Have you heard? Fruit Loops has more fiber and Red Dye #40

One fall day, after picking up my daughter from school, I began talking with a lovely woman, who I have become friendly with about diet.  Not the "I'm trying to lose 10lbs" kind of diet, but the "what foods do you feed your kid" kind of diet. Now I am not the parent that won't let my kid indulge in a candy treat from time to time, but what she said opened my eyes.  Gia had just began Pre-K, and I had my concerns as my kid is, well, to put it nicely . . . busy.  I wondered if she would be able to tolerate a full day of school, barely 4 and not try to swing from the lighting fixtures.  In my quest for sanity maintenance, I happened to voice my trepidations, and my friend remarked that I should try to avoid food dyes.  Particularly, red dye #40. Huh?  What the hell is that?  Well it turns out that red dyes and a host of other food coloring dyes have been shown to exacerbate hyperactivity, and symptoms in children with existing behavioral disorders, such as ADD, and ADHD.  My daughter by nature is active, and as a result every second of her waking moment is chalk filled with activities in which to channel her liveliness.  Still, I got to thinking that I should at the very least start to pay attention to my friends very wise sage advice, and try to if not eliminate, limit her intake of food dyes which of course is in everything.  The first thing to go was the Trix yogurt that her father would buy for her.  She like many kids loved all the pretty colors, and got into picking out which color palate of said yogurt she will bring for snack.  So I began by calling it radioactive yogurt, and encouraged the more, while not as colorful, healthy organic choice. 

Having taught CCD for several years now, I have encountered a number of children that were diagnosed ADD and/or ADHD.  Even in my comparatively brief encounter with these children, having had a glimpse into that very challenging world, I now wonder, how many of their parents were even aware of this little detail regarding this seemingly innocuous food coloring. And just how much of a difference would it have made in terms of this insidious disorder?  Granted, some children may exhibit more or less of a reaction, if any at all to ingesting these tasty neon colored treats, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to think, that neon colored foods and drinks can't be good.  So in light of that, I figured, why not spread the word?  There is even a Blog devoted to it.

In Pursuit of Completion

I am going to state for public record that I am back from sabbatical, and will forsake all other projects, new and old to finish work on one very, very important undertaking that involves yarn.  The yarn of choice is the Lana Grossa Chiara, in a shiny rose.  I spent a great deal of time giving the "what shall I make" a whole lot of thought, and  finally settled on a cute little bolero sweater. There are a few things I have in mind for this undertaking. Having chosen a finer yarn, then what was suggested in the pattern I am going to have to adjust a few things.  Needle size for one.  Having spent a great deal of time procrastinating, I swatched the yarn using a few different needle sizes, finally settling on the size 8 suggested in the pattern.  The garment will be smaller nonetheless, fitting a baby, as opposed to a toddler.  One of my dearest friends is expecting her first child, this screams for knitting by default.  But the thing is, for my dearest friend, it has to be pretty fucking awesome.   Unlike many knitted sweaters, this sweater in constructed from the neck down.  You begin with the cast on, and then work back and forth in stockinette, increasing as you go, as indicated by the instructions on the pattern.  You will then divide for the sleeves, which will be placed on a piece of scrap yarn while you work the back of the sweater to the desired length.  That is where I am now. You see, I am not one of those people who knit, or crochet things for just anyone.  I am not that person, that will knit for the 3rd cousin of the assistant of a friend of mine who is expecting a baby.  I do however know of many knitters that relish the notion of hand knits for everyone, and even knit Christmas gifts.  I generally don't.  Not because I don't want to, but to put it simply, I have major difficulty with time constraints.  This is obvious with the many unfinished projects that are angrily eyeing me in bags or baskets in several parts of my home. Be that as it may, I will have to set the gears to power knitting, to accomplish the completion of said cute little hand knit sweater, before the baby in question makes her debut.

hOw to eArn bRagginG rights

We have all experienced that parent. The one that must tell you how extraordinary and brilliant their kid is at whatever.  You know the type.  Five minutes after meeting you are held verbal hostage while they go on and on about their kid and that kid's life story, and how smart, or talented they are.  Perhaps you nod politely, or look sideways and roll your eyes.  Maybe  you are compelled to share the genius that is your offspring.  Maybe you are genuinely interested.  First, there is that parent whose kid is very verbal, and you must be made aware of it, in case you didn't notice.  Or that child that is so well coordinated that they have to take their dance classes with the older children.  True story.  This was our first meeting, and this came up within seconds of our introduction.  Not only that, but she mentioned the same thing to me twice, having either forgot she told me, or forgot who I was.  I even overheard her telling someone else.  I think that was my favorite. I think secretly all parents want to hear from their kid's teacher that they the parent of a freakin' prodigy.  I don't mind hearing all about juniors great accomplishment, but to be quite frank, 99.9% of the time, I just see an ordinary kid, just like mine.  And I have determined that there is nothing wrong with being an ordinary kid.  I consider it my responsibility to help my kid find her thing, and I don't feel the urge to share every mundane detail with everyone whom I say "nice to meet you".  We all know of at least one person, if not our self, that was skipped a grade in school, or a kid that maybe has an aptitude for sports, or art, but does it mean you should have a spot on the TODAY SHOW?   So I submit to you, what if there were a rule that in order for you to earn bragging rights, and I mean to complete strangers or very casual acquaintances, the "greatness" has to be mind blowing, say "my six year old has been taking piano for just six months and can play Chopin Minute Waltz, by memory, why yes in fact during some technical difficulties at an elementary school show, he was asked to play a tune while they get it together backstage.  Or "my baby is stil in diapers, but he can do a mean samba".  Wonder which class he takes?

sEntiMENTAL BrEAKdOWn

I have been on a knitting hiatus.  That is my own.  Still busy though, with my teaching endeavours, and spreading the gospel of knitting and crochet techniques to those in need.  I myself, have been busy with end of year crap.  End of year school picnics, end of year recitals, birthdays, graduations, award ceremonies.  It has been never ending.  But now that things have been winding down, and I have been catching my breath, my mood has shifted from breathless anticipation, to down right melancholia.  If someone would have told me 10 years ago, that I would be this weepy, sentimental mess of a creature that I have morphed into, I would have enjoyed hours, upon hours of uproarious laughter.  But here I am.  Weepy, and longing for the good old days.  The trigger was my nephew's graduation from 8th grade, which took place this past Friday.  It didn't dawn on me, during the course of my preparation of finding something to wear other than my Elmo sweatshirt, that this occasion would have such an emotional impact.  During the ceremony, I was busy, running around, catching every second on camera, to preserve that moment in time forever, while keeping a close eye on my six year old, as we waded through the mob scene.  But after it was over, and we were leaving, I realized, Holy Shit, he is not a little boy any more.

It all began began November 17, 1996 with his birth.  I was the first to see him as he made his grand entrance into the world.  Our close proximity gave me access to love him to itty bitty pieces, and if you will, hone my mothering skills, of which I had zero.  My sister completing her medical degree could rest assured that my beloved nephew was nurtured and cared for in the most profound way.  In short, he and I got to spend a lot of quality time together.  And so, I would be the lucky recipient of his company, much less his little drawings, hand made cards, and school pictures.  I still remember with vivid clarity his first little show with his nursery class, where they all sang (mind you he didn't sing) Baby Beluga.  I still remember getting all teary eyed looking at the little 3 year old looking out at the audience as if to say "WTF"?  And till this day, his Uncle, my husband will remind him that he still owes him a clear rendition of that song (Baby Beluga).  I remember taking him to see Monsters Inc, and A Good Boy, which by the way had me blubbering and nauseated as I was pregnant with my daughter and already a hormonal disaster.  I recall telling him about the birth of his little cousin and his reaction of disappointment that it wasn't a boy.  Living close by, made for lots of sleepovers at my house, being awaken at some ungodly hour of the morning to do an art project he received as a gift, and after having "snoozed" him for an hour, finally getting out of my bed to help make and paint candle holders.  And the holidays too took on special meaning.  From the time he was 4 years old, it was just understood, that he would stay with us to help in the preparation with the Thanksgiving meal.  I remembering him once becoming emotional that this cute little turkey was dinner.  We would look for excuses to cook and bake together, once making from scratch, cupcakes, including the frosting, for his Kindergarten class for his 5th birthday.  And Christmas' past, my sister would bring the gifts to my house to wrap, and hide, and like Santa, I would sneak in after he was asleep to put them under the tree.  I wistfully remember that anytime he would hear me on the other side of the door, that door would swing open, and it was clear he was excitedly awaiting my arrival.  But kids get older, and they and things change.

Now when he thinks he hears me on the other side of the door - he doesn't move.  And when I appear, he looks at me as if to say "Can I help you?"  And for my birthday, when I used to get hand made cards, or that birthstone ring he made his Mom buy for me (that I of course still have), I now get a text message.  Happy Birthday. I was the fun Aunt, but I am now officially that crazy Aunt that smothers him with hugs, kisses, and a lot of nosey questions.  Whose that?  What's that?  You know you can't bring home some chicken head girl to your mother, who texted you?  Who gave you that?  I really think you should reconsider, and do your Confirmation, What are you doing on the Internet?  You know they some nasty people out there.  I know you are not interested in going to those schools, but look at them anyway.  Gotta girlfriend?  Gotta boyfriend?  Did your mother talk to you about the birds and the bees? And on and on it goes.  So for my  nieces and nephews who I didn't have the privilege of close proximity to smother them with affection, they should know Chris might say I am like a second mother, and oh Lord, do you really want that?  TeeHeeHee.

I am glad for having had the honor of watching him grow, and help rear him.  And trust me.  It ain't over yet.  Not by a long shot.  Now - what can I knit for you Chris?

The Genesis of Entrelac

The first time I became even remotely interested in entrelac was when I laid eyes on this beautiful pattern called The Entrelac Shawl in one of Debbie Bliss' books. It was gorgeous as it was unique.  Beautifully textured rectangles with a simple cable down the middle.  I knew I had to make that blanket.  Entrelac was a foreign concept to me at this time, in terms of execution.  Yes, I was familiar with the term, but in so far as squares alternating ugly colors that seem to have no business together, and so I never felt the least bit inspired to learn that technique. But this was different.  There was no freakish use of color to hurt my eyes, just a good looking piece of fabric.  And so I set out to begin work on this masterpiece.  Then I got stuck.  Once I got through the base triangles, the pattern began to read crazy.  Each word got tangled in my head, leaving me in an utter state of bewilderment, angst and confusion.  I put that shit away, but this piece just kept nagging at me to put an end to this madness.  The call to completion got louder, and louder, and so I picked it up again.  I found someone who successfully completed this blanket, and she not only allowed me to pick her brain, she got the light bulb in my head to go off, and helped me decode this language of entrelac. I finished the blanket and unexpectedly a whole world was opened up to me.  My desire to master this technique was to finish this blanket, but then I discovered that I actually liked the fabric that entrelac created.  I have since made other things, and have been given the opportunity to share the creative wealth of knowledge of the wonderful world of Entrelac at Stitch Therapy where I now help others decode this rather simple skill.

KEEPThoseCrazyPeopleAwayFromMyBABY!

Illustration by Daniel Armstrong

stringthink.wordpress.com

A dear, dear friend of mine is expecting her first child. One day, I  asked how she was feeling.  Pretty typical question you would ask an expectant mother.  But her answer, while unexpected,  resonated with me in the most personal way.  She spoke of this strong reaction she has been having, and described it as the "Keep those crazy people away from my baby" feeling.  I had to break the news that this feeling doesn't go away.  I still have that feeling and my daughter is almost 6.  In fact, as she has gotten older, that feeling has only intensified.  I expect that will continue to be the case for the rest of my life, and maybe even after.  Now I don't consider myself a great mother.  In fact, I don't even know that I am a good mother.  I probably let my kid eat too much candy, watch way too much TV, and let her stay up way too late, but I don't think you have to be a great mother to protect your child from craziness.  But a decent mother, yes.  Even the most domesticated of animals are known to go ape shit when something or someone threatens the environment of their young.  Since we are limited in what insanity we can shield our kids from, it is even more important that I as parent make a conscious effort to keep the madness to a minimum within the context of my immediate family life.  Now I waited until I was at the age, whereas my egg upon fertilization needed a cane to get to my uterus for implantation to have my kid, as opposed to those prime childbearing years of yore.  In fact, I made a decision in my early adulthood not to have children, as I couldn't trust myself not to take leave of my senses and was not certain that the crazy person my baby would need protecting from was me.  Having had front row seats to the freak show that was my childhood, I knew well enough that I was not going to bring, much less create an innocent victim to bear witness to the manifestations of my lunacy.  My husband, who had been my boyfriend several years prior to our marriage was on board with this notion of no children, as his ego was not vested in populating the earth.  Now my husband's reasons were different than mine.  He came from a solid, caring, and loving family, which is evident by the husband and father he is today, and ultimately our choice to have children came after careful and thoughtful deliberation.  Then the next  39 weeks was spent going "What the fuck did we do?".  Not dealing with a full deck myself, I knew that for me to bring a child into this world into an existing precarious situation, say a partner who also isn't dealing with a full deck would be by default starting behind the eight ball.  So I got to know myself.  I knew that I could not trust myself not to repeat the legacy of lunacy, and I knew that there was much work to be done to repair my battered and abused psyche.  Mucho therapy.  I was then able to figure out that I needed a partner that was smarter than I, sensible, reasonable, and the picture of emotional health.  And this was what I sought for a life partner.  Then one day, I happen to notice I didn't involuntarily seize with horror when people asked us about children in our future.  "This is a new feeling" I thought to myself.  Instead the nausea and vomiting came after I became pregnant.  Let's face it, the man or woman you are with, providing everything is in working order, has the potential to be the father or mother of your child, and if you don't have your shit together, and your partner doesn't, forget college fund, and start a therapy fund.  As time passed, I began to trust myself a little more.  My self esteem in tact, and the journey to keep it that way was was well under way.  I had finally had a better handle on things, and the time had come for me to answer the call of the wild, and we were blessed with a great kid.  There is not a decision I make without first considering how it will impact my child.  That "Keep those crazy people away from my baby" are one of the few voices in my head that I pay attention to, and acknowledge in addition as a primal instinct  even if that crazy person includes me.  And so, I would like to take this opportunity to wish my dear long time friend the very best of luck in keeping those crazy people away from her baby, as it is a life long, and very worthy endeavor.  As I recently stated in a Facebook post, I have learned that if you buy tickets to the circus, don't be shocked to see clowns.  I've seen many, and a lot of kids are afraid of clowns, so forget the tickets, and put the money in their college fund.

uNhAppY mOtHer-iN-LaW daZe

http://cbc.ca/arts/theatre/story/2010/05/05/in-law-jokes-lawsuit.html

I had never heard of Sundra Croonquist.  But then it has been quite some time since I've made the rounds at the comedy clubs.  Then one day while driving my kid to school last week, and listening for the allergy forecast, it was brought to my attention by the 1010 WINS news people that comedian Sundra Croonquist had a suit against her that was filed by her In-Laws.  The suit was recently dropped, protecting her First Amendment Right to free speech. It seems her In-Laws were offended (read horrified) by her shtick.  Intrigued by the commotion in this family, I located her In-Law set on YOUTUBE for my viewing pleasure. 


I had to admit, that was pretty hardcore. And while I found some of the material bemusing, I was mostly YIKES.  She may or may not like her In-Laws, but one thing is for certain, Sundra Croonquist is a comic whether you think she is funny or not.  Comics poke fun.  Most make jokes about intimate experiences that are relevant in their lives and common overall, most notably at the expense of others.  Hers while not unheard of is a unique enough situation in that she is a black woman married to a Jewish man, but the common universal thread is the annoying mother in law.  Based on her stand up, she has the stereotypical Jewish mother in law.  I think we can all agree that in law, particularly mother in law jokes are pretty common, and I am going to make a wager that her act is somewhat exaggerated.  Sundra, being a woman of color, probably did hear some outrageous things from her husbands family who may have been a little surprised by who he bought home for dinner, in this case, Passover and who he chose as his life's partner. For the average comedian, these situations can provide much fodder for mischievous comic antics.  This can be annoying, especially to those on the receiving end.  The truth is, all comedians are about the joke. But Sundra's in-laws not amused, took the liberty of filing suit against her.  Because of that action, I now have heard of Sundra Croonquist.

One of my last blog entries where I was recalling the days of yore of how I learned to crochet, I was trying to remember how I learned to knit, in addition to noting the benefits of such hobbies.  The last line of the entry read something to the effect of "something to think about the next time your insufferable in-laws are over for the holidays."  Needless to say that during a conversation my husband had with his mother, he happened to mention my blog.  She had in fact had read my blog, and took what I considered a broad, rather benign remark very personally.  I hadn't cited anything personal pertaining to our relationship.  I didn't even say "mother in law", nor had I recounted any particular episode of in-law drama, say specific to her.  I just made what I considered an innocuous comment, a suggestion if you will, for those who have to deal with crazy in-laws or for that matter any insane family member one has to tolerate during familial gatherings.  Interestingly though, that last line for her was the point of the story.  Now I don't expect a law suit, and I am gratefully low profile enough that no one would really give a shit what I wrote, but for the record, I was not making a statement about my own in-law relationship.  It was a suggestion in the form of a joke.

In-law issues, in-law jokes, just like sex and intimate relationships have always been a ripe topic for writers, and comedians alike.  The sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond drew heavily on the in-law relationship between daughter in law and mother in law.  In fact Everybody Loves Raymond would have 9 seasons.  The 1999 move The Best Man was the story of a writer whose book caused a whole lot of hoopla for what he cited was simply "fictitious accounts of experiences" he had gone through.  I conclude that everything from books to movies to plays, and blogs are based on something if even a germ of an idea or experience.  It may not however mean what you think it means.  Sometimes it is all very generic.  And while I am not worried or concerned about any weird tensions at my next holiday soiree, boy oh boy, would I love to be a fly on the wall at the next Passover Sedar at Croonquist's house.

Ode to LIZZIE

I am currently obsessed.  Obsessed with Lizzie.  You see, Lizzie is a shrug.  And I don't mean the "shrug" you you give your husband when he asks you about the 20 missing from his wallet.  No, I mean a garment.  A sweater of sorts.  An original house pattern from Stitch Therapy, and might I say one of the best shrug patterns I have ever had the experience to knit.  It is a well constructed, beautifully shaped piece of clothing.  If I could, I would make a hundred of them at once, and just give them out to everyone I know and like.  I would make one of every color, just in case.  This pattern has been around not long after the inception of Stitch Therapy in 2004.  I, however didn't experience the glory until just last year, when I decided I should make something for myself.  So last year I finally made myself the shrug that I loved and admired for quite sometime.  I had long since bought the yarn, and had it in my stash for about a year and a half or more before I finally knit it up.  I have since worn the daylights out Lizzie, who is holding her own.

 And so when the annual Mother/Daughter Brunch (a yearly function hosted by my daughter's school) was on the horizon, it was that time to think about suitable and appropriate gear for cute girl child.  Lo and behold, a beautiful sea green dress, with a cream mesh flower lace overlay caught my eye.  It was perfect.  But it was missing something.  The quaint braided spaghetti strap dress begged for a delightful elegant vintage like wrap to up the anti in sheer elegance.  My almost 6 year old will not tolerate a wrap.  No, that would end up under the front seat of our car with footprints all over it, and my daughter staring up at me with a look of confusion when I ask where it is, but a shrug?  I decided that was the way to go.  A sleek garment that functions as a half sweater, providing warmth and cover for bare shoulders, while accenting, and even accessorizing beautiful dress for cute girl child.  I began to look around for a nice relatively simple and quick shrug pattern.  Unfortunately, or fortunately I was unable to find anything that I loved.  And if I was going to take the time to make it, I have to love it.  It needed to look handmade, not homemade, or anything resembling something that can show up on a fugly website.  When it dawned on me that I was looking for something that looked and was shaped like the Lizzie, I decided I should make the Lizzie for my daughter. I knew there had to be a way.  Lizzie was written for the adult female, ranging in sizes extra small, to extra large along with several yarn suggestions that are in line with the use of a 8, 9 or 10 needle.  I ended up using a finer yarn, than the pattern suggested, and went down to a size 6 needle.  And Voila, a shrug for Gia.  I wish I had some complicated mathematical formula, along with some insane illustrations of thoughtful sketches that are frighting and intimidating to share as to how I came up with the sizing for small girl child, but I don't.  Truth be told, I just winged it.

SeRiOusLy uNhiDeous

 I was asked to crochet this hat, The Slouchy Beret, from The Crochet Dudes aka. Drew Emborsky's  adult hat pattern booklet, called " In All Caps", for the store Stitch Therapy. A new yarn came in, and making the hat will provide a nice showcase for the hat and the new yarn.  The materials I used were the Berroco's Weekend yarn, which is 75% Acryllic, and 25% peruvian cotton, using a size G Hook.   

I enjoy crochet.  It is interesting to me that many people don't share the passion for both knitting and crochet.  Most people I know either knit or crochet, but not many do both.  Or at least both with the same enthusiasm.  I may knit more, but that is simply because crochet has an abundance of hideous patterns.  That is not to say that knitting doesn't run the gamete of its share of ugly ass patterns, but it seems that crochet has knitting beat in that department.  But then every so often I will come across something crochet wise that strikes my fancy, and this little booklet of crochet adult hats was one of those things. As of late though, it seems that while crochet is still under represented there are more and more beautiful patterns in the crochet fabric than ever before.  This Crochet Dude guy has a pattern booklet due to come out from Leisure Arts, called Crochet It. Love It. Wear It! (Leisure Arts #5058) which features some lovely designs for women.  I've already pre-ordered my copy.  And while crochet I felt had been limited to afghans, and scarfs and a few hats, it is nice to see pretty sweaters, and even a cute dress that I would crochet to wear if I didn't have the body of a baby rhino.  Be that as it may, I think this hat is gorgeous, and am thinking I might make one for myself as I am freaking adorable in it.  Oddly enough It isn't something that I would have thought that I would make for myself, but did I mention that I look so darn cute, that the hat almost demands that it be on my head?  In any case this hat will be on display like a beautiful museum artifact at Stitch Therapy. 

Ok, that may be a little much, but that is where it will be. I hope that it will inspire crocheters to want to make the hat.  While the hat may look complicated, it is quite simple. Anyone who knows how to chain, single, and double crochet can do this hat with relative ease.  And if you can read stitch instructions, this pattern reads clear, which is good, as I often need things to read as if I am a  3 year old. And not a bright 3 year old either. There have been some preliminary discussions about possibly running a workshop, where I will essentially guide one through step by step execution of this gorgeous hat. It really is fun to make, and the result quite impressive.  People will be amazed and think you are talented.  How great is that?

 

FoUnd iN tRanSLatiOn

 Knitting is like reading code. There are thousands upon thousands of abbreviations that become a cellular part of your psyche. You find that as time goes on, it takes hardly any processing at all. You just look, see K2tog tbl, and you know just what has to be done. You also speak in a code that is not apart of the non knitters frame of reference.  Soon, it dawns on you that they have no idea what the hell you are talking about. This became apparent to me when I happened to mention to someone that I recently finished an afghan for my nephew, which elicited this quick and thoughtful response, "What's an afghan?"

I had to stop and ask myself "Just what the hell is an afghan"?.

When I googled "Afghan" this came up:

Afghan may refer to:

* Someone or something related to Afghanistan
* Pashtun people, the largest ethnic group in Afghanistan and second largest ethnic group in Pakistan; see also Afghan (name)

o Pashto language (Afghan language), the native language of the Pashtuns

Further down the Wikipedia list, there was mention that "Afgahn" may refer to a knitted or crochet blanket, or throw. I even learned that the Afghan, used to describe a throw, or a throw-blanket did indeed originate from Afghanistan.  The original Afghan served the same function, was made from disposible materials and meant to be discarded, or thrown away after use.  But from now on, I think I will just tell my non-knitting, non-crocheting friends that I made a blanket. 

Last summer I made myself a shrug, from an original pattern called the Lizzie from Stitch Therapy where I teach and select yarns for hoarding. Again, my friends not familiar with the terminology used by craft fiends such as myself, needed further clarification. "What's a shrug?" I was asked.  Once again, I had to ponder "Just what the hell is a shrug?" So I once again went to my computer, and got this definition for "shrug".

: to raise or draw in the shoulders especially to express aloofness, indifference, or uncertainty

I knew that. But now a days the first thing that comes to my mind, isn't the first thing that comes to the mind of the lay person. So from now on, I think I will say I made myself a little bolero. How many people, I wonder, have I told I made an Afghan, walked away wondering "How the hell did she do that? I didn't know you could knit that." I imagine that for as many people that will ask "What's that?", there are many, many more who won't. And when I told friends, that I was busy working on a shrug, they must have walked away, shaking their head in confusion and well . . .

 just shrugged.

the QuEsT fOr tOtAL rEcALL

I had come down with some type of throat thing, (strep maybe?) and for the last several days I and my knitting were out of commission. Too exhausted to properly obsess, I've put down my needles for a brief hiatus to recover. Having no energy to physically navigate and properly fixate over the gusset in this glove I've been working on, I've found myself really thinking about why I knit (did I mention obsessively), and where it all began. I have no recollection how I learned to knit in my youth. I made a scarf once, and aside from the sheer basics was completely useless. Crocheting was more my thing, and for years I pretended not to know how I learned to do that. What I did know was that I was in desperate need of an innocuous hobby that didn't involve a rifle, or a set of bows and arrows, so when I found out that this woman my father was fucking at the time knew how to crochet, I had her teach me. I was about 8 at the time, and for some bizarre reason that I can't recall, I was sitting in her home, and before long with hook in hand, I learned crochet basics. It started with a granny square that just kept getting bigger and bigger like the absurdity that was my life, and this woman was on hand to help me out when I got stuck. I spent enough time in her home, that I would become proficient enough at crochet to make blankets, scarfs and hats. And so, from time to time, over the years, I did as much. That very first blanket I made went to one of my nieces when they were born. Or at least I hope it did. And thus spawned the poster child for the expression, "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

I didn't start to knit really until my adulthood. Shortly after I got married, I went into a yarn store that had recently opened in my neighborhood to ask a question about a crochet project. The store's owner happen to ask me if I knew how to knit. I responded that I did. At least somewhat. She handed me a skein of yarn, a pair of knitting needles, and asked me to demonstrate how I do it. Using the backward loop cast-on, I proceeded with my pathetic attempt. After completing a row with the finesse of a gorilla in pointe shoes, she said she could show me a better way. It was at this time time I would learn the long tail cast-on, and how to knit continental. What I demonstrated was the English method, which produces the same result, and how I figure most knitters knit. I on the other hand fell madly in love with continental knitting, and went home that night to feverishly practice my new found skill. With that, my second completed knitting project, a basket weave stitch scarf would go to my very worthy husband. But the mystery of how I learned to make my very first scarf, and do what I did during my feeble presentation to the woman at the yarn store remains as elusive as was a passing grade in math. Perhaps it will come to me during an EMDR session. I still crochet and very often use this skill to embellish my knits. I consider myself lucky to know how to do both crafts.

 

The beauty of such crafts is the flexibility it provides. You can take it with you, and you can do it pretty much anywhere. There are a whole host of different techniques to learn and perfect, so while it can be repetitive, it is never boring. For me it provides a great escape during those times when I am insanity's hostage. There is nothing like having a project handy to help endure your family's madness. Something to think about the next time you find yourself with your insufferable in laws for the holidays.

KNITTING 101-Words of Wisdom

Let me be the first to say, that knitting is not for sissies. That's right, you heard it here first. It is not for sissies, the faint of heart, or for those looking to relax. What you just read are the opening remarks of my Beginning Knitting Class. It is important to know this going in. If you picture yourself sitting comfortably, luxuriating in a big cushy chair, knitting, smiling, while periodically sipping on a glass of vino, while working on a beautiful bonnet to go with those matching booties, you should know that the voice in your head is that of Rod Sterling narrator of the Twilight Zone. If that fantasy, minus the "comfortably luxuriating and smiling", has you screaming a stream of expletives, at 3am, drinking whiskey instead of vino, surrounded by frightened and bewildered family members, fingers covered in scabs and callouses, blood everywhere because you stabbed yourself repeatedly in the eye with your knitting needle with or without the work on it, on purpose, then you my friend are either a serious knitter, or ready to learn. My students look on with horror as I explain that the first thing they need to do is get comfortable with the idea of making a lot of mistakes and being open to ripping shit out. Jaws drop to the ground when I recount stories of having riped out a whole knitted sweater to do it over, or having worked on an intricate color pattern, to find that I made a mistake 12 rounds below, only to have to rip it back to rectify the error. And not just beginners either. This holds true for even the most seasoned yarn craftsmen or craftswomen. While knitting may not be by default the most relaxing hobby, it certainly will take your mind off of things. That is except your knitting. If what you are seeking is a relaxing hobby, collect stamps or coca cola memorabilia. But if you need a way to channel that OCD that is ruining your marriage, knitting could be for you. I often hear "I don't have the patience for that", but will hear in the next breath that they have been dating that asshole for 5 years. So knitting can be for you. Hell, it can be for everyone. I tell my students that knitting is 90% desire, 10% technique. It comes down to how bad you want it. What I teach is the 10%. Having been teaching for a while now, I give the following advice to anyone interested in learning to knit. 1)Practice... 2)Practice some more 3)Does it feel awkward? Like you are knitting with your feet with your hands cuffed behind your back, while blindfolded? Many report that feeling and I am here to tell you that it is not uncommon. 4)Don't let that feeling frighten you. Keep knitting. Soon it will feel like you are knitting with your hands, and before you know it, it will look like it too. 4)Trust that the more you do it, the easier it gets. Not knitting, just life. 5)You will find that you are enjoying yourself.

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.