But is it TOO perfect?

Well, it finally happened.  I hopped on Ye Olde Bandwagon and cast on for a Color Affection shawl of my very own.  (Truth be told, I bought my ticket for that fun train months ago when my friend Marie-Michele and I spent about an hour debating colour combinations of Grinning Gargoyle Seda Sock at Rhinebeck, but I only jumped on 10 days ago.)

Anyway, it's charming.  Utterly charming.  Cushy and comforting.  Like oatmeal on a cold winter morning.  The soothing garter stitch is predictable, familiar, yet kept from being monotonous by the novelty of the colour changes.  And it's flying off the needles!  A friend remarked that it's a good thing I'm knitting with aluminum needles, because I'd be fixin' to set my knitting on FIRE I'm rubbing these here pointy sticks together so fast.  All in all, I'd say it's perfect, perfect knitting.

Then last night, as I rolled my knitting into a ball and left it on the couch lovingly tucked my knitting away for the evening, I wondered at how swimmingly everything was going, and that's when it happened.  A shadow of doubt.  A wrinkle.  A question... maybe this was going too well?  Maybe it was too perfect?  Maybe I'd done something wrong?

The instructions had seemed fairly straightforward, but what if I had made a mistake?  The third section of the shawl has you knitting 3 stitches past a previously wrapped stitch.  Had I been picking up too many stitches all along? Had I been over-thinking the directions and taken the instructions too literally?  Had I inadvertently turned my perfect, winter comfort knitting into a pile of absolute drivel that I would need to rip back in quiet shame?

All night, it bothered me.   I barely slept a wink.  This morning, once I was caffeinated and the kids were safely off to school, I knew what I had to do.

Math.

Good news: it's going to be fine.  My bad!

Happy Knitting, Everyone!

Perspective

About a month ago, I came down with a case of Startitis. Thankfully, it wasn't the the severe kind that has the knitter casting on 17 projects in 3 days in wild, careless abandon. No, no, nothing like that.

I just really, really, REALLY wanted to cast on for a shawl. Even though I already had an active project on the needles. Even though I had a *cough*few*cough* lingering WIPs. I didn't care about any of that. Suddenly, what I was working on had about as much appeal as a colonoscopy, and I wanted something shiny and new, and darnit, it was going to be a shawl. Something with lace, but not too "lacey". Something awesome.

Now... I know what you're thinking. "Big whup, Tara. So you wanted to cast on for a shawl. How is that Startitis?!?"

Because of the fevered blindness with which I cast on, my friends. Brooklyn Tweed's Loft Collection had just come out and pushed me over the edge, so it didn't take me long to settle on Stonecrop for a pattern. As for the yarn, I quickly settled on the Foxhill Farm Cormo Cross I bought at Rhinebeck last year because a) it was still relatively shiny and new and b) it's brown, like the one the gorgeous strawberry-blond nymph modelling the pattern is wearing.

Was it the right gauge? Did I swatch? Did I even give a sh*t?? Um... no. I threw caution to the WIND, my friends. I told the Knitting Fates they could shove it up their skeins, and recklessly cast on. Total Startitis.

After about 10 rows I started getting that feeling, though... that feeling that this wasn't looking quite right, that maybe it wasn't going to work out. And I went through all Denial's usual suspects: "Maybe it'll block out", "Maybe it's the lighting", "It'll look better once it's off the needles". And for a while, that was enough to keep me going. I kept knitting, trying to outrun the sense of knitterly doom.

After a few weeks, as often happens in these situations, the Foxhill Stonecrop got set aside in favour of other, more interesting pressing projects. And there it sat, in suspended animation, on the living room end table (a.k.a. where WIPs go to die).

Last night I had Kate-the-Enabler over for a Knit Night, and as she was dutifully Oooh-ing and Aaah-ing over my current projects, she came upon the forgotten shawl.

"Is that your Cormo!??", she asked excitedly (she was there when I bought it. So was Stephen West. It was a Moment).

"Yeah" I answered. "I'm not entirely convinced it's working with this pattern, though...".

And Kate, yes woman extraordinaire, she who can see the positive in ANYTHING, spread the shawl out and gave it a good hard look. "You know..." she said, pursing her lips "I think you might be right."

Buh-bye, Stonecrop. Anyone have any pattern suggestions for 820 yards of Foxhill Cormo Cross?


Happy Knitting, Everyone!

The properties of density

I think people have a finite amount of "active" memory, which is where we store the information that we need to function in our day to day lives (think RAM for computers). It's where we keep our passwords and PIN numbers, our kids' teachers' names, the stitch pattern for the project we're currently working on... stuff like that. As long as the information is in use, it's right there, easily available. But as soon as it's no longer needed? It's outta there.

Don't know what I mean? Well, think about the stuff you learned in highschool. At one time in my life, knowing who the first bishop of Québec was and when he was appointed was pretty darn important. But now? Not so much. Sure, I remember who was the first bishop (Laval - some lessons can't be unlearned), but when was he appointed? Not a clue.

This... precariousness of information, I have found, is especially true when it comes to "The Science" (chemistry, physics, etc.). Now, I used to be a bit of a nerd (I can hear a few peoples' voices dubiously asking "used to be???" in my head as I type that). I used to know stuff about "The Science". Take the concept of density, for example. I used to understand what it was, I knew the formula to represent it's properties and everything. But when I looked it up a few days ago, it made little sense to me. I had to break it down into it's little bitty parts to get it.

Density, dear readers, is the ratio of the mass to volume of a substance.

In knitterly parlance, that would be the amount of yarn (mass) in ratio to the length of the fabric (volume) produced. So, a fabric that's dense uses more yarn then a fabric that's "thin" (or drapey). Simple, right?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Gee that's swell Tara, why the heck are you talking about this?". Good question.

Remember when I told you that I was having issues with gauge on the Java Java socks? Remember when I said that the fabric was really thick? Like, foot-armour producing kind of thick? That's because the fabric I was producing was very dense.

I produced a dense fabric. And, as I have just demonstrated, dense fabrics use up more yarn than "regular" fabric. Any bells ringing yet?

There you go. I can feel you making the connection now. You've just realised what only dawned on me a few nights ago: by creating a dense fabric, I've used up more yarn than I normally would to knit a sock, and I'm totally going to run out of yarn before I finish the second sock.

Crap.

Happy Knitting, Everyone.

More Chronicles of a Knitting Dumbass

Easing my way back into blogging today, my friends. I needed a wee rest after NaBloPoMo, but I've missed you terribly (I keep refreshing my email, wondering why I'm not getting any comments before I remember that I haven't posted in over a week), and I hope you've missed me as well.

I used to be a math wiz (whiz? probably not). Not only was I really an excellent student (my highschool teacher used to gush and fawn over my homework and test scores), I actually enjoyed doing maths. I loved that it was so predictable and orderly, and that if you just followed the steps, you would always arrive at the proper solution to the problem. Math suited my obsessive-compulsive control-freak issues me to a proverbial Tee.

Of course, that was 20 years ago (Aack! TWENTY years!!!!). After high school I shunned the ways of math and earned a coupla degrees in History, followed by another degree in library and information sciences, none of which use math all that much. Sure, I can add and subtract (sometimes I even do it in my head!), but those multiplication/division skills are, apparently, somewhat rusty. As evidenced by my sad, sad attempts to knit a button-hole row on the Castlegar cardigan earlier this week.

The pattern calls for 8 buttons (thusly, 8 button-holes), to be spaced evenly along the button band. Laura (I've knit 3 of her cardigans. I feel I'm allowed to call her by her given name) has you place stitch markers along the buttonband where you want your buttons to be, and then knit button-holes in the corresponding area into the opposing band. No counting, you just sort of wing it.

Now, Laura may be one of those free-spirit types of knitters who can just place buttons wherever they strike her fancy, but I, my friends, am not. I need structure, precision, and a little f*%$ing discipline. Place stitch markers on a whim? Was the woman high on wool fumes when she wrote this? No, this simply wouldn't do. Would. Not. I, fellow knitters, had a Plan. I would simply dig into my admittedly rusty math skills and figure out the perfect button-hole placement formula. Symmetry and beauty would be MINE.

Here's how that worked out:

1. Each button-hole uses 4 stitches. I have 166 stitches on the needles. Decide I want a 4 stitch cushion between the edges of the band and the first/last button. Pull numbers out of my arse and decide that proper placement of 6 remaining buttons should occur every 21 stitches.
2. Knit smugly, arrive at end of row with 2 button-holes yet to knit. Sit bemused for a moment, and reluctantly tink back.
3. Decide to reduce the "cushion" zone to 3 stitches, and to reduce spacing between button-holes to 16 stitches. Feel certain that this should ABSOLUTELY work (because 16 + 4 = 20, and 20 x 8 - 160. Factor in the 3 "cushion" stitches on each edge, and voilà: 166 stitches).
4. Knit smugly, arrive at end of row with not eight but NINE button-holes (whaaaa???). Curse. Tink back.
5. Actually LOOK at the cardi and decide I don't really want a button at the top of the neckband anyway. Decide Laura might be onto something after all (why I ever doubted her at all is completely beyond me), and decide to just wing it.
6. Retain the 16 stitch spacing as a guide (because you can lead an old knitter to water...), knit 16 stitches BEFORE placing the first button-hole, and knit nervously, praying to the knitting muses that they throw this poor, tired knitter a freakin' bone already.
7. Arrive at the end of the row with a most fetching 6 stitch "cushion" zone. Feel profound sense of relief and victory.
8. Said feeling of victory is promptly crushed when I realize that I've somehow managed to confuse the top and bottom of the cardigan, and that the longer "cushion" zone I had planned to be at the neck is, in fact, at the bottom of the button-hole band.
9. Decide I'd rather set my hair on fire than tink back AGAIN, and that furthermore, only crazy people give a flying fart about button placement anyway.
10. Finish button-band, graft underarm stitches and weave in ends. Do a small dance of joy that the cardigan is finally done, and immediately begin swatching for another project to take the edge off, thus thoroughly freaking out Muggle husband ("Honestly Dear, do you ever stop knitting???")

I'm hoping to get pictures of Castlegar this weekend. I'm actually wearing it today, and it looks fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. Here's the ironic part though: I haven't sewn in the buttons yet. Kinda makes me wonder why I even bothered with that stupid row anyway? Laura?

Happy Knitting Everyone!

Not a dumbass

When I knit the Mittens-that-shall-not-be-named (what mittens?), I created a new tag for the blog entitled, fittingly, Chronicles of a Knitting Dumbass. I'm tempted to put this last FO, Pattern A from the 2010 Woolly Wormhead Mystery KAL, in that category, but I don't know if I can. I mean, the hat itself is BEAUTIFUL. The yarn (Madelinetosh Pashmina) is luscious, it really suits the pattern, and my knitting is perfectly executed, each stitch a true testament to my art and skill.


The only problem is the SIZE of the damn thing. My gauge swatch lied like the miserable asinine time-sucks that they are proved to be erroneous, and even though I selected the size that SHOULD have fit my head (with 2 inches of negative ease, no less), it's a bit... large. I mean, I like slouch as much as the next knitter, but this is a bit TOO slouchy, you know?

Seriously... when Dumb Donald might be tempted to cut a couple of eye holes in the hat you've just knit, there's an issue with size, right? Or is that just me?

Still, it's a damn fine piece of knitting. I dare you to tell me differently.


Happy Knitting Everyone!

Options

First things first: thanks ever so much for your sympathies about The-Mitten-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Turns out that I'm not the world's greatest dumbass after all, but that there was an inconsistency between the written and charted instructions for the right-that-would-be-left mitten.

The written instructions for the first mitten (the left one) place the thumb at the beginning of the palm section, whereas they ought to have been at the end. The chart was fine, but as I wasn't too clear on the technique, I referred to the written instructions for the first mitten. I just... didn't pay attention to where the thumb was going. Months later, when I knit the second mitten, I referred to the chart and placed my thumb opening where it said to - at the beginning of the palm section - thus leaving me with 2 right mittens.

The way I figure it, I have 2 options:

Option 1: Kill the mittens. Dream up inventive new ways to torture and destroy the mittens so completely that any future mitten I make will tremble, submit and give me the respect I deserve.

Advantages of Option 1: Deeply satisfying in a primal, "cuts-the-umbilical-cord-with-her-teeth" kind of way. Plus, it'd make for a funny blog-post.

Disadvantages of Option 1: Doesn't give me a pair of mittens, nor will it give me the closure I feel I need to be able to move on with my life as a Knitter. While the notion of knitting another pair of mittens actually gives me hives right now, I have not sworn them off forever. I own some pretty nifty mitten patterns, and I'd like to knit them. You know... someday.

Option 2: Attempt to fix the mitten.

Advantages of Option 2: Peace of mind, sweet, sweet victory and warm (if slightly effeminate) hands for my Dad.

Disadvantages of Option 2: I have run out of the MC. Really. I have - maybe - 2 yards left? I can't just rip out the thumb, kitchener the hole shut, perform some kind of "afterthought-thumbhole" wizardry that involves cutting a hole into my knitting (I think I might faint), then knit a new thumb. Can't do it. Now, according to Véronik (who, let's face it, should know a thing or two about knitting), I can either recycle the yarn I already used, or I can perform "more complex thumb surgery" and - basically - transplant the thumb I've knit to the proper side of the palm.

To say I'm not confident about my ability to come out of this mitten thing with my pride or my sanity intact - to say nothing of a pair of mittens that a human being equipped with normal opposable thumbs can wear - would be like saying that making out with your new boyfriend during your grandma's funeral might be inappropriate: a colossal understatement. I am nervous, weary and all too aware that this mitten has kicked my arse at every turn.

Meantime, I'm knitting my yet-to-be-photographed-on-the-blog cardigan and trying to ignore the mittens. I'm sure they're giving me the evil eye while I'm not looking.

Happy Knitting Everyone!

The Other Mitten

Last December I knit a mitten. I found a pattern I adored, selected a fetching colour combination of yarn, and cast on. Did I swatch? No. I admit it. The gauge was given "in chart pattern after blocking", and I couldn't be bothered. Don't get me wrong, I understand and respect the value of the swatch, but if it's not your standard, run of the mill stockinette swatch, I'm not going to do it.

I knit the mitten, all the while thinking "this is looking a little big, isn't it?", but ignored my inner voice as only a knitter in the throes of colourwork can, and just kept going. When I finished the mitten, it was the size of an oven-mitt, and my fragile knitter's heart broke. Perhaps even died a little bit.

I struggled with some deep, personal issues for a long while after that fateful day. Could I move on? Should I knit the other mitten? What was the point? These were NEVER going to fit me! Where should I go from here?

As you know, eventually I decided to knit the other mitten. My Dad proclaimed them "beautiful" and "not-too-girly" and a "perfect fit". I'll be honest: I still don't know if he can pull off mittens in a Green Tea Heather and Sweet Potato colour combo, but hey, he's a grown man and I'm not going to debate it with him. Besides, I needed to make peace with this project. I needed to get the mitten albatross off my back.

So I cast on for the other mitten. Problems kept popping up, but I didn't let myself get deterred for long. I kept at it. I knew that with a little patience, a little love, my hard work would pay off.

I finished it on Saturday afternoon. It was a bit hairy for a while, because there was a very real possibility that I would run out of the main colour, but it turned out alright (barely). I wove in the ends, folded the cuff back and sewed it in place, and admired my handy work.

"That's a damn fine mitten", I thought. At that moment, my heart swelled up with love for the mittens. I forgave them for being too big. I forgave them for being fussy. I remembered that I really loved this pattern, and at that moment, I wanted to be one with the mittens. I wanted to put them on and just draw out that moment of pride and serenity just a little bit longer.

Still wearing the recently completed mitten, I rooted through my knitting bag and found it's mate. I pulled it out and stared at it, poised on the brink of ultimate mitten-knitter satisfaction.

Time stopped. My breath stuck in my throat for a moment, and every tension in my body let go all at once as I focused on one all-important detail: the thumbs.


Realization of what I had done came crashing down on me in an instant: I had not won. I did not have a pair of mittens. What I had were 2 right hand oven-mitts.

Pray for me, for I am in knitting Hell.