Surgery and Recovery

It's just possible that I've been knitting seamless sweaters for so long that I have completely forgotten how to make flat pieces that will actually fit together.  If I ever knew how in the first place, that is (jury still out). 

The ribbing on one of my cardigan fronts was a full five rows longer than the other.  This would be the two-color, fiddly waste yarn cast on with no corresponding bind off which cannot be shortened except from the top, with a good old fashioned frogging.  Except that I was totally unwilling to tear it back, because I had completely finished that front, bobbles and shaping and all.

I had to go fetal mull it over for a day or so before admitting that there were only two choices:

Option 1:        Try to "ease" in the extra length when sewing the side seam on that piece.  I could live with this option, provided that  A.  I could keep my hand firmly held to my side at all times so as not to reveal the error, or B.   Keep moving around constantly so no one would notice. 

2.        Operate on the patient.  With no idea how to graft 2 x 2 rib, and no confidence that it could be done at all, I drank beer thought it over a while longer before arriving at my decision.

I wonder why everything always comes down to cutting sweaters with scissors in my world?  I guess when all you have is a hammer, every problem looks a lot like a nail.  I decided that while option 1. had no hope of a positive outcome (except possibly increased physical fitness), option 2. offered at least a chance of success:

Always the carnage.  I don't know what's scarier: all those live stitches, or the fact that I had to turn the piece over every two stitches make the join.  For some reason, I could recreate a knit stitch with the unraveled working yarn and a tapestry needle, but I could not mimic a purled one.

I'm pleased to announce that Crunch Berries, although clinically dead for an entire afternoon, turned back from the brink of oblivion, and her prognosis is good:

The two of us are convalescing at Sock Camp, in beautiful Port Ludlow, where the sun even came out for an entire day.  She's a fighter, that one..

Keep Calm and Carry On

My new Catalytic Converter is really just the best.  You know, it's not every day that you can be required to spend so much money, and still have no visible evidence of having done it.  Every so often, I go out to the driveway and open the hood of my car.  I try to guess where my new Catalytic Converter is by looking for something that seems less dirt-covered than the rest of the stuff in there.  I can't say that I've located it, but there are definitely finger prints all over the engine compartment which make it look like something must have happened in there recently.  Of course, that forensic analysis could just as well confirm that somebody dropped a contact lens, but I'm choosing optimism.

I've been working on the Crunch Berries Kingscot.  Back done and one sleeve almost there.  And I was feeling fairly smug about that progress, since knitting flat is so rare for me that the pace seems kinda glacial.  Which smugness was of course, the cue for the Universe to Smite me.  Phillip's car is making the most wretched noise (in addition to its prior symphony of other, mildly annoying noises).  I have no idea what it is, of course, only a vague feeling of dread that causes me to top off the charge on Phillip's cell phone every time he puts it down.  I will be retrieving him from the side of the road someplace very soon.  Which necessitates my finding a new car for him, stat.  I throw myself on this grenade because 1.  As hopeless as I am about all things car, Phillip's lack of knowledge is eclipsed only by his stunning disinterest, and 2.  My schedule is much more flexible than his, since I work at home, and he works at, well, work.  So it's on me to score a new set of wheels for the spouse.  What could possibly go wrong?

I put the whole thing out of my mind for a while and worked on this secret project.  Kinda, sassy, no?  I think I dig it.  I may have mentioned (a time or two) that I hate swatching because it doesn't produce anything but a dumb knitted square.  So any time I can, I try to swatch by making something.  It takes more time, but it tells me a lot more, and at the end, it's hopefully something somebody can use.  Stay tuned - all will be revealed in time.  This, too caused me a bit of knitterly satisfaction that I ought to know better than to have.  I came home from the grocery store yesterday to see that my entire kitchen was half an inch under water.  That's right.  In case there was any chance of my striking some sort of karmic balance, the Universe has made its position perfectly clear:  "Get out your checkbook".  It's nice, in a way, knowing exactly what is expected of me.  The plumber will arrive this morning.  Allegedly.

So I shifted gears again, this time returning to my first knee sock.  I was so totally convinced that it would never stay up that I made eyelets to run this cool elastic ribbon through.  Now let it just try to sag.  I had crazy hopes of having a mate for this in time for Sock Camp, which coincides with my birthday this year.  Having not even cast on for sock 2 yet, I don't like my chances much.

Plumber's truck just pulled up.  Gotta go find my checkbook.

All Kingscot, All the Time

And no, I'm not really sleeping or eating either.  This one is a bit consuming.  The children actually asked me when it would be finished.  Apparently they tire of froot loops for every meal.  Honestly, some people.  

I showed them the buttons, thinking it would cheer them up.  Let's just say that their enthusiasm is not equal to my own.  "But they're an exact match!  Porcelain and yarn - that's not easy to do!" I explained.  A dog barked in the distance.  Sometimes I worry about my future, in the hands of people so unappreciative of perfect buttons.

But you, Gentle Readers, will surely understand:  Regularly scheduled activities (laundry, meals, basic sanitation) will resume directly,  I promise. 

Just as soon as I finish this row.