The Road to a Friend's House is Never Long

I've been staying with the incomparable Carson , my BFF of BFL.  We're just like peas and carrots, we two, and there is no end to the inspiration I get, just from being in a room with him.  That's how it is with the best friends:  Feed one another's obsessions, validate each other's opinions, and teach each other all the tricks you know.  And for me, being with someone I adore so completely is just the kick-start my creativity needed.  In the last few days I have:

Completed two fronts on the Rare Gems cardigan (no comment on the back and sleeves).

Renewed my assault on this one from last year.  It's 2-ply merino yarn that I spun on my spindle.  I reverse-engineered the pattern from a sweater that my mom knit no less than 6 times in the 60's.  This is a woman who won't drive down the same street two days running, so if she made the thing that many times, you know it's a bangin' pattern.  It occurred to me that if it were re-engineered to be worked from the top down that it would be the perfect thing for handspun, because when you run out of yarn, that's when you're done.  It can have any length of sleeves, and any body length; Handspun-Perfect!

While Carson is at work during the days, I've been secretly scouring his fleece.  It's really been bugging him that he can't seem to get this particular job done.  There are two other whole sheep in his fiber room waiting for the same, so it's understandable he's a bit overwhelmed.  You know what's funny?  Scouring fleece at someone else's house is exactly like doing the dishes in someone else's kitchen:  You're so much better at it and it's so much more satisfying.  Bizarre, no?

In the backyard there are lemons.  Real live lemons, just growing their citrusy little hearts out.  Like they don't even know what a miracle they are.  600 miles north, at my house, it rains 360 days a year.  The only naturally occurring vegetation there is mildew.  Carson let me pick a bunch of these, and then showed me how to make real lemonade.  I'm a complete addict now.  It's all part of his cunning plan to make me move to San Francisco.  Dude has got skills.
 

And then we went to the yarn store, where I completely lost my mind (try to contain your surprise).  I succumbed to this pattern, which I have been in love with since last summer, when Rowan released it for fall.  I had been in control of my impulses because the yarn required to make it is extremely special, and not at all substitute-able.  In addition to being special, it is also crazy expensive, so I had a built-in safety net.  Even I am pretty much safe from a $170 pile of yarn.  Most days.  And then some clever soul on Ravelry suggested that Berrocco Comfort, of all things, had a similar ply construction to the prohibitive Rowan, and I was, shall we say, intrigued?  An acrylic/nylon blend (which I should hate, but don't) to replace an alpaca and nylon blend (which I should also hate, but don't)?  Why, that's just crazy enough to work!  I'll risk $40 to find out.  I love that pattern.  I love the color of this yarn.  And staging them on Carson's Norm Hall wheel for the photo was pretty much fiber erotica.  Get a load of that wheel, whouldja?  Sometimes I tell Carson that I'm going to steal it.  Could happen - he has to sleep sometime.

Oh, and I started my new book.  Nice little vacay I'm having.
 

My Hovercraft is Full of Eels (and other diffucult translations)

Although the sparkly thing from my last post was complete in plenty of time to wear for my birthday party, I inexplicably lost interest in it the moment it was off the needles.  Haven't even blocked it yet.  No idea why.  Another instance of a completed project who needs a trip to the Aging Closet in order to be appreciated by its maker.  Fickle knitter.

I slammed the works into reverse, thinking that I had holdover guilt from Unfulfilled Sock Camp Energy:

The astute among you, Gentle Readers, will immediately observe that these are the PINKEST  socks ever witnessed by Humankind.  The closure of finishing them did not provide the release I expected, although I have to admit a small degree of smugness at having completed them in less than a week, Epic Sock Camp Scavenger Hunt duties notwithstanding.

I immediately ground the gears into sweater-from-sock-yarn mode, whereby I wound this beauty into balls and discovered Garter Stitch.  While thrilling, for reasons which defy explanation, Garter Stitch began to make me feel cross, somewhere around the 45th row on a size three needle with 240 stitches on it.  Go Figure.

There is simply no accounting for this inability to commit to a project.  It's not as if I haven't tried, for heaven's sake.  It isn't as though any distractions (sanitation standards in a building I have not inhabited in many days, and will be leaving again soon) are pulling my focus.  Heaven knows, I've been paying attention to the yarn, for goodness sake.  I've been whispering to it in a way that would make my husband jealous (if he were here, and not busy with grad school finals).  I've been caressing the skeins with the ardor of a misunderstood nobleman in a bodice-ripper romance.

And does it speak to me?  Does it beckon me to Cast On?  Not a Whit, Gentle Readers.  Clearly my muse has left the building. 

Undaunted (or unwilling to face the topsoil on the kitchen floor), I spun.  Here is Asia, painted by Abstract Fiber .  Nice bit of spinning, but still not quite the diversion I required. 

So what's my problem, anyway?  No idea.  Maybe I just miss my new friends from Camp.  Maybe I'm raring up to pitch the proposal for my new book, and it has me slightly worried.  Sophomore effort, and all that. 

Here's what I do know:  In a world where all the children don't have a good meal and a hot bath and a story before bedtime, my tiny woes are hardly worth mentioning.  Really?  You don't know which gorgeous pile of fiber to play with next?  Let me get out my violin.  In a world where war, and poverty, and want are everywhere, my little struggle with creativity (or the want thereof) is a pretty fine problem, indeed.  Lucy girl I am.  Even if my hovercraft IS full of eels.
 

Road Trip

At last I located the perfect car for Phillip.  Yes, it was 175 miles away, but a little thing like that wasn't going to get between me and automotive fulfillment.  You see, having decided which make and model, I had my heart set on this very special Electric Blue paint.  Not because I am any huge fan of Electric Blue, but because it's the exact blue found in the logo of Phillip's favorite baseball team, the Chicago Cubs.   Having agreed to let him put a Cubs sticker on the car, I had to be sure that we got a color that I could stand to see that on.  Yeah, I know:  I need a life.  What can I say?  Colors matter to me.  A Lot.

So drive, we did.  The four of us piled into my car and headed North, to the dealership with whom I had already made the deal, over the phone.  Nobody panic; I had a trusted friend who was in the neighborhood test drive the car for me, before offering to buy it. 

After a whole morning in the car, the Smallies displayed remarkable patience while we waited for paperwork at the dealership.  Unlike their father, who is notably absent from this picture.  He was pacing the halls at this point, I believe.  Can't blame him, really.  He still had no idea what car he was getting, because I wanted to surprise him.  He knew what model I had been looking for, but not the year or the color.

Finally it was time for the big reveal.  Think he liked it much?

He's still getting used to all the features, but seems confident that he will acclimate.

True, it was a bit of an ordeal for me, but remember who the recipient is:  Father to the Smallies, walker of Scottie Dogs, and most important:  He never complains about the yarn.
 

Mission Accomplished.