Gruntled

The last two days have been... decadent. That’s the word. Decadent.

I return from two days at Stitches West and I am a new human being. No, a restored human being. I am a dandelion soaking up the sunshine after a long rainy season.

The first part of my week was crazier than I can really tell you about. If you called, left me a message, emailed, texted, or commented and it seems like I’ve totally blown you off, it’s not that I don’t love you (or at least it’s not entirely that I don’t love you); it’s just that the cataclysmic great conjunction of events revolving around the resource distribution division of my life came to a head on Monday, and if it was not my job to feed you and you were not on fire or bleeding all over the floor, I didn’t have time for you this week. And if you fell into the aflame and/or hemorrhaging category, the best you could probably have expected from me was a vague wave in the direction of the fire extinguisher in the corner or the a box of band-aids in the cupboard. Help yourself.

Entrenched as I was, it seemed like the least opportune time to take personal holiday. But this had been previously ordained and long looked-forward-to, and frankly I don’t think I would have canceled my plans if it were raining frogs and the earth split open in middle of my front lawn to reveal the Kracken rising up, come to kill us all. So on Thursday at half past twelve, I switched off my computer monitor and bailed from work, thankful that none of my co-workers asked where I was headed as they bade me a good weekend. I think it’s a little early in our relationship to be quite that honest about how nuts I actually am.

In the car, with a good friend at my side and directions to the Santa Clara convention center between us, I felt ten pounds lighter. I had shed the stress of a couple of tough months and replaced it with an alpaca tweed knit shawl, and we were Stitches-bound.

What is Stitches, you inquire? Stitches (Stitches West, to be precise) is a fairy-land for knitters. Remember that chocolate river in the Willy Wonka factory? Here it’s is a pool of alpaca roving so soft that you want to peel off all your clothes as swim around in it buck naked. Once a year, the Hyatt in Santa Clara is beset upon by thousands of fiber-drunk yarn enthusiasts draped in sweaters and shawls of all descriptions. Standing in a lengthy queue to get into the market preview, Ania and I were literally bouncing, not even in anticipation, but in exultation. As with many cons of all different descriptions, it’s entirely gratifying to be surrounded by people who are all the same kind of crazy as you.

The market at Stitches is a tactile experience. You want to touch everything, just plunge your fingers right into it. It makes you understand why cats insist on kneading their claws. To watch people sniffing yarn is not an out-of-place thing here. You hear conversations you won’t witness in other places too. Passing by one booth, I heard a woman justifying to a friend the armload she was clutching by saying, “Well.. what if I don’t knit it? What if I just bring it home and take it to bed with me?” In another booth, a stranger approached me. “Excuse me, may I pet your sweater?” This would seem strange in Starbucks, you know?

“Agenda?” Ania asked.

“Let’s hit the Blue Moon booth before it gets nuts.”

Ha. The Blue Moon Fiber Arts booth, home of Socks that Rock, was packed to the gills with people. Sardines have more wiggle room. I dove into the fray and came out some time later clutching several skeins of sock yarn.

Ania says, “I challenge us to be brave this Stitches and venture outside of our standard color choices.”

I looked down at the deep reds, plums, and denim blues in my arms.

“Screw you.”

Finally, I made my choice. A magenta skein of fingering merino rippled in white and dappled with browns. I approached the register with my yarn (my yarn) balanced lightly on my up-turned palms, offering it up to the shop lady. She watched my eyes glowing with reverence – Indiana Jones was less impressed with the Golden Idol – and said, “You must have this yarn.”

“Yes, I must.”

I scored several purchases. My lovely sock yarn, a button to adorn my travel project bag (and truer words have never been spoken), and a couple balls of Cascade Greenland, which I cannot resist and must have whenever I see it. While I was debating colors (and yes, I picked the heathered grey and the plum – hush, Ania) the sales lady approached.

“Have you knit with the Greenland before?”

Not taking my eyes off the colorways, I thrust out my arm, clad in my Penny gloves.

“Ah. So you know.”

“Oh, yes. I know.”

I also scored the coolest yarn ever for the world’s most bad-ass sweater. Even if you don’t give a crap about yarn and this post is boring you to tears, this composition is going to blow your hair back. In fact, it’s so damn cool that I’m not going to tell you about it. Wait for it. It’s worth it. I’ve got a few projects up ahead on the queue, but come summertime, I’m going to knock your socks off, be they handknits or otherwise.

Ania and I finished up the night in our lovely hotel room (really, the Hyatt is very nice, even if their bathrooms are designed to better accommodate koi than bipedal hominids) drinking wine and eating my favorite kind of cheese – the kind I can’t pronounce. After a bit, we padded down the hall to Leslie and Carol’s room for cosmopolitans and chocolate. Note: If you find yourself picking up your knitting as you’re polishing off that cocktail, be sure that you’re picking up your working yarn and not some random tail dangling from your work. I’ll not out the offending knitter but I will say that the remaining three had a good cackle at her expense.

In the morning we woke up past eight in the kind of quiet that only a parent can identify and appreciate. We were already smiling. Ania put in a call to her husband.

“It’s just occurred to us you and Shawn are at work, the kids are at school, and Shannon and I are having cookies for breakfast.”

He wasn’t as impressed as we were.

We took a ballet class at a neighboring studio, sipping lattés on the way in to battle the minor headaches we didn’t want to admit we had. “Great,” I thought as I stretched my calves before barre. “I’m in a strange studio with a teacher I’ve never met, I’m a little hung-over, and I don’t think I’ve taken more than four classes in the last month. Ohh, this is going to go great...” Surprisingly, it turned out fine. More than fine. I had a good class, learned some stuff, and walked out with that great ballet high that floated me on clouds right into my knitting class. We took a class on traditional techniques from Candace Eisner Strick. I highly recommend her and check out my latvian braid... How about them chicken feet? Eat your heart out with a spoon.

One last tour through the market, in which I single-handedly found the best yarn for Ania’s upcoming gloves and hat combo. Thank you, thank you, yes, I am that cool. While we were waiting to purchase said yarn, a by-stander tapped my friend’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I just have to tell you that your coat is beautiful. It’s the Winter Wonderland, isn’t it? I’ve been rav-stalking that pattern for months.”

I love that the freaks here not only stop to fondle your clothes, but that they already know the name of the pattern you used from twelve paces off.

As the lady drifted away, Ania made a tick mark on the underside of her Stitches badge.

“How many does that make?”

“Twenty-two.”

We toasted our spectacular success over spicy Indian food and drove home through the twinkling dark, singing along to the likes of The Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel. I walked in the door grinning from ear to ear. I’m still grinning.

And that yarn? That one that I won’t tell you about? I’m looking at all five cones of it, and it’s frakking awesome. And incidentally, it’s plum purple. Say what you want. You’re not wiping the smile off my face.