Everything's a Continuum

Lindsay is knitting a 2 x 2 rib scarf.  She's more than halfway done, and has passed the sweet spot between mastery of the learning curve and boredom.  That's the trouble with any knitting sufficiently challenging to keep our interest, isn't it?  I tried to explain it to her, but ended up drawing a picture (Surprising nobody.  Visual much?) instead.

What do you think, Gentle Readers;  Did I explain it right?  I think this concept is pretty much the whole reason why we knit.  It's all there: Start-it is, the learning curve, abject frustration, smug satisfaction, even project abandonment.  We're all just looking for that Sweet Spot.

How the Cat Saved the Bedskirt

This is my bedskirt.  Machine-made Battenburg-style cotton tape lace from China, circa 1995.  

This is my cat.  Suburban-born American Shorthair rescued from a box marked "free", circa 2000.

I love my cat.  He's 13 years old and still a total badass. No mole, vole, mouse, shrew, or unsuspecting bedroom slipper is safe on his watch.

I also love my bedskirt.  It's been with me longer than my husband, and required substantially less upkeep.  It looks like magic against the cherry rails of my pencil-post bed.  Sure, it's starting to show its age here and there, but so am I, and we don't hold it against each other.  And it's totally out of style, which I can prove, because yesterday I tried to replace it.  There's not a tape-lace bedskirt to be found throughout the land.  Not for love nor money, which is too bad, on account of the Cat.

See, when I woke up yesterday, there was something Icky on the bed.  And by "Icky", I mean "Call the husband and tell him he has to touch something so gross it can't be named".  "Phillip!" I called. "I need you to touch something Icky!".  He bravely appeared on the scene, in spite of the fact that he has never encountered anything pleasant after hearing me utter that sentence.  Husbands are a useful lot.  He found me crouched in the corner of the room furthest from the bed.  I may have been twitching.  Promising to manage the situation, he gently banished me to the kitchen where coffee, mercifully, waited.

Phillip reported back:  The sheets were in the washer.  Stain remover had been judiciously applied.  The bedskirt may be forfeit.  It seems that the Battenburg had borne the brunt of the mess.  In the process of removing it from between the mattress and the box spring, a LOT of lace came loose from the edge of the fabric. 

Oh, and the Icky substance was actually the regurgitated remains of a rodent.  That's right, Gentle Readers.  If awakening to cat throw-up on my bed wasn't revolting enough, Phillip felt obliged to report that the offending substance was actual rodentia. 

Phillip kindly pre-treated and washed the tattered remains of the bedskirt for me.  I figured it was a goner, but thought we owed it one final attempt before throwing it out.  While it was in the wash, I searched the whole internet for a replacement, to no avail.

But miracle of miracles, after a hang on the clothesline, the poor old bedskirt looked practically new again - ravaged lace notwithstanding.  I decided to take a stab at lace restoration.  I can knit lace, and I can mend things that are torn, so why not give it a whirl?  Certainly I wouldn't make it worse.  

And it turned out that my understanding of lace was at least good enough.  The damage wasn't as bad as it had seemed before the rodentia was washed out.  In fact, the restoration was just in time, because where it wasn't torn, I was able to reinforce.  Now, thanks to the CAT, I bet it's got another few years of wear left in it.  Maybe even enough for Battenburg lace bedskirts to come back into vogue and yield a replacement.

I was so pleased with myself for saving the thing that I even busted out the ironing board and gave it a proper starch and press.  Now it looks better than ever, and I can begin the process of forgetting the whole foul experience.  I hope.

None of which, you may have noticed, has troubled the Cat in the least.

Love Letter

My Beloved Blog,

Happy Fifth Blogoversary!  Words can't describe all that you mean to me, but I'll have to try, because you have no thumbs and wouldn't know what to do if I gave you yarn.

When we started out together five years ago, I didn't even have a camera other then the crappy one in my flip phone.  You never let on how bad the photos were. 

When we first met, I barely had the guts to post at all, but you patiently reminded me with your readership stats that if I wanted to reach the knitters, I had better show up with something to say.  When you told me that we had 10 real subscribers to our rss feed, I knew that I'd be devoted to you till the end. 

You never bug me when I fail to post.  You never judge me when I say something dumb.  You help me remember what I was doing last summer, and last week, and yesterday.  You gently remind me how far I've come, and how far I still have to go.

There have been losses, and successes, and failures, and hilarity.  All the things we hope will fill a well-lived life.  But mine have the great good fortune to be shared with the Gentle Readers.

Oh Blog, if I could have guessed at the blessings the Gentle Readers have brought to my life, I would have started you much earlier!  Back when we began, I thought that Blogs were like belly buttons, and everybody had one.  What you taught me, though, is that there really are people who want to read what I write, see what I knit, and share their lives and knitting with me.  What better discovery could there be? 

Blog, Dear Blog, you've made me a better writer, a better knitter, and a better person.  You've helped me make new friends, and rediscover old ones.  You've become a full-fledged member of my family.  We say things like "I don't know, maybe you should ask the Blog;" and "Wait till I tell the Blog!", and my personal favorite: "Mom, look what I made! Can we put it on the Blog?".

In a way, It seems like I've known you for longer than five years.  You are the sparkly pink diary with a golden lock and key that I never had.  You are the place where I can put it all, with the assurance that it lands in the capable hands of friends.

I Love You, Blog,

Your Knitter