Lu-Lu Knits

When I met with my agent last weekend, my daughter came along with me.  She is nine years old, a serious reader and budding knitter.  She's also a lover of tea, so there wasn't anything at Yarn & Tea that she didn't love.  While Linda and I chatted and enjoyed our tea, Lindsay would fetch back various treasures from the sale baskets around the store to the table where we were sitting.  One of the things she found was this delicious Debbie Bliss, at half price, no less.  Linda bought all they had in yellow, and I scored a matching batch in lilac.  I got Liddy this, as a finder's fee.

But what I really loved was that 1.  Lu-Lu (we rarely use her real name, for some reason, and she answers to anything that starts with L) HAD to start knitting this right away, for which she needed some new size 8's, and 2.  She agreed with me that these are the perfect needles for knitting salmon-pink cashmere on.  I mean really - when I was nine I would have killed for needles like this.  I am so lucky to have this dear young knitter in my house, who assures me that I will get a turn with them just as soon as I finish the book.  She is a stern task-master.  Meanie. 

I may sneak a few stitches while she sleeps, if I find I need a reminder of what it was like to discover knitting.  I used to take my mom's needles and whatever stash yarn she didn't care about, climb the cherry tree in the front yard and knit until my butt fell asleep on the hard branch that was my favorite spot.  I taught myself to cast on in the embrace of that cherry, and all my early work had bits of bark and moss in it from the ascent to my knitting branch.  The descent was easier, of course.  Just let go, fly, and hope to stick the landing.

I have no idea when I stopped knitting in trees.  It was probably around the time I discovered boys, and if it was, I would like to state for the record that it was an extremely misguided decision. 

I think I am ready to find myself a new knitting tree, though I will probably have to bring a ladder along.  And maybe Lottie will come with me, and try not to die of embarrassment.  She's pretty charitable that way.

Buncha Hooligans

It occurred to me over the weekend that my children may have a hard time finding their best path of rebellion against me, what with my belonging to a motorcycle gang, and all.  True, the "gang" are all my siblings, and we are pretty tame, all things considered, but I think my kids may have to become arch conservatives or something if they really want to shock and appall me.

L to R:  Ian, my brother's dog, Monica, my SIL, David, my brother, Lindsay, my daughter, me, and Susie, my sister

Here are some of us, after about 100 miles on Sunday.  You will notice that I am not knitting in this picture.  Yeah, yeah, I know: them sweaters cain't knit theirselves.  But sometimes you just have to bust out and do something, even if it's wrong.  And if riding motorcycles is wrong, baby, I don't wanna be right.

During the unscheduled interruption since my last post, I have

Celebrated my brother in law's 50th birthday, which resulted in 15 houseguests for him and my sister
Put 300 miles on the bike's odometer
Took on a design project for Knit Picks (this is so cool I couldn't say no - stay tuned for sneak peeks!)
Finished and blocked a sweater body
Started 2 sleeves
Kidnapped my mom to in an effort to trick her into helping me knit (or at least cheer me on while I do)
Had a meeting with the lovely and talented Linda Roghaar (the Literary Lovely who has been my agent for half a year without ever having slapped eyes on me)
Broken my vow of yarn abstinence (it wasn't my fault:  Linda made me meet her at Village Yarn & Tea, where they were having a sale, and you know the rest - just don't squeal to my husband and nobody gets hurt)
Returned Phillip and the Smallies to School, kicking and screaming (just Phillip, actually; the kids were pleased to go)
Washed, dried, folded and stored 472 loads of laundry, resulting in a small crater (okay, indentation) on the north face of Mount Washmore
Continued trying to teach two kittens that my blocking board is not a kitten amusement sliding aparatus (good luck with that)

So, nothing much is going on here at Knitting Book Ground Zero.  I don't sleep anymore so much as enter temporary comas.
 

"...that knits up the raveled sleeve of care..."

Hamlet was talking about sleep, of course, but I couldn't help but notice that his analogy applies quite literally to this sweater:

Poor thing just spilled its guts.  "The vomiting Sleeve!  Film at eleven."

I promised myself that if I could knit to the end of the skein I was using on the sweater middle that I could take a "break" by working on a sleeve for a while.  No lie, people, I am drowning in the Stockinette Ocean.  I think I'm getting arthritis.  So I made it to the end of the skein, and without even attaching a new one, I gleefully flung the whole works aside in favor of the sleeve.  Nothing like a change of scenery for motivation.  Okay, the scenery is pretty much the same, but the rows are shorter, and some of them have increases.

Increases is right!  The thing was growing at an alarming rate, but not in length - in circumference.   Note to self:  perhaps the sleeve increases need to be farther apart?  Nah,  I'll just block it firmly.  It'll all come out in the wash.  Now it looks like a jam funnel - totally weird.  What in the name of all things linty is going on here?  Note to self:  You have obviously stretched the thing somehow, you are going to have to block this sleeve aggressively.  Another half inch goes down and it's even worse.  Note to self:  sleeve blocking will have to be brutal.  Now it's starting to feel like a horror movie: something is wrong, and I can tell by the theremin music in the background.  Just to reassure myself, I check the needle size.  Yeah, I know this is the size three.  I can tell because the number "3" is rubbed all the way off.  See, I'll even pull out the size guage and prove it...CRAP.  It's a size 4.  That's when the sleeve threw up.  Projectile yarn.  Spewed like a frat boy on a Friday night.  

There, there little sleeve.  You'll feel better in the morning.  Want a cool washcloth?  Yeah, me too.