Diving . . .

I bought the Noro Kureyon. (That's not unlike drinking the Kool-Aid.)

There are a lot of logical reasons for this, but it boils down to wanting to watch the pretty color changes. There is no other yarn that achieves quite the same effect. So far I'm siding with the anti-Noro contingent, particularly for cables. I think the technical description would be to say that it is spun loosely. I think "mushy" is a good description. When I try to cable without a needle, the stitches of course are a bit tight; two stitches will blend together, making it difficult to see where one ends and the next begins, which makes it all too easy to k2tog without meaning to--or worse, split a stitch and k1.5tog.

But given that I've only knit two pattern repeats so far . . .

 

. . . it's hardly fair to issue my final judgment just yet. I expect when some of the color changes start appearing, I will be willing to forgive a lot of mushiness. And the good thing about Noro is that its fuzzy stickiness makes it pretty easy to cable without a needle without worrying about dropping stitches. In fact, I really don't think you could drop a stitch. You pretty much have to yank those suckers out of there. 

After the Twist excursion, I went to Becci's and had her change this:

to this:

Apparently I stole Jay Leno's chin.

I think I've lost at least 2 pounds.

Diving into the Shallow End Head-First

Wednesday, June 15, 2011:
Three different people message me to let me know that Groupon is running a coupon for Twist Yarn Shop. I've never used Groupon, but I adore Twist, so I hesitate approximately 1.4 seconds before happily setting up an account and purchasing a $7 coupon that is theoretically going to get me $15 worth of yarn. I say "theoretically" because I revel in resisting innovation as long as possible, and I still don't really believe that this is actually possible. I don't have any particular project in mind, but I know it will be spent well before the October expiration date. Theoretically. 

Thursday, June 16, 2011:
I go to Stitch and Bitch for the first time in at least 3 weeks. I forget the Groupon, which is a good thing because if I'd had it with me, I probably would've bought that lace weight Malabrigo and promptly cast on for a lace shawl that would've been beautiful, but which neither I nor anyone I know would be interested in actually wearing. Instead I leave with nothing but a pair of completed gloves for the Momma Lady.

Ends woven in and everything, Baby. D.O.N.E. Done. (That overly gleeful tone is because these gloves took 3 months instead of 2 weeks to knit. I do not recommend casting on for winter wear in April. There's no motivation.)

While at Stitch and Bitch, I wander around the shop and notice a shop sample of this bag knit in Noro (click "collection" to make pictures appear--the internets sure are magically, ain't it?). Now I have never used Noro. I know some people love it and some people hate it, but even the people who love it and will defend it to the death will curse it in the very same breath. So I have stayed away from the Noro. I also tend to stay away from cables. I'm not a fan of cables. I decided not to complete an afghan square because it has fewer cables than this purse.

But, folks, that was an afghan square for a sampler afghan that's going to get admired and then folded up and put in the closet because it isn't really a practical, usable afghan. This is an adorable purse. It's the right size for me. It has a charming combination of clean, elegant design and hippy-dippy yarny happiness. I am hooked.

Friday, June 17, 2011:
The toilet gets fixed. This has nothing to do with Noro or cables or knitting in general, but it's a major event in my life and deserves a mention. I no longer have to turn on the water to fill the tank before I can flush. No more practicing the "if it's yellow" philosophy of flushing. Whee!

I also find the pattern for the purse. I download it and announce on Facebook that I am going to knit this purse. Now it must be done to save face--which I guess is the point of Facebook, photos of drunk idiots notwithstanding. I get busy learning to knit a provisional cast on, a technique I've been avoiding to this point.

 You could call my crochet skills "adequate" if you were feeling extremely charitable, but since the crochet is the "provisional" part of the provisional cast on, it'll get ripped out and not matter anyway. Now I'm sorely tempted to toss the purse aside and start in on some of those toe-up sock patterns I've been avoiding.

But honestly, you've all looked at enough sock pictures for a while, haven't you? I bet my loyal audience of approximately three people (Hi, Mom!) would much prefer to watch me struggle through a project with more cables than Cox. I promise to make foolish mistakes and tell you all about them in horrifying detail at least once a week.

Tomorrow:
The Groupon and I will be at Twist promptly at 10am to hunt down some yarn that isn't Noro. I can't wait. I bet you're all excited, too. 

Field Trip: The Sequel!

In the normal course of events, I make it up to Hutch every couple of years or so, whenever I start feeling like it's been too long since I went to the fair. Going up twice in one month is unprecedented. This time I went up with the Barricks for Dad's birthday to see Tornado Alley at the Cosmosphere. The movie is entertaining and educational (and is narrated by Bill Paxton, which gave it that touch of Twister authenticity). Furthermore, with my newfound tornado expertise, I'm convinced that what we had in Lawrence in March 2006 was an actual small tornado. Microburst, my ass.

But for me, the highlights of the day were not movie-related. First there was this excellent sock picture:

Socks in Space!

If you're not a sock knitter, this doesn't make sense and you'll just have to trust me when I tell you that this is a pretty cool picture. Those of you who are actually acquainted with this particular sock will notice that significant progress was made in the car on the way up. Now that we're home again, Sockie is ready for her toe.

Moving on. . . .

The second highlight was seeing the two pieces of the Berlin Wall displayed at the Cosmosphere. I remember hearing that we were getting some pieces, but had forgotten about it. The Wall coming down was probably the first politically important event of my lifetime with obvious historical significance that I was old enough to remember and at least partially understand. So rounding a corner and running smack into pieces of the wall was literally breathtaking. 

 Although the display kinda sorta makes sense in the context of the Cold War space race, it does seem odd to display them at the Cosmosphere in a weirdly dark corner. I would think there might be more appropriate venues. I suppose, though, that they are at the Cosmosphere specifically because they're the property of the Smithsonian.

I thought my fiber-loving, needleworking friends would be interested in the following tidbit:

I haven't been able to find any other information on the "little old ladies" (extensive 2-minute Google searches just aren't what they used to be), but I'd be willing to bet that these women were probably a variety of ages and of more or less regular size. 

And then there was supper at Bogey's, a very good, very cheap burger place next to the Fairgrounds that my sister knew about from her time working at the Hutch hospital when she was in nursing school.

American Bliss

See the "DP" on the cup? That stands for "Dr. Pepper." That right there, my friends, is a Dr. Pepper shake. It seems unbelievable that I had to wait 34 years to taste a Dr. Pepper shake. The technology that could create this marvel is at least as impressive to me as the technology that sent men to the moon.

Field Trip!

Sometimes it's hard to remember why I love Kansas. What with all the hateful political nonsense, it's easy to forget that a lot of people in this state are kind folks who are all about helping each other. Foremost among that group are . . .

 Mennonites selling things!

Mom and I went up to Hutchinson this morning for the Mennonite Central Committee Relief Sale, where they auction off everything from garden shovels to antique pump organs.

I was going to watch the quilt auction and get some pictures, but the very first quilt that sold after we got into that building went for $4,000. I tend to be a fidgety type of person, so I got out of there before I accidentally scratched my nose and bought a quilt that cost more than my car.

They have smaller items for sale, too. I scored a bag of buttons and some old linens to add to my collection. Antique linen comes in handy at the strangest times, and everybody knows that a well-stocked button bin is essential to any crafty household. This $2 bag of buttons doubles the size of the collection that it's taken me about 10 years to accumulate. 

The Ukrainian Easter Egg exhibit was also worth a look.

This gentleman is 12 years old. He told me that he's been coming to the MCC sale and watching the egg painting since he was 3 years old. Last year he decided to get in on the action, and now he makes eggs as beautiful as any I've seen.

I had already been on the button and linen buying spree, so there wasn't much cash left in my wallet, but I did have enough for a simple egg.

I like it.

And of course there was food. First, I picked up some "New Year's Cookies"--basically large doughnut holes with raisins. These are supposed to be for book group on Tuesday. I hope they make it that long.  I've already started bargaining with myself about how I could eat my share now and just not have any on Tuesday. But I expect that if I get started, no one will have any on Tuesday.

We also picked up a midmorning snack--Russian pancakes (or crepes, if you prefer, I suppose).

 

For lunch we were going to have the dinner they provided, but Mom wasn't in the mood for German food so we went with a different ethnicity at The Anchor Inn. 

Except for lunch at The Anchor Inn, the money we spent this morning goes to causes like this:

Need I tell you how much I adore spending money and feeling virtuous all at the same time? And I suppose our lunch bill will probably help pay the waitress's electric bill or something, so that's pretty virtuous, too. Between the shopping, the food, and the peaceful drive through dark green wheat fields, I'm feeling pretty good about Kansas again.

The Theology of Socks

I've been thinking about it, and I'm pretty sure I've had a pair of socks on the needles almost all the time since July of last year. I've done other things, too (wee little snow people spring to mind, for example), but socks have been the mainstay of the knitting repertoire. Even when the "main" knitting is something else, I've had a sock going in the background. In fact, I've become a bit evangelistic about them, trying to convince others that they need to learn to knit socks, too. (There really is no experience so magical as turning a heel. You should try it.) You might say I've gotten Sock Religion, and I'm feeling pretty confident about my decision to join the Church of Sock.  

Or I was. These goddamned socks have made me doubt everything. The problem is that I can't figure out whether they're representatives of God sent to test me, or representatives of Satan sent to make me lose faith in socks and their designers.

Here they are:

I wanted natural light, so she obligingly stuck her feet in the window. : )

Cute, aren't they? They're modeled by my mom, the intended recipient. She chose the yarn, but I chose the pattern. The first tenet of Sock Theology is:

1. We choose our own damnation.

Why did I choose this pattern? I wanted to make something "complicated." That is, I wanted to make something that looked complicated, but that I would breeze through, something that would garner admiring sighs even from my fellow knitters and blatant awe from nonknitters. Something that would allow me to lower my eyelids demurely and say in a modest voice, "Oh, it was nothing" in that tone that means I know perfectly well that I am the supreme knitting goddess of all the world, but that I am too well bred to say so.

In short, ladies and gentlemen, I chose this pattern because of hubris.

I started this pattern last July, but didn't get very far because I didn't like the yarn-pattern combination and switched to another design. But I did find an error before I quit, and on this go-round I knew I would need to use the chart instead of the written instructions. So I should've been prepared for errors in other parts of the pattern as well. The second tenet of Sock Theology is:

2. Much like scripture, knitting patterns may be inspired, but they are ultimately a human production and are full of mistakes. In evaluating a pattern's validity and accuracy, confer with experts and use your own best judgment.

I should've checked for pattern corrections before I even started knitting. I should've read the notes written by the 49 other knitters on Ravelry who have knit this pattern before me. Instead, I forged ahead alone, convinced that I knew what I was doing, that I didn't need input from anyone else on MY socks.

So when I got to the instruction that informed me that I was supposed to have 33 stitches over two needles, but I only had 32, I assumed it was my fault. I tinked back and rekint. And still had 32. So I recounted the stitches on my needles. Yup, still 32. I counted the stitches in the pattern. 32. But then in the very next line it insisted that there should be 33, and the next step in the pattern did require 33 stitches.

Still, incredibly, I assumed the fault must be mine. Feeling like a bit of a failure, I increased a stitch in what I hoped would be an inconspicuous spot and muddled on. Much like trying to live according to a literal interpretation of 2,000+-year-old book, I found myself feeling vaguely guilty for something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I just wasn't a good enough knitter, and I was starting to feel a crinkle between my eyebrows every time I thought about it.

And I thought about it a lot. I was thinking about these socks one Sunday during church. (Sorry, Amy.) I believe it was while we were singing the Doxology ("Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. Praise God, all creatures here below . . .") that the thought? inspiration? voice of God? came to me:

"You'd better check Ravelry for errata."

So when I got home, I did. And found more than a page of corrections. Of course, they wouldn't be so long if they weren't so rambling and preceded by statements like "I would've reknit this sooner, but I'm working on my book" (god help her tech editor, assuming she bothered to hire one, and no, I do not want THAT book for Christmas) and "This is probably all my fault." Let me help you with any doubts you may harbor, Ms. Designer: It. Is. All. Your. Fault.

And the ultimate insult: "LOL!"

Kiddos, I am not LOLing.

***

That was about 2-1/2 weeks ago. I muddled through the corrections and worked out just what the hell the designer was trying to accomplish. The second sock moved along at a leisurely pace and has the distinction of being the victim of my first-ever episode of Second-Sock Syndrome. Luckily it only got put down three times, once for about a week while I knit the January square of a square-a-month afghan, and twice for 24-hour projects because I needed a break. At one point I dropped a stitch in the gusset decrease without noticing and had to rip back 6 rounds, so I got frustrated with myself all over again.

But they're done. They're in warm, washable wool, and I happen to know that they're on Mom's feet as I type this. They caused me aggravation like nothing since college algebra, but she seems to like them, so I suppose they were worth it.

If they hadn't been a gift for someone else, I probably would've carefully woven in the ends, blocked them neatly, and then burnt them in a small bonfire in the backyard as a sacrifice to appease the knitting gods.

Sock Theology tenets 3, 4, and 5:

3. Don't expect perfection from others that you can't achieve yourself, and don't model your knitting on someone else's vision of perfection. 
4. No one is forcing you to knit. If you aren't enjoying it, you should stop. 
(4a. Recipients of gifts like this shouldn't feel guilty about enjoying something we knitters complain about so bitterly. Like many religious people, many knitters have a bit of a masochistic streak. If we didn't enjoy torturing ourselves just a little, we'd be watching Netflix instead of trying to figure out where the hell the extra stitch came from.)
5. Knitting is supposed to be relaxing, so pull your head out of your ass, have a giggle at yourself for taking it all so seriously, and move the hell on. 

Perspective

My house was built in 1951. It has three small bedrooms, one of which is slightly larger than the other two, a ridiculously tiny kitchen, and one bathroom. The previous owner (I am only the second) managed with his wife to raise three children in this house. That's five people in this little tiny house, this house that I bought because in 2008 it was the perfect size for me alone. Four other people in this house with me? Hell, no.

Every once in a while I marvel at this all over again when, for example, I have to cook a family dinner or bake a cake from scratch. I avoid cooking whenever possible simply because the kitchen is so cramped that any small amount of joy I might get out of it (which isn't much; it's not my favorite hobby) is sucked right out of me when I have to stop in the middle and wash dishes to make room to keep working. But Melba, the mother of the family who grew up here, almost certainly cooked multiple meals in that itty bitty kitchen every day of her life.

Today the state of my overflowing bedroom closet got the best of me and I started pulling things out to go to Goodwill. The master bedroom closet, the largest closet in the house, is 5 feet wide with a 2-foot door. It holds about two thirds of my clothes and has to be purged on a regular basis just to be able to see what's in there. But when this house was built it was intended to hold the complete wardrobes of two people.

So do I feel lucky to have so many clothes? Unlucky to have such "tiny" closets? Or gluttonous for having more clothes than any one human being could possibly need? All three, I guess.

Despite the tiny closets, I adore my diminutive house. When space gets cramped and it's time to purge again, I get a vivid reminder of the difference between what I need and what I want, an inkling of what it's like to live a full life with less stuff, and the inspiration to get rid of the stuff that's nothing but clutter.

And I've got major remodeling plans for the kitchen.

A Chat with Edgar

"Lady, scratch my chin."
Snore.
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"Umph. Blurg."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"I'm sleeping. Shut up."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"I have a lot of work to do today. I need to get all my sleep so I can do it without passing out in the middle."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"I can't even reach your chin. Get your butt out of my face."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"How about if I just put my hand on your neck."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"I'll wiggle my fingers on your neck. All better? Now shut up."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"I scratched your neck. Close enough."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
 "It's a miracle I could even find your neck. You need to lay off the kibble."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"That's not even a real meow. It's some kind of half-assed squeaky whine-grunt."
"Lady, scratch my chin."
"Fine."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Purrrrr.
Snore.
"Lady, scratch my chin."

This has been "A Chat with Edgar: Lady, Scratch My Chin." Join us tomorrow for a scintillating chat with Kudra entitled, "Lady, Scratch My Butt."