Note to self

If you’re going to knit one sock over the course of 10 months, then dither about casting on for the second sock, it would help matters immensely if you were to not misplace the original pattern, causing you to use the wrong pattern for the second sock because the wrong pattern kind of resembles the original pattern a little.

I mean really.

The green sock? The one I’m holding up for my cat to regard in my last picture of my last post? Yeah. I am using an entirely different pattern for this one than I did for the original sock. Which I cast on in April of 2008. This new sock may or may not be two stitches short of the original (yes, please insert joke here in which I myself am a few stitches short of a sock. THE IRONY IS NOT LOST ON ME.), and I can’t find the original pattern in my pattern binder, or in my project bags. I’m going to reprint it today and hopefully be able to salvage my sock.

If I can’t, you will find me under the bed muttering curses to the world and chewing on sock yarn.

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When worlds collide

I was cleaning out one of my pattern binders today and in one of the back pockets I caught a glimpse of the following, in my handwriting:

What!? Did I design a heavily cabled Aran sweater for a barrel-chested man out of cobweb-weight wool using size 0000 needles? Did I envision a house cozy for my parents’ home? Am I suddenly blessed with an artistic bent toward huge knitted installation pieces?

None of the above (though I would like to see that cobweb-weight Aran… made by someone else).

It’s just that I bought something and wrote down the confirmation number. Of course.

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Though not without its charms…

… my week has been less than stellar.

1. Migraine. During my second childbirth education class.

2. Less-than-legal midwife at a friend’s birth. Now, I’m not a fan of the Illinois state law that says breech births and twins cannot be delivered at home, but it makes lots of sense to abide by the law, right? This woman didn’t think so, and was telling me stories of times she has asked some of her clients to “not say anything” about her helping them. Great practice, just splendid. My friend had her baby after I had to leave for my paying job, and I hear that everything went well, but holy crap.

I used to work with a midwife who is also a nurse (a Certified Nurse-Midwife), and I thought she was way too medical for my taste. At this birth, I felt a little bit at sea without the “medical”-ness of my original midwife. I missed the protocol and the every-half-hour checks.

3. Depression and its sneaky nature. Just when I’ve figured out that I’ve been a little down or blue or depressed or whatever and have started to feel better, November goes and happens and the grey skies kick the shit out of my good mood. Thank you, fate or karma or irony or whatever.

4. Damn yarn and its damn non-compliance with its own damn tags. I bought a skein of Manos worsted at my LYS about a week ago, and only now balled it up and instead of the 100grams listed on the tag, I have 70grams. THIRTY FREAKING GRAMS are missing, and I’m a little bit pissed about it. See?

Well, not see my fury, but see the weight of the yarn? Each ball is 35 grams, which means about 1/3 of my yarn is missing. AWESOME.

5. There is a new person at… a place I frequent, and she’s annoying as hell. She took a knitting class from me, and now that we … frequent the same place during the week, she constantly asks for my help on knitting patterns. I feel like she … started frequenting the place that I frequent solely for the purpose of getting free knitting help. “Hey, if I bring in a pattern, will you tell me where I’m going wrong?” Only say it in a nasally, loud, bastard voice.

Grumble, grumble.

My weekend should be looking up, though. My youngest sister is coming into town and will be staying over two nights (I think), then NinjaHusband and I go into some suburb on Sunday to start his tattoo. So things can only get better, right?

I hope so. I want to stop saying “bastard” and “goddamn” in my head so much.

ETA: I called the yarn store this morning before I went to work and left a message telling them that the hank was light. The owner called me back half an hour before they opened and told me she had weighed all the skeins in that colorway and two of them came out at about 70 grams. She’s holding one of those for me to claim, free of charge. My day is looking up!

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They’re going to revoke my knitting license

This is the universe telling me to stop having so much fun, isn’t it?

I got the front straps done on the Ballet Cami yesterday (woohoo!) and thought I’d set it aside until today to do the three-needle bind off on both shoulder straps, because Nick and I had plans to go out with friends last night. Well. Nick came home and was exhausted and fell into bed for “a quick nap” before we had to leave. What am I going to do with an unfinished Ballet Cami on my kitchen table and half an hour to kill? Ignore it? Would you? I didn’t think so.

Yes, despite my previous declaration that I was done for the evening, I picked up the knitting and began my three-needle bind off. I’ve been using KnitPicks’ Options (love them!) combination of US 7 tips and a 24″ cable, and I grabbed one of my size 7 straights to serve as the third needle.

It was all moving along quite well, and I had plenty of time before I had to wake the sleeping husband (aside: I still get giddy when I use that word, husband). I had four stitches left on my front needle (the Options) when I looked at the back needle. Three stitches. Three? How did this happen? What? Three? (this was my thought process.) I looked back along the bound-off line and there it was.

The dropped stitch.

I managed to pick it up with one of the many small crochet hooks I have in my notions bag (thankfully), and now it’s just sitting there, waiting for me to un-bind-off 6 stitches and put the rogue stitch back on the needle so it can serve its purpose in life.

Any suggestions on how to un-bind-off six stitches without breaking my spirit would be greatly appreciated. Gifts of hard liquor would not go amiss.

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It’s all up in the air

Now that it’s almost the weekend again, how was everyone’s holiday (if you’re American) weekend? I had a great time with family, friends and beer every day of the holiday. And I got to see some guy steal groceries from the Woodman’s in Rockford. Truth! He ran out with a basketful of food right as I walked in the door. I didn’t even have time to react. I don’t really know how I would have reacted, though.

And in news from the land of knitting, I’ve been working on a sort-of secret project. It’s sort-of secret because I haven’t posted about it here, except for the sneaky pictures on my Flickr badge in the sidebar, but it’s not-so-secret because I’ve been working on it in public. Just not the internet part of public. Yes.

This fabulous project is the Ballet Camisole by Alexandra Virgiel from MagKnits last year.

I’ve gotten this far…

… and I’m not sure if I’m doing this right.

I’m making the second smallest size, and I’m using needles 1 size larger than suggested for to make the appropriate gauge. (For to make, yes, I said it.) Problem is, I’m rounding the homestretch of the 4th ball, and am only as far as you see up there. The pattern says “join new ball of yarn” like three more times, and I only have a total of 6 balls (2 balls left), and the pattern only calls for 5 balls total.

Now, for some reason I find it too scary to actually check the gauge of my tank top to see if I have indeed made a significant error in judgment when I chose to use US 7s instead of the US 6s. I haven’t ponied up the metaphorical coin to do that yet. Why? There are many possibilities, most of which have to do with me being a knitting-fraidy-cat and not wanting to be made aware of how bad a knitter I am.

I have this perfectionist streak (which I keep far, far away from my house-cleaning streak) that makes me NEED to be absolutely fabulous at knitting, instantly. There is no reason for this. I know I can’t be instantly awesome at knitting (even if “instantly” means “over two years”). I teach other people how to knit and I always tell them that it takes immense practice to be proficient in every aspect of this craft, and yet I weep at my failures.

Does anyone else have this perfectionism embedded deep within? Am I alone?

(on a happier note, I do like what I’ve done to the back armhole decreases….

… Let’s hope they don’t get ripped out)

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The Universe Slaps Me Down

Just a short post to let the internet know that I can’t write a decent post right now. This week is not going my way in so many different ways that it’s hard to know where to start the story of how I hate it. I’ll give you a list, because as Femiknitter knows, there are few things I like as much as a good list.

1. It freaking snowed last night. Ugh. Winter is starting to act like the scummy, needy ex-boyfriend who won’t leave you alone and leaves notes for you on your doorstep and slowly creeps into stalker territory. Winter is a stalker. Go away, Winter, you bastard.

2. I can’t count. I have now put the heel in one of my socks twice, and both times I have had either too many stitches or too few. I have temporarily banished them until I have my wits about me. This may take a while.

3. I don’t know what month or week it is. Seven times this week (and keep in mind that I’m writing this on Wednesday morning, so that makes it “in two days”) I’ve thought that it’s either next week or 5 weeks from now. Seven times in two days. I need more of something in my diet. Probably more vacation.

4. The software switchover at work is not. going. well. Day one? 1500 errors from the offline/back up system we were using last week. Day two? Staff records still not uploaded. What could day three possibly bring? My money’s on a plague of toads. Toads or book-eating locusts.

5. I had ten people clamoring to get into my beginner knitting class, and I could only take eight, and ONLY FOUR OF THEM SHOWED UP LAST NIGHT. I could spit nails. And one of the four women left right away. She already knows how to knit (using a spool to make i-cord) and just wants to know how to bind off (she’ll come back on the last day). Another woman just could. not. get. it. I felt so bad for her, especially after a 7-year-old girl came up to us while I was helping her do the long-tail cast on (she was trying to use two needles; she never did get it), and told us she learned to knit when she was five years old. After a while this woman just sat and cackled and tried to knit with three straight needles (I honestly have no idea). I don’t know how to help her, especially as I’ve already put my hands on her hands and demonstrated the knit stitch and she still did not get it. Fortunately the other two women took to knitting like ducks to water and are even knitting continental (yes!). Only one of the four people who showed up actually brought the yarn (Cascade 220) that I put on their required materials list.

And now I have to get ready for work (deep sigh). I wonder how this day will go.

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A Miracle of Time Management

This is what it says on my latest KnitPicks order…

Order Number: ******
Order Date: 3/4/2007
Status: Shipped
Ship Date: 3/8/2007

Note the date of today’s post. Note the ship date.

Now, maybe they have a time machine that makes it possible for the future (3/8/2007) to be in the past (“shipped”) and if that’s the case I want it, or maybe they’re just doing some really good drugs. In which case I want those, too.

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Really, I Cannot Be Trusted

It’s been a while since my last post, and I’ll tell you why. It’s been a while because last week was highly annoying and I couldn’t adequately put my mind to wearing matching socks, much less turning out a semi-coherent (or even quasi-coherent … does that mean the same thing?) post.

Work was more demanding of my brain than usual, I forgot appointments, and I double-booked myself for the weekend which was painful beyond belief (Heather? I’m still sorry). It was like my brain just evaporated and my body was left to deal with everything.

And on Wednesday I dumped a 10 oz. glass of water into my knitting bag.

Of course I immediately turned into a swearing tornado of crazy and flung the contents about the room. And then I got the camera. What? Like you wouldn’t.

As it turns out, my past self was extraordinarily cautious and smart, and kept most of the wool and alpaca in plastic bags, and the patterns in plastic sheet protectors. I was one smart cookie, once upon a time. The only casualty was my notebook — just a cardboard cover, spiral bound thingy — which got some water damage on the bottom, but the notes are all safe. So that was exciting.

I have more to talk about (actual knitting pictures! of more than one project!), but it’ll have to be later because my brain still has not solidified enough to be called “present.” I think I’m getting my period soon. Neat!

And if you click here, you’ll understand why being busy elsewhere on Sunday was tough.

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On the bright side, the carpet is cleaner

Friday afternoon no, not even. It was still the morning. Friday morning I was struck with the urge to do laundry (the Rash of Doom kept me home from work for a few days, and apparently introduced a housework ethic which was certainly not there before). We were, of course, out of laundry detergent so I went to the local Jewel and purchased one (1) brand-new jug of laundry detergent.

Not 15 minutes after the new jug of laundry detergent was in my house, I was trying to get the dryer balls (which I absolutely love, by the way, for towels & sheets) from the topmost shelf in the tee tiny laundry supply/paper towel storage/linen closet/medicine cabinet/vacuum cleaner storage area. (Pay close attention to that last one) Like an idiot, I sort of only kind of balanced the new jug of laundry detergent on a seemingly stable stack of towels while I groped on the top shelf for the aforementioned dryer balls (sometimes 5-foot-6 seems like enough, and sometimes it falls woefully short).

As often happens when I act like an idiot, the universe caught on to me and made good use of its time in teaching me a small lesson about gravity. About how gravity always, always wins out over a seemingly stable stack of towels.

The jug of detergent (full, mind you, and just minutes old) toppled off its perch and fell directly onto the vacuum cleaner whose crevice attachment was STICKING POINTY-PART UP, and was immediately punctured. It proceeded to follow the laws that govern such things and glugged thick, viscous laundry detergent all over the carpet.

I picked it up (still glugging) and put it in the bathroom sink (thankfully mere steps away, though of course plenty still managed to find its way to the carpet). After I regained my wits, I placed the jug (no longer full, but still only minutes old) with the puncture hole at the top so no more would glug out into the sink and waste more of my money.

(Practical Household Hint: if this ever happens to you, immediately pour yourself an adult beverage of your choice, and drink it straight away. This will help quell any hysteria and keep you focused on the task at hand. I didn’t do this initially, and lost valuable calm-thinking time to abject-flipping-out time. Not pretty.)

By the time I figured out what to do (it took a long time because of the non-drinkng and because my Mom wasn’t answering her work phone), the damn gooey stuff had sunk into the carpet and colonized my hallway like it was some gelatinous empire. My first attempt–soaking the detergent up with a sponge & bucket of water–was short-lived and involved a lot of swearing. Inquiries at the neighbors’ revealed that the local hardware store rents carpet shampooers for a mere $20.00. Of course, by the time I got to the hardware store, they were renting out their last one just as I walked in the door.

I rented a cleaner on Saturday (no, thank you young hardware store dude, but I don’t need the upholstry shampoo for this particular job), cleaned the hell out of my hallway carpet, and proceeded to do laundry all afternoon, spilling nary a drop more (though the cursing was profuse).

(Practical Household Hint: if you happen to drop a whack of laundry detergent on your floor and clean it up with handtowels–or whatever’s handy in the linen closet–you can just toss those handtowels or whatever into the wash. No need to add soap! Convenient for those times when all your soap is coagulating in a puddle in your hallway!)

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Smaller than a breadbox

Guess whose digital camera fits in a wine glass?

Yes, that would be mine. I found this out on Saturday night at my first-ever bridal shower. While Nick & I were taking really cute “we’re in love and in a garden” pictures. While I was holding a half-full glass of wine.

Sigh.

Heather was helping us out by taking the pictures (and doing a damn fine job of it, by the way) and when she handed me my tiny-ass camera, I promptly slam-dunked it into my wine (it’s a slippery rectangle–no place to grip at all) (and may I say that I wanted to buy the bigger camera with the grippy thing, but that I caved to my Beloved’s desire for a tiny camera that will fit into a pocket and also A WINE GLASS).

So I’m standing there in complete shock, paralyzed by my idiocy, for what feels like 10 hours. Meanwhile, Nick grabs the camera and runs to the house, asking for paper towels. I slam the rest of my wine (now camera-flavored!) and follow, thinking about how much that camera cost and how pretty the pictures are that were on that memory card. As soon as we get to the house, our Lovely Hostess announces that it’s time to open presents. Of course it is.

I ask her to delay the presents as our most expensive co-purchase lays dying (because at this point, more wine is coming out of it than I thought possible), and I hover as Nick works. Hovering always helps, right? Right. I finally had to go open presents, but Nick stayed on the porch, pressing wine out of the highly expensive digital camera that wasn’t yet 6 months old. He came in later and sat next to me and when I asked about the camera he just shook his head and looked grim.

The camera was dead.

Or so we thought until the next morning (after drinking heavily to combat the gloom)! He turned it on just before leaving for Best Buy and the damn thing worked! Everything works! Everything still works! And our pictures were there! Holy hotdamn hell!

So I’m not out $$$, which is nice. I am going to buy my camera a good cleaning, though. And possibly its own velvet bed. Probably also a lifejacket. But no wine.

Pictures taken both before and after the dunking:

Ed.: This was all ready to post yesterday, but Blogger was playing a little game called “Let’s Screw Everything Up And Drive Away Our Users.” I was not having fun.

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