I am knitting. Oh, yes I am. Can't stop me. After many (MANY) false starts, I finally settled on a project that held my interest and didn't drop despondently into my lap twenty minutes after starting. Ravelry members will recognize this as Helga Isager's "Olive." I have no idea why it's called Olive, but needless to say, the name is part of the attraction. I'm using Isager wool 1 for the striped cuffs and collar, and Rowan Fine Lace, knit doubled, for the body of the sweater.
The impetus kicked in over last weekend. I sat down with season four of Madmen on my iPad, knitting in hand, and went to town. By Sunday night, LB was accusing me of blithely going about my own merry way with nary a thought to him and his needs -- nay, his existence -- unless I needed the occasional neck rub. "But look!" I'd say. "I'm knitting! You should be happy for me!"
Even after all these years, LB looks at a pile of wool and does not see new vistas. Drive. Enthusiasm. A zest for life. I think he sees sweaters: sweaters which are rarely for him. I say he should have thought of that before he grew those ridiculously long arms of his.
And now, the yarn prawn. Whenever I see the words "yarn p0rn" or "yarn pron" (so written to avoid disappointing people looking for a different sort of p0rn altogether) I always read it as prawn.
My friend Miss Susan returned from her vacation in New Zealand just as my knitting mojo returned. She had asked if I wanted any yarn while she was there, and if so, what type. I said, "Fingering weight, made in NZ, and no superwash. Two skeins in a somewhat masculine color scheme would be perfect for the baby boys who keep popping up in my periphery." Susan apparently misunderstood me and thought I'd written, "Bring back every scrap of yarn in New Zealand. Make sure there's none left for the natives."
Two Fed Ex boxes full of yarn arrived yesterday. When I saw just how much yarn was in there, I decided to play a little game with myself: for every round I completed on the Olive sweater, I would get to remove and fondle one hank of yarn. Ladies (and very few gentlemen), I knit all afternoon and had still not pulled the last skein from the box. I woke this morning ahead of my alarm and could not get back to sleep: I suspect because I was so eager to see the rest of my haul.
After I removed these three skeins yesterday, I was starting to worry that I would never find a neutral colored yarn splendid enough to serve as a counterpoint for this beautiful variegated wool. You can imagine my surprise when I then pulled out this hank:
Susan's genius never ceases to amaze me. Then again, Susan is herself a knitter-turned embroiderer-turned photographer and scrapbooker. And unlike me, she sees with her eyes and can tell the difference between Leonardo di Caprio and Matt Damon with one glance. On Law & Order, when Jerry Orbach died and they replaced him with Dennis Farina? I'll bet she noticed.
What's this, then?
This looks suspiciously like LB-colored yarn, in an LB amount of yardage, long arms and all. I'll bet she intends for me to knit cables, too, and facings at the neckline. Just who does Susan think she is, blatantly telling me that I should knit a sweater for my husband, and no doubt reprimanding me for not having knit him one in at least ten years? Didn't last year's scarf count for anything?
I received another gift last week, but I'm almost embarrassed to mention it: two boxes of See's candies from Dixie, a longtime eBay friend and blog reader. I had every intention of photographing the box of soft centers and the outrageously delicious companion box of pumpkin spice truffles, but something always seemed to get in my way. Every time I pulled out my camera, I'd remove another chocolate from its fluted paper wrapper and become distracted.
Wisely, I hid the half-empty boxes of chocolate in my master bathroom. This way they'd be safe from the children (especially Olive, who will sneer at a Snickers bar but can smell a box of quality chocolate at a hundred paces) and slightly harder for me to get to during the day.
I didn't take into account that Ambien-induced eating is a real thing. I woke at three a.m. standing in my bathroom in my pajamas and matching housecoat, with a mouthful of pumpkin truffle and absolutely no memory of how I got there.
There are worse ways to wake up, but I never did get that photo.