Yarn Ball Boogie

NOT sexy.

I'm no stranger to lapses in judgment, believe me.  Even as recently as 20 or 30 minutes ago, maybe, who knows.  But today, while trying on clothing mostly for the lower half of me, cords, jeans, whatever - I was reminded of many styles of men's pants that are just not ok.  And whoever thought of them should be, well.... And of course I wouldn't try any such garment on in the first place if I could tell what it looks like on me.  That's why we try things "on", right?

First (I think Itried on most of these styles today), we have the "my butt is a chicken cutlet and my legs are toothpicks" pants.  Where NOTHING is fittin' into those suckers except maybe a kneecap or two.  Don't know who designs 'em, can't figure out who can wear 'em.

Next, we have what I call the "Chelsea Boy" jeans.   Somewhere in design land, someone thought it would be really, really hot to design a low (and I mean LOW) riding jean that hot boys wear on a hot summer day with probably not much else than a wife beater (a hot one). Said jeans are particularly skilled at showing off in sparkling detail one's ass, one's pubic hair (unless they've shaved it all), and one perfectly outlined penis.  SO not sexy.  I don't care if you have the most incredible body to all people spanning across all standards of what is an incredible body. And unfortunately, what usually accompanies said jeans is a SCORCHING case of plumber's butt. Men should NEVER wear these. 

This may be a hard act to follow, you think, BUT - then we have the jeans that are cut just so.  Just so your butt (which I hope is a chicken cutlet) is smashed into place and the ass-crack seam is a few inches shorter than normal, consequently creating a strategic wedgie that is supposed to lift and separate.  Bras do that, gents....NOT ass crack jeans. 

Call me cynical, old-fashioned, whatever - but I'm built pretty normal.  I can usually fit into 32 waist garments with no problem, it just depends on the brand.  So when I grab a 32 incher, I really don't expect to look like John Holmes, (not that I ever did) an ice skater in a fancy tight-pant spandex costume, or Shakira.  And the sad truth - SOOOOOO many men think these styles are flattering.  Why?  Why!!!!!!!  Men could learn so much from Women if they just listened.  Leave the ladies' styles to the ladies.  That's what I say.  Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a nice ass and what not, but must you parade it????

So, once again, I sought refuge in my knitting.  I finished WeePair, and I've started another pair.  The yarn is from Fleece Artist, sock-weight yarn, in the "Ivory" colorway.  Many times, I've been known to purchase yarn solely on its color.  Haven't we all?  The "Oh, I dunno what I'm going to make" syndrome.  I particularly feel like I've scored when I see some hand-dyed or what looks like is going to stripe up or pool really cool.  Knitters have an eye for these things.  So this "Ivory" looked like just the ticket.  What am I seeing so far????

NOTHING.

I guess I've been spoiled in the past by getting so many moments like, "OH wow!  Look at that!"  "Look at this SICK pooling!" (yes, I love pooling) "I had NO idea this yarn would do that!!" (yeah, right).

This one is just like, well, Ivory.  I know, I know, wait till the sock is done, John.   One thing I used to tell all my students - "You have no idea what the pattern will look like until you've done a ton of it."  So, I'll wait.   For some reason, the yarn in the picture looks like sandpaper.  I assure you, it's very soft. 

I need ice cream.

Knitting makes me nervous and green

I've been trying really hard lately to stay on track with my yarn beast.  On one shoulder I see this red, fiery, horned monster that screams loudly in my ear, "Buy the yarn, man!  Just do it!  Who gives a damn about other bills/needs/responsibilities??!!"  Then on the other shoulder I see a much softer, scantily clad, muscle-ish, swimmer-build like smoothie saying, "Dear, I'll stand here all day and gently tickle your ear if you just BACK AWAY FROM THE FUCKING YARN." 

What I usually end up doing is compromising between the two and I wind up going home with just one skein instead of two or three or seventeen.  And going home without a date.  (with the ear-tickler)  The next thing you know is I'm trying to remember why I have one skein of something in my stash.  Oh yeah, that's right, I thought I'd be able to get a pair of socks out of it.  You may look at this as everything happens for a reason.  I look at it like I got nervous I wouldn't have enough to finish the second sock.  So I wound up shaking with anticipation until I neared the end. 

I guess I can stop trembling.  But now I have to scrub my hands.  One word of warning about this yarn.  The dye comes off.  Which, a lot of dyes come off. 

The yarn:  Great Adirondack's Soxie (one skein) Go HERE to get some...they have like 460 colors.

The needles:  Size US 1 circulars (two pairs)

The pattern:  After Cat Bordhi's K2P2 pattern.

I just did 28 rounds (instead of 4 inches) to make them more like short socks?  Bobbi socks?  Bobby socks?  Bobbie socks?  Tennis socks...o god, no.  I like 'em.  They're called "WeePair" - for men.  I have a size 11 1/2 shoe, and they fit me nicely.  Thank god.  I have no clean socks for tomorrow. 

Rosebud

I've been brewing with something lately, and simply put, it is this:  I've been a slacker designer.  I came to the realization that I've been sucking the knitting world dry and haven't been replacing what I take.  Perhaps I'm a little late realizing this, but as of today, I'll be doin' somethin' about it.  Free patterns.  I've designed for magazines, books, TV shows, etc, but I really think it's my RESPONSIBILITY as a knitter and one who designs, no less, to put back what I get out of the scores of patterns I've printed out, shared, and otherwise absconded with at no cost to me.  Do those people track me down and say, "Hey, I see you printed out my pattern.  How's about I get something out of you?"  No.  They give freely.  Another thing I love about knitters.  Now, I'm not saying all knitters are generous, lovely, smiling, good-hearted, and sweet.  Some of them are bitches. (at least ones that I have met) I don't know...have you ever met a bitch knitter???  But that goes for just about everything, I'd say. 

So my first is a little number called Rosebud.  I wanted to share him with you, even though I haven't figured out how to make the picture appear in the sidebar as a free pattern at any smaller size than that of a highway billboard.  But it will be the first, in a series of free patterns.  Some you will like, some you will hate, some you may say, "What the fuck is that?"  But that's ok.  It's your right.  If I inspire ONE person, then I'm happy.  Just don't send me any hateful emails.  I'll likely get hateful right back.   Or sick Dolores on you.

Enjoy.

And no, I'm not black all of a sudden.  It's a model.  Oh- if you want the pattern and CANNOT wait, just shoot me an email.  I'll send it you ya.

Grammy Square

So my goal was to come up with a really cool stitch pattern to use for this Cashmere/Silk yarn that Wendy gave me on my visit to LA.  It's a really gorgeous yarn, works easily, and from a special person, so I've been saving it for the right pattern.  I'm thinking a scarf.  A real luxurious mama.  But I wanted something unusual.  I thought I would just pull something out of my .....ahem.....but that didn't work too well.  I googled "unusual crochet stitches", "weird crochet stitches", but found nothing.  So I settled on trying this one:

I wanted something to resemble knitted entrelec:

This is a scarf/stole I've been working on for 39 years with Noro (crack).

But the best I've gotten so far is the stitch pattern above.  It reminds me of the Prada hat from a season or two ago, but not quite.  I'm not sure.  So, I have the Grammy Awards to fondle it, stare at it up close:

....and decide.  It's not frosting my cookies or anything, so I smell a rip-out.

Just a couple things I wanna get off my chest:

*Go Hilary '08.

*NBA - get the fuck over yourselves.

*I'm gay, and I'm still going to eat Snickers.

I need a Rock.

I've been bogged down lately.  Sometimes I think motor oil runs through me instead of hemoglobin.  I'm having one of those TRUE crises that seem to make me think I can't do anything, only wish I could.  My problem is, I have SO MANY interests that none of them seem clear enough to pursue.  Is it what makes me "who" I am that will leave a mark?  Is it "what" I am?  Is it what I do?  Is it what I don't do?  It's not a "boo-hoo" kind of feeling, it's more like a deer-in-headlights feeling.  My brain just hums a lot. 

It only takes a second for me to see something to get inspired.  Then I'm off and running.  For a second.  Then I just sigh a lot. You ever have one of those moments where you go, "ohhh my god, I would LOVE to do that!!  So I'm going to look into it!!!  It will change my life!  Finally!  My calling!!"  Only to go home and watch idiocy playing out on TV and eat ice cream?  It's the binding circles of existence.  (I saw that on a subway car)

I'm not one to think I need a change in geography or a new boyfriend to make my life better.  I withdraw.  I go so far inside my head, hoping the further I drill, the more sense things will make.  Lately, I'm finding myself trying to let things just not make sense.  It's so much easier.  It lessens the conflict and dilutes the experience of life a little, but that's not a bad thing.  It's temporary. 

This sounds a little Debbie Downer (SNL), so I'll leave you with a few pictures and an interesting story from my family history.  And it's a TRUE story, believe it or not. 

First the story:

My dad's mom and dad (my paternal grandparents who I never met) were, apparently, really crazy.  Out of respect, (I guess) I won't tell you any graphic details, but rest assured, it wasn't pretty.  His mom, for some reason, thought it would be appropriate to tell him that his dad wasn't really his dad.  Instead, that his REAL dad was Rock Hudson. (lie) I guess my dad believed it for a time, until we received a phone call at our home at 3 or 4 in the morning.  It was Rock.  From what I've been told, the conversation was pretty short, but he called to let my dad know that he had been misinformed.  When I heard this story I had so many questions.  I just couldn't believe that someone like that had called our house in a little 'ole hick town in Indiana.  But he got our number from his agent who had communicated with the mom (liar).  Whew.

Now the pictures:

Another reason I love knitting is having those moments when you just see something in a yarn store or elsewhere that remind you of a fellow knitter. 

This reminds me of Cari's hair.  But really, it's mohair locks.  (Cari, your hair is much softer and smells better)

Then there's Dream Sweater progress:

The lighting makes the color look rather "poop"-y, but this is the back.  It's more intricate than my sister and I originally thought, but there's nothing like boredom-free knitting. 

If I had a cat, I'd never knit.  If she had anything to say about it:

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you need this sweater book?  Oh, don't mind the paper I'm on....it didn't look important.  And the nice blue wool cat bed you were knitting???  Oh.  It's a sweater?  And I hope you don't need to make a phone call, either.  I needed to prop my leg up."

I was cat sitting.  I seem to house/cat/dog sit a LOT.  Her name is Missy (short for Miss Thang)...oh god.  I didn't name her.  And she still has her claws.  Step away from the knitting, Miss Thang. 

Gabbana Dog

Here I am in Battery Park City again, helping a friend post-surgery.  She had a bunionectomy.  Sounds gross and medical, but it's apparently routine.  She just can't be walking around so I'm walking Moose, getting dinner, etc.  I feel like a visiting nurse.  I could do it.  I'd be a good one, too. 

There are many benefits to being here.  First, as I've said before, it makes me feel like I'm in a resort town on vacation.  Complete with a gym.  So, first off, I went to the gym the other day, continuing with my mission of running myself to death.  They have these TV screens in front of every treadmill called "Cardio Theatre".  Cute idea, but I feel like I might become dependent on having entertainment in front of me while I'm running.  So, if you watch the next NYC Marathon on TV or as a spectator on the street, chances are if you see someone with an odd contraption taped to their back that arches around to the front with a TV screen, that would be me.  One of the channels they offer is like New York Sports Club's answer to MTV or VH1 (when they used to be music videos).  I was so pumped.  The Britney Spears video "I'm a Slave..." came on (if you ever thought Britney was sexy, this would be the era when she hit it).  But the video is a sweaty workout to pop music.  With hot shirtless boys.  I'm glad I wasn't wearing headphones, because I could monitor myself, keeping all urges to sing out loud in check.  But a sample would have gone something like, "yeah, Britney, I'm a slave, too, yeah!, Go bitch, sing it, whew!  Yeah!  I'm a slaaaaaaave...*gasp for air* yeah!, go, go, hit it bitch!  Yeah, sexy!..."  And then I would trip on the 9mph treadmill belt and bash my face into the floor.  Then, something horrible happened.  (imagine record player screeching to a halt here...)  Next up -  Jewel's "I was meant for you."  Talk about a buzz kill.

Next, there's Moose.  I don't know how you feel about dressing dogs up in clothes, but hey, it's not my dog, and if the owner is ok with it, it gives me an excuse to knit up something with leftover stash yarn.  I had several skeins of Colinette's Point 5 in "ecru" (I call it white), so I grabbed some fatty needles and whipped it out.  I didn't have enough to make a full human garment and I'm sick of hats and scarves, so a dog sweater was the answer.  I call it the Gabbana Sweater.  It reminds me of the Fall/Winter season from Dolce & Gabbana.  They did all these enormous knits in all white that really made me weak in the knees.  So it's a humble tribute to that. 

Oh, speaking of leftover yarn, it's from the Knitty Gritty episode I just taped.  My FIRST episode I taped (a long time ago) is finally coming up.  The networks were playing around with the episodes and were in the process of showing some on HGTV, which apparently a lot more people get.  So, I'm glad they waited, but my episode...drumroll...is #602 and you can see it on Feb. 2 at 11:00am.  I'll keep you updated on the most recent one. 

Or, you can check here.

Who needs Doctors?

This is a non-knitting post, by the way.  I only say that because I usually try to say SOMETHING fiber-related.  Not this time.  So if you're one of those people that think knitting blogs shouldn't talk about anything else...fuck off.  It's my blog.  hee hee

About oh, I don't know, 8 months ago, I was supposed to begin training for the 2006 New York City Marathon.  It would have been my 3rd marathon.  I've competed in many smaller races; actually won a couple awards for the shorter distances.  So I left my apartment on a normal day, the first of what I thought would be many days of grueling training, eating right, and fancy new shoes.   My friend and I used to call them our fast boy/fast girl shoes.  And she should know. 

I started my stopwatch (yes, I'm a dedicated runner when I actually do it) and began my trek. 

43 seconds later (it stuck in my brain like a tragic event because, well, it was) I felt the pain.  Imagine someone sticking a paring knife just below your gastrocnemius muscle (the bigger of the two calf muscles) and then pulling the knife up toward your hamstring.  I shrieked.  And limped home.  Now, I've had injuries before.  Classical ballet background+running+klutzy=injuries.  But this one seemed different.  But, I remained hopeful that it would just "go away".  Not so.  Dianosis?  Medial Gastrocnemius Tear.

The marathon came and went, and sadly I had to cancel.  But, on the bright side, if you have to cancel for any reason, they guarantee your entry for the next year.  Score.  I stared physical therapy, but my therapist sucked.  Literally.  Not on me or my leg muscle, just didn't really seem all that enthused about my diagnosis, recovery, prognosis or otherwise.  He was one of those who would just point somewhere and go, "so do like, oh, I don't know, 10 or 30 of those and I'll be back in a minute."  Then I would get done and go wandering to look for him.  He was usually eating when I found him. 

I eventually decided to nix the therapy and take charge.  I certainly couldn't do any worse.  So I just didn't do anything out of the ordinary and let my muscle heal.  Enter these:

I haven't felt anything so good on my feet since oh....maybe the ink when they took my footprint when I was born.  I've ran about 12 miles this week so far and NO PAIN.  I'm pretty stoked.  So I'm already looking into my next race.  (only a 5K)

Where'd I get the fast boy shoes?  Here.  They are so great there.  If you live in NY, or hell, if you don't live here, you should visit them.  Foot Lockers are ok for what they are, Shoe Carnival, etc.  But, as a runner, you get tired of walking in those places and hearing, "Yo man, these kicks are tight.  You should check 'em out".   I really doubt any of them even know what an iliotibial band is and what the pain feels like when it's rubbing on your knee, much less how to suggest a shoe to correct the problem.  I DID say I'm the poster boy for injury, yes? 

Anyway, running again feels great.  I'm anxiously awaiting the arrival of my body again once all the injury-period inactivity fatness falls off. 

Happy New Year to you all.  (all 6 of you that read this)  xoxo

Round Two

I couldn't stay away. My spindle is one of those things that just screeches my name after a while if I'm neglectful. Despite "not wanting to spin for a while"....I'm finding it's really not in my control. Just what I need. Another addiction. Aren't REALLY GOOD movies written about this sort of thing???!! (And please don't remind me of that "knitting" movie supposedly coming out with Julia Roberts)

I was in the middle of organizing a bit, re-making friends with the parts of my stash that have been unlucky enough to be smashed into deep, dark holes. When I came across some roving that I had crocheted. Why? How should I know. But, I had one of those moments when you realize that your original plan is now loser to your current genius vision for something. Enter spindle. Someone help.

Ugly yarn

So I'm starting to realize that I grow resentful if something (fiber related) takes too long. Or takes a lot of time. More specifically, if something that I have taken the time to nurture, talk to, and encourage to be lovely when I'm done, ends up spawning thoughts of a bonfire instead of relaxing moments in a favorite chair creating worthy garments. I recently bought some roving at The Yarn Tree in Brooklyn. I was initially attracted to it because it reminded me of a cheetah. But imagine its spots being made by grape juice and bruises. I fell in love. Spotty. Contrasting. Stimulating. So, out came the spindle. I thought, this is the one. This will be the yarn that I can't live without. I'll call the person who dyed it and INSIST on her dying some more. Well, how else would I be able to finish my bruised, grape-juice stained sweater???!!! Dammit!

During the process of plying this "yarn", my hand became something other than a hand. See, either I've yet to figure out the correct way of Andean plying without making your hand turn into a pretzel and lose all circulation and cause boughts of dementia and pacing, or I just had too much going on. I had this moment where I really thought I would have to call 911 and have them hook me up to oxygen on a stretcher while my spindle bounced behind me all the way down Flushing Avenue to the hospital. I'm sure they've seen worse in the ER. I think that's what sparked my "taking too long" tangent. I thought to myself, "I'll never do THAT again". And as you can see, I ended up with little more than a sea of muddied purple. It's somewhere in the neighborhood of 120ish yards, merino, silk, angora. So, yes, it's incredibly soft. But ugly. Now what?

And then there's the nephew blanket. It's done, and since someone in a previous post said they couldn't wait to see the finished product, here it is. (I'm taking a chance that that person actually still reads this blog)

Will my nephew realize one day that this blanket only took 4 months of gestation and an additional 3 months of out-of-the-womb time to finish? Probably not. I'm fast-paced. I'm gratification-driven. I'm do-it-now. See the results. Move on. The days and months it takes for me to see something makes me anxious. Good grief.

So, in keeping with this anxiety-provoking craft of mine, I started this:

It's my sister's "dream sweater". So, that's how I'll refer to it over the coming months. I'm sure it'll be January 2018 when it's done. But, it's what she wanted for her 40th birthday. Which was in September. I'm learning a valuable lesson in all this, though. THERE'S NO NEED FOR PRESSURE-COOKED KNITTING. It's going to get done when it gets done. Pressure cookers make things happen quicker. Under pressure. Can't do it. Not any more. I realized that if I'm going to enjoy knitting/crocheting/spinning for the rest of my life, it can't cause an ulcer. Or six.

I actually had the desire to keep this blanket for myself. Hey, it took ...anyway. I just didn't think it would merge very well with my tastes in furniture, which can be, well.....

Added later:

The pattern (since a couple of you asked) is from Maddy Craft. My sister found it on their website, and it's called "Garden Paths".

Oh- and I really CAN type and use punctuation correctly. I adjusted the above paragraphs to reflect this. Egads.

I could SWEAR I'm forgetting something..

Oh yeah.  I forgot to get a picture of me and him TOGETHER.  Ugh. 

I'm back from the West.  And what a west.  Do you ever have so much anxiety about something that it literally consumes you?  I don't hide my emotions really well.  Actually, I broadcast them.  So, if I'm nervous, pissed, excited, whateverthefuck, people know it.  This might have something to do with the fact that I got all wrapped up in whateverthefuck was happening and forgot to snap my camera in Franklin's direction.  (sorry, Franklin)...

Onward, the Knitty Gritty thing went well, as usual; they're a very prepared and seasoned bunch.  Lorelei Plotczyk, my producer, was swell.  Swell?  Good grief. 

So all the pictures I DID happen to get were post-taping.  After my bowels (TMI) and my nerves had resumed to normal activity levels.  I felt like I had a lot more at stake this time around with the show.  The last season was like, well, "hey - this will be fun."  This season was like, well, "ummm...well, I THINK I can do this again".  It's a confidence thing.  But I had a great rental car, an awesome apartment my friend lent me the whole time I was there, and an Italian restaurant that made me all warm and fuzzy.  And I can now say something I have never dreamed of saying, but it's pretty cool nonetheless.  I HAVE OFFICIALLY DRIVEN IN LOS ANGELES TRAFFIC.  It's pretty legendary.  What they say is true.  All of it.  We didn't run into any major battles, partly because our timing was impeccable and Franklin was my personal directions bitch. 

Thanks go to Wendy for just being Wendy and the awesome time we had on the beach.

And the Vickie Howell moments (there are always many) - one of them being outside the set doors on the lot.  Cutie, she is.

After my segment was taped, I felt a nice breeze flow through me, but it took a little while to reach all my inner islands.  Once relaxed, Franklin and I took Easy Street over to Breath Easy Avenue and hung a right on Eat A Good Dinner Lane.

But almost THE highlight of my time in LA?  (besides all the aforementioned stuff)

While we were sipping our lemonade and eating the peanuts that Wendy had shoveled from the vat of never-ending protein, this seagull came up to a table next to us that had recently been vacated, but, lucky for the seagull, had plenty of condiments leftover.  Another slew of birds tried to make their way in and steal his meal.  The seagull politely did what you see in this amazing shot and moved to another table.  I guess seagulls LOVE their tartar sauce.