Off The Cuff

So there I was, minding my own business, when my extremely casual relationship with math leapt from the shadows to make sure I have no delusions of adequacy.

In my world, when I go to the lengths of my intellect to determine that 8 stitches in an inch of knitting should give me 6.75 inches of cuff circumference in 54 stitches, I am fairly smug about having figured it out.  Turns out that in my world, corrugated ribbing does not yield regular inches of knitting.

I was happily knitting along, pleased at my progress on the secret deadline project.  I was in the rare company of several of my favorite knitters.  Right in the middle of the conversation about where we were going for dinner after our little knitting party, I gasped out loud.  I had the temerity to try wrapping the cuff around my own wrist, as one does between rounds, with the smug satisfaction that this will tell her what the finished cuff might look like on an actual human wrist.

Keep in mind that this is actually TWO cuffs, conjoined into TWO siamese sleeves, being knit at the same time.  So sure was I that because I had gone to the trouble to actually perform calculations, nothing could possibly go wrong.  So confident that the sleeve would fit that I casually wrapped its cuff around my wrist, just to see how things were progressing. 

Except that the edges of the cuff didn't meet.  My friend Lisa used her superhuman cuff-wrapping skills to hold it wrapped it around my wrist for me.  Edges didn't meet.  My friend Liz muttered in her quiet way that it looked like I was hosed.  K.T. assured me that although it looked very bad indeed from way over where she was on the other side of the living room, she was sure Lisa could tell me how to fix it.  Jen meaningfully held her tongue.  "Block it!" was the final and reassuring chorus from all parties.  "You can totally fix that with sheer force of will!"  These ladies are nothing of not supportive; one of many reasons I love them.
 

Liz was right.  I'm hosed.  This cuff would fit a toddler, but probably not a human-sized adult model, and for sure not me.  Not to mention that if the dang thing doesn't fit a normal person, there are one or two hapless knitters who will grab their pitchforks and head for my house.  And I wouldn't blame them, either.

But, of course, I'm on a deadline to have this beastie done in 8 more days, and all the steam in the world is not likely to create the extra 3/4 s of an inch I thought were going to be in it.  What you can't see in the photo is the other 8 or so inches of conjoined sleeves above the nightmarishly small ribbed cuffs.  Those in-progress sleeves are the limiting factor, because reknitting them, after the wretched ribbing is sorted out will surely put me over the deadline.

My clever knitting friends advised me to finish the sleeves, and then, only if there is time, rework the cuffs buy cutting them off and reknitting them at a looser gauge.  God Love the Knitters.  I might have thrown myself under the next bus if they hadn't been there to lend their expertise.  Can you fathom being so smug that you don't even bother checking the gauge on the cuffs until after you are half way up the sleeves {Queue maniacal Knitting God laughter here}?

Phillip took the Smallies on an overnight trip to the water park resort, so that I could have some quiet time to declare war on the wayward cuffs knit.  Darn neighborly of him, though it's possible he was tired of explaining why Mommy was using the Naughty Language.

I have about 6 movies queued up on Netflix; all of them chosen for their knitability.  You know: no subtitles, not too complicated in the plot department, no heavy accents, and hopefully no characters that look too much alike (Phillip's not here for me to ask "which one is he again?").

I'm up to movie #3 so far, with 10.25 inches on the piece, of a probable 20 or 21 inches needed.

At least I found the measuring tape.  No reason to panic.  I'm going to just roll with it.  What could possibly go wrong?  Except for the cuff ribbing, I mean.

Was That Out Loud?

This is my first summer at home with Phillip and the kids.  It's a small house with no air conditioning, four people, two cats, several guppies and a scottish terrier, all attempting to pursue diverse goals, simultaneously.  We are holding up okay, but I think I'm starting to show signs of surface abrasion.  I keep hearing the most bizarre things coming out of my own mouth.  The others respond, without confusion.  This can only mean one of two things: 

1.  We have devolved as a microsociety into a parallel existence in which we think we are still using language to communicate, but actually are now mostly using clicks and grunts.

2.  Everyone has completely stopped listening to me and it wouldn't matter if I addressed them in Hebrew or Swahili because they react based on the thing I'm pointing at, rather than my words.

Examples of Things I can't Believe I've Heard Myself Say in the last 24 hours:

"Please don't poke a hole in the screen door with the vacuum cleaner."

"Remember to take the dead guppy that's in the freezer with you when you go to the pet store."

"Why is the house filled with flies?"

"I realize they are pretend nunchucks, but they still can hurt people."

"Honey wheat doughnuts are not health food."

"My knitting chair is covered in crumbs.  Which one of you decided it wasn't worth living anymore?"

"There are three bathrooms in this house.  This is only one of them.  You should explore the others."

"Please go find me the tire scrub brush so I can get the cottonwood off the screen door." 

"Isn't there someplace you're supposed to be right now?"

"Yes, but I don't think Tequila will freeze."

Ahh, Togetherness.  If any of you, Gentle Readers, are in need of a visit from a knitting teacher, kindly drop me a line?  Have Yarn.  Will Travel.

The Seat Of Power

Lindsay and I recovered the dining room chair seats.

We settled on a nice bumpy leather this time, tired as we are of trying to remove/keep spills off the old fabric covers.  We have had these chairs only about as long as we have had Lindsay (11 years), but this is already the 5th incarnation of their seats. 

I casually mentioned this to the man who measured out the new covering for us.  Without any prompting, he launched into a history of his family's dining room furniture, and its many maintenance challenges.  Mike, as it turns out, is the oldest of five children, whose mother recovered their dining room chair seats so often that he swore she could do it in her sleep.  It was his job to pull out the old staples each time, so his memories of the process are both clear and deeply etched.  I asked him what kind of dining room chairs he has now:  Molded plastic bar stools.  Lad seems to have retained the lessons of his youth.

Later that same day I was on the phone with a friend and mentioned our chair seat odyssey.  "Oh my gosh!" she said, "I'm doing that same project myself in a couple of days.  My mother visited last week and daintily spread a tea towel over the dining room chair seat before she would sit down." 

Seems to me that both mothers and dining chairs are universal: both purpose-driven, and both prone to getting smeared with gravy. 

I bet every single one of us has at least one memory of the dining room furniture of our youth, and the maintenance thereof.  Even Phillip, who can't remember my middle name, can tell you that the seats used to be blue when he was a kid, until they changed to green, and for some reason he never liked them as well after that.  I happen to know that in reality, the chair seats changed color the same year Phillip's parents divorced, and it was actually the family dining experience that he no longer liked as well.  Funny the way things are.

While we reupholstered, Lindsay and I had a conversation about why chair seats even matter in the first place.  I explained to her that there have been studies which show that children who regularly have dinner with their families get better grades, are healthier and happier than kids who don't.  If sitting down together has that much impact, the room we do it in deserves our special attention every now and then.

What I didn't tell her is that the memories she and her brother form of our daily bread and the time we spend together eating it are as important to me as their first days of school, our family vacations, or any other cherished thing.  Anybody who has had the great blessing of a home in which to live, and a dedicated space within it to share meals can tell you:  The true seat of power is the Dining Room Chair.