Labors of love

I have everything done on the Rav Games mitts except the thumbs and finish work, but when I sat down to work on them last night, the wool was sticking to my sticky, sweaty fingers and I decided to browse online for new work clothes instead. Every few years, my boredom with my work clothes reaches its zenith and I think back on how frumpy I looked last year and how this year I’d like to look …not… like that, and I embark on a desperate, often fruitless search for clothes that will make that happen. This year has the added fun of a tiny, tiny budget, mostly made up of long-held Christmas money and aluminum can refunds and whatever they’re paying for plasma, plus whatever I think I could possibly knit out of my stash in the next month or so.

If I recall, I spent a lot of Augusts this way in high school, too. On one occasion, a truly unfortunate outfit was the result. It’s best not to be too specific, but I went to high school when Debbie Gibson was popular, if that paints an appropriately horrifying picture for you.

I’ve been holding on to my Caeles yarn for a few months, and since there are no sleeves, perhaps I could maybe do that. I also finally got around to winding another ball of natural Cascade 220 for my baby’s long-neglected Hudsons Bay blanket, because in weather like this, exactly what you want is to have a worsted wool blanket on your lap, yes/yes?

Other doings around here have been unexciting. Summer is winding down. I’m still volunteering at the historical society, but have managed to score a sitting-down job while other people are moving our archives to the new building. I’m hoping to get a look at our textile collections soon. There were several yarn companies in town once. My older boy has been going to municipal day camp for five weeks, and that ends tomorrow. Last night was the show: 101 Dalmatians. I bet you can guess what role he played. It felt like such a quintessentially parental moment that I spent most of it grinning like a fool and taking pictures. He goes back to school in three weeks, and we’re going to try to squeeze in some beach time before then. The baby turns 2 on Sept. 7, so we’ll have a cake on Labor Day weekend for him. I fail at birthdays, for the most part, but at least he’s too young to notice. I wonder if he’d like a nice woolen blanket…


Well, I don’t know that the Rav Games are actually making me more productive, but they’re making me moderately accountable, and I’ll take it. I have one of the Snapdragon mitts done up to the knuckles and cast off, and the other one halfway to that point. Thumbs and flip-tops will take about a quarter as much time as the process of picking up for the flip attachment; I’m saving that for a quiet evening after gymnastics is over. A few tinking incidents have shown me that when I want to watch the sport, I’m not going to get much (accurate) knitting done.

Last night I also managed to graft the cast-on to the live stitches on the Go Baby Go blanket for my cousin’s now month-old baby, and it was stupid-easy and I’m embarrassed for putting it off because I thought it’d be too hard. Well, that’s not true; it’s like this: I have severely limited free time right now. After I’ve played bedtime whack-a-mole with my boys, I get maybe four hours (if I stay up too late) to unwind and get serious work done. And I like those hours to be enjoyable. That means that if I walk into a knitting situation that all goes blooie, I have spent my only free hours in the day in frustration and tears, and probably have to face the problem again on another night, which means it might ruin at least two nights and not just one. So I’m not so much afraid of the knitting task as I’m anxious about spending an evening unhappily. I know that someday, long and idle evenings will probably be a dime a dozen, but I’m pretty sure my cousin is going to want this blanket before then, since when they arrive for me, the baby in question is going to be a lurchy teenage boy. I am motivated by that prospect, at least.

For the last few days, I’ve been hearing the Knit 1 Geek 2 podcast, and while I really love the energy of it, I don’t always share their geekdoms and have been wondering whether I even have the right to call myself one. I am in fact the last living human not to have read Harry Potter–that’s right; you can tell people you know me–so a lot of the squeeing goes right over my head. And I’m not really into a lot of SFF. I have a proper appreciation for Star Trek TOS, and I’m an actual fan of The Twilight Zone, but that’s about it. But I’d have plenty to do at Comic-Con. My sister’s been, and I’m burningly jealous. She got me autographed Futurama comics, and they’re among my prized possessions. I love Futurama. It’s not a show that lends itself well to knitting, but hey. I don’t know why I don’t care much for sci-fi. I like my entertainment to exist in the realm of plausibility, and occasionally a Sheldon Cooper-esque objection to whatever will crop up and spoil things for me. Futurama’s quick with the lampshade, so they get away with more. But I don’t slide easily into the sci-fi mindset. I like wrong-man stories best. It’s pretty easy to see the Venn diagram with The Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock films when you think of it that way.

All of that was a long way of saying the podcast is giving me a geek cred crisis. But I take comfort in the fact that having a geek cred crisis is pretty effing geeky, so…solved.