Nice Pair

What sadistic jerk ever decided that in knitting, we have to do so many things twice?  Two feet = two socks.  Two hands = two mittens.  Two arms = two sleeves.  I swear, someday I'm going to knit an evening gown, just so I can get away with only making one shoulder.  It's a personal problem: I have the attention span of a soap bubble.  Doing something once is such a huge achievement for me that nothing short of a mandatory waiting period restores my attraction to the project.  Only after a suitable rest can I come back and finish the second sock/pant leg/earflap.  I think that attempting a pair of knitted gloves with ten whole fingers might actually kill me.

Knowing about this weakness of mine, I have learned to fake myself out.  Usually when I make a sweater, I knit a sleeve first, then the body, before starting all over on another sleeve.  The Red Faery, for some reason, did not inspire that sort of forethought.  Here I am at the bitter end, with two days left until we leave for my mom's birthday, and neither sleeve is finished.  What made me put down one halfway through and start another completely escapes me, if I even noticed it in the first place.  Attention span.  Sleeve Gremlins.  Saw something shiny. 

I'm trying to take it easy on myself.  Everybody else I know who attended Sock Summit is still in a puddle on the floor, contemplating recovery.  I would be too, but my kids have this hangup about wanting food and shelter, so I showed up for work instead.  Still, I wouldn't mind some toothpicks to prop my eyelids open with.  Sock needles are too long - I already tried.  The @#$%^ing sleeves aren't going to knit themselves in time for my mom's birthday, even though I asked them politely to. Crying and swearing also had no effect.  The sleeves just lay there, unfinished; Mocking me with their lack of caps or underarm shaping. 

And it's not that Mom wouldn't understand getting a box of disjointed sweater parts for her birthday.  I'm pretty sure she pioneered the practice of giving unfinished gifts when her five children were young.  But I only have two children (three, if you count Phillip), and it feels like wimping out for me to admit defeat before the 11th hour. 

So I need to just grow a pair.  Of Sleeves.  

If ya think I'm soxy

I used to live a sheltered life.  I used to think I knew what I like to knit, what I don't, what I'm interested in trying next and what I really can't be bothered with.  My knitting existence was predictable, sane (by my standards; an admittedly dicey frame of reference) and comfortable.

Modern sockmaking accouterments de rigeur: Go Knit pouch (sock people walk while knitting), Signature DPNs (size 2, 6" length) and Socks That Rock Lightweight in Tanzanite (Pattern I made up and am unlikely to remember for the 2nd sock)  All the cool kids have these things, and they really make it fun.

I really should have known better, but there it is.  See, my true confession is this:  I've just never been all that into socks. 

I find them fiddly: all those teensy DPNs are tough for me to manage, and two circulars are even worse. 

I think they are tricksy: Everyone has their favorite way to turn a heel and no two are alike - how can a person trust it will ever work? 

I find them redundant: The big payoff when you finally finish a sock is that you get to start all over again from the beginning, or else never get to wear them. Something about that just breaks my heart.

Or so I thought.

I went to the Sock Summit, conveniently thrown in my home town, to see my knitting friends (sock maniacs, all), take a few meetings, and do a little shopping.  I even got to attend some classes.  

Somewhere in between those activities, the fumes must have gotten to me.  In class,  I learned a whole lot about all things socky.  In the marketplace, I was seduced by beautiful tools and yarn.  My friends waxed poetic about tops toes and everything in between.  But best of all, everyplace I went, and everybody I met felt like home.  The Mother Ship had definitely landed, and it was such a relief to stop my frantic paddling and roll with the tide.  What complete luxury to drop all pretense of normalcy and blend in with the other teeming throngs of string-loving weirdos. 

I bought sock blockers with Scottish Terrier cutouts.  I spent big money on DPNs I've been coveting for a year.  I grabbed a skein of STR lightweight in my all time favorite purple and let the waves of socktitude wash away the last of my feeble reservations.  I put down the (now extremely weighty and totally unportable) Red Faery and cast on 60 wee sock stitches.  No pattern, no plan, no deadline.  Just me and the sticks and the string, singing whatever song would come.  Thank you, my knitting bretheren (and sister-en) for a delightful rest in your embrace.

I feel Stronger.  Faster.  Soxier.
 

In Which It Rains in the Desert, A Faery is Blocked and Paisley Encounters Wildlife

The big news is that Desert Rain is ready for prime time.  It's here for download, and over on Ravelry, as well.  You can buy a gorgeous kit from Abstract Fiber, too, which includes Susan's handpainted yarn, beads, ribbon, and a copy of the pattern ($65).  Kits and patterns will be available at Sock Summit in the marketplace, but if you can't get there, just drop Susan an-e-mail and she'll be happy to send you one.

The somewhat smaller news is that I have blocked the Red Faery

Only 2 sleeves, a hood, and a reeeeaaaaallllly long front edge binding left to go.  Yipe.

Last, a story:

Once Upon A Time, there was a Scottish Terrier named Paisley who liked to run around her neighborhood without a leash every time somebody left the door open.  It happened one summer that the door was left open to let in fresh air late one night while Paisley's mistress muttered and said bad words over some project or other.  While she wasn't looking, Paisley ran all the way to the end of the block, where she met A SKUNK. 

We know it was a skunk because once Paisley was reclaimed, being in a room with her made our eyes water.  The stench was so unimaginable that I actually have been worried that my stash is in danger of picking it up.  Paisley has been scrubbed to within an inch of her small black life.  The clothes we had on have been scoured.  All the windows have been opened.  Joint still stinks like liquid hell.  I'm thinking of having the dog shaved. 

My life is SO glamorous.