Maybe it's a bad sign for my loved ones that I have a taste for gin and two of my idols (Dorothy Parker and Louise Brooks) were gin drunks. Based upon how my too-long name appears on caller ID -- "Surname, Gin" -- a friend suggested that I'd either follow in Dottie's and Lulu's staggering footsteps or become a distiller.

Given that I get as loopy as boucle mohair on one glass of wine, the chances of me slipping into a drunken and destitute life are rather slim. A "taste" is not a "thirst" -- an important distinction when it comes to Spirits.

And yet, Katrina has me feeling a tad parched. Like I could suddenly find myself on a lost weekend. You see, the stitches in the some of the rib transitions and nearly all of the decreases and increases were looking a bit wonky. I figured that wearing the garment would sort that out. Wrong. It seemed to me that the most offensive stitches were stragically placed around my boobs. Additionally, eye-guiding is not necessary in a stretchy ribbed garment; it's built in.

Maybe things will even out in the blocking? Although, I'm suspicous about that wide "ladder" at the bottom -- where I dropped a stitch and performed pick-up surgery. Even though my gut tells me that I have to rip back (again), I spritzed the more offensive stitches to see if some sort of magic would happen.

And though I claim to not have an addictive personality, I moved through the last few days like a detoxing derelict. Need. More. Yarn. Blame it on Stitches; it was my undoing. Sure, sure, I have access to a great local yarn shop, access to Manhattan yarn shops, and access to internet yarn shops, but all of that variety in one room? It was just too much for me. How many hours until the NY Sheep & Wool Festival?

Blocking and weather permitting, perhaps, I'll bring Katrina along for the fun.

Years ago, I worked in public relations and special events. Quite often, celebrities would "donate" their time to our cause, and in return, they'd receive goodie bags (aka swag) at the event, as well as other gifts. Something about this practice disturbed me. Maybe it's a shock to realize that the people who can afford just about anything are given just about everything -- in the name branding and promotion.

Yesterday, Teri, Theresa, and I attended the The Point/Knitty/Gilda's Club Cruise, and left with a generous swag bag of knitting goodies. There was a silent auction of knitting books, bags, and samples from Knitty.com and Vogue Knitting.

Bidding was fast and furious for the Noro Butterfly jacket, as well as the Twinkle design from the Winter 2004/2005 cover of Vogue Knitting. Some emotion between "to covet" and "to help" took ahold of me, and I bid on the Ruffled Silk Blouse. Something that I had wanted to knit myself, but was honest enough to admit that I'd never get around to it. Winning was a double bonus: I got a lovely handmade garment (complete with instant gratification), and my money goes to Gilda's Club.


Admittedly, I'm feeling a little guilty about the swag bag, but it's not like I'm a Golden Globe presenter walking away what amounts to the annual salary of an over-worked secretary.

Thus far, my trip to Stitches has been a success. I worked out two days in a row, I purchased yarn and patterns the first day, and I'm going back for more. I know that shopping is like oxygen to some people, but I am not one of them. I spend far too much time mulling over a purchase to the point of annoying anyone shopping with me. Typically, there's a good deal of sighing, pondering, and handling that happens before I walk out of the store with nary an item. It's as if I'm projecting the shopper's remorse I may experience post-purchase.

But this time, I was determined not to fall prey to this behaviour; I wanted to make this trip a success in terms of yarn purchases. I'm not sure if was Teri's presence, the workout, or the fact that I was more organized about what I was seeking; but something clicked this time. The haul is small in comparision to those dragging luggage built for a month-long tour of Europe, but I am pleased with my purchases.

As for Teri's presence, let it be stated for the record that she's one serious knitter. So, serious in fact, that she she brought her yarn swift and winder along for the ride -- just in case she felt the need to transform a purchase into a project.

But, if the swift and winder aren't enough to convince you that this woman is a hardcore fiber addict, perhaps the sling will. Note that she's knitting with her right arm in a sling -- a mere two weeks out of rotator cuff surgery.

With Teri and her phenomenal rotator cuff by my side, there's no room for failing or faltering.

When someone mentions Atlantic City to the average New York State resident, neither yarn nor exercise are the first things that come to mind. Because Atlantic City, like Las Vegas, is all about gambling -- unless you are me.

I spent three nights in Las Vegas in the jacuzzi bathtub, rather than at the slots or the tables. I'm a homebody, so a good bath and a good book beat a "good hand" any day of the week. If that Las Vegas trip doesn't convince you that I'm a bit of a nutter, then my first trip to Stitches East in Atlantic City will be the nail in the coffin.

I awoke this morning with a desire to move; a desire to run. Now, this is bizarre for two reasons:

1) I have not exercised in roughly a eighteen months.
2) I am not a runner. I do not run. Unless, it's for a late-night subway, and that's only because waiting 40 minutes for another train is unthinkable at 3:00am. That's worth running for -- even in heels.

But this morning, I donned my workout togs, and at 7:30am, I took to the treadmill. Not only did I spent a full 30 minutes engaged in physical activity, but SEVEN of those were spent running. Granted, a 2-minute sprint and a 5-minute sprint are not exactly marathon material, but it's monumentual in my book.

I am glad to say that my first hour at Stitches East surpassed my buying experience in two days of the New York State Sheep & Wool Festival -- where I boasted over one hank of yarn and one jar of natural honey. Perhaps, I came better prepared. Perhaps, Stitches is more "accessable" to me that Sheep & Wool was. Or perhpas, it was the aid of our Stitches mascots...

Sometimes, you have to mire through garbage to see some rewards. Right now, I'm dealing with The Most Boring Temp Job Ever and my agency stiffing me for three hours of work. Today, I'm covering the Women's Fragrance counter solo -- and it's stock day. There's nothing like checking in and unpacking 50 boxes of perfume.

The payola? First, I found a combination panini/food grill for $30 on sale in the Home Section. I tested it immediately last night, as well as this morning. Maybe proscuitto in the morning is not to everyone's taste, but I'd wager that this is the most satisfying breakfast I've eaten in months.

If anything could be more exciting than kitchen gadgets, it's got to be yarn. Lots of yarn. Which is what I'm hoping to see at Stitches East this weekend. Maybe I'm being naive, but I'm looking forward to the experience. Even if it's a bust yarn-wise, it's a weekend trip with my friend Teri.

I was making nice progress on the Katrina Rib, but a close inspection of my roughly five inches of knitting, left me cold. I'd not worked all of the M1Ps properly, and it showed. Literally. Holes. I thought about steaming the bloody thing with the clothing steamer at work to see if it could be corrected with bit of blocking. A knitting buddy at the Shiseido counter gave me a flat look and announced that I'd be so unhappy with the bottom when I bound off. "What's a few inches to rip out now to know that you'll be pleased with the final resut?" There's no arguing with sound logic, especially when stated so matter-of-factly.

I would be the first to admit that my experience with children is rather limited. I was the child of a doting stay at home mom, and more recently, I am a sort of Insta-Mom to Joe's kids. Even with my severely limited exposure to the role of nurturing parent, I have come to realize that children are a lot like yarn.

It seems that no matter the amount of coddling and molding, yarn -- like a child -- will eventually become something of it's own, rather than what you'd hoped. Naturally, we want the best for our yarn; wanting nothing more than the creation of a specific knitted garment.

In my knitting life, moreso than in my parenting life, I've wrestled and struggled to produce something that would not be. I negotiated with my yarn to become something specific, simply because I either loved the yarn or the pattern, without concern that the marriage I was making was not in anyone's best interest.

I could say that the lovely Rowan Cashsoft DK is earmarked for the Hopeful Knitalong, but I'd be a stinking liar if I did. Instead, I'll be making the Katrina Rib How can I argue against this pattern? The Cashsoft DK will show the travelling ribbing well. The pattern is simple and stylish, and the purchase supports a good cause.

I keep telling myself that I'll cast on for Hopeful one day. Until then, I'll continue to nuture Kevin, Lukas, and my small stash to their fullest potential.

In spite of the fact that I'm a Summer baby (born on the Summer Solstice), I favor an Indian Summer to the sweatiness and stickiness of Summer. Indian Summer has a touch of Autumnal promise -- a light cardigan or wrap in the mornings and the evenings.

No matter that the stores have already made way for cold weather fashions, or that Snickers has been helping with the pressing and blocking of Grace, I could not resist being lured in by the siren call of Teva Durham's Ballet Top.

I'm not sure if it was the subtle slinkiness of the Ballet Top, the promise of a gorgeous day, or perhaps a combination of the two; but some magic was afoot yesterday when Joe announced that he was going to spend the day with me. It was rather surprising, as Joe is far more driven and motivated when it comes to work than I ever was -- or ever could be.

Soon enough, the green grass will be a memory beneath the knee-deep snow, and I will be forced to parade around in dark tones, thick tights, and snowboots. But, until then, my sweatheart and I are celebrating the final days of the season in bright colors, short sleeves, and with great abandon.

Edited to add: For those of you wondering about the strange sizing listed in the pattern, I made the Women's Small, using the suggested yarn, Lamb's Pride Cotton Fleece, doubled. I'm a 34-36B.

Some time ago, I wished for a baby -- not my own mind you -- but one to come into my knitting life via a child-wanting friend. Holy wooly! I think there's something in the water. Out in Knitblogland is bursting with new mommies and mommies-to-be. Does it always happen like this -- so many at one time?

Because in Lumayland, pregnancy seems to be an epidemic. My cousin and his wife had a baby at the end of July (I mailed the Baby Kimono yesterday), while pregnancy announcements have come from my PSU friend, Deb, as well as Shar, a cosmetics co-worker. And last night, I learned Denise's news.

Denise and I spent over a month abroad in September 2001. She was supposed to celebrate her second honeymoon at the end of our time together; but after a mugging incident in Napoli, she and her husband insisted that I join them in Venezia. Now, we are all fairly liberal and open-minded, but I'm fairly certain that my presence hampered the honeymoon phase, as well as any previously planned baby-making efforts.

In an open letter to my friends: Enough with the babies! But if you're all going to keep breeding into the New Year, please don't be offended if -- should I manage to swallow my pride and take the low road -- you receive a store-bought gift. I'm a horribly selfish person, as evidenced by my choice to be childless. Besides, Baby Gap is sooo much better about providing clear washing instructions...

According to the Fiber Random Acts of Kindness calendar, it's National Felt Hat Day!

Being a huge fan of hats, I could not resist modelling a few of my handmade styles. The green cloche is hand-felted (no knitting involved), while the tan cloche is a steamed and blocked felt hood -- still awaiting final finishing.



Sadly, most of my favorites are neither handmade by me, not are they felted. So, maybe I'm not really sticking with the spirit of the holiday, but not everyone gives candy at Halloween, do they? Personally, I'm that old grouch who bolts the door and turns down the lights when the kids come a-calling.

And this moving Halloween to another night? I'm convinced it's suburban trickery to make childless people such as myself feel incredibly Grinch-like and cantankerous for denying small children the chance at dental caries. If the kids went trick or treating on the proper night, I'd have the good manners to be away from home, rather than curled up on the couch and crawling around in the dark so as not to cast shadows that can be seen from the windows.

But I digress. I digress in everything, really. The Baby Kimono? Finished. Wrapped, but not yet mailed. Grace? Back and lower front sections are complete, but I got a wee bit bored with all of the stockinette. So, I cast on for more stockinette: the Ballet Shirt from Loop-d-Loop.

I know it's common for many knitters to juggle multiple projects, or to suffer a case of "finishitis", but I'm starting to wonder if I don't have some knit-specific form of Adult Attention Deficit Disorder.

First, let me start off with a bit of eye candy. The Baby Kimono is finished and ready for the trip south. I'm not entirely in love with the attached ribbon, but at this point, I need to send some sort of baby gift before the child graduates from high school.

So what exactly is the opposite of eye candy? I mean, the extreme opposite. You know when you've seen something that is beyond horrible that scars not only your mind, but perhaps, your retinas as well? Is there a collectively-agreed upon expression to be used in such an instance? If my friends Alyssa and Steve see a particularly bad movie, their review is concise: "It gave me eye cancer."

Granted, cancer of any sort is no joke -- as Alyssa knows that first-hand -- but maybe it's the extremeness of that statement that allows it to work. Whatever the case, I suggest that you view in moderation, if not with extreme caution, until we know more about the side effects and treatments for "Celebreality".

My Fair Brady

Christopher Knight, known as Peter Brady of the 70s phenomenon, The Brady Bunch, and Adrianne Curry, the first ever crowned, "America's Next Top Model," caught each others eye during VH1's Surreal Life 4. Now, almost a year later, they are in love and living together. Initially, Chris asked Adrianne Curry to move to Los Angeles and live with him until she could get on her feet; get a car, and get an apartment. Now, months later, there's no car, there's no apartment and Chris is starting to wonder if he did the right thing by having Adrianne move in with him.

The Girls Next Door

Follow the lives of Hugh Hefner's three girlfriends inside the Playboy Mansion.

Kept

Watch as men with questionable motives and sexual orientations compete to be Jerry Hall's boy toy. Almost as amusing as her faux-British accent!

There's so much more out there, but my brain hurts. Given my preference to treat more homeopathically and naturally, I'm shunning Tylenol. Perhpas relief is just one little Brain Sucker away.

True to form, I never started Grace with the vintage mohair yarn I had sitting in my stash. I did a swatch, and I just wasn't happy with the creamy color. Grace needs to be in color. She needs a dash of pizzazz. Soft white for Grace just wasn't going to cut it.

But a buttery Kiwi sure does! It looks nothing short of bile-like in the photos, but worry not. The color is one of those wretched colors that flatters about 2% of the population, and I'm in that category. Believe me, would that I could wear bright, sassy colors and look as good as I do in those that run alarmingly close to all manner of baby excretions.

Do you ever have a moment during knitting or blocking when the piece in question seems to small or large to fit your body? I always have that odd sort of mental dysmorphia. Perhaps, I watch far too much America's Next Top Model, resulting in a belief that I'm much smaller than I actually am. Not that I'm large, but I'm not small in the 5'10" and 110lbs. sense. The back of Grace looks rather large to me, but if history has taught me anything, it will fit just fine once I get around to finishing the other pieces and stringing them all together.

Speaking of stringing together, I have some sewing and blocking to do, and then Baby Kimono can make it's way to Baton Rogue. How shall I shame myself into making good on the promise to mail the gift out by the weekend? Sshhh! I know I said it would go out last weekend, but...well...

I have no excuse. Other than those of laziness and selfishness, of course.

Under normal circumstances, I would have spent the bulk of yesterday at home, quitely watching the September 11th Memorial, and thankfully reflecting on the blessings in my life. However, yesterday yhe authors of The Knitting Way were holding a book signing at Yarn Central, and I agreed to help out. I felt that the content of the book was so relevant to the day that I could not stay away.

It was lovely to spend a few hours with the authors, one of whom was the founder of Patternworks, as well as various Yarn Central patrons, discussing the process and the spirituality of knitting.

It's sort of a workbook -- an Artist's Way for knitter's if you will -- with projects that work out the process laid forth in each chapter. The idea of reading or using a book out of chapter order defies my book convention, which means that I must force myself to jump to the chapter on lettting go of perfection to do a few of those projects!

While I don't fancy knitting up pasta in the near future, I do embrace the idea of a more relaxed and playful approach to knitting -- or anything. I'm often crippled by the need for perfection. Such that I'll never even try a craft or endeavor simply because I fear that my first go-around will suck and be a miserable failure.

It was a quiet but silly evening with Joe and the boys. We watched the U.S. Open, Poirot, and some bad reality shows. We tortured Kevin with our collective silliness as he tried to make us sit for a Family Photo assignment for English class. That blinding flash of light to my right is Joe, who looks as if he's about to be transported through time and space.

September 11th is a rough day for many people. I did have a strange attachment to the World Trade Center, where I worked briefly for a non-profit organization largely supported by the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. I spent the greater part of the Summer of 1991 on the 68th Floor of WTC 1.

In 2001, I was living in Manhattan, and a friend from Philadelphia came to visit over Labor Day weekend. We spent the bulk of Labor Day in lower Manhattan, roaming through the public areas of the WTC. As we sat on the E train under the towers, we remarked on the structural intricacies of the towers, the underground mall, and the subways -- all intertwined. Ominously, we noted that it would be impossible to survive in the subway should anything ever happen in the towers overhead.

My last view of the World Trade Center was a glorious one. After a dinner date in Staten Island, we sailed his boat to the foot of Manhattan, turned off the engine, and floated in the shadow of the towers. They were aglow from the light of the giant fiery-orange autumn moon -- an utterly remarkable and breathtaking sight. Exactly one week later, I sat at my desk, fielding calls from friends, family, and international co-workers as the first plane struck. It was incomprehensible. I was on the line with Dean, my closest friend from Pittsburgh, when his other line rang. He switched back to tell me that his sister had just phoned -- the second tower had been hit by a another plane.

Even four years later, the deep panic and sadness I felt that day arises and overwhelms me. Having worked in the World Trade Center, I know what a dark labrynth of confusion the corridors and stairways had to have been. My heart aches with the knowledge that those 102 minutes must have been absolute agony for those trapped. As a small token of remembrance, I watch the memorial, and I try to remember to never take for granted the precious gift of life.

Dear Knitting Group,
Last night was kind of rough. Let me just apologize up front for anything I said or did that was untoward. You see, I'm not really sure of last night's events, but it's coming back to me. At first, I thought it was the mushrooms, but that doesn't seem likely. It's all still kind of fuzzy. Like mohair fuzzy.

Yep, Little Miss I'm-Finishing-This- Baby-Kimono-and-Mailing-It-Friday is, uhm, is stalled. I blame it on the mohair. vintage Bernat Mohairline to be exact. Which poses several questions:

1) What the hell kind of gift knitter am I? Apparently a rather shite one, as I'm more focused on the patterns that I want to knit for Me, Me, Me than anyone else. Even a tiny, wee, newborn anyone else.

2) What the hell am I doing knitting from the Spring 2004 Knitty when there new, Fall 2005 issues of Interweave Knits, Vogue Knitting, and Knitty out there? Out there, taunting me all manner of knitted lovliness. But again, I have to blame it on the mohair. I didn't realize how powerful it was. Not to mention the quiet power of Grace. She's so soft and floaty that I just could not resist.

3) Why the hell am I using an old, mothproofed yarn -- in a color that doesn't speak to me -- when there GGH Soft Kid and Rowan Kidsilk Haze out there? Well, it's my noble attempt at stash-busting my rather small, but oddly assorted stash.

In spite of my mohair stupor, I was able to clearly see the mail, which contained a small envelope -- crafted from a yarn catalogue, no less! -- addressed to me.


It's a good luck crane from Julie, a member of the Fiber ROAK Group. How did she know that I'd need this origami crane to carry Baby Kimono to it's little recipient? I hope that the crane can make up for my delayed shipping. If I'm bypassing the Federal Government, it's got to be cheaper and faster, no?

I know. I'm mixing languages. But does anyone else notice a parallel between the seemingly opposite cultures of Italy and Japan?

Already, I know that Italians are going to tell me hat there's no "Italian culture" because each region thinks of itself as being, well, perhaps a bit superior in art, taste, and food to the other regions. Putting that aside, let's agree that there is a unified Italian Culture. Afterall, this notion accounts for the on-going American love affair with La Dolce Vita.

First off, there's the noodle. Both the Japanese and the Italian have a deep hunger for the noodle, and it seems that both cultures are willing to ignore the culinary history of China and claim the noodle as a national invention. Furthmore, my experience with Italian and Japanese when it comes to dining beyond their culinary borders is nothing short of culinarily zenophobia. Oh, yes, they'll taste outside of their regional/national food. They'll try the newest restaurant, particularly if visiting New York City, but by and large, "home food" is regarded as ultimately superior.

Then, there's the parallel of the satorial flair. I know that French woman are believed to be the most chic women on the planet, but when it comes to clean, simple elegance, the Italians and the Japanese are top contenders as well. And when it's not about that simple elegance, it's about wacky fashion -- enter Versace and the Harajuku girls.

There are other parallels I could draw to make this a stronger argument, but the point is this: I have vowed to finish the Baby Kimono today. I want to be at the Post Office, with Kimono boxed for shipment, tomorrow. No excuses.

Back at university, one of my professors asked the class to write down the date on which they would win $1,000,000. Everybody complied willinging. Next, the professor asked everyone to write the date on which their best friend would die. A few of us did it. The vast majority did not. Professor Rawlins was making a point about the strength of the written word. The superstition that somehow, by writing the date of our best friend's death, it would come to pass as a result of our carelessness.

I should have kept that exercise in the back of my mind every time I spoke or wrote that I wanted a quick end to The Most Boring Temp Job Ever. I arrived home today from errands and appointments to a message from my temporary agency, a message informing me that my assignment had ended. Apparently, after dragging ass since July 5th, they've been able to find a permanent person in as little as three days. Frankly, I'm not buying it, but I'm glad to be free from the shackles of boredom. It's just unfortunate that I was counting on those two days of income this week, but that is the one of the perils of temping -- you cannot ever count your chickens. Or your eggs for that matter.

I'm not fretting because I have a few options in the works, and I have those sweet kiwi-colored Franco Sartos that I picked up in Newport for a mere $20. Sweater and suede shoe weather is just around the corner. And that is a chicken I can count.

The family time in Naragansett, Rhode Island was pure pleasure. I ate too much, and I slept too much -- but I did wear (and re-apply frequently) copious amounts of sunscreen.

At first, I felt a bit lost without a computer to read my daily digest of emails and blogs, but I made it through by doing a bit of work on the Baby Kimono and reading The Pilot's Wife, which was the only palatable option of the books at the rental house.

In spite of the fact that we're slowing working through a mound of laundry, we've succumbed to eating the packaged and canned food from the dusty corners of the pantry, and school starts Wednesday, we're still in vacation mode. It feels pretty good, I must say.

I've made a pact with myself that I'll not catch up on reading blogs until I return to The Most Boring Temp Job ever on Thursday. I should hope that that endeavour fills nearly the entire eight hours!

Queen of Screen

It's no secret that I'm the sort of person who screens her telephone calls and skulks around a dark house in order to avoid contact with the outside world. I'm not anti-social, agoraphobic, or any such thing. I'm just a very private person who likes to socialize and chat on my own terms. Or maybe I'm just really spoiled and moody.

In either case, I'm sure that this behaviour is one of the more frustrating aspects of having a friendship with me. I still have a close friends from Day One at Penn State, I must not be so horrible. Dean has known me since we were five, and surely, that corroborates my thinking. Or maybe it just means that Dean is either too kind or too foolish to figure out how to unload me as a friend. Of course, I prefer to think that the latter is out of the question.

One of my other bad habits is not speaking up when I should, but always opening my yap at the wrong time. For instance, if a job interview is going bad, I'll throw caution to the wind. I won't play fair and try to pretend as if either of us want this to go for one minute longer. When the inevitable and unimaginative question, "What would your perfect job be?", is posed, I put the nail in the coffin. I take no prisioners with: "Princess of my own small island...".

While it's not princess status, I'm giddy at the prospect of a remote island with a kingdom posting housing and knitting opportunities. Yes, it is none other than THE Fair Isle!

Nevermind that I'm not a Fair Isle-type of gal. Considering that it's not my style, I haven't bothered to conquer the Fair Isle technique; which, no doubt, would be a rather large part of the interview process. Truth be told, I haven't even bothered to attempt the technique, so uninspiring is it to my fashion senses. I'm a short gal, but not a whispy gal, so anything that is 1) constructed like a barrel, 2) focused on solely on function, and/or 3) busy in terms of color/pattern...well, that's just not for me.

What is for me is something like the fitted and fluid Katrina. She's complete -- without my ripping back again. I have it on good authority that a gentle washing and blocking will smooth out the rough spots.

And now, it's the inevitable knitter's crisis. What's my next project?
Even with the temperatures slowly dipping, I'm not lured by bulky sweaters just yet. I'm a little like a discount store when it comes to knitting and patterns. I'm running about one season behind.