Everything Looks Like a Nail

I live in one of these turn of the (21st) century houses, where some dumbass decreed that not only should there be no woodwork, there shouldn't even be corners.  That's right.  Everywhere you'd think about changing paint colors, there's a God-Awful Bullnose corner that the builder decided would look "modern" (i.e. save .08 cents) where the paint can neither stop nor start.

As part of my recuperation from the Shawl-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named, I have returned to the four-year saga known as "Finally Installing Trim in my House".

Here is the triumph of Tuesday, in which I overcame the horrors of bad window casing (meaning that there was no window casing at all) in my powder room.  Tomorrow's destiny is to paint the walls "Marigold", and to change the nasty-ass builder grade light fixture to one that matches my sassy new washbasin hardware .

In this room, there is also the small problem that no one ever painted the walls.  That's right:  Since the year 1999, when our house was finished, no one (myself included) has ever taken the time to paint the walls of the downstairs loo.  Time to correct that failure, in my opinion.  Wait till you see the color we picked!  Susie drove all the way down from Whidbey Island to advise me.  The Big Guns have officially been employed.

What, you may ask, has this to do with knitting?  Not a whit, Gentle Readers.  I share it with you in the hopes that like me, you will occasionally remember that when knitting sucks (let's be honest, it often does), at least we know how to wield hammers.

When we can find the hammer, that is. 

And when we do, darned if the simple act of painting a wall, or pounding a nail, makes us all the more aware that knitting is a gentle and refined art.  No loud noises required.  No drying or callusing of skin.  For that matter, no permits required (though some bureaucratic permitting regulation might save us from ourselves...Imagine the application process for a lace shawl permit!)

Sometimes its nice to return to the basics of wood + nails + paint = complete loo makeover.  I'll let you know tomorrow how that worked out for me.

In the meantime, I feel that I know what to do:  If it looks like a nail, I'm gonna hit it.

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.