Life's a Stitch

I've lifted the idea from Karen and have loved reading other's versions of the spousal interview. So here he is, being questioned last night while cooking dinner:

Me: What is your favorite thing about my knitting?

C: That it makes you happy.

Me: What is your least favorite thing about my knitting?

C:  The line “I just need to finish
one more row.”

Me: What is something I have knitted, that you recall as good?

C: Most all of it.

Me: Do you think knitters have an expensive hobby?

C: Tools are cheap, yarn is expensive.

Me: Do you have any hobbies?

C: Wood turning

Me: Do you have a stash of any kind?

C: Yes, but it is generally low in cost.

Me: Have I ever embarrassed you, knitting in public?

C: Why should knitting make any difference? LOL

Me: Do you know my favorite kind of yarn?

C:  I’d recognize them if I heard
them- hmmmm- Koigu and those hand painted big skeins – Fleece Artist.

Me: Can you name another knitting blog?

C: Missouri Star (Dorothy, you came in ahead of the Harlot) and the Yarn Harlot

Me: Do you mind my wanting to stop at knit shops wherever we go?

 C: Not usually

Me: Do you understand the importance of a swatch?

C: To get your gauge.

Me: Do you read Life’s a Stitch?

C: Rarely, on occasion

Me: Have you ever left a comment?

C: Not online

Me: Do you think the house would be cleaner if I didn't knit?

C: Yup

Me: Anything you'd like to add?

C: Nope

This is Print O'the Wave. I'm not sure who is punishing whom, but it is has been exiled to partial smothering in a zip lock bag on a closet shelf until it can behave better. You see, I've knit those last eight rows over so many times that I had to walk away. Eight rows of 20 stitches. For heaven's sake, give me a break.

On the topic of projects, here's what I decided upon for my Carnival shawl. Remember my dilemma – self striping  or solid colour to emphasize the spirals? I elected to go with Noro Silk Garden sock yarn, in cream and beige – the interest of the self striping with the subtlety of a solid:

Not the Debbie kind, you knitters, but the extreme happiness variety, a spiritual joy maybe. I gave my niece and her new husband a wedding card, one I picked up on the run, with the improbable message: Love, bliss, forever. Being the practical godmother to this child, I wrote on the inside “Probably not bliss, but love forever.” Here’s the happy couple:

This sentiment provided good fuel to the discussion fire at several vacation social events this past week. What’s your bliss was the opening question.Of course we had to set some ground rules as it became evident that many were drug and sex induced blissful experiences. So, no chemical or sexual pleasure allowed, what was your experience of bliss, your magical moment?

The concept was defined. Perhaps bliss could be felt in the experience of great relief or joy, second chances when none were expected. Some blissful feelings were calm, spiritual or profoundly grounding. Many were related to nature and travel – long afternoons, letting down on a tropical beach drinking red wine accompanied with a chocolate baguette.  Some were childhood experiences – running so fast in new shoes, so special the wearer felt he was the fastest person on earth. Nobody could ever beat him.

Have you come up with something? The one moment you wanted to go on forever? Or are you thinking what were these nutcakes drinking?

You know the saying, often attributed to Shakespeare, but really the creation of William Congreve. The origin is not important, but in Harmony Minnesota there is an excellent illustration of a woman scorned resulting in a fury of purple paint.

Last fall I wrote about Austin’s Mohair farm with the proliferation of purple items. Adirondack chairs, fencing and signage. Was is my imagination or was there more since my visit in 2006?

Here’s the story: The woman of the farm was so inspired by that poem about being old and wearing red hats and purple pants, that she painted the farm’s front fence purple. At the end of the day, her husband came in from the fields, and gave her a hard time about the fence’s new color. The woman was incensed by his criticism and vowed to buy a gallon of purple paint each year and little by little. Wonder what he thought when he saw the antique tractor:

You know what a marriage counsellor would say about this? It’s not about the paint. Whatever it is, the place is fun. Better hide that truck:

If Print O’the Wave could earn points, it would have a free flight by now. This trip I promise not to pull it out of the knitting
bag sans needles at the airport. Maybe my next post will have an FO.

It’s off the Minnesota for a family wedding. We’ve already hit the Yarn Garage. This picture only represents about 5% of the inventory, which went floor to ceiling. It nearly brought on a yarny nervous breakdown, so overwhelmed was I by the massive selection. After two hours of indecision all I wanted was a Diet Coke and a nap. You can see though, that SIL Ellen and I were no worse for the wear:

We were disappointed to have missed the famous Steven, AKA the Glitter Knitter.  I’m on a mission to find yarn for this. That’s the crocheted version. Here is the knitted one. I can’t decide to go with the multi colours or the solid, where the swirls look swirlier, an optical illusion. Opinions?

Of course it’s about the boy. On his last day of school he stopped by my office announcing that it was time for his yearly summer rebellion. He grabbed a sticky note from my desk and suggested we make a web diagram of his past rebellious behaviour and brainstorm a few more. I told him I thought he needed a larger piece of paper. Here’s what we came up with:

Rebellion is in the centre, everything else stemmed from this topic. The upper left represents piercings, other than ears – a nipple and underneath his tongue. That was a double rebellion when he was 15. The right was about hair colour times six. Various shades of black, pink and red.

The bottom represents rebellion-to-be. Wait a minute, I ask, you forgot your drunken romp through the woods that ended up with 44 stitches to the leg. “Sheer stupidity,”says he. Who’d have thought a diagrammatic discussion around rebellion could feel so good to a mom?

Back to the future. What’s left? Tattoos, of course, and he can’t decide between Margaret Wise Brown’s Runaway Bunny or f-holes on his back, as in the holes you find on a stringed instrument, only smaller than in the picture.

He’s really an OK kid. Typically rebellious, but alas, he has a social conscience. I have nothing to complain about.

So far it’s a regular summer weekend here in BC. Woke up to hear Gracee yelp one sharp bark. She was telling a big ol’ bear that this was her property, not his. Just like the storm watcher type I was in my Omaha days, I ran for my camera to no avail. The bear wasn’t sticking around for a photo shoot.

Next sound was the search and rescue helicopter putt-puttering along side the mountain behind our house. No kidding, there doesn’t seem to be a weekend that goes by without hearing that sound, mostly at daybreak when searches for lost hikers resume from the night before.  Many of these situations in our area have tragic endings but were entirely avoidable: kids cliff jumping into calm looking mountain pools with life defying whirlpools waiting just underneath the surface, unprepared hikers, out of bound skiers, tourists precariously perched for the perfect picture and kyakers racing with the river that’s temptingly running a bit on the wild side. There is no logical explanation; maybe there are mountain Sirens, cousins to the ones that live in the sea.

Another  BC weekend item – barbequed salmon. Chuck tried a new recipe, slow cooking the fish on the warming rack of the grill, alder chips smouldering below:

And of course, it wouldn’t be the weekend without lazy morning knitting, bird songs in my right ear and CBC’s North by Northwest in my left:

What’s missing from this picture? Look carefully, this is our driveway in the middle of the night:

What’s missing? Here’s the story:

Last night, back pain, tossing and turning watching the clock: midnight, 1:00, 2:00, 3:00. You know how that goes? 3:20 – I hear an engine idling in the driveway. Must be the paper delivery. Wait a minute, the paper guy zooms in, tosses the paper and zooms out. Sounds like a big vehicle in the driveway. I get out of bed and look out the window and what do I see? Our new-to-us since last Thursday little red pickup truck being driven out of the driveway and up the hill.

Called the police, and as we wait for their arrival it hits me. Where is our car that was parked behind the truck? Two cars are missing in that picture above.

Long story short: The car was hiding across the street in the bushes minus its radio. After a visit from the sniff dog and the fingerprint team, we are told that the truck was recovered parked nicely just up the hill, across from another broken into car, but no luck in finding the creeps that did it. They must have spotted me, watching from the window, and fled.

Scary, eh? And da noive of ’em, thinking every car in every driveway is fair game. Eff that.

This is story about my middle child. Once upon a time, as a little one at McDonald’s, she had a thought. If I can breath through my mouth and breath through my nose, and suck though my mouth, I can probably suck through my nose. Can you picture the next step? Yes she shoved the straw up her nose and gave it a good fizzing. That’s my girl, destined from a young age to be a scientist, now having graduated with her degree in astronomy and physics. Where’d she get those brains? Don’t look at me, I’m the social worker.

And when he was little, Bryant put an aspirin up his nose. When asked why, he replied, “I thought it was a nose pill.” Where did he come up with that one? I’ll bet there were big sisters involved.

I am convinced, though, that although knitters don’t readily admit it, they are good at math. Here I am about 15% through my Print O’the Wave edging: