A Knitalong, A Winner, and the Stash That Ate Suburbia

Today's Random Really Important Things:

1.    Some clever beasties over on Ravelry have decided to test whether I have invented the wheel or not!  They are going to knit my new "Dogwood" sock pattern together, beginning on June 1.  In case you missed it, I recently discovered the magic of the toe-up sock.  Even though everybody else in the whole world already knows how fabulous toe-up socks are, I went ahead and posted about how much I love them and how they have changed my thoughts about socks forever.  I made mine with gussets and heel flaps, just to see if I could do it.  I could, and so can anybody.  If you've never tried a toe-up sock before, give it a whirl.  If you have, smile indulgently at the rest of us, and make a pair of these, too.  The KAL thread is HERE, and the pattern is HERE.

2.    Gentle Reader Nancy G. is the randomly-chosen winner of a shiny new autographed copy of my new book!  Thank you to all who entered, and stay tuned for another chance.  Thanks for telling me a story!

3.    I work from home.  Specifically, I work from my desk in the foyer, and a chair in my living room.  The living room, even if it were totally empty, would only measure 12' x 14'.  That's not a big space when filled with 3 bookcases, 2 overstuffed armchairs, a full-size sofa, 2 end-tables and a coffee table.  Oh, and there's also a console table that holds all my winding equipment, in addition to a spinning wheel and its chair. 

Last week, I started to feel like the walls were closing in on me.  It was a truly claustrophobic episode, so intense that even knitting could not help me deny the problem.  A wild fit of Tidy-up-etude took over.  Before my family knew what hit them, I had gutted the living room, rearranged the furniture, washed all the slipcovers, hung different draperies, and reorganized the entire family book collection.  Well, the entire ground-floor book collection:

All the knitting books are grouped together by subject. And on the same floor.  Win.

Campbell was my right-hand man, and Paisley supervised:

Paisley got trapped behind the Literary Barricade for a time.  Book Pile = Tall.  Scottish Terrier Inseam = Short.  FYI - the wire rack (upper right) holds my circular needle containment system.  It's the only organized thing in my life: each size has its own zippered case, sorted by diameter, in mm.  Hear me Roar.  Then ask me to remember what my zip code is.

And while I was doing that, I began to understand the real problem:  THE STASH has been reproducing.  I emptied no fewer than 15 project bags, baskets, and other containers (there may have been a half-knit sock in a tuna can.  I deny all knowledge).  I jettisoned an uncountable number of ill-conceived notions,  returning them to the wild to be with their own kind.  I hooked up the ballwinder to 3 failures, recycling the yarn for another day.  It was SO cathartic.  Here's the new Work In Progress strategy:

Okay, the WIP's are contained in the green bins on the tower.  The steaming pile of, um, BAGS, is my actual stash.  On payday, I am getting some more bins.  Really.

Here's the spinning fiber.  Hmmmmm...where did all the negative space in my living room go?

Who has this much fiber in baskets in the living room?  Sicko-Weirdy-String-Playing Freaks, that's who.  And my family, God bless them, never even noticed.  I'm taking their pulses later.

Looky!  I made a cozy Spinning Nook:

Doesn't it just shriek at you "Hey! You! Come over here and make some string for a while!  Cause you clearly need more string!"?

And here's where you come in:  If you have the guts, tell me where your Stash lives.  Hangar? Bins? Boxes? Tuna Cans?.  I need to know your solution, Friends.  Where do you keep it all, and can I do the same?  If you don't give me some ideas soon, the bathtub and the oven are next.  Help a girl out won't you?

Tell Me a Story

A few posts back, I hinted that a contest was coming.  Today's the day, Gentle Readers!  First, The Prize:
 

Your very own autographed copy of my big fat new book:  304 pages of colorful goodness; All for You.

Now, The Contest:

Make up a story containing references to these 5 objects:  A paperweight, A sock-in-progress, a pink rose, a bottle of purple fountain pen ink, and a set of 10 sparkly antique buttons.

Your story can be any length, in any format (Limerick? Mystery Thriller? Romance? Haiku?).

Only 2 rules apply:

        1.    You must reference all 5 of the objects pictured above.
        2.    You have to send me your story by 12:00 Noon PST on Tuesday, May 29, 2012.

Please put "Tell Me A Story" in the subject line of your entry, and e-mail it to me at mary@maryscotthuff.com.

With permission of the author, the winning story will be a featured Post, right here on this very Blog!  I can't wait to see what you Clever Beasties come up with...

You Cannot Make This Stuff Up

So there I was, knocked unconscious by a dose of Ny-Quil.  The nasty cold I've been trying not to get finally sucker-punched me, and the medicine was my last resort.  I was sleeping.  In my bed.  Which is how I know that none of what happened was my fault.  Oh sure, it could be argued that some of my past behavior could warrant a backlash from the Knitting Gods (Smugly challenging them to come and get me during a Steeks class? Guilty.), but this was beyond even their capacity.

Around 3AM Phillip woke me up and asked if I knew where the dogs were.  Yes. Of course I know where the dogs are; it's 3AM and I've been in an antihistamine coma for 4 hours.  Pretty sure I don't even know where I am.  For that matter, you aren't looking especially familiar.

Phillip crossed the hall to Lindsay's room.  "Baby, are the dogs in here with you?" Still-sleeping Lindsay replied "There are no dogs in here and you are annoying."  Apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I heard Phillip go downstairs and open the front door.  I heard two dogs come inside.  Phillip plopped them, one by one, onto our bed, where they usually sleep.  Through the dull fog I registered that something was Not Quite Right, before the cold medicine dragged me under again.  I went down like a prizefighter.

Flash forward to 7:30 that morning.  The fog in my head had been replaced by the shrieking pain of the sinus infection.  One Scottish Terrier was next to me, curled up serenely on Phillip's pillow.  The other one was sacked out on his back, adjacent to my thigh.  And the something that was Not Quite Right several hours ago now came sharply into focus:  Both dogs were covered with mud.  And they were sleeping on my white, monogrammed sheets.  And there was a bizarre prickling sensation all up and down my leg.  And my arms.  And my hands.  Closer inspection revealed that the mud was not really mud, but the finely-ground bark mulch the landscapers had just replenished, all up and down our block.

So even though I went to bed with nothing worse than a bad cold, I woke up in a Medieval torture chamber, covered from head to toe in bark dust splinters, and wet dog detritus.

I asked Phillip (perhaps somewhat forcefully) what the &#$^(@! he was thinking when he put wet, barkdust-covered dogs in our bed?

"I didn't notice - it was the middle of the night."

So all (and I mean ALL) of yesterday was devoted to bark removal.  From the bedding.  From the carpet.  From the dog's fur (full baths and haircuts required). And from my skin.  You would not believe how deeply imbedded Douglas Fir splinters can get when you sleep on them.  And in what places they can imbed.

So how, you might reasonably ask (I know I did), do two spoiled-brat marshmallow-butt indorsy small dogs get outside in the middle of the night to roll in the barkdust in the first place?  One Word:

MacTarnahan.  He can open the front door from the outside (it's a thumb-latch, rather than a knob).  I've actually seen him do it.  I'm sure he was hoping the dogs would be too dumb to find their way back home, or if they did, be in big trouble with the people.  Either way, it's a Win for the Cat.

I know that someday this will be really funny to me.  It's the sort of thing that only happens at my house.  Someday, I will wonder what's funnier; the cat outsmarting/punishing all of us, or the fact that Phillip can pick up a soaking wet dog who has been Panko-breaded in bark mulch, without noticing it.

Today is not that day.  Today I'm still removing splinters from my ass.