The Slow Go

It is almost my nephew's 13th birthday. I began working on an afghan for him at the end of August, thinking that this would give me plenty of time to complete this warm cozy colorful throw. I proceeded to pick out this beautiful yarn. An interesting afghan pattern, called Rambeling Rows. Armed and ready, with my tools, and the use of a knitting technique called mitered squares, I was ready to go. Then tomorrow happened. Then many, many, many tomorrows happened. And here we are in November with no end in sight. OK. So I took a break to knit a couple of hats. Then I became distracted by my new "crackberry", which I have been downright addicted to since getting this phone, having come to terms that my previous phone, being held together by a rubber band was due to crap out on me at any moment. Then Halloween. And Halloween madness. The question now is, can I get this thing done in 15 days? I am going to say . . .

I have no idea. Perhaps I should start thinking about this as a Christmas gift.

A Crawling Adventure

This Colombus Day weekend marked the first ever NYC Yarn Crawl. What this means really is just taking yourself, and/or a group of like minded yarn fiends, and going around to each yarn store that is participating in said event. Now I personally am perfectly happy to stalk yarn stores at my own leisure, without the crowds and the frenzy of such. I don't need a "yarn crawl" to be enticed to visit these stores, but I do get how this can be a fascinating event. I managed to crawl to Stitch Therapy, my local yarn store, with exciting things of their own planned for the Yarn Crawl, not to mention where I teach. During the festivities a fellow knitter buddy of mine had made an interesting remark. While she did in fact take part in the Yarn Crawl and visit some of the stores here in the city, she mentioned that it would be cool to go to a Yarn Crawl in say Philadelphia, and make a weekend of it. Yes, that I would do. Unfortunately by the time the NY shindig was planned, it was too late to mention it in the trade papers, and other knitting, crochet related publications. That of course would have invited another brand of insanity, with fanatical knitter tourists from all over. This made me think. I would love the excuse to flee my mundane existence, and travel to a far away place to lasciviously fondle yarn in different yarn stores. Each store, or so I was told was doing different things to bring the fiends out. I understand that Brooklyn General was doing music, and all the stores were involved in a raffle, which I cheerfully took part in. I've been having some luck with raffles having won 2 raffle prizes at A Get Acquainted Dinner, hosted by my daughter's school, and admittedly I could possible pee myself should I win this basket of yarn I clearly don't need. Stitch Therapy hosted a lovely book launch reading/reception, which I made with child in tow. I was super psyched for author Beth Hahn, a fellow knitting buddy, and blogger at willowrosa.blogspot.com, and the opportunity to bask in her celebrity. Beth not only a talented knitter and knitwear designer, she is also a talented writer, and painter which is showcased in her newly released, The Adventures of Miss Flitt. A 19 c. Mystery in Four parts. With watercolors and knitwear designs. To buy this book, See link: missflitt.com. I already have my copy.

12 year old YIKES

My 12 year old neighbor and I had a discussion yesterday surrounding her shitty day at school. It seems that a playful physical encounter with a boy got a little rough, and she ended up on her ass. This little incident of course played out in clear view of all her friends, and of course there was laughter from her peers. This was one of many conversations between me and my 12 year old neighbor regarding adolescent angst. This started me thinking about two things. My own adolescent angst, and the adolescent angst that will be my daughter's some day. I was struck by the fact that I was having this conversation, more so that here I was remembering being 12, and just starting to notice boys. Or rather that boys were starting to notice me. It was all very innocent. Or so I thought. A boy name Donnie had taken a liking to me, and I was just flattered that anyone could be interested in little ol' me. He was older, say 13, and ran with a rougher crowed than I did. At the time I did not seem to notice this. He began writing letters, and having his friends hand deliver them to me. One day I gave him my phone number so that he could call me at home. This would be the onset of one of the most difficult periods in my life. While this may seem pretty normal development for a 12 year old girl, just beginning to become curious about boys, it would create a tension, and supreme upset in my household when the boy did call. To say that my father went crazy would be a profound understatement. To say my father went completely ape shit, would also be a profound understatement. I can recall being sat down, and screamed at, for what seemed like hours, being told essentially that sluts and whores have boys call them, and that all would be done to prevent me from meeting such a fate. That is being a slut and whore. If that meant death, so be it. The line "I brought you into this world, and I'll take you out", was as common in my household as "good morning" is in other households. Having already given my number, I could not now undo it. And Donnie didn't seem to get the backlash that had occurred, and figured calling my house, and hanging up if I didn't answer would resolve any upset his call would cause. This of course made things worse, and for years after, when someone would call, and hang up, I would by default be in serious trouble. My father went as far as to tell me one day, that I was his woman. Weird. But that was my life. And this nightmare did not go away quietly. After one such call and hang up, my father was at my Junior High School, threatening to "stomp" the offender. If I were dismissed late from school, from that moment forward, I was accused of all kinds of things I'd never even heard of. Who knew you could squeeze in a blow job right after dismissal? And so my life began to suck in a way most people could not begin to imagine. My public humiliation would come in the form of my father, restless, out of his car, looking at his watch, and then hollering at me the second I emerged from the school doors with my classmates were routine. Yikes. And what did I learn? Something is really wrong with my family. And while the word dysfunctional was not commonly used to described fucked up family life in the olden days, fucked up family life suited my own personal description just fine. I learned to never give out my phone number. To keep secrets, and that to survive anything was an option. Lying, stealing, maiming, whatever had to be done to prevent the fury of crazy man. By the time I left my junior high school, I had gained a notoriety as opposed to popularity. The deans, the guidance counselors, and the principal all knew my father. I remember getting a detention once for tardiness, and our dean Travelli called me down to his office and said "Are you crazy? You can't get detention!" With that he ripped up the detention slip, and remarked "I can't have your father up here again", and with that he dismissed me. And off I went, never to get detention again. Well, there was that time for chewing gum, but that slip got ripped up too, and prompted another visit to Travelli's office, but after that, I would get no more detentions! I swear. Determined I was to have as normal an adolescent life as I could under the circumstances, I allowed myself to enjoy my later junior high and high school crushes, which involved nothing more than talking, and walking to class. And so here I am, many years later, with a daughter of my own, and dispensing wise sage advice to my 12 year old neighbor. Looking at the bright side of things, my little neighbor shuddered with relief that as bad a day as she had had, at least she doesn't go to my daughter's school, which is an all girl catholic school.

What can I make for you please?

I knit mainly for my daughter. You see, she has no choice in what she wears, although with every passing day, this is less and less the case. I have a nephew, who in the past I have tried to knit for, and long, long before, when it could be cute to wear something that embarrassing Aunt has made for you, he had long since been rejecting any of the hand made items I made for him with love in every stitch. As he got older, I began to query his reluctance to wear anything I made, and have as a result discovered two things. Number 1 -- Do not knit with itchy yarn. Kids hate it. He was always very sweet about protecting my feelings, but he was not going to put himself in a position to itch voluntarily. Number 2 -- I figured out that you should probably ask anyone over the age of 5 what you should knit for them if you are bent on knitting something. Since my kid had been the main beneficiary of my creative woolen goods, I began to feel I should make something for my beloved nephew Chris. As that urge to knit began to take hold like a rabid case of scabies, I was determined to knit something for him. I asked him if there was anything he wanted. He of course politely declined, expressing that one as cool and manly (as his 11 year old self was at the time), had no such need for silly hats to keep his head warm, and scarves are just annoying. OK -- so he didn't quite say all that, but trust me people, it is all in the subtext. One glorious day my nephew came to me with tears in his eyes requesting that I use my gift of having string to do my bidding be used to make him some gloves. Truthfully, that moving interaction went something more like this -- "Hey, how about a pair of mittens?" To which he laughed. 11/12 year old manly boys DO NOT wear mittens. Gloves? Eh, no. No interest in gloves either. But then finally he did decide on something. Fingerless gloves. I offered (because I can't help myself) the convertible mitten option to which he again politely decline. But we were on to something, and I could not let this opportunity pass me by, so I feverishly began to work on fingerless gloves with the same urgency as one who is conducting DNA analysis for the Innocence Project, and within a couple of days my beloved boy had his fingerless gloves whether he really wanted them or not. More importantly though, I wanted him to have them, even though I worried that his little finger tips might get cold. After spending sleepless, and painstakingly long nights worrying about this, I was happy to see that at the end of the winter season last year, he had not only wore them, nor did he render them or one of the pair of gloves homeless, he ended up asking if I could make the convertible mitten hood after all. His fingers were warm last winter as were the cockles of my heart.

Jesus has left the building.

I began knitting around 2002, and began knitting compulsively shortly after a miscarrying what would have been my second child, a girl, at 4 and a half months on Good Friday, 2007. That sucked. Being somewhat Catholic, I thought to seek refuge at St. Augustine, which is around the corner from my home. I would often stop in there when I needed some peace and time for quiet reflection on this unique brand of insanity that is my life. Anyway, there is a life size crucifix, with Jesus and everything. So I figured I would stop in, say a few words, or not,cry, and feel sorry for myself. That might seem pretty selfish considering that from the looks of it, our brethren Jesus has bigger problems. Be that as it may, I was feeling a tad selfish and really needy that day, and since I grew up being told HE died for my sins, and that he can be a good to talk to in moments like these, I thought I might as well give it a whirl. I walk in, prepped and ready to completely unravel and freak out that I was now carrying a dead baby, and feeling pretty wretched to boot. Who better to share my profound horror and devastation? So I walk in, and it seems Jesus has left the building. I had forgotten that on Good Friday, it is not unusual to cover the crucifix to commemorate the death/Crucifixion of Christ in anticipation of the celebration of his Resurrection on Easter. But I must say, walking in the church, and not seeing Jesus was a huge bummer. In any case after feeling profoundly abandoned, the need to channel my energy into something that didn't involve being angry at God, and wallowing in self pity, I found myself at my local yarn with a desperate urge to knit. Kudos to Maxcine who, after I could not find a pattern I liked, insisted that I could design one I do like. I ended up making this beautiful lavender poncho for my daughter, thus giving birth to something I wouldn't have otherwise imagined. And that is where it all started. The good, the bad, and ugly. The good is the knitting part. The bad, and the ugly is whole other freak show.