This is one of my favorite holidays. Now that I'm a grumpy suburbanite, I don't find Halloween as fun as I did at university or the years that I lived in Manhattan. Actually, several of those Manhattan-based years found me celebrating All Hallow's Eve in Seattle. A friend worked at Fantagraphics, and someone there threw the most amazing bashes. So amazing, in fact, that I planned vacations around Halloween in Seattle.

Sadly, it's been years since I've had the opportunity to don a costume and spook it up a bit. (Deb, don't bother telling me about the fabulous costume party you attended in spite of being moments away from giving birth. Don't rub it in, mama.)

I'm uncertain which is more frightenting.

This


or this.

Don't be mislead by the photo, I am not working two socks simultaneously on the Magic Loop. I'm stalled on the proper way of "turning the hell heel", so I decided to conquer Second Sock Syndrome by working the other sock to the point of confusion.


The most irritating part of this isn't the heel hell, but that I wasn't even participating in the whole Socktober extravaganza. I wasn't even a "sock knitter" until this past weekend, (As if one pair of nearly-finished socks makes me a "sock knitter".) but now I'm feeling the pressure to make my first pair of socks in this most appropriate month. It's Socktober 31st, and I'm so damn close.

At least I have a reason -- other than general grouchiness -- for not answering the door tonight.

Someone get the door; I'm knitting socks.

Happy Halloween!

Dear Anonymous Poster of 29 October 2005,
How did you know I once lived in New Orleans? Indeed, I even lived on Royal Street, stumbling distance from Pat O'Brien's. You probably were the sort of tourist to eliminate your excess Hurricane in the doorway of my garden apartment. You probably were the sort of tourist found sitting -- eating pizza -- on a pile of Mardi Gras garbage because you were too hungry and too drunk to care. You were probably the sort of tourist who video-taped your best friend getting pummeled by some local guys from Metarie. Maybe you even gave karaoke a whirl at the Cat's Meow. A slurred rendition of Paradise By The Dashboard Light is my guess. Quite possibly, you found yourself lying on Bourbon Street, finding those red beans and rice just as spicy the second time around.

Oh, I know your type. You think that I'd flash my goods without so much as a proper introduction or an offer of Mardi Gras beads? But if you're really hot for a peek...

I'm happy to show you my zits.
I don't mean to brag, but for my age... You must admit, it's pretty impressive. If you didn't know better, you'd swear these beauties belonged to a sixteen year old girl, instead of a woman approaching forty. Look at the positioning. Look at the firmness. Quite spectacular. But I have to stop because it's so obnoxious to rave about one's zits.

Maybe I can flash my kits?
My kitten that is. She's a rather cute girl, and she knows it. She'll park herself in front of the mirror and gaze. She enjoys a long look; perhaps you will as well? Just don't get any ideas about me photographing her in a knitted cat coat or something of that nature. That's not my style or hers. She's a pampered princess, but she's not the least bit ostentatious or showy.

How about if I show you my knits?
After a year of idle chatter, I finally did it. I started socks. I know you're thinking that socks aren't very exciting, but I think the people of Chicago, Boston, and most any knitter are inclined to disagree. Nothing beats a World Series win (particularly one snatched from the New York Yankees) or perfect-fit merino socks. Not even bared breasts.

I don't know what possessed me. Maybe it was all of the Socktober talk on the other knitting blogs. Certainly, the colors of the yarn are compelling. Quite possibly, it was nothing more than the name of the yarn. Whatever it was resistance was futile.

The best part? Turning back the clock gives me an extra hour of sock knitting time.

It's a well-known fact amongst my friends that I'd never intended to have children. Unlike many of my female peers throughout Manhattan, marriage was a possibility, but motherhood was out of the question. Imagine my surprise when Fate threw me the curveball of a man with children. A man with childen -- with custody!

One of the reasons I would make a terrible mother is this: Kevin is performing in a Hurricane Katrina relief concert at his high school, and I begged off with a headache. The headache is real -- a combination of pre-menstrual, peri-menopausal, potential-migraine -- so nothing would be more disastrous than to add teenaged musicians to the mix.

A good mother, a real mother would sacrifice her throbbing head to support the endeavours of her offspring. I make no sacrifices, ergo, I would be a crappy mother. Well, maybe not as crappy as someone who would lock their children in a closet and deny them a proper diet and hygiene. No, I'd be several steps above that sort of mother. I'd even be ahead of the mother who parked outside the yarn store today, left her baby in the running car -- music blarring -- while getting herself a toasted bagel at the deli next door.

It's a shame about the headache and the missed concert. Really, it is. I think my Ubernatural would have been just cool enough for hanging out at the high school amidst the fashion senselessness of sloughy-pants, Shaggyesque, suburban slacker/gangsta-wanna-bes.

Actually, it's a sad state of affairs. It's a Halloween weekend, and I'm happy to skip live music for the chance to sit home alone and knit. I'm no one's mother, but I've really tapped into the Mrs. Cleaver persona.

As did my internet connection.

I am feeling quite proud of myself at the moment. Not only did I learn a valuable lesson, but I exercised that knowledge and put into practice what I learned. I learned a little something about listening to the voices inside when it comes to knitting (and dating).

In the past, I squelched the voices, but this time I didn't. I listened, and not only did I listen, but I questioned. I sought advice. Most importantly, I heeded the voices and the advice. It was too powerful a chorus to ignore.

At first, I was smitten with Ekeby, and why not? It was a pattern outside my usual -- a bit of something new and daring. It wasn't so outlandish... But as I neared completion of the first side, I had that nagging feeling. I showed it to Joe. He liked the yarn (Manos # 112, Moss), but wasn't keen on the pattern. He pronounced it "not you".

Now, I seldom consult Joe for fashion guidance, nor does he offer it without provocation. Even then, he's a bit reticent. To Joe, fashion and style are personal matters, not a quorum vote. But having a few too many unfulfilling knitting experiences in recent months, I wasn't in for silencing the inner voice and knitting away on something that:
1) would be finished but rot in a corner
2) would not be finished and rot in a corner
3) would be or would not be finished and then ripped back to shreds.

I suspect that Manos can take only so much punishment before it gets ugly. Literally.

I'm really feeling under the weather, literally and figuratively. It hasn't even started snowing, and I'm already feeling the effects of a long, cold winter. Suddenly, all I want to do is knit summer items -- sort of a knitter's denial -- but that seems so unreasonable, especially with a few hanks of Manos lying around waiting to be fondled.

Some wonderful phoenix must rise from flames of Ekeby.

"The only thing that bothered me was that we waited so long to make this protest."
--Rosa Parks, 4 February 1913 - 24 October 2005

Rosa Parks proved the power of one.

Would I have the courage of my convictions? I like to this so, but I often ask myself questions such as: Would I have broken a law and kept my seat? Would I have risked my life to hide a Jewish person?

From the comfort of the present, I can only hope that I would have taken a stand to make a differece. I can only pray that I'll have the courage of my convictions if presented with the opportunity to do so.

People have the power.

My mother often told me that I'd lose my head if it weren't attached. At the time, I thought it a rather cruel thing to say to a child, but I see now that see was no far off the mark.

In the first year of owning my car, I locked myself out a total of four times. I imagined that AAA operators giggled when they heard my name and membership number... "Oh, it's Lockout Lumay again?" I wish I could blame it on something other than being a bit loopy when it comes to the whole car thing. But yesterday's forgetfulness was a sure sign of sickness.

On a whim, I went for a haircut at a local Aveda concept salon. The salon is probably no better than any other around here (with the exception of the Master Cuts at the Poughkeepsie Galleria), but I'm convinced that Aveda is selective about who they select as a concept salon. I was so caught up in concepts and cuts -- with Kleenex by my side -- walked out and forgot my Clapotis!

It was hours before I realized my loss. I safely recovered Clapotis, but I had to get something to fill the void. And nothing is as filling as Manos del Uruguay, especially in those warm chocolate and gold colors. I'm working on Ekeby, the Swiss-cheese vest from the first Noro/Cornelia Tuttle Hamilton collection.

Previously, I hadn't given much consideration to Cornelia Tuttle Hamilton's designs, but suddenly, I'm completely mezmerized by them. I know that it can be argued that much of the beauty lies in the magic of Noro's colors and striping. But the glory of Julita is all in the design -- no self-striping yarn in sight. Julita is right out of the mid-1800s/early 1900s look that I find to be so lovely and so feminine.

So, why am I knitting something that is more Matrix than Moulin Rouge? Hell if I know, but I'll blame it on the cold medicine.

I've been sniffling, snuffling, and sneezing since Saturday. At first, I thought it was an allergic reaction to all of the wet hay, wet barn, wet wool, wet bunny smells circulating at Rhinebeck, but now that my tissue box is earning companin fares, I think I was wrong.

Yes, the apartment can be a bit unkempt at times, but we're not surrounded by goats, llama, rabbits, sheep, hay, or cedar chips -- all of which seem to tickle my immunoglobulin E production -- so there must be some other explanation for spending more time with Kleenex than with Joe this week. Maybe I have a cold.

It would be nice to have a solid scapegoat for the decacle of the mohair boucle shawl and the Knitscene neckwarmer. I need some reason to explain why I've frittering away knitting time and yarn money on projects that I knew were doomed before the start. That time and money could have gone to something more useful, like a haircut, a leg wax, a lunch with a girlfriend, or a donation to a worthwhile cause.

When will I learn to listen to that little voice that tells me at every step and turn that "this will turn out to be less than you expected"? I thought I learned this lesson before, but something happened. Something beyond my control. So this is where the blaming comes in. Maybe I would have listened to my Inner Knitter had she been audible over the loud fury of my sneezing.

In case you couldn't guess the outcome of yesterday's mohair boucle mystery...

I fell short with my approximately 250 yards, and add to the insult, my work came off the needles sometime between lunch and my arrival home. Actually, this could be a blessing. Since I have to rip back, the shawl has kindly started the work iteself. Of course, I dare not be so cavaliere, because this is mohair boucle.
See you in the nuthouse.


Something else this is driving me nutty: Knitscene from Interweave. I finished my little neckwarmer, minus weaving in the ends, and I have to say that it looks nary like the model's.

In short, I hate it. I hate the time I wasted on it. And I hate the money spent on the yarn to make a crap-tastic "quick-knit".

This week, I'm doing a short on-site freelance job with a friend. As a testament to my love for my friend, as well as my gratitude for work, I donned p...p...pantyhose!

Finding them was nothing short of an excavation, not to mention that I'd poked three holes into the blasted things before I even had them over my ass. I fished out some nailpolish from the recesses of the linen closet, and I went to town -- creating a splatter-paint bonanza in an attempt to stop the laddering. Since the halcyon days of my Ally McBeal/Melrose Place skirt lengths are long gone, my artistry was well-hidden. Otherwise, I would have had to invent some story about Pollack-inspired pantyhose as the Fall Fashion Trend.

Speaking of fashion trends, I am hot for the Hello Dolly! looks in the Winter 2005 Vogue Knitting -- right down (up?) to the insane lavishness of those hats and plumes. I've longed maintained that my fashion sense is not in line with the modern age. You'll not catch me prancing around in Juicy Couture, pube-baring low riders, or any of that nonsense. Granted, petticoats and corsets are probably the original fashion nonsense, but at least you're not looking like a plumber or a hooker. Admittedly, there's a bit of hooker-quality to some Victorian wear, but at least it's a bit more "high-brow", if you will. Besides, I'd skip the petticoats and corsets anyway. I bet they're as gruelling as pantyhose.

Sometimes, I walk through the process of purchasing yarn online with no real intention of pushing the "submit order" button. I just like to look at a cyber shopping cart loaded with yarn and books -- see what my total would be with shipping. It's a bit like final dress rehearsal before the run opens to the public. I was comforted to learn that I'm not alone in this behaviour. Lisa precisely the same.

Last week our internet connection was sporadic with the rain and the winds. I was doing one of those faux-shopping sprees at The Knitting Garden when I thought that maybe I'd just go on and take the sale yarn. Good price, and it would be perfect for Artic Circle. I hemmed and hawed, and so did my internet connection.

In an instant, I tempted fate -- and tested the connection -- , and I pushed the "submit" button. The order went through! In the next instant, I lost my connection. What an outrageous trick! But when that Jaeger Albany arrived today, I knew that it was destiny. My ISP knew better than I, and for that brief moment, came through to make my dreams come true.

While I have a dream project waiting in the wings, I have a nightmare of a leading lady on the needles at the moment. I'm not keen on either mohair boucle nor shawls, so I'm not sure what possessed me to combine the two into one fantastically arthritis-inducing fiasco I'm about 60 rows away from finishing, and that tiny blob of yarn is all that I have to see me through.

I'm nervous. I'm getting the feeling that the leading lady won't be able to open the show, and there's no understudy to fill in. The pattern calls for 250 yards, and my yarn is "approximately" 250 yards. I failed to notice the key word -- approximately -- as I was plunking down my money under heated pressure to buy something other than food at Rhinebeck.

Will I be punished for miscasting the leading role? I feel a bit like the seamtress making last minute alterations as the music is swelling and the curtain is going up...

In spite of the weather, there was a large turnout at the New York Sheep & Wool Festival. I was tripping over knitbloggers everywhere I went.

I felt a bit odd about approaching strangers to introduce myself with my real and blog name, so I didn't meet everyone that I would have liked to. However, there were two ladies that I had to meet, Carrie and Ann Marie. Can I tell you how adorable the two of them are? Sadly, their group kept losing one member or another, so I didn't get to meet Frecklegirl.

True to form, I focused on the food and wine over the sheep and wool. My loot consists of all manner of venison, one bottle of a local reisling, some goodies from Taste Budd's Chocolates, condiments from Bittersweet Herb Farm, and a few bars of handmade soap.

My knitting-related loot is considerably less: a pair of Brittany needles and a hank of mohair boucle from Persimmon Tree Farm.

The highlight? An Orenburg Lace Shawl I bought from a vendor. I know it's cheating to buy a shawl when you are capable of knitting one. This is precisely the sort of easy-way-out/quick-knits mentality that sets the teeth of long-time knitters on edge. Indeed, pride goeth before the shawl.

But me? I'm not all that keen on shawls. Frankly, it's just one more thing to hold or to lose. I like something that will stay on my body -- without assistance from me -- and keep me warm. But this Orenburg shawl is my chance to give the whole shawl a whirl; see if I can't be converted. Who knows, maybe I'll even knit my own when the winter freeze sets in.

After the kind of week that I had, only a few things could lift my spirits.

The flowers and the Green Tea with Ginsing were pick-me-ups from Joe earlier this week. After listening to me beat my breast and unload my tales of woe, Joe escaped to do some grocery shopping. How could I not love a man who goes out for a quick grocery run and returns with my favorite iced tea drink and some flowers?

Basically, the short story is this: I was sent on an assignment for which I was not qualified. Rather than cut me loose, I was kept on, however, I felt every kernel of resentment that I was not what they needed. Behaviour such as speaking to me through another worker, referring to me as She/Her/The Temp after being told my name 10 times, or not answering my direct question is just rude. I had the chance to relive 7th grade for a week, but I did get paid for it.

I spent my lunch in my car, eating and reading magazines. Today, I cast on for the Inca Alpaca Neckwarmer from Knitscene. I'm a sucker for neckwear. I've reached the point in knitting where I now suspect pattern errata when I can't figure something out, rather than blame myself. Supposedly, the gauge is 13.5=2" with yarn doubled on a US 10 needle. Generally, I'd classify myself as a Gauge Knitter; not Loose Knitter or Tight Knitter, but right there with the suggested gauge on the yarn label. But I am still not getting gauge on US 6 needles. The neckwarmer is a tad wider than the pattern measurements, but it's a neckwarmer -- not a sweater or skirt.

In spite of his best intentions, the flowers, the tea, and the sympathy from Joe were not enough to thoroughly detox me after the experience. The next line of defense is either drink or pampering, and I like to mix it together. The healing power in the double threat of a glass of wine while soaking in the bath are beyond compare. Nothing beats it for restoring balance and sanity to life. For safety's sake, I used my Shiseido Aromatic Salt Scrub to remove all of the ickiness of the week from my body.

I don't want to be carrying any contaminants at the cellular level to Rhinebeck. No amount of sophmoric hijinks by adults will be allowed to infringe upon a weekend of yarn shopping, hanging with friends, meeting other bloggers, and all-around fiber fun.

See you Sheep & Wool!

The subject of holiday gifts has been a growing topic of conversation at our Thursday knitting circle. Sharyn's been struggling with what to make for whom, etc. Last week, someone suggested in-name donations to charity. As a group, we thought it was a great idea, but Sharon felt that her family would not be pleased by the gesture. That somehow, this was a short-cut to gift-giving. Perhaps it wasn't even gift-giving at all.

Of course, that got me thinking about that old "Holiday Spirit". If it's better to give than receive, wouldn't receiving notice that someone has given to a worthy cause in your name be double-plus-good? I think it's a pretty sweet deal all around. However, I'll be the first to admit that I nixed this idea for my own grandmother. She's a woman who has everything -- and often has it in twos -- so one year I thought that giving to a well-chosen charity in her name would be a special gift. My mother killed the idea within minutes of it's birth. And I have to say that she was right. I don't think my grandmother would understand that an in-name donation isn't lazy gift-giving.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that Teri aka Miss Dedication or She Who Knits in a Sling presented Theresa and me with this very special gift. She made an in-name donation from each of us to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation! We both received a pink Horizon of Hope bracelet and a special Horizon of Hope Longaberger basket .

If this rain continues, Sheep & Wool will need to be renamed!

When I was a teenager, I never played Spin the Bottle or Post Office. I don't know if those games were out of style during my formative years, or if I was too much of a dork to garner an invitation to the sort of party where making out was the party game of choice.

At bandcamp, Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board and True or Dare were the two most common post-lights out games. Given the innate cruelty of teenaged girls, I always opted for "truth" over "dare". It was less dangerous to reveal something deeply personal than to risk acting out some humilating charade dreamed up by a sadistic fifteen year old girl.

Even though I'm an old crow, with quite a few skeletons taking up valuable real estate in the old armoire, I'd still take "truth". Hands down.

I confess that I religiously watch America's Next Top Model. Had I not been so forthcoming last week at my knitting circle, and then the following night at a knitting party, I would not have learned that two intelligent women in both of those circles are rabid consumers of two of my vices: ANTM and My Fair Brady.

I confess an unnatural obsession with crime dramas. Joe and the kids disappear in the face of Law & Order, Law & Order SVU, Law & Order Criminal Intent, The Closer, etal.

I confess that the procrastinating friend mentioned earlier this week did RSVP to the wedding before I did. He phoned at the end of last week. Others are claiming "responses lost in the mail", but I'm not buying it.

I confess that I haven't worked out since the weekend of Stitches East. I had grand plans to join a gym, but finances were a consideration.

I confess that my best attempts at neatness, order, and simplicity are self-sabotaged. I can give great advice for bringing all of the above to your closet, desk, home, etc. However, I can't seem to impliment it all myself.

I confess that I waste valuable unemployment time not organizing myself, but that I curse working a normal job for robbing me of the time I need to organize me and my home.

I confess that I didn't do a bit of knitting since Sunday, when I cast on and then immediately ripped out the Marilyn's Not So Shrunken Cardigan. I started MNSSC in Garnstudio's Silke Tweed, and it seemed far too spring/summer for the coming weather.

I confess that I bought the Arctic Circle lace tank pattern on Chiagu Monday night -- in spite of the fact that it's an open-work tank. Also not suitable for the coming weather, but there's no understanding the compulsions or the logic that drive us as knitters.

I confess that I peruse cosmetic sites and knitting sites with a near equal zeal. Buyer's Remorse In Advance keeps my spending in check.

Why I am telling you all of this? Maybe it's that confession is good for the soul.

*Strike Out Skirt

Even though my better judgement is shouting, and even though other knitters have warned against this, I was completely sucked in by Knitty Gritty's episode, "Skirt the Issue".

While it's frightening to imagine my short pear-shaped body clad in a knitted skirt, winter is coming. A knitted skirt seems like a great project, doesn't it? It's easily customized. You can try it as you go. And there are a number of cute patterns out there for the taking. I know alot of women say that they have nothing to wear, but when I say it -- in reference to covering my lower half -- I mean it. Aside from my small collection of flirty summer skirts, I have only two others that are suitable post-summer.

Thankfully, a friend recently handed down a lovely olive-colored courduroy wrap-around skirt, but let's face it, three skirts will not see me through a few months of office work, much less through until next spring. I need to cover my ass, literally.

I know I should learn from Wendy's mistake and avoid the knitted skirt. But I can't help but think that maybe Wendy shouldn't have gone in for cotton yarn or the stripes. It could be different if I used a different yarn and avoided the stripes. I would rather walk naked through the streets of Poughkeepsie than wear a skirt -- knitted or not -- with horizontal stripes, but that's just me.

Actually, I almost walked naked through the streets of Poughkeepsie once. As I sauntered back to a Lancome event, a lovely patron at the restaurant informed me that my skirt was caught in my pantyhose. Yep, I'd walked from the restroom at the back of the restaurant to the front door with my back out.

Of course, it's not as bad as the time the friend of a friend was caught out on a flight from New York to Seattle. She'd been forced to use the restroom at the back of the plane, and she was brazenly making eye contact with and smiling at nearly every seated patron between Row 5 and the restroom. As she strut back to her seat, she heard a few murmurs. When she got to her seat, she went to smooth down her skirt. As her hands dragged across what should have been a sheer rayon, it occured to her that it was not. "It was nothing but ass!" She'd walked the length of the plane with her flirty summer mini rolled up in her thong.

At least she had the sort of ass you could bounce a quarter off of...

As unpleasant as it is, I must come to terms with the fact that I am a procrastinator. A terrible one. I'll procrastinate when it comes to washing my hair. It's not so much that I dislike the act of washing my hair, but rather drying it.

Currently, I'm attempting to grow my hair to my shoulders, and it's slow-going. To make matters worse, it seems that every stage is the "akward stage" of growing my hair out, thanks to my wavy hair. I don't have the sort of waves that inspires any sort of envy, unless you're Hillary Clinton or Marilyn Quayle. There's something very middle-aged frumpy about my hair if it's not shoulder-length or pixie short. Anything in between those two extremes is just plain old ho-hum.

I'm procrastinating on Ubernatural. Not only am I too lazy to take it off the needles to try it on, I'm in denial that this cold and rainy weather is the outlook for the next week or so. I'm not ready to give up my flirty floral skirts and naked legs for this thing called Autumn. I know that the weather will do what it will regardless of my progress on Ubernatural, but I'm not entirely ready to give in to the fact aht bulky yarn-weather is around the corner.

it's not been all procrastinating on the knitting front, though. I made quick work of Bambina (knit in Colinette's Tagliatelli), and I have enjoyed every stitch of it. It's such a quick knit that I have no urge to procrastinate, even though it's for a Winter Baby. This could be the first baby gift that isn't in danger of being too small by the time I finish it and ship it off to it's recipient.

Just when I think that maybe I'm on the mend and making progress with my procrastination, I discover that I've failed to respond to a wedding invitation! The irony is that the groom is my equal in procrastinating, but that's no excuse. His bride is probably extremely organized and now thinks me a rude cretin. There's little comfort in that knowledge that I can't be the only one of the groom's friends to have committed this sin. If the friend who has procrastinated finishing his degree (only 6 credits to go) showed me up, I'll be forced to sever all ties with this group. I'll never be able to live down the humiliation of responding later than someone's who has delayed his degree by more than a decade.

I grew up Catholic, and while I liked the rituals of my religions, I was far more intrigued by the religious goings-on at my Aunt's house. I'd mentioned before that my mother's oldest sister, Josephine/Judy/Babe was a rebel. But in maybe her most rebellious act, she married a Jewish man -- and converted! I don't know for sure that it caused any waves in the house, but I'll guess that it did. Religion is one of those strange things that people hold onto, if only exercising it a few times each year.

Holidays at my aunt and uncle's house were interesting. Christmas tree and menorah. Star of Bethleham and Star of David -- and yes, I recognise that they're really the same thing. Ham and ... Ham!?! Yes, my aunt requested her annual ham, and my mother delivered. In a strange act of acknowledgement and respect for my uncle, my mother would cook and slice the ham at our house and then bring plates and utensils -- specifically for the ham -- of her own to the celebration.

During my summer visits, I learned a few things about my uncle's religion and it's traditions and food. I tried matzo ball soup and matzo bread. I heard him read Hebrew. It was all so magical. This was the 1970s, and the Catholic Church had dropped Latin in favor of Folk Music to lure the younger generation to church. Thus, I had never heard a traditional Latin Mass, so the sound of my Uncle Ed speaking this ancient, foreign tongue was so meserizing.

And, even though I'm not Jewish -- not mention that I'm a few days late -- it seems like a great time to start again. It's Autumn; it's the Jewish New Year, and I feel compelled to lay out some plans for myself. Not resolutions, mind you, just plans. Some of them grand, some of them not grand at all. Some people do this at the end of the calendar year or as Spring comes upon us, but I've always found autumn to be a time of renewal. The very act of harvesting and creating something for now and later -- what could be more of a renewal than that? Harvesting, like knitting, is about making jam out of berries, sauce out of tomatoes, clothing out of some sort of "string".

I've gotten fat. My Italian and my Spanish has waned. My house is a mess. I don't phone or see my parents enough. I've never learned to make wine or can tomatos. I've never learned to make pierogis or say simple phrases in Polish. I've learned to knit. I've knitted gifts that made people happy. I've knitted garments that I don't wear. I own clothing that I don't wear. I've become a sort-of mother to two lovely teenaged boys. I'm in a partnership with a man who "gets" me and loves me -- even if the "getting" isn't entirely "understanding", but loving me nonetheless. I got my driver's license. I bought a car. I see -- really see -- the beauty of the mountains and trees I pass on the way to anywhere. I miss New York City. I love Dutchess County. I give to charity. I fall prey to consumerism. I cry sometimes. I laugh more often than I cry. I've met some of the most amazing people throughout my life, and knitting has broadened that circle.

So, what am I harvesting this year? My knitting skills, my language skills, my parenting skills, my partner skills, my only daughter skills, and my friendship skills. Along the way, I'd like to learn a new thing or two. I'd like to keep laughing -- even when I'm crying. More than anything, I'd like to be actively conscious of how very blessed I am.

I'm guilty of over-reacting these past few days. All this talk of obsession and mohair...for what? Nothing. Guess how much knitting I did yesterday? Zero. That's right. I didn't knit a stitch. I don't think I even bothered to pick up my needles to move them so I could watch Today without discomfort.

And, yes, I could use the valid excuse that yesterday was a very long day at work, but we all know that one can always find the time to knit if so inclined. For example, I could have knit during my lunch hour, rather than shop. I could have knit when I arrived home, rather than going back out to Borders, where they bungled my return/exchange and shorted me $4.92.

But mostly, I didn't knit yesterday because I was too damned lazy to try on my top-down cardigan. There's something really annoying about threading all of that waste yarn through each sleeve as well as the body, trying it on, and then threading everything back on the needles. Ugh! And all of those strings hanging all over the joint...

The most obvious answer is a dress form. Making one from duct tape would be inexpensive, and it would provide me with the most accurate fit. It's a great idea; I'm just not sure how to pull this one off in terms of space. The apartment is S-M-A-L-L. Such that my request for a Babydoll Sheep was rebuffed without discussion or proper consideration.

So, if there's not room for a miniature sheep, do you think there's room for another me? It's not as if I could hide the form anywhere, and I most certainly think that Joe would notice another "person" without steady income loitering around the house. I suppose I could store it in the trunk. But, I'm trying to break that habit.

A few years ago, I was seduced in an aisle at one of those large, chain craft stores. Seduced by something very wicked -- Patons Divine. I had knit exactly one scarf, and suddenly, I had visions of some sort of lovely mohair wrap for someone. I plunked down my money (and my 40% off coupon), and away I went.

Two days later, I was back to the store with refund on my mind. I had cast on and ripped off so many times that I broke out in hives, and my hair resembled the Heat Miser. Maybe I just wasn't ready for mohair at the time, although I don't know that I'll ever be ready Patons Divine in my life.

I must have still been drunk when I bid on this vintage "Mohairline" on eBay. It still lurks in my small stash -- amidst other suspect yarn purchases -- awaiting it's moment in the sun. Between the season and my quest for color, I'm fairly certain that is some time off.

Yet, in spite of these false starts, I gave it another go with some lilac-colored mystery mohair, aquired from who-knows-where. I think it might have been tossed in with the Mohairline. The lovely Airy Scarf from Last Minute Knitted Gifts was the result -- without hives or hair-pulling.

So, how is it that I've become a wool turncoat? I could blame the season for turning my back on cotton yarns, but what could explain my sudden alignment with mohair? It's as of I have been bitten -- hard -- by some sort of mohair crusade bug.

I've all but abandoned my "to-knit list", and I've gone searching for patterns that feature a bit of the fuzzy stuff. Grace is still in the works, and I've discovered roughly ten other mohair patterns to consider. Everyone from Rowan to Rebecca is taunting me. No, I take that back. The folks at Rebecca are not merely taunting; they are toying with and tormenting me. Producing an entire magazine devoted to Super Kid Mohair patterns!

My only hope is that the magazine is a collection of previously published Rebecca patterns. While I only own one (possibly two) Rebecca magazines, I have to think rationally here. How many mohair tops does one girl need?

For those of you wondering about the glamourous world of cosmetics, please note that it's not yet 5:00am, and I'll be at work in one hour -- ringing up pre-sold items for "gift". I'm usually too bleary-eyed to notice if I'm the only one who arrives sans makeup, but I'll take note this time.

Actually, it's not uncommon for me to arrive to any of the counters sans makeup. It would be bad form to wear Chanel foundation at the Elizabeth Arden counter, no? The challenge is getting it all on before the store opens. Rather tricky in a dimly lit store, but I manage.

You can always tell when I've had a slow day at the counter -- I come home painted up like Jezabel. Idle hands are the makeup devil's playthings. I have to keep the face painting to a minimum today, as I have an interview this afternoon, and it's not in the cosmetics nor clowining fields.

My knitting hands haven't been idle, just a bit confused. In the middle of a the increases on Ubernatural, I decide to swatch Katia Idea Jeans to see if it will be a possible substitute yarn for Milinda. Which, by the way is a resounding NO. When knit up, the yarn is lovely to look at, but the act of knitting it feels as if I'm working with a thicker gauge of slightly waxed dental floss.

Gotta run, it's free gift time at Lancome.

At least that is what another knitter told me. As difficult as it's been, I'm starting to come to terms with my knitting obsession. An obsession wherein I could easily pass an entire evening engaged in some aspect of knitting, be it the physical act, reading about knitting, talking about knitting, pawing through yarn -- in real or cyberspace -- looking at patterns, reading knitting blogs, etc.

Combine my obsession for yarn with my obsession for small Japanese things, and it's no wonder I was a goner for the Habu Cork Chenille. I can't imagine what I'll do with this, beyond curse like mad when that little bit of string and those floofy bits jangle my nerves.

That bundle of Cork Chenille is further proof that travelling with other knitters is no way to lessen your own yarn obsession. Knitters are a kind bunch, but there's something sinister about the way in which we enable and justify each other's yarn purchases. Frankly, I'm not comforted by the fact that I am not alone in my obsession. And there's no turning outside the community for help; there's not much sympathy or support for those who knit too much or those who buy too much yarn.

Think about it. If we indulged in any of our other interests -- such as reading, cooking, making love, wine, exercise, or travel -- to the extent that we do with all things knitting, we would be shunned. It would be simply preposterous. Most assuredly arrest and/or being institutionalized would be the end result.

Any diet is about restraint, moderation, and modification, including a yarn diet. I think this is the most difficult diet of all. Does anyone drop by the pastry shop "just to browse" as a knitter would at a yarn shop? Unlikely.

Whoever said that moderation is key was dead-on, though most assuredly not a knitter.

I Want to Be Alone*

It's no secret that I'm the type of gal who screens her calls and skulks around a dark house in order to avoid unwanted social interaction. It's not that I'm anti-social, agoraphobic, or something like that. It's just that I prefer to chat and visit on my own terms.

Undoubtedly, this is one of the most frustrating aspects of having a friendship with me. To this day, I maintain a circle of friends from my freshman year at Penn State, so it must be tolerable. The fact that Dean has been my friend since the age of five either corroborates this belief or it indicates that Dean is either too sweet or too foolish to devise a method of dumping me as a friend. Naturally, I doubt the latter.

My worst habit is knowing when to speak or be silent. I dislike confrontation of any sort, so I'm very meek about requesting something in a restaurant. However, put me in the situation of a tanking job interview, then I can't control my tongue. During one particularly wretched interview, I was asked the inevitable -- describe my perfect job. Questions of this nature are so loathsome and irksome to me that I fear popping a blood vessel on the spot, and I saw little point in playing by the rules in the Titanic of Interviews. "Princess of my own small island" was my answer.

So imagine how giddy I was to discover housing and job opportunties on a remote island in a kingdom. With a population of 65, it's probably as close to my own island as I'll ever get. I can't imagine anything more blissful than knitting far from the maddening crowds.

But there's a snag, and it's a rather large one. I'm not hip to the Fair Isle technique. By this, I mean that I've neither mastered, attempted, nor worn it. Since I'm short, I tend to avoid boxy or barrel-like garments, as well as busy patterns. It just doesn't fit with my fashion sense.

But Katrina? Now there's a fashion fit. I didn't bother ripping back to re-work those wonky stitches, as I have it on good authority that those will come out in the wash, so to speak. Of course, this particular authority is someone who knows I am the Queen of Screen when it comes to the telephone, so maybe she's playing a little game of her own?


*Greta Garbo, Grand Hotel, 1932.