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Archive for December, 2006
On New Year’s Eve, my weblog gave to me:
I did promise.
Faced with a serious dearth of blocking pins, I ran a piece of yarn around the edges of the Branching Out scarf, then pinned the yarn to my ironing board using brooch pins (thanks for those, Faith!)
Aaaaaaaaaand . . . done! I made a little knitted flower pin to go with it.
Lawyer’s Wife called to say she loved it. “It’s cream! It’s the perfect color!” she exulted. So I am officially in her good graces, and that is probably a Good Thing.
Oh. And, yeah. I felted some pears.
Still not dead!
And I can prove it with knitting.
I knit most of the first glove (Mosaic Mitts, from Interweave Knits Holiday Issue and yes I do intend to knit everything from this magazine thank you very much) on the drive up to San Francisco, and most of the second on the drive back. Today I am wearing them, and my hands and wrists are toasty warm. The lawyer who has the office across the hall from me controls the air conditioning in our little fifth-floor shtetl, and he keeps it blasting at about 30 below. So I need these. I kind of hate the colors, but it was the best I could do with the available yarn.
True story from San Francisco: I was in a bead shop near 24th and Mission on Christmas eve, making wine charms as last-minute gifts, when the phone rang. Unspecified European Girl answered the phone. “Hello . . . yes . . . yes . . . oh. Bye.” She hung up.
“That was weird,” she announced to her high-school-aged coworker. “That guy who called? He asked if we were open, then he said ‘oh, I’m so happy to find a bead store that’s open today, can I come in?’ I said yes, and he said ‘okay, first I’ve got to go home and get my gun.’ Then he hung up.”
“That kind of freaks me out,” laughed High-School Girl.
“Yeah. I guess he meant to say something else, and said ‘gun’ instead.”
More aimless chit-chat ensued until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I politely suggested that they might consider calling the police.
“I’m sure he was just kidding, or he made a mistake.” Unspecified European Girl clearly thought I was overreacting.
“Do you really want to find out?”
So she called the store’s owner, who told them to lock up and leave immediately. And we left too, and strolled on down the street, and there was no gunfire that I know of. And there is no moral or clever ending to this story, and I learned no valuable lessons, except maybe that San Franciscans (and Unspecified Europeans) are remarkably casual about threats of violence.
The end.
No time to say hello, goodbye!
Bullets of hurriedness!
- I finished and blocked one Branching Out scarf.
- I knitted a little white flower and put it on a brooch-pin, which I attached to the Branching Out scarf.
- I finished six felty pears!
- Photos of all of the above will follow. Probably next week.
- As walked to my friend Sara’s house to felt my pears in her washing machine, my underwire burst like a raging lion through the fabric of my bra and lacerated my right boob.
- My right boob is peeved, but bandaged and recovering well.
- Photos of the above will not follow.
- Don’t think I’m dead if you don’t hear from me until next Wednesday.
- I’m not dead. I’m just in San Francisco.
- If I get to go here, though, I might die of joy.
- I have to go finish a pension plan now.
- Happy Solstice!
When my anxieties conspire against me.
I did not want to get up this morning. Twice my alarm rang, and twice I turned it off and went back to sleep. After the second time, I dreamed that I went to the bank to withdraw thirty dollars, and was told that my account balance was only twenty-five dollars. “How could that be?” I was horrified. “I had a hundred dollars in there yesterday!”
The teller turned the screen so that I could see recent transactions on my account. There were three debits of twenty-five dollars each, all from early that morning. Then I realized that every time I hit snooze on my alarm, it cost me twenty-five dollars.
I woke up.
Ignore this, it’s whiny.
I am. Stressed. Out. Stress in the tightness of my jaw, and in the acid that leaps up from my stomach. Stress in the stutter as I correct and repeat myself, trying to say six things at once. I am easily startled; this morning, in a meeting, I nearly hit the ceiling when Murray* coughed behind me. I am needy and insecure. In this most social of seasons, I want nothing more than to hibernate with a stack of books and knitting.
Does this stress stem from:
1. Money issues?
2. Feeling overwhelmed at work?
or
3. Feeling underaccomplished as another year sputters and dies, leaving only a thin trail of smoke and the acrid smell of failure?
Why is it that when people wish me Happy Holidays, it feels like just another impossible thing I have to add to my to-do list?
Edited to add: Possibly the one thing that could make this day better has just occurred: Grandma Secretary’s loud, detail-filled discussion of her colonoscopy.
I’m not dead.
Lawyer saved up work for several months before I left for vacation, then dumped it all on me this past Monday. It is a deliberate and malicious attempt to prevent me from having any fun at all.
I will return soon. Before the end of the week, maybe.
In the meantime, send donuts.
True to my word.
I promised you knitting, and knitting you shall have, though it means the sacrifice of my lunch hour.
I’m currently working on Cozy, from Knitty. The pattern calls for silk, at which I thumb my poverty-stricken nose; I turn instead to my current favorite yarn, Inca Alpaca. Since it’s the holiday season and all, this is going to be a gift . . .
for me!
I’m in a selfish mood, and this is soft and pretty and I want it for my very own.
I took this photo in the airport, waiting to board the plane to Atlanta.
I worked on it for the entire flight, and again for the entire flight from Atlanta to Connecticut. I barely touched it over the next ten days, and have only done a few rows since returning. So really, the next picture represents my airplane-knitting accomplishments.
You can see all of the little wobbles and tension changes, and places where I twisted the yarn the wrong way, made a hole too big, etc. I blame it on the turbulence. That’s another reason that I’m keeping this project for myself; I, like the Muslim carpet-weavers, know that only Allah is perfect, and therefore I am at peace with the flaws – nay, natural variations – in my knitting. I cannot, however, expect everyone to be so accepting.
This next piece is Wavy, also from Knitty. (Hello, Knitty! I love you! I slaver over your free patterns and delicious articles! I whore my blog for you! Ahem.)
This is for my not-actually-aunt B, who chose the yarn, Lopi Icelandic Wool, to go with her new coat. I had to modify the pattern slightly (at Miss Kendra’s urging), decreasing the number of stitches per row from 42 to 24, because this wool is so bulky. In fact, the Lopi doesn’t play at all well with the pattern, as you can see from the vast difference between the patternmaker’s photo and mine, but I think it looks nifty anyway.
Also: Of Wavy, the patternmaker says “you’d better use a row counter if you know what’s good for you.” But I am counterless, and so far, no problem.
Cue “impending doom” music.
Hope for the institution of marriage.
“Lawyer? Frank* wants out.”
So began the conversation that led to my current project: dividing the assets of Ruth*and Frank*, each of them ninety years old, married for fifty years, who decided this past weekend that they want a divorce. Do we do family law? No, we do not. Did Lawyer assign their marital dissolution to me anyway? Yes, he did.
Dark silver lining: if I drag my feet enough on this, they may not need a divorce.
Other scintillating projects include one pension plan adoption, two pension plan terminations, a nonprofit dissolution, and several real estate transfers. Is it any wonder I’m about as motivated as . . . as . . . as something really unmotivated?
I have been knitting, and photos will go up soon. Tomorrow, maybe. If I can find the motivation.
Chronically optimistic.
I just realized the upside to having no money during the holiday season:
Shopping will be so easy this year!
Everyone gets big hugs. For those who are extra good, a kiss too.
If you’re bad, you get a sock full of cat poop. I have plenty.
A Bird\'s Nest 
