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So...this is still here. I'll admit, I'm a bit shocked. My last post was years ago, and I don't even know why I stopped posting. I'm trying to remember, and all I can think is that I started to get anxious when I would start to type in the link, and I had it in my bookmarks and sometimes I'd click it accidentally, and then I'd panic and close the browser. But why? I have no idea.

Several times through the last two years I tried to log in, and it wouldn't let me. The email to re-set the password had been hacked so many times, Hotmail wouldn't let me have it anymore (oh, Hotmail), and the standard username/password combo wouldn't work. Why it works now....I have no idea.



Things have happened. I won't try to catch you up; there is too much.

I'm here, though.



How To Eat A Sandwich

This quick tutorial is based on the example of the Podling, who, despite how it is presented to him, will invariably approach it in the following manner.

1. Accept sandwich with a polite "thank you." Staying on good terms with the food-givers will get you more sandwiches in the future, or at the very least implied permission to consume others' food as well as your own.

2. Ascertain that it is, in fact, peanut butter and some sort of fruity jam, then pull the pieces apart and lay them gooey-side-up on an appropriate surface. Choose something near to your height, as you will be bending frequently and a strained back will interfere with your next sandwich.

3. Verify its contents by dragging one or more fingers through the goo and tasting it. Do not lick all the remains off your fingers; this is what your pajamas are for. Use them. If you have accidentally dropped one or both pieces the wrong way down, correct them and sample what's on the table with all your fingers at once. This will be useful later on.

4. Eat the peanut butter and jam before the bread. This is very important. If you manage to eat the contents out first, you might get your food-giver to put more on the existing bread. Also, it tastes better. Place both hands on the table and bend until you are comfortable. You will be spending a lot of time in this position. Alternatively, pick up the bread and smash the peanut butter side into your mouth, scraping it off with your teeth. It isn't as proper, but in a pinch will work.

5. Decorate the table with what is left. Everyone appreciates art. Be daring. This is your only chance to express yourself in peanut butter. Your food-giver will find it adorable and give you a treat. Probably.

6. Be ready to run. Eventually your food-giver will realize that your pajamas, face and hands are beautiful, and try to ruin it with a wet cloth. Run like hell. The wet cloth steals pieces of your soul every second it is on your face.

7. Ask for another sandwich. Obviously.

Just a few things:

- You're all following the reviews for Laurenn J. Framingham’s Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter: The Laughing Corpse: Book 2: Necromancer over at Chris's Invincible Super-Blog, right? If you're not, and you've been mocking Twatlight and LKH and all its facepalming inspiration, you really need to check this out. Link is to the latest annotated review.

- Bakerella does a lot of cute, labor- and time-intensive novelty desserts on a regular basis. Cake pops dipped in candy and decorated with individual sprinkles to look like sheep, or chicks, or apples, or cupcakes. Fruit pies on a stick. Cupcakes that look like hamburgers paired with sugar cookie french fries. Ridiculous. Adorable. Waaaaaay more time and effort than I want to put into something so full of sugar that one taste will drop me like a rock, especially when none of my friends have enough of a sweet tooth to help me eat them.

And then, there is this. Pumpkin pie bites. INORITE? Could they be any more adorable? Any more delicious? Any more the epitome of all that is good and right with autumn? Oh, oh, oh, and then she goes and pipes wee jack o'lantern faces on them with chocolate? More than this mere mortal can bear. I want to make them sooooooo badly that I cannot even put it into words. Okay, okay, they're not vegan. They're...uh...not even close to vegan. BUT, I have evaporated milk and canned pumpkin already on hand. Seriously, real-life friends of mine, can we have another occasion to celebrate so I can make these and bring them? Please? PLEEEEEAAASE?

- It is delightfully windy, sunny and chilly this morning. We've been outside twice already, and the Podling is clamoring to go back outside again. He says 'outside' like this: "zah-sigh!" It's cute. We're working on words, but he is only really interested in 'outside,' 'thank you,' 'bye-bye', and 'night-night.' Although, on Saturday he said something that sounded a lot like 'pancake.' ....we WERE having pancakes.

Wool Gathering 2009

I had no idea I would be going to the Wool Gathering in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I assumed I was just out of luck for several reasons; firstly the lack of money, secondly that I had no one to go with, and thirdly that we had a full weekend. Happily, that changed quite unexpectedly on Saturday.

Saturday was the wedding of some good people, friends of Nyte's that I'm not as familiar with as I'd like, and though we couldn't stay very long we had a good time. Both Meg and Brian looked lovely and happy, and it was a very small wedding. It started at a little Episcopalian church with very pretty wood pews and floors, which happen to thunder loudly when large, toddler-proof dice hit them. (Ask me how I know. Do not ask why I thought it would be disrespectful to bring in small Yo Gabba Gabba plushies, but gambling paraphernalia was ok.) (Also, who knew there were two R's in paraphernalia?) The Podling managed to be pretty good, although he made happy kid noises during the ceremony, but at least he didn't throw a fit. He found a pencil and registration card and eventually went to town on that during all the rising, praying, vowing, sitting, rising, praying, sitting, and praying. The Podling entertained many and ate lots of hors d'ouevres of the raw veggie variety during the pictures while the rest of us milled about and mingled awkwardly with some Sprite and oj punch in highball glasses.

During dinner, he amused the rest of the table by repeating things in baby-talk, feeding us with his fork, and trying to steal our dinner rolls despite the fact that he had not yet finished his own. Our attempts to distract him with Lego cars, Hot Wheels, rubber fire engines, and plushies was unsuccessful; he needed to run free. When the music came on he danced, and so did a number of other people. Many of the younger folks there were talented in improv, and more than one dance-fight broke out, West-Side-Story-style, from the snap-stepping to the sliding across the dance floor on one's knees. It was very entertaining, but it freaked the norms a bit and meant the dance floor then went empty for a while. Once they cut the cake, the Podling circled the cake table like a shark, a crafty smile of Grinchian proportions on his face. Once he had cake in his sights, he could not be dissuaded by any means. I suspect he got that from me...

That evening, I got a follow-up call from one of Nyte's friends, M (clever pseudonym to come at some later date), who wanted to know if I wanted to go to the Wool Gathering. We made plans to meet up on Sunday, which happened to be the day Nyte was gallivanting down to Cincy to meet up with an old friend and talk PHP and all manner of geekery.

Sunday dawned gray and damp, and far too early. I managed to roll out of bed and de-gunk the mascara from my eyes, but slept so poorly last night that I was only able to get downstairs, not actually make it into the kitchen and heat up water for coffee. Nyte found me in my vegetative state on the couch and promptly rectified the situation, bless him, then took off to Cincy. M picked up myself and the wee one at noon and we headed off to Yellow Springs.

M and I don't hang out together, but not because we don't want to. We share a lot of interests, but did not know until fairly recently that we both knit. She works second-shift and I have a toddler, so weekends are really the only available time to hang out, and we all know how quickly those fill up. We had a grand old time at the Wool Gathering, which was held at Young's Jersey Dairy Farm. (What a time to be vegan.) The Podling ran around on the monkey-leash, trying to run free, or sat in the stroller trying to run free. We saw and petted many goats, sheep, bunnies, some calves, and an alpaca, and learned that everyone does, in fact, poo. (This was not demonstrated by the people there, but I figure we ourselves are proof enough of that.) I saw many, many, many things I liked, many wheels that I wanted but could not possibly afford, and even many spindles that I couldn't afford.

I ended up buying eleven ounces of some gorgeous heathered gray (natural, not dyed) alpaca roving and a Babe spindle, since it was a dowel rod, a hook and some plastic disks. I just needed it to be a good bit lighter than the hefty (but pretty) wooden one I have, and more functional than the cracked cd one I was given by my great-aunt. The ones I really wanted (for both aesthetics and weight) were made of fancy schmancy woods that made them cost more than my entire budget for the day, so those were out. I suspect that a Babe Production or Pinkie may turn out to be my first spinning wheel, but today is not that day. (They have electric ones too, did you know? For someone with occasional arthritis flare-ups, this is a lovely idea for a second wheel.)

M bought quite a few things as well, including a nice angora sampler and some other things that I feel sure are for other people for the holidays. She and the Podling got along just dandy, too, which is always a plus. I had a good time, I think M had a good time, and the Podling trooped along like he normally does. I'm hoping he'll sleep hard tonight, and sleep in tomorrow.

I also had a chance to discuss something interesting with someone, and perhaps something interesting will come of it. I'm not sure yet, but if and when anything comes of it, I'll be sure to let you folks know. I'm hopeful that it will be interesting to more than just one or two of you.

Nobody's gonna take my car

(On a lighter note)

I've been learning drums on Rock Band the last couple of days. Normally drums are the Podling's preferred instrument, but drummers are always the shortage when we're playing at friends' houses, and anyway I like to know how to do everything. Always. It's cool though; I set up the drums and whack the heck out of them, and the Podling french-kisses the unplugged microphone and tries to sneak my laptop off somewhere I can't see him and bang on the keyboard. We don't have any downloaded material (and it's Rock Band 1), but I'm halfway through medium and am starting to really get the hang of this, as well as starting to be really challenged. One day I will drum some crazy-ass The Who or Metallica and boys will swoon at my feet. (Because that is totally the key to a geekboy's heart.) (???)

Now I am drumming on things with my hands. To everyone in Caribou Coffee, at the grocery store, my family and friends...I'm so sorry.


I've been pretty quiet over here, for a long time. While I enjoyed sharing the Lovecraft, it was just a stalling tactic, and it didn't really sit well with me. Despite my efforts to make it clear that the story I was posting was not, in fact, at all mine in any way, shape or form, I still felt like I was stealing it from Lovecraft. I would feel the same way about Shakespeare, or Austen, or any other words that weren't composed by me. Maybe I'm being hypersensitive, but this is my blog and it's my prerogative to be hypersensitive about things pertaining to copyright, the written word, and other authors. It feels like bad form to reproduce works that aren't mine, even if the authors in question have shuffled off this mortal coil years and years ago. Perhaps the angst is of my own devising. Maybe I am so full of longing to have my own name in print, to have something enviable of my own blood, sweat and tears, that I'm projecting anguish onto the authors in question, were they still living. Point is, it doesn't sit well with me, so I'm choosing to stop. I can't move forward if I'm doing something I don't agree with, so...first step.

Much of the reason I've been quiet is simply because I can't stop bitching. Whenever someone asks me how I am, I either have to respond with the obligatory "fine" or "things are rough." Of course they're fucking rough; everybody is going through one thing or another, be it financial, familial, life planning, etc....if life was ever quiet and happy, most of us would be bored to tears. I think I've discovered that I'm one of those people. Maybe it's the Gemini in me, always of two minds about everything (annoying even to myself, let me assure you), or maybe I was just born inherently contrary, but when things are bad I wallow in it, and when things are good, I wallow in myself.

Those of you who do not have that artistic spirit (mental problems?) may have a hard time understanding what I'm talking about, but it seems to go deeper than a general malaise brought on by a lack of animal proteins or shopping at the dollar store. I know I've spoken of the feeling that I'm destined for something enormous and important, and if that isn't a big ol' slice of ego pie then I don't know what is. Maybe that sense is what urges me to write things down. Maybe it's what keeps me imagining stories of seemingly insurmountable odds. Maybe it's what allows me to briefly appreciate the things I have, like the simple pleasures of a clean, sleepy baby in my arms and a hot cup of coffee. I've struggled with it for years, I've lived in fear of its significance (and then its completely lack of significance), and now...now I don't know. I think I'd like to use it, now. I think I'd like to tame it just enough to tap into its power, without bringing it completely under my control and breaking it.

I'm getting abstract here, and I apologize. The new moon always seems to find me in a philosophical state of mind, and I'm so rusty at expressing myself that I'm having more difficulty than usual in organizing my thoughts into coherence.

I'd like to say that I've found the key to turning my life around, but that would be hyperbolic and patently untrue. I'd be nice, but untrue. I'm closer. I'm not there yet, and there will be setbacks, but I feel like I'm willing now to stop running as a knee-jerk reaction. It doesn't get you anything but exhausted, and if I keep mentally running from myself like this, I'm going to lose things I care about. Things I'm not willing to lose.

So. What does all this mean? More mindfulness, for one. Breaking habits, certainly, especially habits rooted in escaping the present because I'm so worried about the future. I'm bound and fucking determined to finish the first draft of this book, and then finish the one next in line. I don't care if it never sells. I don't care if it sits in a drawer for ten years and I never look at it again; I have to finish it. I have to prove to myself that I can finish a book, any book, and I'm not going to believe that I can until I actually do it. Until then, calling myself a writer or an author is going to sound hollow and pretentious, and I'll never escape the shame of just playing pretend when other people are out in the world doing the things they say they are.

That said, I'm still doing NaNo. I had a huge breakthrough the first year I managed to win, and the second year was a struggle (I've won two of either five or six attempts, I really can't remember), but I crossed the finish line early, and I recall wondering why the hell I didn't just do something a little less intense every day.

What brought this on? I'm starting to have anxiety attacks when I sit down to write. This is not acceptable. I can't afford for anxiety to get enough of a toehold back in my life to start significantly altering my behavior again, I just can't. I don't deserve it, and neither do Nyte and the Podling.

Maybe my life needs to be more difficult. Maybe it's too easy, and I'm skating by on a wing and a prayer because I can. I know there's a core of strength inside me, and it's fierce and scorching and a force to be reckoned with, but I guess my life has been too decent and good for me to need it. Maybe I never had a good enough reason before. Maybe I was coddled and cared for and never had to stand up for myself, so I never saw it except in brief flares of rage. Or maybe I just wasn't ready.


Project DBAD, or "Don't Be A Dick." Fantastic idea.
(from buhfly )


My landlords are an older couple. They like to do things the way they've always done them, they have their ideas about the way things work, in the world and in general, and are constantly remarking about how "things these days are so different" as if it's the beginning of the end. This is not necessarily an uncommon attitude for people who grew up in an insulated environment/community, and never bothered or desired to expand their frame of reference by meeting people from different backgrounds, ethnicities, or cultures. Maybe they never had the opportunity to travel, but Columbus is a pretty diverse city these days. It's difficult to go anywhere and not have the chance to interact and make friends with a lot of different people.

About two months ago, my neighbor bought a house and moved out. The other side of the duplex has been empty since then, despite both our and Monaneron's attempts to find friends or at least acquaintances to fill up the other side. When it looked like we were out of options, my landlords finally put up a "for rent" sign that they seem to have made out of marker and construction paper wrapped around an old frame for a political candidate yard sign. Very professional, you see. The construction paper is yellow, after all.

It's not that they haven't gotten calls. No, they've had quite a lot of inquiries. It seems, though, that my landlords have a specific type of tenant in mind. No more than two, either a hetero couple or two straight girls, non-smokers, quiet, no animals preferable, and above all, white. Everyone who doesn't fit that description, or who has an accent, or who is in a hurry to get a place to live, is told that the apartment has already been rented. It's ridiculous, but the landlords defend their blatant racism by saying that "them Mexicans, Indians and Orientals" will pack three or four families into the unit and their water bill, which is paid by the landlords, will skyrocket, and the house will be trashed. They don't want two men living there because "men don't clean and I don't want to have to spend two weeks cleaning up when they leave." Anyone in a hurry for an apartment is automatically suspect, because they assume they're getting evicted or skipping out on their current apartment. This would quickly be cleared up if my landlords would run a background check, but they don't want to "go to all that trouble." They want to get some references, call them, and have that be that, because that's the way they've always done it. They tell us about every caller, because they are trying to be considerate and make sure that we're comfortable with the new tenants, since we're sharing a wall and a yard and a porch.

And then, to top it all off, they complain about not having anyone in that unit. *facepalm*

Since they started turning people away (illegally, I might add), the list of bad things happening to them has just gotten longer and longer. So far, the lady has lost her job of 20 years and is practically un-hire-able because of her age, her inability to use the computer, and her attitude. Shortly after this, she had a bad fall, their well pump's motor burned out, the man had a "heart episode" that landed him in the hospital overnight, they had to give back the car they bought a week before her layoff, a miscommunication resulted in getting the gas turned off, they had to pay for our shower to be re-tiled to try to fix a leak, they'll have to pay to repair the wall over the kitchen sink, and now the breaker box downstairs really needs to be replaced.

I'm having trouble feeling sorry for them.

Today, the lady showed the unit to a biracial couple. Before she left, with the couple still standing outside talking to her sister-in-law who's visiting for the week, she came inside to ask me if I was okay with the possibility of a black man living next door. She kept apologizing that she was even considering it, even after I said I have no problem with anybody based on their skin color, and that the references were a far more important criteria to determine the sort of renter either one of them will be. She continued to apologize, saying that they really needed someone in the unit, and that some people in the neighborhood will object, and that they've never rented to A Black before. I admit, I may have lost my composure a little bit. I may have said that these (probably imaginary) complaining neighbors had better get with the times and learn to deal with it, and that it's none of their business if someone of color moves into the neighborhood, and if they want to stay in an all-white neighborhood I can recommend a very clanny neighborhood in Mooresville, Indiana. That's when she apologized again for having to bother me for the key, thanked me for unlocking the back screen door, and went on her way.

I just feel sick. Where is the line, legally speaking? What does someone do when they suspect someone's crossed it, but is not the offended party and they have no proof? Scolding them is not going to do any good, and I don't even want to entertain the idea that they could get mad at me and make our lives miserable, because I don't think that's the sort of people they are, but if I think about it too much I'll get freaked out and psych myself out and that's just not good.

Guh. Why do people have to suck?


I took advantage of an evening "off" to finish typing up The Dreams In The Witch-House. Now if the book wanders off again, I don't have to wait around to find it before y'all can finish the story. So, want me to do another one? Not necessarily Lovecraft; we could take a little break and do some Shakespeare instead. Have a suggestion? I'll consider anything that's public domain.

In the meantime, I'm chilling with the Ghost Hunters (GHI at the moment) and enjoying the relative quiet. Nyte took the Podling over to some friends' house, but I was feeling cranky and opted to stay home by myself and do some decompressing. And some housework (ok, a LOT of housework), it turns out, but better during alone time than with a whiny kiddo hanging on the baby gates loudly protesting the fact that I'm not in the same room with him (or perhaps, that he's not allowed in that room with me).

Laundry is going, dishes need to be finished up, and if I was really ambitious I'd bake some zucchini bread or cake, but not only does ironing take priority over baked goods, in all fairness, Nyte did just bake up some banana muffins before he left. I'm not doing all the ironing tonight, but I'll do two pairs of pants and perhaps shirts as well, to last him out the week. I haven't ironed a damned thing in well over a week or more, and while part of me feels a little guilty, the other part of me is wondering why he can't do it his own damn self. I'm starting to forget what it's like to work in a crazy-fast-paced office and hardly have a chance to catch your breath all day, and to then come home to more demands. It's hard to keep things in perspective, and I'm trying to not let myself assume that I've had the hard part of this bargain and wallow in self-pity, especially when I'm the one who has the option of napping during the day.

On the knitting front, I would LIKE to be starting up the Shipwreck Shawl from Knitty.com along with at least one person on Plurk, but I simply MUST finish the Pinwheel blanket first.

I found some off-white acrylic yarn (Wintuk, it turns out...must have inherited it from somebody) and started a pretty, wide, pointy lace border from Knitting Beyond The Edge, and I liked it. A lot. I liked it so much, in fact, that even though that little voice of reason and skepticism was whispering in my ear that it was too wide, taking too long, and I would run out of yarn, I argued with it. I told that little voice that, well, wasn't it a huge blanket? A skinny, flimsy border would look like an afterthought, not an accent. Don't I need something to balance out the body of the blanket? If I'm going to be spending all this time knitting it, I don't want the finishing touch to look unworthy of the time I'm putting into it. Besides, a thirty-stitch-wide border can't take THAT much longer than the runner-up, a thirteen-stitch border with a bit of a ruffle, can it? Surely not.

So, I knitted through four repeats of the big border, getting more and more proud of it as I went. I showed it to Nyte, and he made A Face. It was the face my little voice was making. I believe his words were, "Are you going to have enough yarn for that? Don't you think it's kind of...big?"

WHAT?! Who is the knitter here? Do you make things for babies? What do you say every time I ask your opinion on fashion, knitting, or almost anything creative? What was that? "I don't know about these things"? Was that it? Yes, it was. So shut your face, silly man, because you DON'T know anything about design for baby blankets. Humph.

As I knitted the next repeat, the little voice tried in vain to reason with me. It said, Okay, okay, maybe it's not too big. But look at your skein; it's at least a third gone, and you're only four and a half repeats into this thing. Maybe you should take some measurements...maybe see how many repeats you'll have to do to encircle the blanket? Maybe?

I did look at the yarn, and it did seem to be...well, diminishing at an alarming rate. I had three skeins, and I could probably fake it with at least one or two more, sort of, but I needed to compare the colors to be certain. And, I began to reflect, it had taken me a full evening of knitting just to do those four repeats, more or less. I had the pattern memorized after the first repeat, it was so intuitive, so I couldn't even pretend that it would go faster once I wasn't consulting the pattern every row.

Perhaps because I was keeping the incomplete blanket upstairs where neither cats nor kid could reach it, I admitted that maybe I needed to refresh my memory about just how big it was. It was reasonable to measure it, right? Responsible, organized knitters make educated guesses when they don't have an unlimited supply of a specific yarn, and the better ones measure even if they DO have an unlimited supply. And how would I feel if I used up all my off-white yarn, even the "spare" skeins I couldn't actually find but had somehow decided were a possible substitute, and I was still short? What if I was short by like, two feet? Do they even make Wintuk anymore (because the skein I have is at least 20 or more years old)? If they did, how long would I have to wait to scrape together enough money to buy another skein or two?

Reluctantly, I decided that in this case, perhaps I had better move up a step from just eyeballing guesses over to actually measuring and doing actual math and getting an actual, relatively factual, prediction.

As it turns out, I didn't even have to get out the measuring tape. I laid the edging against the blanket, spread it out on my king-sized bed, and looked at it. And I also might have sworn a good bit. Definitely not going to make it, not by any stretch of the imagination, on three skeins and in less than three more weeks of knitting, if I knitted on it for several hours a day. And then I swore some more. There may have been wailing and gnashing of teeth.

I haven't ripped out that edging yet. I've started on the runner-up pattern from the same book, on a different skein of the Wintuk, and it is also an easy pattern to memorize and I've had no trouble with it. I took the book and supplies with me to my family reunion, and now I have a good bit of edging done. I'm almost afraid to measure it against the blanket, in case I find the length of edging I've done is not the 1/4th I'm hoping it is, but more like 1/10th. According to my calculations, the circumference is somewhere over 12 feet. That's a lot of edging, but it's do-able. I can hack it.

I just don't know if I can keep myself from casting on for Shipwreck; I already have beads picked out and everything. Man, do I want to do this thing...and if I'm going to keep up, I need to get started pronto!

Edit: I am AWESOME at forgetting my html. Wow.

Yes, you can have too much

I'm working on yet another Pinwheel baby blanket for a friend's first baby. Because Monaneron got rid of a ton of her yarn (everything with wool in it, as half of her family is allergic, as well as a bunch of misc. acrylics and cottons that she didn't really have a purpose for), I've had quite a time trying to figure out what to do with it. I chose a multicolored pastel rainbow variegated acrylic, Lion Brand's Jiffy (which has a bit of mohair-like halo) in Salem. Because I received the yarn in a big black trash bag, I fished out as many as I could find, which at the time was four. Perfectly reasonable for a baby blanket.

Like all circular blankets worked from the inside out, it goes fast for the first two and a half skeins. After that, your rows are getting stupid-long and it begins to just get ridiculous. Pretty soon you can't wait to just finish the damn thing, no matter how big it's supposed to be or how much yarn you have left. In fact, I submit to you that the more yarn you knit up in a big project, the more you tend to hate it. At least, I do. I'm impatient, and I want it to be done RIGHT NOW, especially when there's a deadline. If it's for someone else (which it almost always is), I just want it to be done so I can work on something else. If I work on something else, there's a risk that I'll get distracted and not want to finish the first project. I'm sure you're familiar with this phenomenon. It's annoying. It really screws with your productivity.

At any rate, I've been chugging along on this blanket for a while now. It helps that I'm using new stitch markers, pretty silver ones with shiny pink and clear beads (purple for the start-of-row marker) delineating the sections where I need to yarn over. I found three more balls of yarn in the bag, bringing the grand total to 7. Each ball is supposed to be 105 yards, so that's a substantial amount of yarn. I'm also using my Knitpicks' nickel-plated interchangeable circulars, but the glue holding the flexible plastic cables to the sockets is disintegrating and so I can't pull too hard when I shift the stitches around. The cable is also now jam-packed with stitches, and when I'm finally done with this it's going to be quite a good size.

Sunday, I worked on it as much as I possible could, as I was finally on the last ball of yarn. I had decided to knit a lacy edging in a different, smoother yarn that would complement the palette (which is heavy on the pink and purple) but still show the lace pattern. Not something difficult, just a nice little touch. I picked out an edging from Nicky Epstein's Knitting Beyond the Edge and planned to go through my now enormous stash of acrylic yarn for a suitable edger today. There was a lot of new stuff that I had only pawed through a bit, and needed a lot more scrutiny and perhaps even more organization.

Today, Monday, I pulled out the various bags and boxes of assorted and intermingled yarns, tossing them into piles on the bed, piles that would indicate suitability. I emptied out all the wool, found stashes of cotton I had forgotten about, and all my leftover sock yarn. And then I sorted through the big black trash bag, all the way to the bottom.

And there at the bottom, hiding underneath several partial skeins of Caron Simply Soft Brites, was another goddamn skein of the fucking Lion Brand Jiffy in Salem.



night sky lady
Defying Gravity

Current Projects

+ Good Morning Teapot Cozy
+ Northern Lights socks (reknit)

+ The Tower at Stony Wood
+ The End of Illness

Latest Month

July 2012



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