Not Easy Being Green

I know it's nowhere near St. Patrick's Day yet, but I'm feeling green.

This is Marie Wallin's "Brea", from Rowan, executed in the far less noble (and far less pricey) Berroco Comfort,  just to see if it could be done.  It can.  But no one here will be surprised to learn that I wish I had made it in wool.  While the yarn I chose is fine, and even interesting, in terms of its cabled construction, and drapey hand, it's just not going to last.  When a sweater threatens not to survive even its own making before starting to pick and pill, you do not have a winner on your hands.  I still love the pattern, though, which is good, because I'm thinking I'll have to make another version in really good yarn before the itch is scratched.

I like the way this weird peasant silhouette looks with jeans, but there was not a single item in my wardrobe other than that with which I could wear it.  Bother.  Had to dash out to the fabric store in search of something for a simple skirt to go with it.  Score!  The very first thing I saw was exactly the same (strange) color combination I had chosen for the yarn.  I actually thought it might match too closely, if there is such a thing.  Then there was this pretty piece of cotton voile from England, which politely requested to come home with me and become a scarf.  Who could resist?  Add hunter-green tights and shake well. (P.S. Hunted for Hunter-green tights lately?  1992 called - they said they were all fresh out).

All of which brings me to my question for you, Gentle Readers:  What do YOU do when, after the first flush of smug satisfaction at having finished a project, you realize there is nothing in your wardrobe to wear it with?  I realize that most clever knitters such as yourselves would ask themselves about what there is to wear with the thing you are considering knitting, sometime near the BEGINNING of the project.  But, just for my sake, let's pretend you hadn't been that proactive.  Suppose you fell so deeply in love with a project that you dove right into knitting it without so much as a By-Your-Leave from the rest of your closet?  And then there was nothing to go with it at the end? 

Would you go shopping at the mall/fabric/thrift store?
Wear it anyway with whatever else you happened to have on?
Freak out and give it away?

Just wondering what goes on with the rest of you when you realize you have knitted an item that was separated at birth from all your other clothing...

House of Homework

My husband goes to school.  I'm not sure, but isn't the next academic certification after "PhD" officially "DemiGod"?  My husband goes to school to further his intellectual understanding of the world, its thinkers, and its fellow lovers of language.  He has to do lots of homework, all the time.

My husband goes to school for his JOB, as well.  He's a public schoolteacher, because that's where he can make a real difference.  In the trenches, if you will. 

He completely blew my mind last week, by describing a family who chose to homeschool its oldest child until he turned 15, at which point he displayed extremely antisocial behaviors (go figure - never met other humans of his own age -), and then summarily handed said child over to the public school system.  Which here means: To the personal care and feeding of the man I married.  Good thing he has room for this kid in his heart.  If you have wondered how/why I could love someone who threw away my fleece, this is one of the many reasons:  Did your parents screw it up?  I'll get you into college anyway!  Last week was the end of the semester, which meant he had to read, critique, and grade the final exams of all 180 of his students.  That's a lot of essays.  And then he had to create new lessons for the beginning of the new semester.  Lotsa homework.

Lindsay gets gobs of homework.  In the 6th grade, Linds studies for two different math classes, advanced placement language arts, social studies and science.  I have wondered this year at the amount of after school work her teachers pile on.  I suppose if you throw enough spaghetti at the wall, some of it is bound to stick.  She's not the sort to complain about it, but she does notice that it cuts into her recreational reading time.

Campbell has homework every week, too.  His is all received on Friday, and he has to pace himself through it all week long to have it done in time to hand in.  To say that Cam dislikes homework would be like referring to the WEBS warehouse as "a yarn collection":  Something of an understatement.  Last night Phillip asked Campbell if his homework was done.  Something in the nine-year-old psyche twanged, and Cam went from zero to pissed off in a nanosecond.  He launched into a rant against fathers, homework, and the impolitic cruelty of the universe.  Phillip's hair may actually have blown back.

And me?  Well, I am making swatches for my steeks students.  Normally the pre-class swatch is the responsibility of the student, but since my Madrona students are already making an entire full-size garment before coming to class, I feel that asking them to make swatches too is just tacky.  72 stranded colorwork swatches.  Lotsa swatches.  Swatch-a-palooza.  Swatch-tastic.  Sure, it's homework, but it's not really my homework, so somehow I don't mind it.  And that's when I got the e-mail:

"The homework for the class you will attend at Madrona has been edited.  Please download the new homework instructions to prepare for your class."

One of the great things about the Madrona winter retreat is that the teachers are all encouraged to also attend classes as regular students.  I am really excited about what I will learn this year.  So much so that I seem to have completely skipped the part where I look at the homework requirements.  It never even crossed my mind to check.  That's right: I'm supposed to be knitting a mini-sweater in order to participate in my class.  I was this close to being the only student to show up with her homework not done.  I, who live in the House of Homework, on Student Street, in the City of Study, in the Province of Preparation.  Didn't even think about needing to attend to my own homework.  Ironic much?

Oh, sorry, Janine Bajus, world-renowned teacher and designer, for coming to your class unprepared, with no homework!  The dog ate it.

Back Story

Today is a rare delight for me:  I get to tell you about something I made, which you can actually now see.  Some of you might even already have it, since the Blue Moon Fiber Arts Rockin' Sock Club  first shipment has officially gone out.  I am privileged to have been chosen to make this design for the coolest, toughest, and most devoted group of sock knitters that ever was.  No pressure.  

Sometimes I feel like the character in Greek mythology (I think it might have been Midas' barber) who couldn't keep a secret and had to dig a hole and whisper it into the ground to keep from exploding.  There are so many things I dream up, and work on, and tangle with, that I am forbidden to share with you before they are ready for prime time.  And as those who have met me know, I was born without the Shut Up Gene, so things get dicey for me at these times.  When I am knitting on a deadline, and every minute has to be spent on one of these Project X items, I can't even go to knit nite, because I can't be trusted not to spill the secrets.  Bummer.  So with great glee, I herewith spew the goods on the Distelfink Socks:

I was really surprised to learn that the lovely and talented Lucy Neatby was selected for this project as long ago as Sock Summit, because I was asked only this fall.  Maybe the enormously busy and productive Ms. Newton forgot that she wanted a second design in the space between?  Or maybe she was mulling over whether traditional stranded colorwork was really the way to go?  I would never ask, since I hate to look a knitting job in the mouth.  What I do know is that this project represents the very first stranded colorwork sock that Blue Moon has ever offered, and I am well and truly flattered by the honor I was given to make it.

The idea for this sock originally presented itself to me a couple of seasons back, when Abby Franquemont and I first met.  I was trying to think of a collaborative project that was all about friendship, and could somehow incorporate her killer spinning with my saucy knitting.  At the time, I thought it should be mittens, with each friend knitting a mismatched pair, and then exchanging to make sets.  She was going to spin some yarn, and I was going to design a motif.  Abby and I both got distracted, and well, you know how it is.  Even the best of friends can find themselves sidetracked, and promise to pick up where they left off some other time...Abby, I still want to trade mittens with you, and someday we will do it!

So Tina asked me to meditate on the nature of friendship, to let it inspire a sock design.  She asked me my favorite color, and I answered "Aubergine", without any clue that she had already made a new aubergine colorway and given it to Lucy to work with a full 2 years ago.  Weird, no? 

I fell in love with Distelfinks when I was a kid, studying american quilts.  A mythical bird with magical powers?  And two of them together signify a blessed friendship?  Sign me up!  For a while I tried not to put that picot edge on the tops, and then I realized that resistance was futile.  The picot is my first love, my all-time favorite edge, and I just couldn't fight it.  Besides, I reasoned that the people getting this pattern were not necessarily going to be familiar with my sweater designs, so why not introduce myself to them properly?

Working with two brand-new, still nameless Blue Moon colors was completely transcendental.  The yarn came in the mail, without a ball band, note, explanation, or anything.  It just arrived, and immediately started whispering to me what it wanted to be.  And after forming an intimate friendship with it, I couldn't help but give the colors names:  The multi-colored one reminded me of a tropical cocktail in a coconut cup.  I dubbed it "Fuzzy Sunrise on the Beach".  And the dark semi-solid could only be "Auber-Genius", like what Wile E. Coyote has printed on the business card he hands to Bugs Bunny.  Last week, when I visited Tina, she presented me with my very own January kit (Rockin' Sock Club: I'm not just a designer, I'm also a member!) I saw then that she had actually adopted one of my names.  And for the record, I think "Pinky Swear" is a way better moniker for the multi than the one I came up with. 

So that's the story of the Distelfink socks.  Oh, and the part when Tina Newton said my sock toes were sexy?  I totally geeked out.  After I read that in her dyer's notes, I vowed never to wash my eyes again.