Life's a Stitch

My traveling companions and I can now look a pig in the eye, secretly sharing the knowledge of its greatest pleasures. Having spent two weeks at a traditional European health spa, as opposed to a beauty spa, we ere exposed to all manner of piggy pleasures – mainly mud and copious amounts of food.

Let me clarify the difference between a health and beauty spa. I see the latter as a place to relax with the end result of nice nails, glowing skin, well conditioned hair and maybe the loss of a pound or two. The Thermia Spa was a place to relax and hammer out the aches and pains of life through a variety of treatments including massages, laser and ultrasound therapy, therapeutic baths along with some unconventional ones like parafango (paraffin and mud) compresses and carbon insulflation (injections of carbon dioxide directly into your sore parts). The food was deliciously rich. But I save the best for last – the mud pack.

First, a warning, if you plan an visiting a European health spa, leave your modesty at home. The therapeutic baths are communal, but if you read the signs correctly, there are separate facilities for men and women. There’s a story there I’ll write about later. I arrived in Piestany after 17 hours of travel, just in time for dinner. E and L warned me that I’d frequently be hearing the words "take down your clothing." Later that night E told me she had written in her journal that she was a bit anxious about the possibility of  hanging out naked with me or L. Well, wouldn’t you you it, my first treatment was in the baths with her.

Back to the mud packs. Ladies, this is the the most comforting experience I’ve ever had. You know how you wake up in the morning, all stiff and achy, and have to drag yourself out of your nice warm bed, into the cold and wet (I’m a Pac NW’er) cruel world to get dressed and off to work? At the spa you roll out of bed, don your fluffy robe, which spent the night hanging on a warmer, and walk to the Napoleon Complex (the group of buildings, pictured, not a psychological disorder) for your mudpack.

You are given a private dressing room, consisting of a small bed with white sheets and blanket,and a hook for your robe. You lose the robe and wait for the sound of the cart rolling down the tiled hallway. It holds two ten gallon tubs of steamy silky sulpher laden mud. The attendant leads you to the mud pack area with another small bed, this time with brown sheets. She glops the hot mud onto the bed and helps you lie on top of it. They use the rest on your joints – elbows, knees, hands, knees and feet. They wrap you up in sheets and a heavy horsehair blanket, tuck you in with a coil heater, turn down the lights and let your achy body absorb the curative goodness of hot mud. They come by every five minutes or so to wipe your sweaty face – absolute luxury.

After about 15 minutes you take a hot shower followed by a cool one. You are then wrapped in a warm sheet and led back to your dressing room where they roll you up in another blanket so you can "recover" from the experience pretending you are a soft burrito. Once again the lights get turned off and you are told to "schlopp gut," that would be "sleep well." This is a painting from the 1800’s of their version of the experience. Can you not see the pleasure written all over her face? If pigs could talk…

Yesterday, it was time to put on our ruby slippers and return to our respective Kansases. Is that how you say Kansas in plural? How about Kansai, that’s the name of a local sushi place here in North Vancouver. Cousin Lene is back in Denmark, SIL Ellen in Minnesota, and after three flights and 15 hours of flying I’m back home.

We’ve left our Slovakian Oz of three white tableclothed meals per day, a minimum of four daily spa services, and a fancy shmancy newly renovated palace of a hotel with helpful and friendly staff. You could never hope to do this in North America without winning the lottery. In Piestany, Slovakia, it’s $81 Euro per night for everything, based on a double during the winter season. You can stay in other decent hotels/inns with the same services for under 60. A private room is not that much more. I haven’t been home for a day and I’m figuring out how to save for the next time.

We met many people who had been there on a repetitive basis over many years. One man from Italy  had visited 120 times in 20 years. We each had our reason for wanting this trip, the aches and pains of aging, relief from injuries or chronic illness and escape from years of career challenges. We met two beautiful ladies in their early 80’s pictured on the right – Lola and Sally, from New York – who had been there at least yearly for 35 years. They had by far the most compelling reason for seeking comfort from reality, being concentration camp survivors, having lost siblings and parents. They were so positive, of course not dwelling on that horrible part of their history, crediting their trips for making them better women and wives. I told them I’d be sure to let my husband know that.

It’s catch up time, that’s the price you pay for two weeks of high quality rest. I’ll  be writing lots more about the experience, but wanted to let you know I’m back in blogland, still high on luxury and the opportunity to spend time with two special in-laws. I realized that those two represent the best parts of my husband in the form of a woman. What a wonderful combination. Here we are, Ellen, Lene and me.

In case you were wondering, there was knitting content on this trip. Maybe we visited a country with a profound  lack of yarn shops, but I was prepared for serious knitting work, packing along my blocking pins. Here is my Lead or Follow scarf blocking in Slovakia!

Well, I’m off to a spa in Slovakia, a dream that my SIL and I have shared for many years. Three Boesen women, two related by blood, one adopted through marriage, all knitters, off to the other side of the dream. To them, a thank you for being part of the dream. To you, a promise that I’ll be back in two and a half weeks, all mud packed and melted, to continue this blog. To those seeking the pattern, I’ll send it out upon my return.

Say goodbye, Gracee:

I have a friend who participated in a quilting crawl of the Washington Coast. Her friend found some particularly interesting metallic thread, but was hesitant to buy it, unsure if she already had some stashed. She made a fatal error called her husband. "Honey, can you go into my quilting closet and tell me if I have any copper coloured thread?" Ten minutes later her cell phone rings. It’s her husband. "Woman, he says, you must have $100 worth of thread in that closet!" Relieved, she bought the copper thread, telling my friend, "If he thinks it’s $100 I’m safe, it’s more like a thousand."

I know the feeling, only my guy has actually scoped out yarn shops with me and is fully aware of the value of my stash. He’s never complained, though. I figure I may not work full time forever, and I don’t have a pension in retirement so I’d better treat myself now.   

Here’s my latest FO, my Fleece Artist Celtic Vest. It’s quick, easy and looks good when worn. There’s something about the elasticity of the side-to-side stitch that conforms to you in a flattering manner no matter what shape you’re in. I highly recommend one, but be forewarned – two of us have made this vest and we both needed to add ten stitches to the length. It seems the earlier kits only came in a small size. By the way, Chuck made the shawl pin – he’ll be selling them online, in natural wood and custom colours, in the near future. I’m not the only one in this house with a stash, and believe me, tree trunks take up way more space than yarn.

Here’s a glimpse of our Sunday in Steveston, a fishing village south of Vancouver. That’s Chuck buying wild drug-free salmon (note the red sign on the fishing boat):

It was a gray and gloomy day in Steveston, while it was bright and sunny up the mountain where we live. This is due to an unusual weather phenomenon, called a temperature inversion. Usually it gets colder the higher the altitude, but sometimes it’s warmer up here than at sea level, causing a sea of city swallowing fog below. Can you picture this as a colourway:

How come, when we go to Steveston, I’m always always accused of using it as an excuse to visit Wool and Wicker? Moi? Truthfully, I might have bought something there, but I get overwhelmed in a yarn shop organized by colour instead of yarn type. I just can’t wrap my brain around it.

You know you have it bad when you don’t leave home without a knitting project in your purse.

You know you have it bad when, while dining in a nice restaurant, you think "Oh my gosh I’ve spent three hours straight without thinking about my knitting!"

You know you have it bad when you dream at night about knitting.

You know you have it bad when you find evidence of your habit in every room of the house, for example, stitch markers lost behind the toilet or when you say strange things to your partner, "Honey, if you find a knitting needle in the bed, it belongs to me."

Or when you look at floor plans of apartments or houses and you think which bedroom will my stash get?

I know I have it bad when I find myself posting to my knitting blog at 2:38a.m.

A lot of you have it really bad – look at the sales of lighted knitting needles.

How do you know you have it bad?

This is my latest purse knitting project. Why resist the world of gorgeous hand painted sock yarn? I have a love/hate relationship with sock knitting. I think I love it until I have to wear them. I haven’t found the solution to my problems with fit and socks stretching out of shape, but in the amount of time and yarn it takes to make a pair of socks I can knit a lace scarf using Socks that Rock. This is the Lead or Follow pattern by Jackie E-S at HeartStrings FiberArts. I’ve adjusted the pattern for width. Although I liked the colour pooling far better with the wider version, it was going to be too short. I knew I was better off frogging it, a fifth of the way through, than end up with a project that I would be unhappy with.

I have described myself as a packrat. There are things I have difficulty parting with. If I didn’t have it before, I am sure I caught this affliction from my mother-in-law. When she lived on a farm she told us, when she died, to burn down the shed because she was embarrassed about its contents. It contained at least a half century’s worth of egg cartons.

For me it’s boxes. You never know when they’ll come in handy for mailing, storing stuff, or burying the neighbours dead hamster. I can’t blame this on on my MIL as I’ve had this addiction since high school. I worked in gift wrap at Lord and Taylor in New York and it was box heaven. I also held onto boxes that contained fancy stationary or candy. It drives my husband around the bend. Come on, really, in the overall scheme of things what’s the problem with keeping boxes?

I guess I come by it honestly. My father could not throw away a coffee can. He’d paint them and have rows in his workshop, each a different colour, filled with assorted screws and nails. I have fond memories of that rainbow of cans.

Come on, fess up, we all have something. I know Blogless Marsha was saving those heavy cardboard inner rings from Touch Me yarn for awhile. Never know when those might come in handy.

It’s proud mama time – for those Canadian readers, Mount Pleasant, a movie by Ross Weber, is being released this Friday in Vancouver, Toronto and Montreal. It’s a small independent film about an actual neighbourhood in Vancouver experiencing not so pleasant issues. Here’s the trailer and a description. The number of ticket sales in the first weekend influences the length of the movie’s run. Now, here the proud mama part – my 16 year old has two lines in this movie and that’s all it takes to say you’ve had a speaking part in a movie and to get your name in the credits.  OK, so one of the lines is only one word, who’s counting? He’s the one with the camera in the party scene. In Vancouver it will be at the Granville Seven. I’ll be there Friday night. And Saturday. And Sunday. Stop by my seat and say hi. I’ll be the one who doesn’t get up when it’s done, knitting my way to the next showing. The things we do for our kids. This is a picture of him, almost a year and four inches of hair ago.

I am not Ms.Fashionality opting for function over form, nine times out of ten. My favorite shopping spots are LL Bean, Lands End and the clearance racks at Talbot’s. In my best attempt to keep my kids out of therapy, I read all the books and learned never to criticize their weight, hair or clothing. Apparently they never read their version of the same books.

One day, descending the escalator at the Bay, I eyed the most perfect hot pink silk outfit, just right for my daughter’s prom. In our part of Canada, the prom is a family affair, attended by graduates, dates and parents. I brought it home to have it nixed by every member of the house.

I heard four versions of "You are NOT wearing that are you?"

"This is not the problem of a single woman," I grumbled as I exchanged it for the royal blue version.

Recently my husband declared, in a not so diplomatic way, his disdain of one of my tried and true articles of clothing. He told me I needed to throw it out. I told him I was saving it for my next husband. Over Christmas, both my daughters were home. I asked each on for their honest opinion of said item. It’s not bad, Mom, said elder daughter, but I didn’t like that top you wore last night. It’s OK said the younger one, but where did you get those pants you wore last night? What am I supposed to do? The younger piped up that her friend’s parents are not allowed to go clothes shopping by themselves. When I get back to work I’m calling my employee assistance program. I need therapy.

I am not alone!  I just read Super Eggplant’s post about her new dress, described by her husband as looking like something a polygamist’s wife might wear.

Realizing I never posted photos of my cousin’s scarf, here it is, already mailed off, delivered and worn:

I am pulled to handpainted yarn with an attraction as strong as a rare earth magnet. In a yarn shop it gloms onto me, the only thing able to separate us being pair of knitting needles. I like patterns that highlight the colourplay of variegated or self striping yarn, hence my affinity for the Herringbone Rib scarf. When I put that pattern together, it was with Manos del Uruguay yarn in mind. the colour distribution worked well with 34 stitches.

Enter Fiesta Chinchilla, the silk chenille mentioned in a previous post. Once again, a painted yarn leeched itself onto me only this one felt soft as velvet and the colours had a depth and sparkle like none other. The deciding factor, as if a decision was possible, was another full Marilyn’s punchcard reducing the price by 30%.

At home I calculated gauge and cast on. Following my own pattern I was disappointed with the lack colour patterning AKA pooling and flashing. To some extent, I like those effects, the interplay of colours across the rows. I wish I had taken a photo as it wasn’t happening; I was getting an even distribution of colours the yellows speckled regularly throughout the scarf.

Round two – I experimented with the number and width of columns. A cast on of 32 stitches was similar to the Pooling Colors scarf that was published a few years back; stripes of like colours down the length of the scarf.

Round three, a cast on of 30 stitches, produced a different effect – zigs and zags of colours criss crossing width and lengthwise. It’s amazing how two additional or fewer stitches makes such a difference. Here they are, round two on top – front and back, round three on the bottom:

I’m not sure which I like better or if I’ll even continue, the combination of chenille and the diagonal rib stitch might be too dense. Any pattern suggestions that would provide flexibility using chenille?

As for the Chinchilla – I probably wouldn’t buy it again. It knits just like cotton chenille and despite what you’re told by knitting shop staff, it worms. I’m hoping it will soften up with a damp blocking, as it is impossible to increase the needle size past ten (the label recommended a six) as the worms would multiply producing a scarf reminiscent of a cup of colourful fishing bait.

As a working mom of three kids I learned, almost too easily, that my priorities were not in my house keeping. However, we have a condominium in Washington that we rent out by the week, and we take responsibility for cleaning it between rentals. When my children were old enough to help out I explained that people who pay good money to stay there don’t expect to find body hairs behind the bathroom doors. That was my standard of cleanliness. It’s not a fancy place, but it’s clean.

Over the holidays, anticipating the arrival of guests, I asked my middle daughter, a third year university student who recently moved into a house with three girls, to take responsibility for the bathroom. She agreed and shared her standard of cleanliness with me. She educated her roommates that the toilet isn’t clean until you are willing to put your head into it, just in case you need to throw up. Pipes up the boy "Why bother, I’d just throw up in the sink." Who raised these kids?

I took the week after New Year’s off to make an attempt to chuck the stuff overflowing from my house. I used to have policy that anytime I brought something new into my home, I’d have to rid myself of something of equal bulk. All week I’ve made myself spend three hours per day sorting, organizing and tossing. I rid my closet of a third of it’s content and still there is no room for additions.

What did I find in that closetly abyss? This is embarrassing:

1. I uncovered five boxes of large ziplock bags, the kind I use for yarn and WIP’s. Every time I bought a multi pack form Costco, I spirited away a supply for my knitting projects.

2. There were six shoe boxes full of beanie babies; cute and worthless. What possessed me?

3. I found an item that probably doesn’t exist anymore. One of those erasers that look like a pencil with a brush on the end. I’m sure they’ve gone the way of wheel shaped erasers used for correcting entire rows of typing, the kind I recently saw featured at a museum.

4.When piled together, there was a small mountain of coins. I used to have a boss who would pay my children 10% to sort and roll her husband’s small change collecting in the top drawer of his dresser. I couldn’t believe how someone could lose track of money. I am the person who picks up every good luck penny I see on the street and now I need to engage the services of next door’s eight year old.

5. And yes, I found that underwear, the body shaper I wore to my daughter’s wedding, featured in my post on Task Oriented Clutter.

I learned that there are clothes I cannot part with. The chances of their being worn again are slim because I no longer am. I’ve decided to accept a bit of body fat in exchange for periods and meds that make my heart beat in a regular manner. The reason these articles are kept have nothing to do with wearing, but I can’t toss out the memories associated with them. This is a concept not graspable by my spouse.

One of these years I will either retire or die, and when I do, I don’t want my house to be this out of control. Sounds like a New Year’s resolution to me. Better late than never. I rewarded myself with a solid chunk of knitting time. So, with Randy Bachman’s Vinyl Tap on CBC Radio in the background, I worked on a new addition to my closet – an entrelac scarf made up of Noro form my stash.