisure. Sheep's Clothes is everyone's dream yarn store. A cornacopia of color, arranged by weight. After feeling up nearly every weight in the store, Kate had to ask, why isn't everything merino? Everything could be merino, and we'd probably all be happy, but what would the poor Blue Faced Leicester, or the Cormo do? There's room for every sheep in the herd, but merino is a total dream.
While I'm sure there was probably more sale yarn earlier, we did manage to get our hands in a big bin of yarn, and I walked away with a rust colored bulky to make the bandwagon sweater, as we call it at Rosie's, because everyone is knitting it - the moss stitch, asymetrical cardigan/jacket from Drops.
And then, we were done - Kate walked out of the Morehouse Store, last purchase in hand. And, we hit the road, back to Philly, making plans for nexxt year's Rhinebeck, and more grateful than you could ever imagine, that we did not have to return to Hotel Meth!

In other news, the bf Cobblestone sweater is indeed done, has been gifted, and properly appreciated it - pictures later in the week!

Notes from the Not So Underground

Have I really not posted since September? Time flies when you're having fun, or when you're not having exactly what I'd call fun, i.e., cleaning, but I guess time just flies 'cause it's life. So, here's a quick rundown of the lowdown -

1. Lack of Blogging - I have wanted to blog, truly. But, I feel the loss of my digitial camera, deeply. Whenever I try a case, I try to condense things into charts, photographs, visual aids. Usually, when I'm surfing through blogland, what catches my attention is a photograph. I guess I could wax poetic about what I'm knitting, pick the perfectly descriptive adjective to describe a yarn, a pattern, a texture - but I'm lazy. I want the picture. So, why haven't a bit the bullet, and bought a new camera - see #2.

2. The House - So, I decided to keep the boy, and clean the house. Mulling over the decision with my friends turned into an intervention - ideas came pouring forth, cleaning hints and tips, storage solutions, window treatment pointers, it was nothing short of an intervention. I never knew how much my messiness was "hurting" others, how pained they were that my lovely house was such a slop shop flop house. I won't bore you with the home improvement details, because that would be as exciting as watching paint dry, literally. I will share one little story - while moving a rather heavy object on the second floor, I wrenched my back. I fell to the floor, unable to move. About 10 minutes went by, the pain hadn't passed. I recalled the opening moments of Bridget Jones, where she's clutching a bottle of presumably bad wine, singing "all by myself," and having visions of dying, alone, and being eaten by dogs. This was it, I thought I'm going to be eaten by dogs. So, I sucked it up, and dragged myself to the medicine cabinet, and popped a Vicodin. Then, I hobbled downstairs, and went to the icebox to get an icepack. No icepack, just Lean Cuisine's and Weight Watcher's Smart Ones. Well, that will have to do. I took a Lean Cuisine, shoved it down the back of my pants, grabbed a beer, collapsed on the couch, and watched Sunday night television. I may not be clean, but I'm resourceful.

What does all this have to do with not having a digital camera? After runs to Target, Ikea, Linens and Things, and Home Depot, I'm el broko. I really would like to have a camera for Rhinebeck, so hopefully, by the end of the week, I throw myself into further bankruptcy, and buy a camera.

3. Knitting -

a. I finished one Anemoi Mitten, started the second and bought this book . Truth be told I rarely ever read the text of knitting books. I skip the intro, and head right to the patterns. Occasionally, though, the text is a really fascinating history of a technique, or a pattern, or a cultural movement, like Victorian Lace Today. I haven't finished any projects from Victorian Lace today (although I do have, er, three on needles), but I have read the text, and it's a good, juicy read. Same can be said of Selbuvotter. Did you know that knitting these mittens can be traced back to one woman - one woman knit herself a black and white stranded mitten, and it was like the birth of microwave popcorn, or well, something like that. And these mittens were central to mating and courtship rituals - no flowers, no candy, no lipstick, or nailpolish, or f??? me shoes - mittens. It was all about mittens. Dating is hard enough as it is, can you imagine an entire relationship rising or falling based on the workmanship of your mittens? And I thought being a bridesmaid here was a pain in the ass, what with the dress, the shower, the batchlorette party, etc., - can you imagine having to knit and exchange mittens with the entire wedding party? Unfortunately, after reading the text, my little obsession with these mittens is somewhat soured. I can just see myself surrounded by rejected mittens, lying on my back in pain, being eaten by dogs.

But, don't worry, I have every intention of finishing the second mitten, and then, next up, I want to knit these . After seeing them on Ravelry, I became, shockingly, obsessed. Found in a pattern in Piecework Magazine from December 1995, I tossed apart the backroom of Rosie's looking for the back issue. Then, I started bidding like a maniac on ebay. The first time a copy of the magazine surfaced, I was outbid in the last three seconds, argh! On my second bidding war, actually, I hit buy it now, I secured a copy, and have it safely stored in my house for a rainy day, or a Koigu day, because I intend to make them in a brown, a safety orange, and a multi Koigu. Someday.

b. Sweaters. The ribby pullover in Brooks Farm is done, just waiting to be photographed. I have the body, one sleeve, and 3/4's of the second sleeve done of Tangled Yoke Cardigan. I cast on Eunny Jang's Venezia Pullover, did the hem, and screwed up the first three rows of the fair isle pattern, so some ripping needs to happen. That project is on hold, while I knit the boy a sweater for his birthday . . . which is in 2 days.

What, you say? Aren't you worried about the boyfriend curse? Eh, whatever. His favorite team is the San Diego Chargers, so I custom ordered sock yarn in team colors. Unfortunately, the yarn was coming from Canada, and as of today, it's still not here. So, on Wednesday, I had a decision to make. I could switch up the Chargers idea, and knit a scarf, or whatever, in nice worsted weight yarn, like Cascade 220. But, what would I do with the sock yarn when it finally arrived - you can only do the team color thing once -- once is sweet, twice is uninspired. So, I knew I had 2 bags of Katmandu Aran in my stash, one bag already paid for when I had Courtney order it a year ago because I HAD TO HAVE IT THAT SECOND, and one on hold. I really really really liked the Cobblestone Pullover
from this month's Interweave, and I was looking for an excuse to make it - of course, I wasn't really looking for an excuse to make it in a week, but that's what I decided to do - knit a sweater for a 6'4" guy in a week. So, at Stitches, I was the crazy knitting lady - I bought a wristlet pouch for my yarn, and knit like a person possessed. I cast on at 9:00 p.m. Wednesday, and by the time I got home last night, I had knit the body to the yoke, and 90% of a sleeve. One sleeve and the yoke to go. We'll see.

And the curse? Well, if I knit him a sweater, and he immediately vanishes, I'll still be happy that I knit him a sweater, and I'll say no more about that at this point. I think writing about it on the internet would be more of a curse than knitting a sweater.

4. Stitches - I took Thursday and Friday off from my real job, and worked Rosie's booth at Stitches East in Maryland. Can I just tell you I have never worked so hard in my life? The packing, the unpacking, the selling, the standing, the repacking, the loading, OY!!! But, I'm glad I went, and I bought fabulous yarn - laceweight from Blue Moon, Lisa Souza, Skaska, and Habu. Sweater yarn from Brooks Farm. New patterns. Beads. More later when I do have my camera.

I'll write more about Stitches when I have the camera (I think), but I really want to say a big thank you to everyone who stopped by the booth, introduced themselves, and told me how much you liked the blog, and/or how much you missed the podcast. I do miss doing the podcast, but there just isn't time. Too much life going on. And, I also want to mention how tickled I was that so many people asked for the pattern for my pi shawl: As part of our Rosie's display, we had a wall full of completed Koigu projects, my shawl being one of them. While I love the stitch patterns in my pi shawl, and the colors, as I've mentioned before, I find it really hard to wear without feeling like a have a bull's eye on my back. But, because so many people asked for the pattern, which is really just Elizabeth Zimmerman's pi shawl numbers, with Barbara Walker patterns plugged in, I'll put a free PDF up for download, and it will also be a freebie at Rosie's.

So, that's it for now. The more I think about it, I have Sunday's money from Stitches still in my pocket - I feel a purchase coming on at lunch today - Ritz Camera is only a hop skip and a jump away, so hopefully, I'll be back into visual aids very soon!

A New Relationship

Last year, I was all about the lace. This winter, apparently, I'm all about Fair Isle. As you may recall, when last I visited the Isle of Fair, I was dithering between Eunny Jang's Autumn Rose and the Venezia Pullover. After much hemming and hawing (and many hours on Ravelry), I settled on a 2 colored version of the Venezia sweater (I would link to a picture in Ravelry, but I just can't put out a tease like that to those of you who haven't gotten your invites yet). Having picked a project, I thought, hmm, maybe I'd better learn how to do it - piece o' cake, right?

On Sunday, I sat in on a Fair Isle class at Rosie's. I kind of bucked the swatch, and worked on my End Paper Mitts. I don't have a photo - but the top of the Mitts look significantly different than the bottom. The bottom is tight - like someone who has a pole up their butt. The top is loose, relaxed, like someone who's just had a delicious cocktail, like a pear martini. And for me to loosen up, not stress over every stitch, not pull my floats tight, secure - that's huge. When I get my nails done, the manicurist is always tapping the back of my wrist - relax. Believe it or not, when it comes to potty humor, I bristle - I HATED BORAT. Yes, I'm a stiff. So, I am delighted with my new found lack of tension. I've got gauge, my friends, and it feels good.

So, before undertaking an entire sweater in stranded knitting, I decided to start small, with mittens. I don't wear mittens, I've never worn mittens. I've knit gloves, but after I lost the second pair of Koigu gloves I knit, I said, enough - I don't deserve them if I'm going to lose them. I just figured it would be good practice, without feeling like I was simply swatching. And then a strange thing happened (thanks to Ravelry, again), I am OBSESSED with mittens. I can't stop looking at them. Tiny little masterpieces of art - a different canvas on the palm and on the back of the hand. I love the charts. I love the teeny needles. Each stitch is dainty, and watching the pattern emerge is so satisfying. What I thought was practice, has turned into something much more. The endpaper mitts were kind of like a first date - eh, I'm not so sure this is going to take. A second date, a third, and all of sudden, familiarity, comfort, and the next thing you know - you have a boyfriend. These Eunny Jang Anemoi Mittens are my latest affair, and I love love love them - and no one could be more surprised than I.

I guess this Yom Kippur I'm going to have to atone to lace, for our apparent breakup. Have no fear, my laceweight stash -- I'm sure we won't be separated for long.

New Year

My dad was born on Rosh Hashona. His calendar year birthday is September 20th, and in the year he was born, it turned out that that he was a New Year's baby. There's a picture of him as a baby in my parents' dining room. It's in black and white, but you can still tell that the smiling baby is perched on the carpet that up until Monday, covered my living room floor.

The carpet was a Persian, I guess. My grandmother was born in Rovno, a small town on the border of Russia and Poland. When people ask us what we "are," the answer has to be, well, we're Jewish - because we're certainly not Russian, nor are we Polish. They lived on a shtetl; it was a small community. Someone, a cousin perhaps, had the audacity to marry a Russian, and the Yakira's became soiled goods in the matchmaking business. So, the only option was to marry each other - my greatgrandparents are second cousins. They had three children, and at some point, when my grandmother was a toddler, my greatgrandfather set off to New York, with a wave and a smile - don't worry, I'll send for you. Well, the call never came, and my greatgrandmother got tired of waiting. She packed up her three kids, and rolled all of her possessions in this large Persian rug, boarded a train, and began her journey. There's a story out there about how picky an eater my grandmother was, and that my greatgrandmother forced the train to stop somewhere in Siberia, where she commandeered a chicken, killed it, and cooked it so that my grandmother would eat with satisfaction.

So, the carpet crossed Siberia, had a layover in Japan for several months, crossed the Pacific, entered the country through San Francisco, crossed the United States, and made it's way to the Bronx, where my greatgrandfather was hiding, er, living. The wife, the kids, the carpet moved in - my greatgrandmother's house, then my grandmother's apartment. My dad often waxes poetic about his days in the Bronx - comparing it to shtetl life (although there hardly seems anything remotely attractive about living on a shtetl, but whatever). And, in pictures through the years, family gatherings, there's the carpet. Passover dinner, the dining room table, the carpet. A new baby, toys on the carpet. It's amazing to watch the decor change around the carpet - the barebones of the early tenenments, the kitschy 70's decor of my grandmother's New Rochelle apartment, the mixture of old and new in her retirement home in Bricktown, New Jersey.

My grandmother eventually had to go into an assisted living care facility. When she did, the place required her to cut the fringe off the carpet. Much discussion took place - it would destroy any value to the rug - but the value, to my grandmother, was having the rug with her.

After she passed away, the rug sat in my parent's garage, until I bought my house. I think it was the first thing I moved into my house. It made my house a home. Over the 12 years I've owned the house, this rug - this rug that crossed Siberia, was waylaid in Japan, had more than a dozen babies play on it - has been destroyed. Between the moths, the accident prone dog, the foot traffic, the parties, etc. I had managed to ruin what had been kept pristine for at least 100 years.

Recently, I started dating this guy. I knew right away he was a neatnik -- he has a 10 year old son, which means, you know - his car should look like he has a child. Nope - spotless - 2 years later, it still even smells like a new car. I'm not dirty (you've all heard about my shoe stealing cleaning lady), but I am messy messy messy. About 2 weeks ago, he told me that he couldn't be with me if I continued to keep my house in such dissarray, that he spent more time thinking about how I kept my house than about the time he spent with me. At first, I was like, fuck that. But, then I talked to my brother, and his response was "well, fuck that guy, but do it because it's the right thing to do - you can't continue to live the way you do, you're a grownup. I'm stressed when I'm in your house, too." I mulled it over, and talked to my friends. All of them were so excited about the prospect of me cleaning up my act, so to speak. So, over the past week, the beginnings of Operation Clean Up are underway.

So, on Monday, I went home because I forgot my cellphone. It was lunchtime. When I went to leave to go back to work, my deadbolt was busted. I had to call the locksmith - he said it would be about 2 hours. So, I sat down on my couch. I had already rehabbed the kitchen (isn't Target great???). It was time to start the living room. Without much thought, as if I was possessed, a copmlete frenzy! - I started rolling the carpet up - quite the feat - I had to move the t.v., the couch, everything in the room myself. Not only was it hard physical work, the smell of the thing itself made the job tough. But it was trashnight, it was an opportunity - and I tossed it out onto the street. My back was killing me, I was covered in filth - but all of a sudden, the room looked so much bigger. The musty smell was already floating right out the door behind the carpet. I cleaned up, and went back to work. By the time I got back to my house at 6:00, the carpet was gone. There's probably some homeless guy sleeping under the el wrapped in my grandmother's rug.

I stared at the sidewalk - it was really gone. I called my brother - he reassured me, said it had to be done. I went in my house, sat on the couch. And, all of a sudden, my living room had such potential - fresh - a new start - the hardwood that was hidden under that rug is truly beautiful. I saw a new rug in my head, smaller, lighter. And a valance over the window. Perhaps new pillows for the couch.

Some people talk about spring cleaning - but New Year's cleaning seems appropriate, too. I don't know how I'm going to tell my dad that that carpet is gone, but someone born on New Year's should understand new beginnings, and a fresh clean start better than anyone, right?

A Repeat

I pretty much said everything I wanted to say about 9/11 last year - and the feelings are still the same - so I'm just rerunning last year's blogpost from 9/11/06 -

When I was a kid, four or five, my parents both participated in a floating mah jong game, or in my dad's case, a floating pinochle game. Once a month, it was at our house, I was summarily banished to my room. I would hover around the staircase, and eavesdrop on the grown-up talk. There was smoking, there was a wee bit of drinking, there was Sinatra on the radio, and a lot of reminiscing - what were you doing the day Kennedy was shot? I'm not sure I knew who Kennedy was (those were the days that I thought Walter Kronkite was the President), or what it actually meant to get shot, but I remember being afraid - of the quiet, the stillness, the sense of sadness - - the sound of clicking tiles would stop, a card would remain dangling at someone's fingertips, and it was if the moment were just yesterday.

I didn't understand - this notion of a moment in time, where everyone shared a collective grief -- and, now, it's impossible not to - and it won't matter if its the fifth year anniversary, the sixth year anniversary, or the 20th anniversary -- the moment becomes today.

We walked to the courthouse, like we always did. My friend, we'll call her E, was telling a story. E was known around the courthouse as the fast talker, never stopping for air, and certainly offering no room for interruption. So, when I got a call on my cell phone, I burried it, and tried to keep up with what she was saying. We walked into the courthouse, and went our separate ways. I checked my voicemail, it was my friend Sue, at the gym, watching t.v. from the treadmill - I think I heard something about a plane hitting the World Trade Center - I don't know if it's true, it sounds like bullshit - let me know if you hear anything.

I went upstairs to the courtroom. Between bitching and moaning about our every day trials and traumas - where's the judge, where's the sheriff, can you get my client up? can you believe I have to try this stupid weed case? I have fifty billion things to do - oh, did you hear something about the Trade Center.

I was at the Trade Center once, in 2000, to buy 1/2 price Broadway tickets in the lobby. After buying tickets, my friend Kathryn and I stood in line for maybe five minutes, to ride the elevator to the top, but I was impatient to get our New York day started - Century 21 was across the street, there was serious shopping to be done. So I said, eh, I'll come back some other day . . .

The rumors were flying. The Judge wasn't on the bench, I needed coffee. I went to the Public Defender's office on the 4th floor of the courthouse. The t.v. was on, the picture was grainy, we didn't have cable. I picked up the coffee pot, and turned to the t.v., and the building went down. Did that building just go down? We all got closer to the t.v., our noses practically up to the glass, between the graininess, the smoke, we said, nah, that can't be . . .

The courthouse closed. We all went back to the office. My office was around the corner from E's - I went in her office, and her officemate, Lee, was in a panic. He had just gotten off the phone with his best friend, who was on the trading floor - get out, he told her - get out. Luckily, she was on the 11th floor, and she did get out.

Lee went to NYC the next week, and he and his friend took the ferry, and went to a firefighter's funeral - on the ferry ride back, they met a group of fire fighters who had made the trip from the mid West - they invited them to dinner. Friends from all over the city migrated to the restaurant, until they had a group of maybe 20 people. At the end of dinner, Lee went to pay the bill - the waitress told him - it's been taken care of - did you see the couple sitting next to you? They heard they were firefighters, and they picked up the bill.

E wasn't so lucky. Her sister worked at Cantor Fitzgerald. I regretted not picking up my cell phone -- that regret is today - would that have been the time difference between one last phone call if she had only known sooner? We know that she was on the phone with her boyfriend much of the time - the smoke, they couldn't see, they couldn't get out . . . E and I aren't close anymore. She works in a different office, but I hear about her occasionally. I thought of her today, and I know, that for her and her family, tomorrow will be the fifth anniversary, plus one day.

E left, and I went to my office. I called my best friend Kathryn, who I knew worked near the Trade Center. Why I was able to get through to NY, when so many other people needed to, I don't know. Kathryn was fine - her company had moved out of the World Trade Center complex the month before, she was on her way home, but she couldn't reach her parents in Kentucky - could I call her parents? I took down the number, and dialed the phone - and I found myself telling perfect strangers that their daughter was fine, that she would call when the phones were working - not to worry. I could hear the relief in her mother's voice - and that moment, too, is again today.

As more news trickled in, I began to worry about my own parents. My parents are retired, and travel often - 3-4 times a year. I lose track - it's a cruise, it's a bus tour, but I always know what day they're getting back, because the obligatory phone call must be made, or the guilt trip that follows will be unavoidable. I knew they were flying, I knew they were flying from the West Coast, and that's all I knew. Luckily, my brother had their itinerary - and, they had gotten grounded on the runway, in Canada. My parents spent the next night in the Canadian airport, but on the next day, families from the area began arriving at the airport, and "adopting" the stranded Americans. And, I know, that my parents will always be grateful for the kindess they received from these strangers, the Canadians.

After four days, my parents, after talk of renting a car, or perhaps taking a train, managed to get a few connecting flights to Harrisburg. My brother and I drove to Harrisburg, and met the plane on the runway, literally. Harrisburg is a small airport, and at the time, it was still an airport where they wheeled a staircase up to the plane, you got your luggage from under the belly of the plane, and your family could wait on the runway. My parents deboarded, and grabbed us - the smell of them is still very much today.

At the time, I was dating a bartender, an army veteran. When I spoke to him, he was throwing his gear in his truck, and heading to Fort Dix. What are you going to do when you get there? I asked, you're not in the army anymore. But, he went, and he was told to go home. In the week that followed, he tried to reenlist, but was told that he couldn't because he was a single parent. The only way to reenlist was for him to get married. He spoke of a distant cousin who might be willing, or an old friend. There was something unspoken in the air between us - my patriotism just could not go that far - I was not going to marry a stranger in an act of craziness brought on by an insane act. And, that was for the best. He's now married to the perfectly right person for him, and instead of reenlisting in the army, he became a fireman.

Sometimes, I'm conflicted - about just who I am, how I identify myself. Of course, on this blog, it's easy - I'm a knitter. But so often, being Jewish and being an American does not equate to being a Jewish American - it's harder than that, complicated. Growing up, I was one of four Jews in my class. I sat out of chorus, or any other overtly religious school activities. I grew up in a Catholic neighborhood, and our house was the house on the block the priest would skip. We were sore thumbs, and we were other.

9/11 was a few days before Rosh Hashona. Services were solemn, and they were packed. Some wanted the comfort of a congregation. Some, to pray, to be embraced by faith. Some, wanted answers. The Rabbi approached the podium. Would we say the shema early? Would there be a special prayer for peace? Is this a moment of silence? He motioned for us to rise, and he played the national anthem.

And that feeling, is also today.

War, What is it Good For?

This shawl from Victorian Lace Today is my nemesis. Every Saturday, there it is in the window. I unlock the door to the shop, and there it is, staring at me, laughing at me, taunting me. Every Saturday someone comes in and asks, "Is that pattern hard?" I grit my teeth, and say yes, it's hard, and I can't do it. Every week my animosity towards that shawl grows, yet my desire for a rematch is forefront in my mind. You see, this shawl kicked my ass.

How many times have I cast on? I don't know. How many times have I ended up with a knotted, tangled mess? Too many times to count. But this past weekend, I said to myself, this is it - you're going down.

I readied the battlefield. I armed myself with the new Addi Lace Turbo needles, a weapon I did not have in my aresenal when the book was first published, and Circular Shawl and I first went to war. And scrap yarn - I don't care how many times I have to rip this out, I'm gonna get you sucka. T.V. - off! Radio - silence! It was time to get to work.
To defeat your enemy, you must know his/her "tell" - at least that's what poker players say - that little twitch or gesture that says, I'm bluffing, you got me. After four or five more tries, I discovered Circular Shawl's secret - and I am about to share. Here it is - Circular Shawl is a Merengue, not a waltz.

Remember Dirty Dancing - Patrick Swayze is trying to teach Jennifer Grey the Meringue. The music starts - the steps begin on the second beat - 2,3,4 - not the first beat. She keeps putting her foot down (on his), on the 1. We all know how that worked out - WIPEOUT! as she slinks along, practicing her moves all over the Catskills. Her feet keep doing a waltz - 1 - 2- 3, 1-2-3, and then all of a sudden it clicks - and she can even do the lift.

And, it was a moment of beauty, when I finally abandoned that 1, 2, 3 rhythm, and realized that the pattern started on the 2nd beat, not the first. The first line of the pattern is basically, Yarn Over, Knit 3, Yarn Over - and that Yarn Over is the first beat on the second side - that lone stitch is going to be the only marker in the circular blobs you're making.

One of the things that makes this pattern so hard is that you can't possibly use stitch markers. You're adding a stitch every row. There's an additional repeat every four rows. And the usually built in markers - double decreases - really don't mark anything - the circles are formed from the right side - the knit three together is off centered, like you were forming a circle at a "corner." It just doesn't look right, but it is. And the other pattern row on the right side - yarn over, knit 2tog, yarn over, knit 3 tog, yarn over, knit 1. 2-3-1, 2-3-1. Not a waltz, a merengue.
Alright, so I sound like a crazy person - but here it is! I'm using the Pastttimes Soy Silk. This is about five or six repeats of the 12 row chart - and I've got it! Ok, not quite as sexy as doing the lift with Patrick Swayze in the lake - but I'm excited, nonetheless.

And now, on a much lighter note (courtesy of Rosie's digital camera), here is the beginnings of my Tangled Yoke Cardigan. As you can see, kind of, I have the body done, and since the picture was taken, one sleeve. I'm using the recommended yarn, Rowan Felted Tweed. This is not my first encounter with Felted Tweed. Several years back, I cast on a Rowan sweater that had a Kid Silk Haze ruffle. I finished the fronts of the cardigan, and then the back, and then it was time to tackle the sleeve ruffle. What was I thinking? The ruffle was actually three ruffles, sewn together - so there were ruffles on the sleeves, and a ruffle on around the buttonband, neck, etc, all at least 300 stitches - knit three times over - uch! So, rather than poke my eyes out, I put the cardigan down, and when I picked it up the next season, ready to tackle the Kid Crack ruffles, the cardigan had fallen prey to the Great Moth Debacle of 2005. Lost forever, and I was secretly relieved.

But, I am happy to revisit the Felted Tweed. I had heard things about it splitting, but I'm loving it. I love the color, Avocado, and the light blue flecks. And, I love the long ribbing on the sleeves. Hopefully, I won't loose steam when it comes to the cabled yoke . . .

Also on my needles is this completely pettable - CASHMERE - scarf/wrap. I never did blog about Maryland Sheep and Wool - but if I had, you would have seen the stash of Hunt Valley cashmere I came home with. I had planned my knitting around Koigu scraps, and then as we all found out, the Koigu women didn't make the trip, and there were no mill ends to be had (although, some did find their way into Rosie's later on, and I have an endless project started in that - the Koigu madness I referred to a few posts back - no it wasn't limited to Charolotte's Web) This is a Hunt Valley pattern - it's just Frost Flowers and Leaves with a little edging thing on the bottom. I can't even tell you how soft it is - I just can't believe goats are this soft. If they really are this soft, why don't we have them as like, lap goats?

And in off the needles news, the Brooks Farm Ribbi Pullover is finished - I just have to weave in the ends, and lug it to Rosie's for a photo session.

And, thanks for everyone's kind thoughts about my home invasion. All is well, I'm good - and no yarn was taken, thank goodness!

Victimhood

After 12 years as a public defender, and 16 years as a Center City resident, I've finally managed to become a victim of crime - sort of.

Breaking it down - am I really a victim? To the lay person, I guess every victim is an "innocent" victim. But in my line of work, across the board -- judges, police officers, district attorneys - there's a definite recognition, and ultimate distinction and subsequent disparate treatment between the innocent victims -- the store owner who is robbed, the laundress who is bludgeoned, the carowner who's car window is busted, and the not-so-innocent "victim" - the drug dealer who's killed in a shoot out over a corner, the loser on the receiving end of a mutual fist-fight, a junkie who falls asleep, and is robbed -- no one has "clean" hands, so to speak. This distaste for the non-innocent "victim" is apparent in jury verdicts - clear first degree murder cases come back as not guilty's, or third degrees (unintentional killings, kind of like an aggravated assault gone bad); many cases involving equally bad parties lead to out-right acquittals.

I've been mulling this victim concept in the context of the Michael Vick debacle. No question - what he did was horrific, heinous, stomach-turning, and he deserves to be punished. But, when Vick's deeds come up in conversation, I gently remind my companion/s that my clients oftentimes do much worse things to PEOPLE, and maybe we should be more concerned about what we are doing to each other as human beings, and not worry so much about ballplayers on steroids, athletes who gamble, and, this obvious worst case scenario - the animal abusers. Why do we care soooo much (and I'm not saying we should not care at all, obviously we should) about the Vick incident, yet we don't have daily conversations about the 277 bodies stacked up in the streets of Philadelphia? And the answer I've gotten is simply - the animals are innocent, and can't protect themselves.

Crime, apparently, does not happen to the blameworthy. Or, if it does, is it just not a crime?

A crime, techinically speaking, is the noncompliance with a legislatively enacted law. And if we unconcerned about gunplay between 2 nefarious characters, and we're not moved by robberies that occur between to drug addicts, are we now defining crime in a different way? And for a sympathies to be truly swayed, and our hearstrings tugged, the victim should have floppy ears and a tail. So, it's with these questions floating around in my mind, that I can only say I was victim of crime, sort of, when my house was clearly burglarized Friday night.

So, I went out after work on Friday, had a few glasses of wine - ok, probably four glasses of wine. 2 were at the Samson Street Oyster House with my friend Sue, and I returned to the office to finish happy hour with my girls in my unit. Then, I went to Chris's Jazz Cafe, had half a beer, realized I was done for the night, and went home. Before going to bed, I made a few phone calls, crashed on the couch, then before going upstairs, I went to lock my front door. It was one of those humid nights - crazy humid, and my door was so swollen, that I could not get the deadbolt to shut. So, I was like f- it, what could happen - is some guy going to come down my street and try every door? I went to bed, and in the morning, when I came downstairs, my front door was wide open, to the street. Huh, I thought. I looked around. Nothing appeared to be ransacked, out of place, or missing - my laptop sat on my ottoman right by my door. My handbag was on a chair. Huh, I guess when the door become unswollen, it opened. Before I left for Rosie's for my Saturday morning shift, I looked for my wallet. That's odd, I thought - I can't find it. I knew that my phone had been in my little wallet that is more like a pouch. Was I that drunk that I left it at work, took the phone out and just don't remember? Must be. So, I went in to the office - no wallet. I checked my account. No money missing. Who steals a wallet and doesn't even try to use the VISA card? Must be lost.

I cancelled my one card, and began the process of replacing my id. On Monday, I got a call from one of my neighbors around the corner. He had found my wallet, and my make-up bag, that I hadn't even realized was missing, next to his car, that had been broken into that same night. Someone had really been in my house. When I got home on Monday, I inspected my stuff, and realized that my digital camera was also gone.

I had lunch with Kenny's old partner, Detective Bobby yesterday, and he was like, well, did you call the police? What was I going to say - um, I was so drunk I couldn't even remember if I had my wallet at home, didn't even know that stuff had been stolen, and, oh, by the way, I went to bed without locking my door because I was to lazy to wrestle with the swollen deadbolt. Yep, I would have made an excellent complainant - the dumb ass who didn't lock her door. Hardly an "innocent" victim.

I don't really have a point in all of this - just ideas that I've been thinking about -

And, unfortunately, since I don't have a digital camera, no photos of my now finished Brooks Farm sweater, or the Tangled Yoke Cardigan that I started in Avocado Felted Tweed.

Now that's a crime . . .

A One Colored Web

Back in April, or was it May? time flies when you're just knitting along . . . Rosie's hosted a Charlotte's Web Along. I had no interest for several reasons. First, it was after work on a Friday. Now I know, there are many of you out there that are firm believers that there is no such time that is a bad time for knitting. But, let's face it, Happy Hour is a bad time for knitting. The second reason, I'm not all that fond of Charlotte. I had heard rumors about the screwed up charts, rumors usually joined with expletives. And, as much as I love Koigu, I'm not the biggest fan of mixing and matching skeins. But, I think the true sticking point was the fringe and the crochet edging. I'm willing to trip back to the 70's for a poncho (see below), but fringe? Not for me.

But, try as I may - I got sucked in. Judy, who doesn't have a blog, and I can't link to her, but she can be found at Rosie's on any given Thursday, picked her colors, cast on - and I would like to say she went to town, her needles flew, her lace laced up - but that was not the case. Every day in my email, there was another question about the chart - sigh, I broke down and cast on.

Because I was only casting on in solidarity, I wanted an easy knit - no switching colors, no weaving in ends, no hassle, no nonsense - just straight up the chart for me. So, I went with one colorway , and I think this is my favorite Koigu colorway of all time. You may remember seeing it before when I started Eunny's entrelac socks. The shawl took about four skeins, maybe less, and I still have one skein left, so I'm thinking about doing a matching hat, and being all matchy matchy this fall.


I also completely abandoned the crochet/fringe edging, and opted for a picot bind off in a solid color, olive. I still have about four skeins of this olive stashed away, and I'm thinking of one of Cookie's socks.

For Koigu purists, I'm sure this Charlotte is an abomination, an affront to all things Koigu. I know that part of the beauty of Koigu is too mix and match skeins, paint color landscapes, and kind of throw caution to the wind. Personally, I just think there's so much going on in one skein of Koigu, why mess with perfection? Maybe I'm just rationalizing about being too lazy to switch up the colors, and weave in the ends, maybe I've done a disservice to loyal Koiguists, but I think it looks pretty good.

Survival Skills

Who says you need to be a Boy Scout to be resourceful? Ok, I probably couldn't find my way out of the woods using the sun as my compass. I also could not build a fire, or open a can with my teeth to save my life. Changing a tire is equally as doubtful. But, in a pinch, I can make stitchholders out of cocktail picks.

Knitting like a mad woman on a cocktail night at the pool (yes, the pool has an open bar), I just could not stop until I had finished my niece's cutie patootie pink dress (can you believe it's from Knitters?????).

There was no time to spare - it was July, and she's constantly growing, Growing, GROWING. As you may recall, I started a Wallabee for her awhile back, in a mix of Carol's Black Bunny in a rainbow colorway, and Koigu - but, alas, she had already outgrown it before I got around to finishing. That was not going to happen this time - no rum and coke was going to stop me, not a white sangria, or a lite beer.

In the back of my mind, I knew that if I did get that finishitis thing that I've been known to get when it comes to kid's clothes, it could always just end up being a long top . . . and then a cropped top . . . but, no, I was determined. I was going to finish it while it was still a dress. So, when I got to the top, and had to knit one side at a time, the fact that I didn't have my tools with me was not going to stop me. I checked out the available gear at the bar - cocktail stirrers - nah, too slick, no friction to secure the stitches. A plastic straw - too long - no scissors. And then, someone ordered a martini - huh, the olives stay on, why not stitches. And the cocktail pick was reborn as a stitchholder. I was free to knit the second side of the dress, and then the back.

And to think, I learned this very important survival skill having never earned one Brownie badge, and most importantly, never having sold a box of Girl Scout cookies.

What's wrong with me - afraid of a little Fair Isle? - look what I made!

At first, I was a little intimidated by this lacey poncho from Wrap Style - five different lace charts, five different gauges? Heh? And for a gauge challenged person like me, that was not only daunting, but completely unappealing. I'm unlikely to make one swatch, let alone five.

To swatch or not to swatch? That was the hard choice I faced. I haven't always been known for making the best choices - I chose a job where I make no money, and barely stay financially afloat on a week to week basis. I've picked oh-so-shitty "boyfriends" (using the term loosely, because it's easier just to use that shorthand than the long string of expletives they really were). Leaping before looking has been my motto. And, luckily, in knitting - that's all good. Plunge right in, and the worst that can happen is that you have to rip it out. No harm, no foul. Maybe a few frown lines, maybe a few hairs pulled out of my head, but I don't have to live with the ramifications of my bad choices for very long - rip! All better!

So, having gotten gauge for the bottom lace pattern, I just figured, what the hell, I was good to go. What's the worst that can happen?

Ok, the alpaca is a little sticky, very like mohair. Ripping probably would have been the end of this yarn. But, I put that thought out of my mind.
And, sigh of relief - it did indeed all work out.

And, no, I'm not advocating the abandonment of swatching - but sometimes, it really is prudent to throw caution to the wind, plunge forward, not be so anal, have faith that it's all going to work out.


So, while not swatching turned out not to be such a bad choice . . . why on earth did I make a poncho. A poncho? What was I thinking.