The Twisted World of Fiber, Hooks, Needles, Wheels and Dating after Widowhood

This is my story, and I'm sticking to it. Warts and all. I wanted to call it 'Seriously? WTF?', but that doesn't quite explain it all. Or does it?

Friday, August 27, 2010

three times is a charm

Ok, so I have been knitting for real for a short time now.  Actual knitting and purling. And yarn overs, and ssk's & k2togs.  Stuff like that.  I know how to do exactly 3 cast-ons, although one is (as far as I know) just for toe up socks.  Which I don't knit.  I tried.  4 times.  I have toes lying all over the frickin' house.  I hate socks.  I'm always hot.  Why would I make socks?  My Grandmother taught me to knit years ago, but only had the patience to show me knitting. I could make garter stitch scarves like nobody's business.

The knitting is the fault of my fiber friends.  I found them on Ravelry and joined one of their meetings at a B&N on a Tuesday night.  I don't think I've missed more than like 5 times in 2 years.  I was only a crocheter then, and they didn't laugh at me (well, actually they did, but not that first time).  I felt instantly at home.  They are the fiercest friends I've ever had, and I would kick ass for any one of them.  They came to my husband's wake and knitted.  The whole time.  Like a biker gang, but with pointy sticks.  It was the coolest thing ever.

Eventually, one of the other crocheters in the group started knitting.  Apparently, I have a competitive side, so not to be outdone, I picked up the sticks.  Well, the circs.  Problem is, I'm left handed and knit onto the opposite needle from the rest of the known universe.  And I purl weird.  My style is officially called left handed Eastern Uncrossed.  I call it fucked up.  The hardest thing for me to make is lace stuff, because I have to rework the pattern.  I have to reverse ssk & k2tog or the pattern is wonky.  And I don't think I will ever try knitting something with words in it.  They will be backwards.  Oh well.  Funny thing is, when I learned to crochet a few years ago, I picked up the hook and started making a chain.  Right handed.  Whatever.  lol

Well, today's post is supposed to be about the Minimalist Cardigan I am making.  Long ass winded way to get to the topic, huh?  I love this sweater. I love the yarn.  RYC silk wool dk. What's not to love? The back is done.  Perfect 1x2 ribbing, cute but boring moss stitch.  Now last night, while out yet again with some of the gang, I cast on for a front.  Perfect 1x1 ribbing and stockinette.  Aak! Ripped it out.  2nd try, perfect 1x2 ribbing and stockinette.  until the last 2 rows.  Word of warning- DO NOT watch the Dudesons with your kid while knitting ribbing.  Something about shirtless tattooed Finnish guys that shattered my attention. Ripped it out again.  I now have 1x2 ribbing, but will never use the word 'perfect' and 'knitting' in the same sentence. Or watch that show with my needles in my hands.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

where to begin

Should I start at the beginning?  You know, the marriage, the darling kiddies, the houses, blah, blah blah?  No, that wouldn't be any fun.  I want to start with today.  On a dating site.  A free one.  Just remember people, you get what you pay for, and sometimes you get extra.  I was at work when I noticed I had a new email.  It was from a guy on the free site.  I checked his profile.  Innocent enough.  Not bad looking.  He wasn't Cougar hunting. (That's a story for another day).  So I answered him back. We emailed back and forth all afternoon.  He was smart, articulate, and above all, he could spell and type in complete sentences.  In all of his pictures, he was wearing one of those awful newsboy hats.  Possible red flag for being bald, but that's fine.  I asked him for a picture of his head without the hat.  Bad phrasing.  Should have left the word 'head' out of the sentence because...... yup, you guessed it.  He sent me not one, but two pictures of his weiner.  Granted, it was a fine weiner as they go, but not what I am looking for after 2 hours of emails. Sigh..............  This is how my dating goes.  At the age of 48, all that seems to be left are the weirdos, the pervs and the men who still live with Mother.