Stuck
Every single one of the following problems is my own fault. I know it. Which is why I want to be very clear: I'm Not Complaining. Complaining is for weenies, and gets you nowhere, and as everybody knows, There's No Crying in Knitting. So I'm Not Complaining. Issues about which I am Not Complaining, in no particular order, are:
1. I need three more colors of yarn to go any further on my Super-Juicy new Color Theory class project. I ordered all the right colors to make a yarn color wheel. And when they arrived, three of them were not at all right. Not even close. Wrong-a-Palooza. So I had to order three replacements (whose rightness I am now also beginning to doubt), and they aren't here yet. I tried to get started on the project, thinking that 9 out of 12 colors ought to be enough to do something with, but stunningly, when 2 of the missing colors are primaries, the wagon finds the mud pretty fast. Lucky for me I'm a patient soul who waits happily. Not. But, I'm Not Complaining.
2. I made a sock. And it's so sexy I'm just dying to show it to you. In fact, it's so fabulous that I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to start the second one, a phenomenon which has occurred approximately NEVER. I do not have enough yarn for the second sock. The dreamy stringmaker who gave it to me will absolutely make more. I know it. But I don't know when. Not today. The wagon sinks deeper, though I'm still Not Complaining.
3. The Frog Prince is a black sweater. The sun is bright, and my eyes are (sorta) sharp, but stockinette on size 2's is something best done in a series of small sprints, rather than a marathon. My enthusiasm for the re-manufacture of this piece is waning. The wagon has slowed appreciably. A weaker knitter might moan and groan that there's nothing else to work on besides boring black stockinette. But that would be Complaining. Which I'm Not.
4. Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. I HATE hot. Which is why I live in a temperate rainforest, where it slobbers with rain at around 40 degrees, for about 11 months of every year. This is the 12th month. My living room has become the surface of the sun. All forward wagon momentum has ceased, while we sit around watching each other dehydrate. No one has slept in days, which has the four members of family Huff somewhat cross. And by "Somewhat Cross", I mean that I am considering eating my young, and they have hinted that they would welcome the distraction. Their father has fled to the air-conditioned comfort of a temporary summer job, and the company of adult associates. Lucky Bastard. But I'm Not Complaining.
Clearly what's needed here is a different wagon. Or less mud. I'm going to take another whack at the color theory project; maybe design the class flyer while the yarn makes its way to me. And I'm going to write the pattern for the sock while the yarn for its mate is being born, knowing that whenever it arrives will be the perfect time to make the second sock. As for the frog, I'm going to try working on it somewhere else (frozen foods section of the grocery?) to see if the change in scenery revives my enthusiasm. Which leaves only the snarling masses of my family to sort out. Obviously, I'm going to have to eat them. I'm sure I'll miss them when they're gone, but I promise I won't Complain.
