Of Muttonchops and Commentary...

...but first:

Those who've traveled to the SKIF knit-a-long blog might be aware of certain unfortunate "events" that took place while I was knitting Zena (Warrior Princess).
(check out the button somewhere over there)

These events centered around my inability to count, as well as my sieve-like memory. At some point in knitting the body, I decided to add a little waist shaping. (Because I can't just leave well enough alone.)

Anyway, I decreased a few stitches at each side. (Unevenly mind you. I have no control over when the sieve will just let a plan fall right outta my head.) When I went to create the neck shaping, I was missing a few stitches...

While I don't mind retelling a story, I think the flavor of my mood at the time I discovered (remembered) the "event" is best expressed here.

Go on, read. Laugh. Feel the full-throttle-ness of having a mind like a rusted-steel trap.

I survived the scare with a bit of retail therapy. Some new Habu just followed me home like a stray as well. Here it is (the amethyst color) just to the right of the light lavender color in the center:


I've passed the 50% finished mark and I've tried the sweater on whilst on the needles. Happily, I can report that all is well. The bust should fit just fine even though it is a few stitches narrower than it should be. I decided for such an oversize sweater it was okay to sport more of a "Jane Mansfield" fit, (or Jane Russell, or Marilyn Monroe).

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Now for the tie-in to the title of this post. (In the interest of those with sensitive constitutions, no knitting or person was harmed in this event)

In former posts, I've mentioned a dear former co-worker "K-Dawg" and of her predilection to drinking while writing (well deserved mind you). While she was in town she, "Flower child" (her sister), and I met for a pint at a favorite watering hole where we also purchased tokens and promotional mugs for a blessed Stumptown event. As we were walking from the pub to grab a late night bite, K-Dawg stops to chat with a former co-worker ("The Man") as her sister and I continue.

As we were walking a stranger asks us for change and when we denied him, he attempted to rob us of our promotional mug bag.

Now there are a few things to note when attempting to rob someone:

A number 1) Make sure the person you are trying to knockdown is not built like a Cadillac Coup'deville (important that).
B number 2) Do not mess with a knitter. (Hey dude, didn't you see the set of 10½ double points in my hair???)
C number 3) Do not mess with a black woman. We don't play.

I'm pretty sure our attacker realized this because he stopped momentarily to assess the situation. This brief pause gave "The Man" just enough time to catch up and come to our aid. (If you've never seen a Bostonian go "Southy" on someone you are missing out).

As our attacker was being held at bay "K-dawg" and "Flower Child" were glued to their cell phones, talking to emergency services. These are sample sentences from the ordeal:

K-Dawg: "The perpetrator is about 5'6" wearing a beige baseball cap. He has blond hair but darker facial hair. He has muttonchops. He is wearing a gray raglan sleeved sweatshirt...."

Flower Child: "...and now he is running across the street. (pause as she hears K-dawg's raglan sleeve comment) My sister is on the phone with you right now as well. She's actually giving you a thorough description, while I'm only giving you commentary..."

All ended well. The mugs were shattered but the knitting and needles remained unmolested. The authorities came promptly and arrested our attacker. None of the ladies were hurt. "The Man" sported just enough of a black-eye for bragging-rights but is okay other than that. In the interest of quelling fears about walking through the streets of Portland at night or of street people in general. Our city is just as safe (or safer) than any other city in the US. Our attacker was not a local. While that is neither here nor there, it was chance that brought us in his path and I am happy the episode ended well here in Portland rather than badly anywhere else.

A Public Apology to Dory K.

I am so happy, happy, ridiculously happy!
Ecstatic.
One could even say I'm chirpy.
It doesn't matter that there is a crap load (industry technical term) of yarn in my in box to photograph and add to the website:













And more waiting in the wings:











Doesn't matter that the store windows need changing, the store displays aren't tidy, and my desk looks like this:












And the new project* I started? It looks like this:

Or that my day was replete with curtailing drama, answering pattern questions, and researching whether mercerized cotton is considered organic (turns out it's not and our new yarn is a truly organic yarn).

My delight is an overfilling fountain of three fold happy-making-ness:

A number 1: I'm off of my self imposed Ravelry ban.

I made the adult decision in late October to have no access with the site because my habit... eh, addiction... uhm, time spent on the site was taking over other things in my life. Important things. Not things like earning a living, laundry, or grocery shopping, but things like eating and bathing.
Here's a tip lads and lassies: If you choose Ravelry over bathing you need to set down the virtual crack pipe, so to speak and get yourself to a support group. Happily, I think they have one of those on Ravelry.

B number 2: The newsletter is out...
...and it's purdy. I wanted to add this photo but there wasn't any more room and the photo of Momoe (pronounced moh-moh-ā) holding a bowl won out.

My own personal level of hell, which I've always imagined was sandwiched somewhere around the chamber of pounding and the chamber of scales, was called (insert ominous music) the chamber of newsletters. When I took over this position from my predecessor, K-Dawg, I thought her drinking was a tad excessive. Now I know, it wasn't enough.
Not only did the newsletter arrive to close to six-thousand recipients in just two minutes (versus 3 or more days), our new newsletter service sent out the correct and current newsletter.
Gone is the email filled with angry "Unsubscribes", "Why'dya send me my newsletter so lates", and whatnot. I felt so bad for each unhappy customer every month because I could never anticipate where the roulette wheel of chaos would land.
Gone was that shrieking harpy (me) cursing a blue streak so scandalous dock workers and carny-folk would blush.
Gone are the tears: mine and my coworker's.
Gone was the heavy drinking, and today my liver isn't distended and hard like twice cooked chuck. Lemme tell you it's not good the store is close to Betty Ford's and Jake's which coincidently is affectionately called "Conference Room B".

Today I feel confident that I can truthfully apologize in this public forum to Dory (they know who they are) for receiving a newsletter each month that was unwanted. Our old tool just loved Dory. I'd remove the address yet the tool would send it off anyway. One would be so lucky to have a spouse as committed and in love as that tool was to Dory. But it was a love that was taboo.

C number 3: I've forgotten what it was.

Maybe my bliss was only two-fold and B number 2 was so awesome and almighty, it seemed like it was two things.
Yeah, I think that was it.

would blush. My co-workers are especially grateful because too often my wrath was misdirected to one of them.*P.S. Don't mention this little diversion to my Secret Gay Husband. He won't understand that at this time I just can't take another minute with his more than thrice-knitted socks, even if I've completed the heel turn. Again.

Bitter Knitter

My high hopes (unreasonable expectations) each holiday season leave me worn and tattered striving to ensure everything I do is "enough". My roommate and I hung our Holiday greenery pictured here:

It fit in well with our living room decorating aesthetic. We are going for "Female Elks Lodge" and the bustier, like the trophy heads of innocent woodland creatures, hangs in our living room above our "fireplace", which some may mistake for "wall heater". I'm particularly fond of the recycled Mardi Gras decorations hanging scandalously from the décolletage.

I survived some Chariots of Fire-esque marathon knitting this year, but quite a few gifts were sporting needles on Christmas morning. With a few noted exceptions, like the scarf for the brother who blocks out the sun, I knit hats. Then I re-knit hats. Then I had a sleep deprived flashback to prior holiday experiences of knitting hats that were still too small for my large-headed kin and I re-knit them a third time. Take for example, my version of the Sideways Ribbed Cap:



This photo, taken right before its final frogging shows a crown too shallow to fit my sister's head. I highly recommend the pattern. It's simple, charming with a refreshing construction and unlike my inspired version no frogs involved. I will knit the original pattern again as soon as my copy materializes...
Last night's Sip and Stitch was refreshing as well. There were many comrades in the same predicament: modifications to gifts as well as finishing touches. A few fresh yet frustrating new projects as well:



Don't you just feel her pain?
I know I felt it. My little perdition knit was the scarf for my beloved brother the freak (I only feel love and adoration for him I assure you) who requested a black fingering weight scarf. I instead chose to knit a worsted weight camel and cashmere keyhole scarf. Knit lengthwise, I was...uh... er am, in the process of connecting one side to itself leaving a handy loop at one end that allows the other end to tuck through. Clever and manly which is important for the man about town.
It was a very bitter knitter who discovered that she pulled the ultimate rookie move. She didn't check the scarf before she started sewing it, nor as she sewed it. No dear reader, she only realized the scarf was twisted when she ran short of cashmere yarn. About five yards short.

Bitter Bitter Bitter Now for my happy place.

While I get in touch with my inner knitter, I encourage the faint and nauseous to explore a fiber happy place.

Stay tuned dear reader, reporting from the remote yarn farms of Aichi prefecture, Japan our own earnest junior reporter, Fyberduck with an in-depth review on the current Noro sock situation.