Man oh man, did I ever need to get out of town. Last week was fairly nuts. Or the last few weeks... months. I don't think either my husband or I realized how much we needed to get the hell out of dodge until we woke up in a guest bed Saturday morning.
A lot of blue skies around here. Bluer than they ought to be.
Not all my readers are from California so let me explain. It doesn't rain here in the summer. Really. You know those picture books we all had when we were kids? Wind-blown leaves for fall, snow for winter, rain for spring, and sun for summer? Those are about California. I was nearly grown when I found out there is actually a thing called a summer rain storm in other places. With thunder even. Weird.
“Honey, I need your advice on my knitting project.”
My husband looks up from his computer, reasonable intrigued.
I hold out a baby hat.
A fellow I work with just had a baby, and I like to knit for the office babies. I’ve done sweater sets for twins and one of my buddies in production got a Loch Ness monster for his newborn. Just a little one. This little one is a brand new baby girl, and I had just the right amount of some self-striping yarn left for a nice little hat. I picked out one of my favorite hat patterns and knit along.
Actually, I dyed this weekend.
Way more fun.
Prior to a recent knitting event, a pair of friends mysteriously announced, “We’re bringing a project. It will take three hours.”
We all speculated as to the nature of the secret project. Ideas were tossed. Needle-felting? “No way. We’d have to drive to the E.R. if someone got clumsy and stabbed themselves.” And everyone looked at me. Sigh.
So mystery it remained. You can imagine my surprise when a gift bag was thrust upon me and I opened it to find a pair of latex gloves.
My cookies are missing.
I considered calling the cops, but I don't think they'd get it.
I wasn't expecting much in the fair this year. I entered items that were favorites of mine but were either simply constructed or minorly flawed. Not the kind of stuff that places, necessarily. "Except your socks," Shawn says. My husband doesn't knit, but long practice has taught him to converse intelligently on the topics of toes and heels and stitch patterns.
I know a few people who are all up in arms about this article in the Huffington Post. I read it. It made me laugh a little. When you’re confronted with that kind of ignorance, often the only practical thing to do is to take whatever amusement you can out of it (that being said, if she had linked out to my blog in that piece of rubbish, I would have been pissed too; I’ve totally got your back, Stephanie) and then let it go.
Wednesday, the Ninth of August, 2011
A lady sits in her kitchen, weaving in the last ends of a sweater, carefully reinforcing seams. The sweater is knit at five stitches to the inch in silk and stainless steel fiber, spun so fine it can’t be called other than thread. The sweater took ten months to knit. The sweater took ten days to seam. The sweater is due in the textile arts building of the exposition hall in twelve hours.