Yarn Harlot (11 page)

My husband has channeled his
Make something
into finding the summer clothes and has gotten the Birkenstock sandals out. I love my Birks. I really do. It’s still too cold to wear them though. I could wear them with socks … yeah, that’s it. I don’t have any really nice bright socks though….

I
t’s happened again. I have become cocky and proud and my knitting is suffering for it. The world is spinning crazily around me, and I’m looking at my knitting completely staggered. To stay on track for my deadline, I need to finish this slipper today. As I gleefully sail through the last row, I realize that I don’t have the right number of stitches left over. This means that I’ve got the whole slipper crooked, and given that my mother’s feet don’t point inward at a forty-five-degree angle, I’m going to have to rip it back and start again. Once again, I’m furious with myself for not taking more care.

That is the knitting theme this year—rookie mistakes that shouldn’t be happening to somebody who has been knitting as long as I have. These are the sorts of mistakes that you make when you’re learning to knit; experienced knitters laugh about them over coffee. I’ve apparently decided that I am above natural knitting law. And I’m paying for it.

I’ve finally decided that the simple rules that every knitter needs to respect can’t be outgrown. Since I can’t be the only one who, over time, comes to expect experience to outweigh common sense, I’ve come up with a list of humbling reminders.

1. Swatching is not stupid. I cannot intuitively tell the gauge, behavior, or washability of every yarn in the world simply by holding it in my hand. Experience does not excuse me from knitting a swatch. This is obvious since I have in recent months knit a sweater that grew to seven times its original length when it hit water and a pair of socks that had ribbing so tight that they threatened mid-calf amputation.
   

2. It is not dumb to circle, highlight, or otherwise indicate the instructions for the size you are knitting on your pattern. I remembered this while frantically trying to think of a family member with an enormous hunchback who could wear a sweater with a size small front, and a size large back. While reknitting the front I realized that I’m disappointed that I don’t know anyone misshapen enough. How weird is that?
   

3. Double-checking what chart symbols mean is not for losers. Just because if I ran the world, a light blue square on a chart would correspond to using light blue yarn, this does not mean that this is what the light blue square actually means.
   

   Sure, a horizontal line should be a purl stitch, and it’s logical that no symbol means no stitch. But it ain’t necessarily so, as the song says.
   

   Shocking as it may seem, knitting designers do not have a psychic uplink with me and do not always design things the way that would be best for me personally. (On the upside of this one, while I didn’t get a sweater that looked anything like the designer’s, I believe I invented a new stitch pattern in an appallingly hideous colorway.)
   

4. It is not a waste of time to read ahead in the pattern, I do not always know what is coming. A classic example: Carefully and deliberately working the armhole decreases according to the instructions, while ever so artfully incorporating the cable pattern into my work all the way to the top, then checking the pattern for my next step and reading “at the same time” followed by the decrease directions for the neck shaping that I should have begun six inches ago.
   

5. Most important, I do not always know a better way to do it. Enough said. I am surrounded by an assortment of freakish knitted objects. Sweaters for which I changed the neckline to something “better” so now the neck won’t go over my head. A vest for which I thought that casting off the stitches and then picking them up again for the neck was a stupid waste of time, only to learn in a horribly graphic demonstration that this alleged time-waster prevents the neckline from stretching out so much that you can step into it. Socks with drunken cables because I was overconfident about memorizing a pattern. Two left mittens. Hats for pinheads. Socks that would only fit horses.
   

I accept it. I will remember the rules. I will acknowledge that these are the simple mantras I must chant to myself if I want my knitting to look like the pattern. I will knit the words “Pride goeth before a fall” into a scarf of the scratchiest wool and wear it against my bare neck for a month to humble myself.

If anybody knows when the circus is passing through town, please let them know that I have a few things for them.

To Daring Designer,
AbFabFibers, Inc.

Dear Designer,

I know how busy you are. Why just yesterday, was admiring your new pattern for your thigh-high argyle stockings with the coordinating felted garter belt. (You are
such
an intriguing woman.) I won’t take up much of your time, but did want to take just a moment to ask a question about some of the specifics on your sock pattern.

Why don’t you and I try to agree on some basic principles? I’m not talking the big ones, like politics or world peace … All I want sorted out is the exact yardage on your wonderful knitting patterns.
(That’s a lie. I would also really like a word with the screwdriver people, I mean get real—how many kinds of screwdrivers does the world really need? Is it not possible that we could get our crap together and agree on one kind of screw? It isn’t enough that I have to go looking for my screwdriver, but to need to find
the small Phillips type screwdriver? It’s really unnecessary.) I
know that the element of surprise is a valid part of your pattern writing, and that you don’t like me to think too much for myself, but I do wonder if telling me how much yarn you used would be over the line.

Your pattern says that I need one four-ounce skein of the lighter color and an equal amount of the dark. Your pattern even tells me that each skein of your AbFab sock yarn has about 350 yards. I appreciate your efforts (however short they may fall) to supply me with (limited) information.

My problem, my dear designer, is that I have a partial ball of your incredible sock yarn in the darker color, and I am wondering if it will be enough for the three stinking rounds that it is used for on your (as previously mentioned) wonderful pattern.

I know that this will seem odd and shocking to you, your position in the yarn world being what it is, but just try to imagine this for a moment. What if I don’t
want to
buy a full boatload of your yarn every single time I knit one of your patterns? Naturally, since there can be no other yarn like your yarn, I wouldn’t dream of trying to use another company’s yarn. You should know better than anyone else that knitters never substitute yarns (right?). But is there a rule against using leftovers?

The light-colored yarn is used for the leg and foot of the sock, so I can accept that I would need a brand spanking new 350-yard skein. My question is for the darker yarn. Since it is only used for those three masterful rounds at the top of the sock, is it true that I need a full 350-yard skein, as your pattern requirements state? Or have you figured out a way to knit a black hole into the top of that sock? I wouldn’t doubt it, your skills being what they are.

I know that doing this your way means that more people purchase more yarn, rather than using up leftovers or spinning their own, and that selling more yarn is in your best interests. I even appreciate that you need to sell me more yarn to support yourself so that you can continue your important design work. (Your Fair Isle toilet seat cover work is groundbreaking by the way
—
good for you, for not listening to those silly “market surveys. “) But would it be completely unreasonable for me to ask whether, perhaps, I only need maybe ten yards of the darker color for the sock?

Your lady of the
limited
realistic budget,
Stephanie

P.S. Letters are a two-way street, and it wouldn’t kill you to write back once in a while.

O
nce again, it’s Christmastime. How I can be completely blindsided by a holiday that happens on the same day each year is absolutely beyond me. You’d swear that they only announce the date for Christmas in November and I have maybe three weeks to cope with the news. Once again I am nowhere near ready, and once again my family has turned its back on me.

I can’t really blame the poor embattled souls; they have been down this road with me before and they know how it ends. I know how it ends too. “IT” is the bane of our holidays. Every year I swear that “IT” will never happen again, that I will learn from my experience. It seems I can’t be taught.

Even as I write, I don’t believe that “IT” will happen to me this year. This year will be different. This year I can do it.

Here’s how “IT” begins. Sometime in the fall, when the weather gets crisp and wearing wool starts to make sense again, I realize that Christmas is coming and I’d better get started on the holiday knitting. (Mind you, if everyone pitched in and did
something about global warming I might get more of a heads-up, but never mind.) Usually I voice this happy concern as I begin taking apart the stash, leaving stacks of patterns and yarn around the house, and further neglecting housework and my real job. Every year I am convinced that this time, I have started early enough to avoid “IT.” I plan all kinds of things. Little sweaters for babies I know, hats for quick gifts, socks to keep darling feet warm and afghans for new homes. (That’s right—afghans. Hope springs eternal.)

Thus we enter Phase 1. Phase 1 is a happy time. I am planning; I love my wool and patterns; I am full of good ideas; I bask in the pleasure of expressing my love through wool. Christmas is far enough away. Phase 1 is joy.

Phase 2 involves detailed planning and casting on. During Phase 2, I start making lists. What exactly do I plan on knitting before Christmas? Here is this year’s list:

• Four pairs of felted clogs (brother, sister-in-law, aunt, and uncle)
  

• One afghan (brother with new house)
  

• One throw (sister with new house)
  

• Three hoodie sweaters (daughters)
  

• One shawl (mother-in-law)
  

• Two sets of hats and mittens (nieces)
  

• Three sweaters (nephew, goddaughter, friend’s baby)
  

• Hat and scarf (daughter’s tutor)
  

• Five washcloths (daughters’ teachers)
  

• Two pairs of socks (mate, best friend)
  

• Elegant copper and gold wrap (myself, to go with my little black dress)
  

This last item marks the depths of my delusion. Not only does it rest on the illusion that I will be invited somewhere where this is appropriate attire, but it assumes that I will get through the mountain of knitting I’ve planned with enough time not just to knit the wrap but to go out wearing it.

Then I go through the stash and to the yarn store and cast on all of these projects (usually in one day), place them strategically around the house so that I have the right kind of knitting in each room, and happily begin knitting. Phase 2 is when my family starts laughing and shaking their heads. Phase 2 is when I tell them that this year will be different.

Phase 3 is when it starts to get ugly. Phase 3 is when I look at the projects scattered around the house and start to feel the first pangs of concern. It dawns on me that this may be a fairly large (read “impossible”) enterprise. This is the phase in which my family stops laughing and starts the nervous giggling as it slowly dawns on them that “IT” is going to happen again. I handle Phase 3 by rationalizing and planning. Some common rationalizations are “Well, I know it looks like a lot, but the afghan is on big needles” or “I’ve never knit felted clogs, but they can’t take more than an hour a pair.” The planning is more vague. I’ll knit on the bus; my mate will do the laundry to free up time; I’ll knit for thirty minutes on each thing, and it will all go so quickly. I can do it. It will be fine. I’m a fast knitter and this is reasonable…. Right?

Phase 4 is when the support of my family goes out the window. Phase 4 is when it finally occurs to me that I might have a knitting crisis. Being the hopeful type, I’m still fairly positive. I know I have a problem, but I believe that with a serious commitment I can get out of it. It is in this phase that my family starts to express concern for my physical health and mental well-being. They begin to talk about how “IT” was last year. Phase 4 strategies include the following:

1. Carefully assess project status and estimate how many hours of knitting remain. Divide this number by the number of days until Christmas. (When figuring the number of knitting days available to you, allow every day between now and Christmas, even though you know that you will have to spend some days doing other things. Denial is a powerful Phase 4 tool.) This gives you the KHPD (Knitting Hours Per Day) that you must knit to meet your Christmas goal. (Tip: Make sure that you underestimate the number of hours it will take you to knit your items; you don’t want to scare yourself.)
   

2. Neglect housework. This can increase knitting time substantially, but you must remember to deduct one day from your total number of days until Christmas to clean up for the guests.
   

3. Deduct sleeping time. Minor sleep deprivation is okay here. People with new babies miss all kinds of sleep. It won’t kill you. I find that I can convert one hour of sleep to knitting time every night without any real consequences.
   

4. Make sure your family knows that you are going to be knitting full time. Make known the gravity of the situation. My personal technique for this consists of showing everyone the list repeatedly and explaining in a maniacal tone of voice that I am going to need some extra help and consideration. Ignore their pleas for sanity. If they beg you to stop and ask you please, for the love of God, not to let “IT” happen this year, ask them if they are trying to ruin Christmas.