I had one of my oh-shit moments today, but not over what I normally expect. For someone who spent most of her childhood rocking a semi-photographic memory, I have a lot of brain farts. You know, the tip-of-your-tongue, almost-have-it, it's-buried-in-there-somewhere-in-all-the-clutter mental malfunctions that make everyday life, well, interesting. Never mind that it also took me almost to the checkout line in the grocery store to remember I needed garlic. No, what I'm referring to is my Shakespeareamnesia moments. I used to be able to quote "Romeo and Juliet" like most people quote Dr. Seuss. This was only partly thanks to the frenetic movie version that came out when I was in middle school/high school. You know which one I mean. If you don't, well, I just dated myself. Either way, not remember Friar Lawrence's advice to the young couple as they're about to get married? For shame. Especially when I'm trying to use it at the beginning of a poem.
There now, that's off my conscience. I'm happy to report that with the aid of cable TV and a couple of glasses of wine, I am now finished with chart B of Omelet shawl. I'd've gotten further still with it if I hadn't dithered away both mornings this weekend "recording" songs at the piano. Oh, the wonders of smartphones. All I need now is the ability to use it consistently as a phone.
Oh, I don't have pictures of Omelet shawl? Pardon me while I go and, um, remedy this little detail. Eventually. Assuming I don't get distracted by anything e--ooh, shiny!
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Second Ball Syndrome
No, not to be confused with second sock syndrome or an unfortunate predicament of the male anatomy. It's a plight only suffered by those who are poor/space-limited/old-school enough to shun the "modern" marvel of the yarn-winder, though as a side note, at the Knit 'n Purl hand-balling is still taught as a core competency. Yes, I know, it still sounds dirty. Second ball syndrome, as a reminder, is the condition wherein, after a long and arduous session culminating in the production of a passable yarn ball from a very large hank of specialty yarn, one finds oneself plunged into an inexplicably complex tangle of knots in the middle of a previously smooth-sailing second hank. Regard my tale of woe.
So, it was St. Pat's weekend, I'd just settled down on the couch with a bellyful of homemade corned beef and cabbage (a saga in itself, believe you me), a bottle of Irish red (still haven't reconciled myself to the idea of stouts), Food Network on the telly, and knees that had recovered enough from skein number 1 that I thought, eh, what the heck? With my usual combination of good intentions and irrational optimism, I pulled skein number 2 of beautiful art-deco-blue shawl yarn out of the shopping bag, draped it over the kneecaps again, and set to work. For every few yards of balled yarn, I rewarded myself with a swig of beer and a gander at the food porn. Things went smoothly until about 10 o'clock, when, really, that should've been my tip-off to pack it up, but give up halfway through a yarn skein? Nevar!
And then I looked down.
"What the--?" (tugs and realizes mistake).
Knot ball about the size of the yarn ball I'd currently succeeded in making.
OK, don't panic, we can do this. Whatever you do, don't think longingly about the scissors stowed away at the bottom of the knitting bag. Fingers are already tired and a little stiff, but what're a few tight knots? No sweat.
Slow, painstakingly slow progress, revealing about an inch of useable yarn at a time...distal to the knot. Taking a sip of Irish red every now and again to steel the nerves. Heck, by now it could be whiskey and I wouldn't care. Probably better if it was, since my liver's metabolizing at a normal rate and my fingers are free only about every 30 minutes or so and I've been nursing this beer for about 3 hours now. And are those...adhesions between the strands? What is this, surgery? By now the food porn's done and the SVU marathon has come and gone and the TV's halfway through playing "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," and I'm still stuck on the couch with my leg muscles spasming and my fingers going numb and all I wanna do is cut the yarn and start over if I could only find a spot where cutting it would solve all my problems.
And then it comes. The last knot. Blessed deliverance. Heck, by now I'm down to the last few yards of yarn, and it's not like I can feel my legs enough to get up anyway. I finish winding, gulp down the last of the beer, and look up at the clock. 12:30. AM. I've been doing this for 4-1/2 hours. Luckily my cat doesn't care that I have the vocabulary of a sailor with the added advantage of being able to curse fluently in at least 3 languages. I vow, this time, that never again will I succumb to the idiocy of hand-balling yarn. Next time, I'll buy a yarn-winder.
Yeah. Right. I went to medical school. Masochism is in my blood.
So, it was St. Pat's weekend, I'd just settled down on the couch with a bellyful of homemade corned beef and cabbage (a saga in itself, believe you me), a bottle of Irish red (still haven't reconciled myself to the idea of stouts), Food Network on the telly, and knees that had recovered enough from skein number 1 that I thought, eh, what the heck? With my usual combination of good intentions and irrational optimism, I pulled skein number 2 of beautiful art-deco-blue shawl yarn out of the shopping bag, draped it over the kneecaps again, and set to work. For every few yards of balled yarn, I rewarded myself with a swig of beer and a gander at the food porn. Things went smoothly until about 10 o'clock, when, really, that should've been my tip-off to pack it up, but give up halfway through a yarn skein? Nevar!
And then I looked down.
"What the--?" (tugs and realizes mistake).
Knot ball about the size of the yarn ball I'd currently succeeded in making.
OK, don't panic, we can do this. Whatever you do, don't think longingly about the scissors stowed away at the bottom of the knitting bag. Fingers are already tired and a little stiff, but what're a few tight knots? No sweat.
Slow, painstakingly slow progress, revealing about an inch of useable yarn at a time...distal to the knot. Taking a sip of Irish red every now and again to steel the nerves. Heck, by now it could be whiskey and I wouldn't care. Probably better if it was, since my liver's metabolizing at a normal rate and my fingers are free only about every 30 minutes or so and I've been nursing this beer for about 3 hours now. And are those...adhesions between the strands? What is this, surgery? By now the food porn's done and the SVU marathon has come and gone and the TV's halfway through playing "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," and I'm still stuck on the couch with my leg muscles spasming and my fingers going numb and all I wanna do is cut the yarn and start over if I could only find a spot where cutting it would solve all my problems.
And then it comes. The last knot. Blessed deliverance. Heck, by now I'm down to the last few yards of yarn, and it's not like I can feel my legs enough to get up anyway. I finish winding, gulp down the last of the beer, and look up at the clock. 12:30. AM. I've been doing this for 4-1/2 hours. Luckily my cat doesn't care that I have the vocabulary of a sailor with the added advantage of being able to curse fluently in at least 3 languages. I vow, this time, that never again will I succumb to the idiocy of hand-balling yarn. Next time, I'll buy a yarn-winder.
Yeah. Right. I went to medical school. Masochism is in my blood.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Pinch me
...I'm, well, definitely not Irish. Actually it was going to be "kick me," but that would hurt more. Probably. No, I'm not actually asking to be physically abused, I'm just attempting to get into the St. Patrick's Day weekend spirit like my North Myrtle Beach cohabitants. It's a little odd. Example: bagpipers warming up behind the sea oats. In kilts.
And on the crafting front, I have acquired new yarn. And a new project. This is what happens after adventures in corned beef and cabbage. Well, I thought I'd be a good little chef and sear the beef before tossing it into the crock pot. Not accounting for the fact that meat juice plus hot oil equals a lot of flying hot oil. So, nursing a stained blouse and a rather nifty pattern of burns on my forearm, I betook myself to the yarn shop to finish a second Knots of Love hat (which, unlike cooking, is something I can count on being able to do consistently). And to celebrate finishing said hat, I bought the yarn. It was this beautiful art deco blue and it was calling to me. Specifically it was calling to me to make it into the Holden Shawlette (see the Knit 'n Purl website for the pattern, or better yet, visit the store :)). Which now gives me...3 knitting projects on the to-do list, along with a couple of dresses, a steampunk costume, and possibly an apron on the sewing front. The apron would be if I decide to hand-make a present for wedding number 3 within 12 months. Wedding number 3? Seriously? At least I'm not a bridesmaid?
Wait, where was I? Anyhoo, I shall leave you with the following image from my Tumblr...account...thingy (mournfulcat.tumblr.com). Because it's a poetry kind of day.
And on the crafting front, I have acquired new yarn. And a new project. This is what happens after adventures in corned beef and cabbage. Well, I thought I'd be a good little chef and sear the beef before tossing it into the crock pot. Not accounting for the fact that meat juice plus hot oil equals a lot of flying hot oil. So, nursing a stained blouse and a rather nifty pattern of burns on my forearm, I betook myself to the yarn shop to finish a second Knots of Love hat (which, unlike cooking, is something I can count on being able to do consistently). And to celebrate finishing said hat, I bought the yarn. It was this beautiful art deco blue and it was calling to me. Specifically it was calling to me to make it into the Holden Shawlette (see the Knit 'n Purl website for the pattern, or better yet, visit the store :)). Which now gives me...3 knitting projects on the to-do list, along with a couple of dresses, a steampunk costume, and possibly an apron on the sewing front. The apron would be if I decide to hand-make a present for wedding number 3 within 12 months. Wedding number 3? Seriously? At least I'm not a bridesmaid?
Wait, where was I? Anyhoo, I shall leave you with the following image from my Tumblr...account...thingy (mournfulcat.tumblr.com). Because it's a poetry kind of day.
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