We interrupt our regularly scheduled knit/crochet blog to bring you this breaking news

Well, okay, so you don’t need the blog to tell you what’s been all over the national papers these past two days: on Tuesday, the Maine State House approved LD1020, and on Wednesday, in a move that had my jaw dropping (but in a really good way) Baldacci quickly signed it into law. Baldacci was quoted in more papers than I can count: "In the past, I opposed gay marriage while supporting the idea of civil unions," [he] said in a statement read in his office. "I have come to believe that this is a question of fairness and of equal protection under the law, and that a civil union is not equal to civil marriage."

Opposition is already gearing up a petition drive for a people’s veto, but I’m hopeful that if that comes about, the courts will do as the Iowa Supreme Court did and say, “Sorry, banning same-sex marriage is constitutionally a wash,” or, in more formal language:

“The court reaffirmed that a statute inconsistent with the Iowa constitution must be declared void even though it may be supported by strong and deep-seated traditional beliefs and popular opinion,” said a summary of the ruling issued by the court.

There are some strong correlations between this issue and what we faced with desegregation. I’ve read opinion write-ins following the Iowa Supreme Court’s decision—I grew up there—and a recurring theme was: how 7 could trump the will of 3,000,000?

Because sometimes it just has to, I guess. That may seem simplistic, but I can guarantee that many of those people who are up in arms about allowing GLBTs the same civil liberties as the rest of us do believe that race should not be a basis of restriction of rights. They will say that to discriminate against any of God’s children is not right, and will point to the behaviors of past generations of whites as heinously wrong, all the while Biblically justifying their GBLT discrimination.

Just as many whites did when it came to African-Americans. Hey, I’m mostly white, despite a few family tree veers in other ethnic directions. I grew up in an all-white community; everyone considered me white because no one knew I wasn't entirely Caucasian. I know that it can play out that way. I’ve watched it happen, and on all sorts of issues. Past battles fought are seen as right in retrospect, but God help anyone who tries to shake current beliefs.

These were the sorts of things I have discussed before, and the sorts of things I expected to continue discussing when the subject of legalization of gay marriage came up.

But I was surprised. My post-signed-into-law-excitement thoughts have been of an entirely different nature than I could have foreseen.

My friends and I were doing the long-distance celebrating of legalizing on Facebook, as Fbers will do, when one of my former play directors posed a thoughtful question. (He’s that sort of person, is L.) Why were so many straight people so involved in discussing this, when his gay friends were being pretty quiet about it? Why did it matter to us? Or more to the point, why did it matter to me, as this was my wall he was posting on.

Good question, that. I gave my reasons: 1) marginalizing any group heightens the chance of marginalization of even more people, and all on as arbitrary a basis as this marginalization (Christians wouldn’t consider themselves bound by Islamic law, after all, so why are we Christians assuming all other faiths and non-faiths should be bound some Christians’ beliefs?) and 2) legislating love, thereby impeding two persons’ desires to make a life-long commitment one to the other, is just plain wrong.

L. read this, I’ll assume, and possibly other wall posts on the subject as well. The next day, he posted this:

L. -- is wondering why people demanding tolerance, aren't very tolerant, if you see things a little different. Why so much anger?

That’s a good question, if you ask me. Because one, yes, I have been angry that it has taken us this long as a country to get it together. Seven other countries, beginning with the Netherlands in 2001, have enacted laws legalizing, not civil unions or partnerships, but same-sex marriages (see About.com's data for more details). And we, the country that has been famous for at least paying lip-service to our democratic ideals, have done nothing, and furthermore our federal government has bowed out of this one, more than happy for once to not try to trump states’ rights. So it’s literally 50 different battles that must be fought.

The cheeky part of me, when looking at how much longer other countries have had such legislation, also dearly wants to point out that if people are poised for lightning-bolt retribution from Above, they shouldn’t worry as we’ve had a seven-country bolt buffer (and for far too many years). Chances are we’ve received the Divine all-clear, you know?

A bit snarky of me, I know. I’ll admit it. And I’m adamant about equal rights in marriage, that’s for sure. I can see why people might perceive that as angry.

And yet, the angry rhetoric of those who oppose same-sex union bothered me so badly that I was unable to stay in the room and watch the video stream of the Senate hearings that my co-workers had up. The person who was speaking is no different than I am in level of conviction, nor was he passively standing by the sidelines. He was vocal about his opinion, just as I am about mine. So, was L. right? Is there no difference between the lack of tolerance?

I hope there is. I do dislike the stand, I don’t understand why love thy neighbor can’t be more prevalent than what an apostle who didn’t even run with Jesus thought, but I hope I haven’t flashed over into the world of hate conviction. There’s a fine line between the two and we do after be careful as we walk that line. But to stand on the sidelines, would be, as Edmund Burke pointed out, allowing evil to flourish, because [we] stood by and did nothing.* They don’t see their behavior as evil, granted, but hate is the true evil in the world. It damages those who hate as much as those who are hated. And that’s sad.

I think I like how E.M. Forester put it best, though. His character, George Emerson, said that we all cast a shadow wherever we stand. The best we can do is to pick a place where we won’t do much harm, and stand in the sun for all we are worth.

He’s right. At this point in life, I just want to keep my shadow print as pale as possible. Maybe I’ll go play with sticks and strings under a tree where the light is still there, warm and brilliant, and yet softly filtered. That sounds about right, don’t you think?

Okay, next blogs will be back on-topic and about dazzlingly controversial issues such as why the Snow Zombie don't melt when frolicking in the dandelions, successfully convincing myself that summer IS the logical time to be knitting hats and mittens and crocheting warm shawls, and the utter asininity of ordering yarn for another project when I’ve already got more than enough on needles and hook. (I'll also catch up the reading and music lists. I've stumbled onto some stellar recording artists of late...)


*The quote I paraphrased was: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. However, in the course of looking it up today for accuracy’s sake, I discovered that it isn’t an actual quote at all. I ended up paraphrasing a paraphrase. And the geek in me feels duty bound to point that out. What Burke actually said in Thoughts on the Cause of Present Discontents was, “When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.”

I think I see why the paraphrase caught on… ;-)

Why I Did Not Knit Today

1. Dishes

2. Sick Things

3. (Are you ready for this?)

Six.

There were six in the cage. When we returned home there were none in the cage and a rather suspicious plastic portal cover on its side, the victim of a chew out.

(Their mother was the ringleader--how Old World can you get? "The Family" is out and wreaking havoc.)

And Thing Two's bedroom door was OPEN.

We retrieved two in Thing Two's room, one in the living room, and one (of course) in the yarn-based bedroom. (What is it about gerbils and my room??? I'd already suffered one solo baby gerbil escape over Christmas break while the Things were gone to their dad's. Little Master Adventure Gerbil had headed straight for my room, where he curled up under a pillow and slept while I tore the rest of the house apart looking for him. Gah.)

Later...

Just returned from a bathroom capture. One gerbil under the washer, which steadfastly refused to move like the obliging dryer. I had to haul the not-feeling-well Thing One out of his burrow to lever the darn thing up for us. I've now got lint on the legs and bottom of my sweats. But we got the little twit.

Still Later...

The last escapee was definitely cagier than the rest. (Okay, so there is an inherent contradiction in word choice there, but at the mo I really don't give a flip.) It remained on the lam for a good hour and an half after everyone else had been delivered to their plastic prison.

It had not counted on Thing Two with her head cold/virus, though. Seriously, that girl could rival the heralding trumpets of the Second Coming in sheer volume. She perchanced to blow her nose whilst walking through the kitchen. There was a terrified squeak, and out ran the last juvenile delinquent from behind the refrigerator. It took one look up at her, the creator of the cacophony, and promptly turned tail and ran back behind the damn refrigerator.

Thank goodness my kids have enough plastic weaponry leftover from Halloween to arm a small mob of sugar-crazed four year olds. The sword fit under the frig and with judicious waving of it, convinced the miniature fugitive that ducking under the frig itself was not wise. The scythe's handle fit under the stove (the secondary point of evacuation). Thing Two waited at the exit behind the frig and I stationed myself at the space between the stove and the frig. Thing Four, with great enthusiasm, kept the weapons moving.

Stupid rodent figured out just how far in I could reach, though, and calmly sat right beyond that point. But he hadn't counted on human wits, you know? I chivvied a broom back behind him and swept his little butt out into the cold light of...well, light bulbs, okay? It was evening, after all.

Wits though I had, I may have neglected to think things quite through. There is a bit of difficulty, after all, in capturing a rodent on the run when you've two hands on a broom. And so the chase was on. We got him out from behind the baseboard heater in the kitchen and he promptly legged it to the safety of the Christmas tree. (No, I've not yet gotten it down. Thanks so much for pointing that out.)

Then it was a mad dash for the safety of under the sofa. By the time we had tossed the sleeping, sick Thing One off its cushions and upended it, the little criminal made its final dash. To MY room.

I repeat, what is it about my room???

So, back in we went. Baskets of yarn were lifted, and my rovings (nestled in a open box with my drop spindle) were carefully checked through, because if little dude were snacking on my rovings, then his butt would be out in the snow.

(I don't care how cute he looks with over-large, not-yet-grown-into ears.)

After I was VERY certain there was NO rodent in that corner, we turned our attention to the land of under the dresser.

And that's when the (insert word not appropriate for all audience members) jumped me from behind.

His trajectory suggests that he came, indeed, from the corner just checked, and that he came on with an, "It's either them or me, see?" mentality. Personally, I think he wanted the deep purple and royal blue rovings for a nest and would stop at nothing to gain them.

I, of course, was too busy battling for my life to actually capture him, and Thing Two was laughing so hard that I still don't see how she scooped him up. Traitorous girl. She's so on dishes-washing duty for the rest of her natural-born life.

But though she gave the miscreant gerbil a stern baby-talk talking to, I think I was right to be suspicious of him and his murderous tendencies.

Remember the victimized plastic portal cover? Well, Thing Two reinserted the cover and masking taped it in, secure in the knowledge that none of the grown-up gerbils had been able to foil that strategy. What she hadn't counted on was this same little deviant capitalizing on a rough edge to chew a hole THROUGH the portal, one just big enough to wriggle out of.

She's lucky not to have woken up with a pillow-wielding rodent on her chest, ready to smother Trumpet Girl in her sleep. Seriously.

Tomorrow we are going to try to find a pet store closer than an hour away and Girlie is spending some of her hard-earned Christmas money (hmm hmm) on a METAL cage.

Let's hope they can't squeeze out between the bars.

Visiting Home

We went back to Maine again this week. Thing One has been given the chance to return and live with friends for senior year. While this means giving him up a year early, in a sense, it's also something I'm really glad to do. Thing One has always been there for his mom and sibs, always helped out, and it's good to be able to let him have this opportunity. And The Girl, I'm sure, was especially thrilled at his return.

So back we drove, with the temperature becoming cooler as we headed farther north and east. It was a bit odd to see the first hints of trees beginning change

when back on the plains it was still sticky and humid and most definitely clinging to late summer.

But even the slightly cooler temps did not stop us from having fun on the lake

or hooking up with lots of friends (each day culminating into three nights of grilling out, each with different sets of people, each getting larger as we went)

and it especially didn't stop us from visiting our beloved Korner Knitters,

where the awesome Darrin waits to help all and sundry.

(I also found the name of the cotton from which I made my Christmas stocking, but for which I'd lost the ball bands. It's Cascade Pima Tencel 030 Natural and 2493 Purple--Rav will now be updated.)

We found out right before we left Maine our house bid back in the Midwest had fallen through. The ex-wife had accepted the offer, but the ex-husband didn't. That was a bit of a bummer, but we tried to stay philosophical about it, even as we said goodbye to Thing One (very odd that; as he said, I don't think it really dawned on him that we would be half a country apart).

Despite all that, we said our final goodbye, then got on the rotary, took the proper road off it, and headed south.

It was then that the cell phone rang.

"---? It's D-- from ---College. Are you still in Maine?"

"Well, sort of. We're just leaving."

"I know this is short notice, but could you come interview? Tomorrow?"

It's a wonder I didn't drive off the road right then and there. This was a college I had applied to before, but one which kept reorganizing and canceling its positions (which you kind of begin to see as a sign, you know?). The last position, which dealt with providing support services to at-risk and learning disabled students, was right up my alley and I'd applied once again. D and I had talked several times, and she had shown interest in interviewing me, but hadn't returned my call before I went to Maine. I assumed this meant there wasn't a chance and hadn't bothered to bring my suit along. I pointed this out to her.

"Oh we don't care. Interview in your summer clothes; that's fine. We'll put you up in a hotel up here and get you some dinner. Do you need someone to watch the kids? It'll be a three-tier, two-hour interview, you know."

Somewhat dazed, I accepted the interview and we turned around and headed farther north into Maine, rather than south.

That night the kids played in the pool and I made phone calls back west, letting everyone know we would be behind schedule on our return and why.

The next day I went through round one and round two of the interview process trying hard to forget that I was in sandals, the comfy pants I wear kayaking on cool mornings, and one of the few nice tops I'd packed (slightly wrinkled). I also tried to piece together my brain enough to give semi-coherent answers; three nights of visiting with friends means not much sleep, you know?

By the time I got to the last interview, I was breathing an internal sigh of relief. One more battery of questions and then I should know in a couple of days how I did. Either way, I already had a job in the Midwest, so I was set.

This is what I got instead of questions.

"Look, we don't feel the need to beat around the bush or make you wait. We know you'll have decisions to make, so we just want to offer you the job."

Being my ever suave self, I replied, "Are you sure you don't want to ask me more questions first?"

They didn't. Instead, they said they would give me a couple of days to decide whether or not I wanted to be with them, rather than the other way around.

The kids and I left in daze. After months and moths of not being able to find anything, I suddenly had two jobs (well, a job and an offer) instead of none. That's a bit shocking, quite honestly.

Heading south, I decided there was only one thing to do. We stopped here.

The lady who owns this shop is on Rav as myarns (that link will only work if you are a Ravelry member, btw)

and we met in the stormy weather fanatics group. She had told me to come on by if ever I got the chance to interview at that college north of her.

So we went by. I fell instantly in love with the place. The store is everything a LYS should be, lots of great selection and many friendly people hanging out in rockers, knitting and talking. I chatted with them while I picked up a skein of beautiful, hand-dyed-in-Maine sock yarn, which will either be used in Leyburn or in Northern Lights. The color changes might be too quick for Northern Lights, though, so I may have to go back to Marnacook one day and get another skein by that same dyer, as she had several others with longer color runs.

The bright colors were a bit outside my norm ("Those are SO not jewel tones or solids mom! What happened to you?" was how Thing Two oh so kindly put it.) but they are beautiful and fun and I needed a bright pick me up to shock my senses out of their benumbed state. (Note: it's French Twist from French Hill Farm and I still love the colors, no matter how different they are from my norm.)

So, I have three or four days to decided. Do we stay in the metro area we were finally trying to make into a home, or do we go back to the adopted state we had called home for almost ten years?

Six months ago, there would have been no competition. Now, it's a harder call.

We're going to be doing a lot of talking about it all as we head back to the city.

Corrupting the Young

You want to. You know you do. The urge to twist and warp little minds is just something no one can control.

It starts with your own kids; quietly and by stealth, so no one notices. But one day they're knitting squares to make into Herbie

& Reg,

garter stitch dogs extraordinaire from Kids Learn to Knit, or little hats for charity

and the next thing you know, they're knitting something secret for somebody who might read the blog



and giving you Bambi eyes for a skein of hand dyed sock yarn that they swear that they are going to knit up themselves (just as soon as I pick a pattern from your pattern stash, mom, honest).

But that's not enough. You find yourself letting small kids hang out with you and try stitches while they wait in line to go to gym (awesome crowd control method when everyone is five years old and under). The only problem there is that you don't get the satisfaction of total corruption. There's only time, due to the sheer number of small people, for a quick dip into the pool of degenerate behavior.

So, you turn to other outlets. Namely, the kids of your friends.

It's great.

You talk them into making Nigel, the late night owl (another Kids Learn to Knit cutie) with a bribe of their very own kitty cat-headed needles and uber-bright variegated yarn.

You slyly offer to reteach some other friends' daughter how to knit,

then point out that bamboo needles work better with the yarn she has chosen. And after she drags her father to the local yarn shop to get the needles (where she and your own daughter, who's gone along to make sure dad doesn't duck out, also purchase several skeins of two color cottons) you score the ultimate in knitting corruption.

Nothing's better than a kid in a skeleton t-shirt picking up a skein. Absolutely. Nothing. And all because he had the audacity to say (after the girls were safely out of the house), "That doesn't look hard to do."

By the time the girls had returned, he had picked up enough speed with the needles to have finished the bookmark his sister had started and was experimenting with different ways to make knitting "more efficient." You realize you may have to email him Hardcore, from Knitty, just to keep him going.

But you don't have to do it all. Really. Because before you know it, they're knitting without you.

The corruption never ends. Just think of who could be next...

(you thought it was going to be a picture of you, Thing One, didn't you?)

Bloggin' Bunny Butts

When I title it that way, it almost sounds like an epithet. But knitting a bunny butt had its epithet moments, I have to say.

This is all for Cecelia, the ex-b'friend's beautiful niece. CeeCee has recently become a big sister and while her mom, Anna, reports that Cecelia seems thrilled with little Lief for his own sake, she's been less than thrilled with the shift in attention that, as the only granddaughter and youngest grandchild, she magnanimously accepted as her due. It's fine for her to love Lief, but all others are supposed to be focused on her curly-headed self. I can say, very truthfully, that she is not spoiled. I was around enough to watch her being told no by all grown-ups. What she is is enormously, unreservedly loved, as all children should be.

Anyway, as honorary auntie for a time, I decided that when I crocheted up Lief's blanket, I should make something for CeeCee as well. I didn't want her to feel left out. You know the deal.

I found on a cute sweater from The Natural Knitter, by the late Barbara Albright (a wonderful book; check it out). However, about the time I discovered that Anna was knee deep in blankets, I also looked more closely at the Bodacious Bunny Set and realized that Cecelia was already too big for it. And I wasn't so sure that my first sweater ever was the best time to play with pattern alteration. It's never bothered me before, but then again, those alternations were always for things like Christmas stockings. I wanted Cecelia to actually be able to wear it, if I made it.

So for Lief, I switched to the EZ BSJ with matching hat and booties (thank you Ravelry for inspiration) and decided that I would still do the baby blanket, as I want to learn Tunisian crochet in the worst way and that was a legitimate excuse to do so. (And it still is. I just need to find a blanket-less baby out there, that's all. Unfortunately, there are probably all too many of them.)

But figuring out what to do for Cecelia was harder. For some reason, the Bodacious Bunny had hopped into the deepest reaches of my subconscious. I found myself flipping through Family Circle Easy Toys: 25 Delightful Creations to Knit and Crochet, and there it was. Silly Bunny. Bodacious Bunny totally approved, as Silly Bunny was just too cute.

And I could make Silly B little outfits, thus getting my let's-experiment-with-sweaters-now phase going. After all, Silly B will be living in Maine, where mere knittedness isn't always enough to keep one warm. Well, not if that's all you're made of, anyway.

Enter the epithet moments. (You were wondering if I would get back to those, weren't you?)

To begin with, the pattern, while well-written, was the sort that assumed that one had the ability to visualize how the pieces would fit together.

The problem with that is that I'm dyslexic. (Yeah, yeah, a dyslexic writer, how ynnuf is that. I've heard all the jokes. And the rest I've made up myself).

Besides the classic problems with reading (I skipped that for various reasons and instead flipped more numbers than I did letters), dyslexics also tend to have problems with short-term memory (but look out for long-term; once we embed it, we don't forget it) and can have some problems with spatial visualization and judgement as well, which may explain my unaccountable habit of knocking one shoulder into door frames on a more-consistent-than-I-would-like basis.

Either way, I could not visualize how this bunny would actually fit together, and, as I watched two back bunny pieces come out longer than one front bunny piece, I began to get more than a little apprehensive. I mean, I know to what extent I can mess up royally. I never underestimate myself there.

I knit on optimistically (i.e. with as much denial as I could muster), but there was no getting round it. The back of the bunny seemed, to me, to have morphed into this ominous, are-you-sure-you-didn't-repeat-a-couple -rows'-worth-of-instructions-one-too-many-times bigness. Believe me, there were times when an epithet such as ,"Bloggin' bunny butts anyway!" was probably the politest phrase in my said-under-my-breath crafting vocabulary. It's a wonder the the yarn didn't leap off my needles and make a run for it when it heard all threats I muttered at it.

To make matters worse, there was one more than one fetching bunny photo, with cute little Silly B posing cutely (sometimes with a cute kiddie, sometimes alone) in its cute little overalls which cutely hid its seemingly freakishly misshapen bunny butt and other pertinent bunny construction points from me. All I had was one brief line drawing which, again, expected that I could mentally visualize to fit the bits and pieces lying scattered about me.

For most of you, I'm sure figuring out things like how bunny body parts fit together would have been a walk in the park. But for those of us like me, I beg a boon of the designers. One cute picture only, please. I mean, Silly Bunny had me at cast on 13 stitches. Really. I didn't need additional adorableness to induce me to buy the yarn.

So if you've got the extra photo op space, use it well. Show me the bunny bits. Loads of bunny bits. Give me pictures of bodiless hands holding bunny bits and showing me how to put them all together.

I finally did manage to hit visualization possibilities; I had a dim picture in my head, literally, and I held grimly onto it. It was only after I had most of the front finally knitted and I could hold each piece an physically rotate it in my own two hands, though, that I could see whether or not I was correct.

Strangely enough, I was.




Given the number of stuffed animals that have an actual heinie upon which to sit, I know it seems rather goofy that I did not realize I was creating Silly B's little seat. But there you have it. Or, more correctly, there Silly B had it. I may have clued in (may being the operative word) had Silly B not been dressed in overalls; it was hard for me to tell whether there was anything upon which the bunny could sit or if they photographer had cunningly propped the bunny up (and you know they'd do that).

Despite major bunny butt angst, I finally produced this:



(Silly B with her suitcase which will hold the ensembles I am theoretically crocheting and knitting.)



You'll be seeing Silly B a lot more when she models her wardrobe. Best not to go into bunny overkill now.

So, for the tribe of the outside the box crafters (especially those of us who aren't even sure what shape or color the box is), have mercy, oh designers.

.hcum os reve ti etaicerppa eW .sknahT

There's One of You Here

I've an old friend from high school days that I keep more or less in touch with, even though we've not seen each other since our early 20s (And no, I'm not gonna tell you how long that is in years. Let's keep today a happy thought day, shall we? No age reminders necessary.)

Anyway, he travels a great deal and two days ago he pinged me from the airport, via his Blackberry, with the following message:

Subject: There's one of you here

There's a lady with yellow yarn and two big needles making something?? I am trying to visualize you sitting there doing it! Hmmmm??

He's been following the blog (though he never comments--loser) and I may have mentioned to him my...mild interest...in the pursuit of all things woolly here or there. In an email or two. Not more than that. Really.

But it's interesting. I've become a "one of you," i.e. one of them, to him. A part of a larger whole. I find that amusing when I know no crocheters or knitters in the metro area, still. I mean, the one event, the Yarn Harlot signing, at which I ran into large numbers of stick and string people, I was so blown away by the knitters around me that my wee little project and its larger companion stayed safely tucked away.

I was totally intimidated by the talent on display. After all, I'm a small town bistickual, a girl from a place where the lovely Darrin of my then-LYS made me feel like I wasn't a true sticks and strings person unless I'd made the boneheaded mistake that I'd just begged her to correct. ("Don't you know you're not a knitter unless you dropped eight stitches without noticing? And of course everyone crochets a border with a cast on so tight that it makes the rectangle into a lovely semicircle. That's what we all do!") I'm by turns extremely sociable or extremely shy, so things of a groupish nature have always been a bit of an adventure for me.

And yet, I am part of a whole, in a virtual kind of way. I've found other blogging crafters, like Needle Tart, who's offered advice that was blindingly helpful, so obviously practical and so un-thought of by me that it's a wonder she didn't question my I.Q. level and whether or not I should be allowed to handle pointy objects. But the virtual community has not ended with the bloggers.

Thanks to Ravelry, I've found not only fantastic things I'd love to knit or crochet, but also crafters who are stormy weather fanatics and those who are interested in crafts in ancient times. I've joined the Ankh-Morpork Knitters Guild and the Crochet Liberation Front. And though I've been busy, I've still lurked in the Knitting for Peace, Tunisian Crochet and Pen & Needles. (Those are all Rav links, btw, so unless you're a Raveller, you won't be able to view them. Sorry.) I had no idea that there were so many obsessed-with-multiple-subject-areas people out there. Especially not people who were obsessed with so many of my obsessions. Now if there were groups for those who are interested in falconry, kayaking or wanting to train for canine search and rescue... (Then again, knowing Raverly, there might be. I'm almost afraid to check. How much groupiness could one solo crafter take?)

I've also found individualized help from a lady on Rav who knitted up an EZ Baby Surprise Jacket in just the colors I knew the new mother for whom I wanted to knit would like. Said kindly knitter provided me with the exact numbers for the three Punto colors she used. Then, when I could find only one supplier of more than a color or two of Punto in the US, L & B Yarn Co. (and they still did not have the colors I needed), I posted a plea for help in the Yarn forum of Rav and what did I get? This and this from two lovely German Ravellers who offered to help me with the ordering as well, should I have trouble with the German (the Rikes Woolmaus site offers the option to translate to English, and I even figured out the other site well enough to navigate it).

They've welcomed me in, these virtual, global knitters and crocheters. Just like that and with loads of helpful, practical encouragement. And somehow, their finished projects, breathtaking as they are, aren't nearly as intimidating as uberknitters' and ubercrocheters' projects are when viewed in person.

So, I'm a groupie from a distance? Hmmm. I noticed that another new member of the Ankh-Morpork Guild is from the Twin Cities. Perhaps I should say hello. Maybe she's had trouble counting to five on a repeat section of a pattern too? (I know it'd be too much to hope for that she's crocheted through only half of the stitch rather than all of it, or that she's ever knit backwards along a circular project.)

But J, I think you may be right. Crafting klutz though I am, I am "one of you."

Sorry, crafters. Mea culpa.

All Packed Up & Someplace to Go

The blog and I will be away for a bit. We're road-tripping to a state far, far away for a job interview.

Whilst packing for this, I decided, virtuously, to use this bag as my carry on:

My ex-boyfriend gave me this bag, and when he sent it, he didn't say, "Here's a small hiking backpack." He said, "I found you a good knitting bag for when you go kayaking." Dude understood.

Anyway, I was sure that this smaller bag would force me to pack less, as I tend to over-pack just a tad.

Turns out I was wrong. Instead, I became the uber-packer. I managed to add most of the following:

Lots of books because 1) who knows what I will be in the mood to read and 2) I read rather abnormally fast. I finally caved and chose a few for the suitcase; I'll switch them out on the way home.

Some magazines (Hey, only two, okay? And they're both, er, educational...)

Lots of movies, books on tape and CDs (thank goodness for those DVD cases that hold three movies each!) because (again) who knows which movie I will feel like watching, and if I'm knitting, I'll have to have something to listen to, right? And yes, I know having an iPod would make my life easier. Let's not add to my iPod envy, okay?

Two sets of socks, one set almost finished, one set not yet begun.

And, um, one mystery knit project; just in case, you know? I doubt I'll need but, but...well, what if I do?? But I was good; I packed that one in the suitcase! The French version of Fred Vargas went to the case as well. I'm too keyed up to attempt to decipher French. That'll be a ride home challenge instead.

Two Stanleys of a flatish nature (Thing 3's and Thing 4's contribution to the chaos).

And most importantly:

Items to corrupt the uninitiated short people of the world. Plus patterns. I have no shame.

(In my defense, I could argue that this could actually be more for self-protection, you know. I've taken my knitting and crocheting to every class at which I've substituted and if they are kids between the ages of two and eight, they want to do it as well. Note to all: it has always, without exception, been the boys who were first to ask to be taught and who knitted or crocheted the most on whatever project I had in my hands. We have to talk to whoever is in charge of stereotypes.)

So, the blog and I will try to update you mid-trip if we can. Otherwise, see you next week!

O, That Way Madness Lies

Okay, so King Lear had child-rearing issues, not crafting ones.

I realize that.

But knitting and crocheting have become my Regan and Goneril. The little ingrates are taking over my life and plotting to use it to further their own agendas.

It started randomly. Little things that were spaced far and few between. Tactical maneuvers that at first made it seem like they were on my side, supporting me.

Examples you ask? I have them aplenty.

After a huge, emotionally-charged move halfway across the continent, leaving what had become home for what used to be home, a friend said that he hoped the move had gone well. This was part of my reply:

Discovered something nifty though. If one takes refuge in a corner with knitting, no one comes near. I think it was because I had strategically tossed the skeins of yarn about me on the floor (four colors) and people were afraid to come too close lest they become entangled in the yarn and fall helplessly onto my double pointed needles (which are very, well, pointy and numerous--four at once to be exact). It was then that I realized my needles had a heretofore unrealized tactical advantage. And, of course, I achieved a nice little eddy of peace in the swirling waters of relations.

Supportive little needles and yarn, weren't they? To help out like that. But they had other views in mind.

My little Regan and Goneril have convinced everyone else that all I do will be yarn impacted and that all my responses will be yarn-related ones. You require proof? Here are some recent offspring comments.

Don't talk to mom for another couple of rows. She hasn't had enough of her morning knitting to be coherent yet. (Thing Two, who has just read the blog, insists that I inform all and sundry that it was she who came up with this--cough--witty observation. There. You happy, kid?)

I can too wear this shirt to school, mom. Just knit me a button quick. (Thing Four's response to being unable to wear his most favorite in the world shirt due to a gaping, button-loss hole on the front of him.)

Mom! Look up from your knitting before you cross the street! (Thing Four can walk to school on his own if this is the way he's going to be. Seriously.)

Er, mom, was part of your crochet project supposed be embedded in our dinner? What have we told you about crocheting near the stove?! (Another note from the increasingly editoral Thing Two. She insists this one should be labeled: All Things Implied, because they've all said it. Har. Har. Har.)

See? Little R & G have made everyone assume that I do these projects so much that I cannot function without yarn and some form of stick, be it pointy or hooked, in my hand.

But worst of all, they're convincing me of it as well. They've infiltrated my mind and distracted my attention.

Again, it was little things at first. Things such as, upon seeing Tony Robbins' 6'7", size-16-shod, ginormously-handed self in Shallow Hal, causing me to have the immediate reaction of, "For the love of everything alpaca, I am so glad I do not have to knit for that man!"

But they weren't content with that little victory. Oh no. They've upped the ante. They've made it seem perfectly logical to knit or crochet not only in lines, but also during morning walks to school (see son comment above), while participating in non-yarn related meetings and in a kayak in the middle of a lake.

They've made it seem normal that with each job posting I consider, I immediately do a web search to see how many, if any, yarn shops are in that area.

They've convinced me to go ahead with the baby blanket after receiving notice that the mommy-to-be was already buried under baby blankets from the last kid (she's getting an EZ Baby Surprise Jacket with matching hat and booties instead) because I simply cannot pass up learning Tunisian crochet, nor could I ever, ever return yarn that I really quite like.

But worst? They've even managed to make me purl without noticing. I mean, knit stitch without paying much attention I can understand. But purling? Since when have I been able to purl every other row as called for without looking down or even noticing that I had switched from knit to purl?

Since never, that's when.

I think the coup is about to occur. Somebody dial up Cordelia for me, would you? She's got to deal with with Regan and Goneril for me, because clearly, I can't.

The Fortune Cookie Never Lies

And good thing, that, because after today's hair trauma I needed to hear

Plan your graduation party with Leeann Chin Delivery.

Oh, wait, wrong side.

Your sparkle never fades.

This is reassuring to know, because I have entered the phase of interviews rather than just resume submissions. My first non-phone interview is this week, and I had decided I'd better get my growing-out hair whipped into shape (It's not been cut in awhile. I've been going through hairdresser withdrawal, as the guy who has cut my hair for years is now half a continent away, damn him.).

So, in I go to the new place, with the same old requirements. Trim off the ends, please don't layer the sides or the back (that's death to me, who has baby fine hair) and cut the front to about cheekbone level.

I got bangs. They're the sort of bangs that fall perfectly into your eyes in a manner that means you'll be constantly blowing them out of the way. Longer bangs, to be sure. But still, bangs. Not exactly the length or look for which I was going.

Now, lots of people look great in bangs. They can wear bangs and a suit and look sleekly competent, or bangs and something slinky and look chic. You know the type of women I mean.Then there are a minuscule few who look like a six-year-old with prematurely wrinkling skin when you whack their hair into a fringe. Especially when one tiny point of hair at the side of the bangs, right near one's glasses arm, wings straight out for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Any guesses as to the group in which I am placed?

Yup. I'm freakin' six.

Add to that fact that I have several cowlicks in the front of my hair (which are only noticeable when said hair is short) and I now resemble one of those sheepdogs from Bugs Bunny cartoons, only I look like I have a bad case of the mange.

It's not really the hairdresser's fault, you know. She did the best anyone could do with the materials at hand. Truly. It was an uphill battle for her from the moment she ticked my name off the list.

So I'm taking a deep breath and reminding myself that even mangy puppies (remember the six is in people years) can sparkle when called upon to explain composition theory and strategies for succeeding with at-risk and LD students.

I'm also reminding myself that, for the first time in what seems forever, I have completed two projects in time for the birthday of a little girl I love in the Dominican Republic. It's a sparkle moment all its own, that. Granted, Carolina's birthday isn't for another two months, but I have to allow for DR mail service and letter translation, as my Spanish is back to non-existent.

Well, okay, the projects are almost completed. The Bloom Shawl is knitted and blocked:

All that remains is sewing on the button on the front. She's a lover of bright colors, our Carolina, so I hope she likes this.And the bookmark is half completed. As it only takes about two to three hours, tops, for this project, I'm on the downhill side:

I'm fervently hoped its gnarled little self will straighten nicely with application of a border, heavy doses of spray starch and merciless T-pinning. The adding of the ribbon should help as well, though I've yet to decide on the ribbon color: blue, or white.

That project is a more than just a sparkle moment, really. It's actually a labor of generational love. I've never attempted to crochet with mercerized cotton and a hook so small it's hard to see the point before this moment. But my Great-Aunt Mary, who was a child's perfect example of unconditional love and patience, used to crochet such tiny things and give them to me as gifts. I loved their fineness and the possibilities for my imagination that each lacy pattern held.

I hope that the project does block out well. If not, I'll redo it. What my hands are recreating isn't just a bookmark. It's a feeling that Mary gave to me and that I carry with me still; a feeling which, through the repetitive movements of my hands, will perhaps be passed on to a quickly growing up girl far from me. Maybe she'll tuck it into the copy of El Principe Caspian that we bought her at the book fair. I hope she does, and I hope it makes her smile in her soon to be twelve-year-oldness, this little bit of tangible, child-like love; just as I smiled at the bookmark made for me.

With this haircut, I don't look twelve yet, but that's okay. Maybe six with sparkle has its merits.

The Newbie Begins

All right, everyone who knows me but has no interest in this subject can completely ignore it and you're absolved from feeling guilty about hurting my feelings (unless I think you're good for some really excellent dark chocolate. Then I'll guilt trip you to the max.). This blog is just hanging here until it finds some knitterly-crocheterly blogland paradise to which it can transfer its wee little self. *

And on to the real stuff (the rest of you can go listen to a song or something).

Okay, so there are tons of knitting and crocheting blogs out there. Does the world really need one more?

But you know, those blogs are created by knitters and crocheters who know what they are doing.

Oh sure, they make mistakes too, but they're generally not what you'd call beginners. If they make mistakes, it's on complicated stuff that makes your left eyelid twitch when you read about it, and possibly your right eyelid too. They're the type of people who could knit half the piece backward and still have it come out looking right.

They'd never, for example, mix up which is Continental and which is English style knitting. Especially when they could do both with equal ease.

(Okay, so yeah, I can do both types of knitting. I just never remember which one it is I'm doing.)

They never have to stop to puzzle out what the difference between Fair Isle and intarsia is, nor wonder which one they're doing even after they cast on.

(I do that, too. That's what I get for taking a plain pattern and, ahem, tweaking it.)

They've never had to look up trbl three times in a row on the same square because they could not remember how many times to yarn over.

They've never made the mistake of reading about both the UK and US designations for the same crochet stitch. The double in the UK is the single in the US, the UK treble the US double, and so on.

(And yes, that was a contributing factor to the need to re-check the yarn overs. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.)

I mean, I'm sure they did at one time. I'm sure they all began like me, not like Elizabeth Zimmerman's spirit had inhabited their bodies (if someone knows the name of a crochet master, chuck it at me) and thus they could knit or crochet blindfolded with one hand tied behind their backs. Or, like a Veggie Tales cucumber, with no hands.

But then again, seeing their stuff, I could be wrong about the above. Maybe EZ in all her kindness, when granting the gift of inspired knitting, missed the quiet chick in the back left corner of the room. Though from what I hear, she didn't miss much (I'm sorry I missed her).

But me? I'd settle for at least being as good as Gromit, even if he never seems to get past the middle of his row in any given episode.

But I'm not. Gromit's got me beat.

I'm recklessly daring (Think I'll learn color work. Hey, here's a pattern with 5 colors! For my first try at it ever! Once more into the breach, dear friends!), wildly grateful when I discover just how much better something looks blocked when I was ready to weep over its shriveled, lumpy little pre-blocked stitches (more color work), and while I'm at it (I've made a whole crocheted bird with the sadistically named "fun fur" after all), why don't I not only change the colors on the baby blanket kit I purchased, but for a laugh, chuck the teddy bears and design dinosaurs instead, since that's what said baby's room will be decorated in? I mean, dinosaurs must be easy, right?

And, er, I'm also surrounded by non-crafters who keep looking at me a bit askance. (Thanks to Stephanie Pearl-McPhee's books, though, I've found that's not uncommon.)

My kids don't like to listen to knitting and crocheting talk past their bedtime, claiming falling asleep in class gets them in trouble (where are their rebel genes?!?), and though my boyfriend takes an active interest in what I do, I've yet to corrupt him to the point picking up a hook or casting on some socks or some such for me (I'm working on that).

But if there are any of you out there who also belong in the "Hey, yo, I'm a newb here" class of crafters, take heart. Rather than wonder how you can get from where you are to where they are, know that there are knitters out there who are right with you (or in my case, possibly far behind!! :P). And you've just met one who's willing to publish photographic proof of that.

Soon. I promise.

*And this is the new place to which my blog has come to live. Huzzah! The blog is so excited.