Black Holes and Other Inanity
This is one frightening outcome when bad things happen to good knitters. I have no explanation or excuse for these, other than I made them awhile ago, and I haven't touched fun fur since. And they really do keep my neck warm, even as they assure that no one I know will walk with me. (No, I do not wear them simultaneously....although, the fact that I made and wear them at all is good enough reason to question my judgement on such things.)
In other news, I have encountered the black hole of knitting. I know about it. I think I’m prepared for it. But then….THE SLEEVE (insert ominous music of your choice here). I love how this picture:
…makes it look like the sleeve is really long and, truthfully, it even seems really long in person, but it’s still about three inches shy of the shaping that will make the miles and miles and miles of stockinette at least slightly more interesting so that I feel less like having a car driven over my foot, just for a change of scenery. And I’m not fooled. I know that those three inches have the ability to morph into 30 while lying there looking perfectly innocent. What’s worse, the second sleeve is looming painfully ahead of me. I sometimes wonder why I don’t just make vests. I mean, besides the fact that I practically never wear them.
In a shameless attempt to distract you from this appalling lack of sleevage, I offer this sweater:
…knitted by moi a couple of years ago while working at the cancer institute by day and attending school to become a medical assistant by night. My job involved sitting in a tiny, windowless room and answering the phone all day. They didn’t care what I did while I answered the phones, so I got quite a bit of knitting done. I still love this sweater, although it’s unfortunate that I made it before carryfairie kindly taught me the way of quality fibers (both my stash and my bank account offer their thanks…..). It’s acrylic, and I’m quite tempted to make it again in something nicer. Even though it stubbornly insists on having sleeves.
It’s been a quiet day here at Insanity Manor (which title seems to fit no matter what’s going on). Momma Knitingale (which suits her, as my mother did used to be a nurse) received her cashmere sweater and called me to say that she loved it. She says everyone compliments her on it, and then asks if she taught me how to knit. She’s still laughing about that one. Momma Knitingale used to crochet beautifully, but she and knitting needles do not get along well at all. I know, right? I don’t get it either. It had something to do with a perfectly dreadful sweater pattern that involved making and assembling four garter stitch squares knitted on huge needles into a garment with a deep v front and back and ¾ length sleeves. Proof if ever you needed it that people should learn to knit on something they’d actually want to have/wear/use. (I’m cracking myself up, here—I kept mistyping the word “wear” as “swear”, which is about right because that sweater certainly induced a fair amount of swearing in Momma Knitingale. I was 16…and I still remember. Which makes me think it might be just as well that she and the pointy sticks didn’t really spark, you know?)
Mr. K decided to work on the bathroom today, which meant conversations like this:
Me: (innocently) “Hey, Sweetie. I’m about to go put some laundry in, make the bed, sweep, vacuum, and clean the other bathroom and the kitchen. What are you up to?”
Mr. K: “Oh, I thought I’d have you help me clean the paint drywall spatters off of the bathroom floor so I can put the caulk down.”
Me: “?” (‘cause, see, I thought I already WAS helping….I mean, with the laundry and stuff….but I’m a good sport and all so…) “okay…..but I don’t see anything to clean up.”
Mr. K: “ There’s still a couple of spatters behind where the toilet will go.”
Me: “But….if it’s behind the toilet…..it won’t show, will it?”
Mr. K: “It might.”
Me: (resignedly) “Okay (scraping away at nearly invisible spot on floor waaaay behind where toilet will be and nearly needing a microscope to see it). By the way, while I’m down here, there’s still a hole in the baseboard that needs to be patched.”
Mr. K: (astoundingly enough) “Oh, that’s behind the toilet. It won’t show.”
Mr. K: “What’s wrong, Honey? Is something wrong?”
No jury in the land would convict me. Not if there was even one woman on it.
And finally, a few observations for the day:
I just saw a news headline that read “Do you cry on the way to work? You may want to think about changing jobs.” (What would we do without the crack team of journalists to help us resolve these crises? I can already see tomorrow’s story—“Are you bleeding uncontrollably from a laceration? You may want to think about seeing a doctor”.)
A friend sent me a note with some actual warnings seen on consumer products, including this one on a Swedish chainsaw: "Do not attempt to stop chain with your hands or genitals." I lie awake nights trying to imagine what prompted this.
A woman in Poland has been arrested for growing marijuana to feed to her cow….which makes me wonder a great deal about the milk out of that cow (who has apparently been much calmer since the owner started doing this). I’ve heard of “special brownies”, but I’m thinking milk and cookies would have a whole new meaning at this woman’s house.
And lastly, I’ve been following with interest the story about e coli spreading through the consumption of fresh, bagged spinach. Which was a horrible thing and I absolutely know that and I'm not trying to belittle it in any way…but I have to point this out: there’s never been a spread of e coli from bags of chocolate kisses. Not ever. I’m just sayin’.