Just Call Me The Bag Lady

Beloved
Several weeks ago I ordered a couple of bags from Heather over at LuluBelle Custom Handbags. Well, they have arrived! I couldn't be happier with them. Behold, the Little Lulu:

And inside:

And the Lauren:

And inside:

The handbags are handmade. Select your own exterior and interior fabrics, choose from fabric or bamboo handles, choose between snap and ribbon closures. The products are gorgeous. I'm very, very happy with my purchases and will likely buy more of her stuff in the future. In fact, the Lauren will be coming to Chicago with me. Did you see the pockets on the inside? It's a nice, roomy bag that will comfortably hold my wallet, sunglasses, iPod, camera, the guidebook, the gallon-sized plastic bag for hand lotion and lip gloss, a novel or magazine for myself, one for The Beloved, his XM radio/MP3 player, and a partridge in a pear tree. Oh--and this:

The GoKnit Pouch which I bought over at Scout's Swag. She has awesome color choices and wicked fast shipping. Now my sock will be safe and I won't have to worry about runaway yarn on the airplane! Anyway, since Lauren is so roomy, I don't think I'll need a separate carry-on for the flight. Which is good, because I never have enough room with a carry-on and a purse. I'll pack another carry-on bag in our checked baggage in case we (hopefully) go shopping and buy stuff on vacation and need something in which to transport our loot back to New Hampshire.

Anyway. Here's some food for thought: Why does vacation begin with the Spanish word for cow? That deep thought is brought to you care of The Beloved. Enjoy.

One down!

Knitting
Well, I did, in fact, finish the first Conwy Sock on Monday. I'm quite pleased with the result. It is quite possibly the best-fitting, most comfortable sock I've ever owned. And, it's aesthetically pleasing. I love it!

Naturally, I immediately cast on another sock.
ESB's Jaywalker

No, your eyes aren't deceiving you. It doesn't match the Conwy in any way, shape or form. This is my first Summer of Socks sock, and I'm mostly enjoying it. The Jaywalker is a nice, quick pattern. I think I like it with this yarn--well--as much as I like the yarn, which, though a joy to work with, looks a little...well...funky. I suppose naming the colorway "Funky Stripe" should have been a clue (oh, those clever folk at Lorna's Laces!), but it looked so charming in the skein.

The other reason I started this one instead of immediately casting on Conwy's mate was that I wanted to get my airplane knitting underway. Yes. See those teeny-tiny wooden needles? Purchased specially for my friends in the TSA? My anniversary gift from my beloved spouse? I hate them. Size 1 birch needles. 5 inches long. Length is fine. Size 1 is fine. Wood? Not so fine. Frankly, I've met toothpicks with more substance. I'm terrified of breaking them. The good part is that my tension is a bit looser than usual as I've had to concentrate really, really, really hard on not gripping needles with my customary death grip. Still, I wonder if I shouldn't pick up a "backup" set just in case. I miss my metal needles.

I feel sort of funny knitting this sock--though I've heard tell of the dreaded "second sock syndrome," I really don't have it. In fact, I would prefer to be knitting the second Conwy. But, I don't like changing anything in the middle of a project. Though I could probably get gauge with the toothpick-needles, I'd rather wait for my nice metal pointy ones--particularly with the crossed stitches. Passing slipped stitches for the double decrease is precarious enough with these things. That said, I really do enjoy the pattern. No wonder there are more than 750 pairs in Grumperina's gallery! I'm hoping my friend likes them as well. She did, after all, like the skein when I showed it to her several months ago... Since I'm still uncertain about Funky Stripe's aesthetic value, I think I'll ask her before I finish the foot. If she hates them, I can knit them shorter and keep them for myself and those days that just require green and pinky-purpley striped socks. Then we'll delve once more into the mysteries of sock yarn and how something can look so nice on a skein and so...weird...once knit into a garment. That's all I need, right? An excuse to get more?

Speaking of more sock yarn, I joined the Yarn Pirate's Booty Club. (Sorry--subscriptions are closed.) The first shipment is due out next week, so hopefully there will be a nice little surprise waiting for me upon my return from Chicago. This is terribly exciting, particularly since The Beloved has already vetoed my brilliant idea for a Chi-town Yarn Crawl. Where is his sense of adventure?

FO: Christening Shawl

baby things
I know. I said I was giving up on it. But here's what happened....

A week ago Sunday, I saw Baby K and her mom after church. Someone asked about the upcoming baptism, and Mom responded that, well, her family couldn't find the...whatever...that babies generally use at family christenings. And since the baby has been sick a lot over the past several months, no one really thought to ask other family members if they'd seen it. And, in fact, they weren't expecting a large family turn-out, anyway. Did I mention that Baby K is our priest's daughter? Where, in some families, this may be a rite of passage with little actual religious significance (no one ever goes to church, but dammit, we're baptizing this baby and having a party), Baby K's baptism should have been an event. So I told her Mom, "I think I have something she can use."

Then I went home and knit like an absolute fool for the next week. I didn't do laundry. I didn't spin. I wasn't ready for the start of Summer of Socks 2007. All I did was knit the Christening Shawl.

I couldn't knit it as long as I originally planned. In spite of my best efforts, I still had to go to work and occasionally sleep or eat. But, this is what I managed:

Christening Shawl in English Mesh Lace
Yarn: 50% Merino/50% Tussah Silk laceweight from The Elegant Ewe
Needles: Susan Bates US size 5/3.75 mm.
Dimensions: 14"x36" blocked

Here's a close-up view of the pattern. Can you see the butterflies?

In spite of my concerns regarding the size, it worked quite nicely for the baby. She was absolutely gorgeous. It was a very nice baptism.

Now, on to socks.


Alas, this is not a Summer of Socks sock. It's the Conwy I showed you a couple of weeks ago. But it's almost finished. In fact, I may finish it this evening, in which case, I'll put sock #2 on hold while I begin my first SOS sock--a Jaywalker in Lorna's Laces "Funky Stripe," which is a long overdue birthday gift for my friend, ESB. The Beloved actually went to the LYS with me yesterday to pick up a pair of wooden DPNs. I'm not crazy about knitting on wooden DPNs, but I'm hoping they will be less cause for worry on behalf of the TSA and my fellow passengers when we fly out to Chicago next week.

The needles were actually an anniversary gift--The Beloved and I celebrated five years of wedded bliss on Friday, and, since the traditional gift for year five is wood--DPNs for me! I was hoping for a yarn swift, but was reminded that I got plane tickets to Chicago instead. The Beloved had to hold his arms out last night while I wound the Lorna's Laces for the impending pair of socks, so I'm hoping the yarn swift will soon come into my life. He hates holding yarn while I wind....but I suppose it's a sign that we're in for the long haul that he continues to do it for me, regardless. Which is a good thing--it's part of what makes it all worthwhile.

Oh, and since she reminded me that you haven't seen her in a while, here's Polly doing her thing...

Eat your heart out, boys.

The people in my neighborhood

musings
As usual, I was running late this morning and failed to make a pot of coffee. Since it was a gray and miserable morning, this necessitated a stop at Starbucks before popping onto the highway and heading out to work. I pulled up to the drive-thru window for my latte and coffee cake (yes, it was a healthy choice morning) and said "hi" to the barista. Most of the baristas who work the early-morning drive-thru shift at my local Starbucks are charming, but this young lady more so than most. She's just darling. Her name is Martha and I'd just love to set her up with Baby Brother, but I'm sure that would be overstepping all sorts of boundaries, so I keep my match-making impulses at bay.

Anyway, Martha says "hi," and smiles, and then she says something that really surprises me. "You're always so happy!" Who? Me? Before coffee? Maybe Martha needs the coffee more than I do. Why in the name of all that is good and holy does this person think I'm happy? I smile. I try to learn people's names. I make small talk. What's unusual about this? Later, during my drive to work (during the course of which I was cut off by a bright screaming yellow PT Cruiser emblazoned with a Jesus Fish on the back--making me distinctly less happy), that perhaps maybe people aren't pleasant to the people in their neighborhoods.

It occurs to me that many people probably treat Martha the way they treated me when I was a cashier at the local supermarket. They are short-tempered and rude; they belittle the clerk because perhaps they were belittled at work, or perhaps they're just not very nice people. They don't smile. They don't remember your name even if they see you several times a week, and you're wearing a name tag. They certainly don't make small talk, because they're too busy yapping away on mobile phones while you're trying to figure out how they want their coffee or if they want paper or plastic.

Later, I found myself humming "The people in your neighborhood" song from Sesame Street. You know, about the people that you meet when you're walking down the street? The people that you meet each day? And I started thinking about the people in my neighborhood. Not just my next-door neighbors and my letter carrier, but Martha, and the motorcycle cop who directs traffic at the Catholic church on Sunday morning. Becca, the cashier at the coffee shop I visit every Sunday morning before church (who now begins to put my order together as soon as I walk through the door). Thom, the bartender at one of my favorite places to go for beers. I can cast the net wider and think of the people I see when I go for lunch or dinner after either of my jobs. And I can include the people who read my blog, and whose blogs I read in return.

It's about community, and it may sound crazy, but every little thing we do can work for or against strengthening those bonds. This isn't to say I've never lost my patience and I'm always smiling, but I try to take out my frustrations in productive ways, and not on the poor grocery sacker at the supermarket who has no idea that the cat just puked on a silk blouse and that I'm ready to kill The Beloved for letting the beast into the laundry room in the first place. When I think about it more, I'm reminded of Harvey, the 1950 film with Jimmy Stewart. If you've never seen this film, I recommend finding a copy and watching it immediately, if not sooner. This is one I can watch over and over and over again. Anyway. At one point, Jimmy Stewart's character says, Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, "In this world, Elwood, you must be" - she always called me Elwood - "In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant." Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

And you may.

Wheel on fire

adventures
On Saturday, I took myself on a little adventure to Windsor, ME for the Maine Fiber Frolic. The Beloved refused to accompany me, saying he preferred to spend drizzly Saturdays with our cats rather than with strange llamas. To each his own.

Getting to Windsor involves a two-hour drive. It's sort of near Augusta--which is Maine's capitol, but not much else. It's very rural out there. Beautiful, but rural. Everyone who might have gone along for fun had plans (Can you believe it?) and so I was left by my lonesome. In all honesty, it seemed silly to make the trip. Four hours in the car? With gas up around $3.00/gallon? Folly! But I wanted something to spin, and, well, what else was I going to do on a Saturday with sketchy weather? Clean my house? Bah!

By the time I got up there (around 11:30), I realized that my promise to The Beloved that I'd call when I arrived was said without much forethought. I was so far out of circulation that my mobile phone laughed at me when I looked for a signal. So I paid my entrance fee and proceeded to check stuff out.

There were tents and sheep and spinners and shoppers. Fortunately, it wasn't raining in Windsor--but it was gray and cold. So, I did a tour of the grounds and checked out everything once, remembering the advice Laura gave me on Friday--"If you find a reasonably priced used spinning wheel you should buy it." Naturally, I told The Beloved before I left (while putting my checkbook in my bag) that I wasn't planning on buying a wheel, but one never knows what one may find....

For example, I found this lady, with lots of yarn on her head. Someone commented, "Only at a fiber fair." I'm actually thinking more along the lines of, "Only in Maine," but that's because I hail from south of the border.

I did see lots of wheels. Some used. Not many "reasonably" priced. Well, they may have been reasonably priced to someone with a clue. My thought was, there's no way I'm spending scads of money on something I'm not even sure I can use. There is, after all, Chicago to consider (20 days till we leave!). So I walked around, and looked, and tentatively touched a couple of wheels (but God forbid did not spin on them) until I found the used equipment marketplace. Uh-oh.

There I saw a wheel that met all of my criteria. It was used. It was reasonably priced (but at the very upper end of what I could possibly spend). And it appeared to work. Well, for someone who knew what in the hell they were doing, it would probably work. It was an Ashford Traditional--a brand and model I could identify and knew to be a rather standard first wheel. I looked at it. I treadled tentatively. And then I went to lunch.

After lunch, I went back to the used equipment marketplace reminding myself of all the reasons I should not buy a wheel. Spa day, anyone? Lo and behold, the wheel was still there. But there was another one there as well--one that hadn't been there before lunch. Same model. Dusty, but otherwise looked like new. And $100 less than the other one. Naturally, I wanted to know what was wrong with it. Turns out, it had been purchased in the late 80s or early 90s for someones grandmother who died shortly after receiving it. After that, it had never been used. The marketplace guru thought that it could probably use a new drive band and some oil, but that it should function just fine. Then she suggested I try it out. Gulp. I told her I was a brand-new, very beginning spinner and that perhaps it wasn't a very good idea that I try it out. She told me to sit in the chair and spin something. So, I did. Well, sort of. It wasn't anything that you'd show to another person or use ever. But I could make the wheel go 'round and draft at the same time which did result in a yarn-like substance.

Naturally, I bought the wheel. And then I bought fiber. Some lovely soft turquoise 50/50 wool/mohair blend from Friend's Folly Farm. (They were in the process of selling a goat when I got there. The one left behind was very sad and made the most pitiful sounds ever.) I also picked up a couple of small batts from Spunky Eclectic--one is yellow and blue and fuchsia; the other is in pinks and oranges. I'll show them off as I spin them up.

Because I have been spinning. There has been minimal knitting happening since the acquisition of the wheel. I've basically given up on the Christening Shawl being finished in time for the Christening. But look! This is my very first bobbin!


The fiber is still from that bag of NZ Sliver, which is, in fact, getting smaller. I may have to buy more. And this, my friends, is the yarn I plied last night. On the wheel and everything.


What you see before you is about 45 yards at 9 WPI. Naturally, consistency varies, though it was much better toward the end. I actually feel as though I could knit something with this, which is a nice feeling. Also a nice feeling--when looking at some of the spun samples different vendors had out with their fiber I realized something: my handspun produced on the spindle was just as good and sometimes even better than some of the sample offerings. I'm not going to let this go to my head for my spindling is by no means perfect, but I am actually producing some respectable-looking yarn, all things considered, which means I should probably lay off of the self-deprecation for a little while. And maybe even knit something out of the small stash I'm creating.

Knitting pictures in next post. None of the knitting is done with my handspun--but I've got a bit of lace that looks like cheesecloth in its in-process-unblocked state and a nearly completed sock--my first "adult sized" one! Yippee!

My story

stories
OK. It was probably unfair for me to tell you all about the importance of telling your stories without sharing a bit of mine. Fairly called and duly noted. So, without further ado:


My bracelet. We'll go around from left to right. The silver, oval-shaped beads are spacers--I'll explain those at the end. Just to warn you, this will be an obnoxiously long post. My apologies up front.

The first bead is blue and looks a lot like sea glass. It's for my hometown--the place I was born and where spent all but a year and a half of my childhood. It's a town on the NH seacoast--close to Maine, close to Massachusetts, right on the water. My childhood home was a little less than a mile from downtown, which meant as soon as I was old enough, I spent my weekends browsing shops, looking for cheap but tasty food, and pondering the mysteries that are the flocks of tourists that descended each and every summer. My hometown is a good, safe town--and by the time I was old enough to speak my own mind, I was tired of it. I felt it too small, too safe, too dull. And everything I did was with the aim of leaving.

The next bead looks like a cup, and it's for my family. My family loves to celebrate--and celebrations are always better with lots of food and friends--who often become family. And, as strangers are only friends we haven't met yet, the general guideline for family celebrations was always "the more, the merrier." For as long as I can remember, holidays have meant a full house of family, of colleagues, and of people with no place else to go. My Dad served over 20 years in the Air Force Band, and many of the young guys he worked with would find themselves alone at Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter--here they were stuck in Cow Hampshire while the rest of the clan was celebrating in Wyoming or California or Arkansas. Since no one should be alone when everyone else is having fun, they were always invited and often found themselves honorary members of our family. There were many years of Christmas cookie baking where my sister and I were sent off to watch a movie because the wine had flowed freely and the Angels were showing more than their wings.

Though I spent many years lamenting how tragically uncool my parents were, I've come to find that perhaps it was me that needed to update my thinking. The longer I work in residential schools (first a prep school and now a college), and the more I see lonely young people who just need a place, the more I want to be as my parents were and provide that open door--that place at the table. In fact a couple of years ago I heard of a young woman--a student of a friend of mine--whose mother had thrown her out about a week before Christmas. She literally had no place to go and would spend the holiday in her empty apartment. So, The Beloved and I went and got her and took her to my parents' house where we laid another plate at the table and found that Santa Claus had found their house and left gifts for this young woman under the tree.

Before we left for home, my mother took me aside and said, "Your father and I are so proud of you." This boggled my mind. I didn't do anything unusual--I did exactly what they would have done. Later, I realized that of all the lessons one learns, I had mastered the most important one in doing what I could to make another's day a little less lonely.

Because I'm creative, the next bead, shaped like a cross, is for my church family. Yeah-- C- for creativity there, Saisquoi. My relationship with the church has been a rocky one. But it's always been a part of my life and when I try and cut it out, it feels as though something is missing. I like the sense of community (most of the time); I love the liturgy and the music; and I love the structure it brings to my week. I don't like it when, as an institution, the church serves to belittle others, exclude them, or otherwise bring them down. In short, since I will occasionally get up on my high horse and tell you exactly what they're doing wrong (they generally refers to the Episcopal Church, USA or the Anglican Communion at large), I'll give my my thoughts in a nutshell: We are to see the face of God in each and every person we encounter. No exceptions. Face of God in George W. Bush. I never said it was easy--but, hey--"what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with your God?" (Micah 6:8) So, I try.

The next bead didn't photograph so well, but it looks like an Asian coin. After I graduated from college, I lived and worked in Tokyo for a little less than a year and a half. It was an exciting adventure and I learned a lot about myself--mostly that I hated living in a city. It was dirty and smelly and too crowded. The stories you hear about being packed into trains--all true. I was molested on the train one morning on my way to work. And there was nothing I could do about it--the train was so full, I couldn't move, my Japanese was horrible, so I couldn't tell anyone, and even if I could--I didn't know who was doing it because I couldn't see. It was awful. I started to develop agoraphobia--which is not good when you need to leave the house to go to work.

There were some wonderful things, too. Tokyo was exciting. The ability to navigate a city while being completely illiterate and only knowing a handful of phrases was emboldening. And I met some marvelous people, some of whom I still communicate with today. All in all, I wouldn't undo it given the chance, but if I knew then what I know now, I'd do many things differently. Like....I wouldn't work 70+ hours a week. That's insane. And I would try to have a better support network. I lived with my family (Dad was stationed at Yokota AFB), but still felt very alone because I didn't have anyone my own age to play with. I'd like to go back with The Beloved--to work or to visit--but I don't know that I'd want to do it all on my own again.

This brings us to the next bead--which looks kind of like a face. It's a rather empty looking face and it marks my initial diagnosis of depression and anxiety disorder. Why do I want to remember that? Well, because in a way, it was almost a relief to have someone tell me it wasn't all in my head--that there was something really wrong in not wanting to leave the house and not being able to read anything that wasn't stamped with Oprah's seal of approval. My required meetings with the base therapist I'd rather forget (he was possibly the worst therapist ever), but it was a start to many years of really hard work in trying to sort out why I reacted to things in certain ways and how I could do things differently. If the saying is true that things are darkest just before the dawn, this was probably my darkest time. I'm very afraid of going there again, but at least the next time it won't be as great a mystery as it was back then.

The shiny green bead is The Beloved. I met him shortly after returning to the US from Japan. And, while there was a bit of a spark, I tried my best to stomp it out immediately. He wasn't what I was looking for. Fortunately, he was persistent, and, though it took a year, we eventually went on one unchaperoned outing together. Which led to another. And another. And so on. I tell him that he is my sun and moon and stars, to which he generally snorts derisively. But he brings a great deal of light and color to my life. I can't imagine my world without him in it.

Butterflies are a symbol of new life. Shortly after The Beloved and I were engaged, we had a few months when I thought I was pregnant. And I was horribly afraid. Now, we both want to have a family consisting of more than our cats, but that was a little sooner than we had hoped. When it turned out to be a false alarm, I thought long and hard about the things I needed to do to be ready for a baby. I needed to get my emotional house in order--I was afraid of the kind of mother I would be. So, in spite of my earlier failure in therapy, I found someone and was very straightforward regarding my dislike of my previous therapist and what I hoped to get out of it. The guy I worked with was a gift from God. He didn't let me skate by or get complacent and dug through all sorts of yucky things I had compartmentalized and not effectively dealt with. Like my train incident in Tokyo. Therapy was not fun. It was hard work. But at the end, I felt...well...maybe not whole, but a lot less broken. The butterfly goes with the empty face--it's the dawn after the darkness. It's knowing that we can, in fact, experience that new life--even though we may feel as though things will never improve.

The last bead is another piece of blue sea glass. I moved back to my hometown. The Beloved and I bought my grandparent's house, where I spent many an hour during my childhood. We live about a mile or so away from my parent's house--the house I grew up in. In my 30 year journey, I've found that life really goes in a circle. I'm looking forward to raising a family in this house that holds so many happy childhood memories. I'm sure my children will find the town frightfully dull and move away...and then hopefully, after living someplace else, they'll find it isn't so bad after all and move back to the area. I love having my family around me. The town has changed a little bit, but it's still home. It feels safe and secure like home and feels much like another member of my family. It's part of who I am and who I will be...and even if I do leave someday, a part of me will always belong right here.

The silver spacer beads serve to remind me of all the parts in between. The parts I didn't mention. The beads were the points I could think of at the time I made the bracelet. I could do this exercise again and make a very different piece of jewelry. Our lives are full of stories. Some of mine I'd rather forget....and others I hope are told the way I tell my grandparent's stories.

So now, dear friends, it's your turn. I look forward to hearing some of your stories. It is, after all, why I tune into your blogs :)

Telling our stories

friends
A week ago Sunday, I took my friend Libby out for a belated birthday adventure. I wanted, in celebrating her birthday (which was a milestone one), to celebrate her and the things that make her so wonderful. In essence, I wanted to celebrate her story. (You can read about our adventure here. She did such a nice write-up, there's really no reason for me to do it again.)

As a culture, I fear we are losing our ability to tell our stories. Maybe that's a little melodramatic; but we are falling out of practice. And our stories are so very, very important. They are why we are who we are. And they are truly interesting--particularly to those who know and love us. For Libby and I, our storytelling adventure culminated in the creation of a bracelet made with beads marking milestones in her own time line--the high points of her unique story if you will. It's a wonderful bracelet, and the story that goes with it makes it even better. In fact, I liked hers so much, that I pulled out one I made last year and started to wear it again.

The funny thing about the bracelet is that I remember certain things every time I look at it. I see the Asian coin that represents the year and a half I lived and worked in Japan. I see the shiny green bead that symbolizes The Beloved. I see the cup that reminds me of my family and their insistence that there is always enough room at the table and of course you should bring a friend...or a stranger...to dinner, because no one should have to eat alone. Well, perhaps that isn't funny. After all, I made the bracelet, and I know what it means.

The truly interesting part happens when strangers comment on it. Last week, when I paid for my morning vanilla latte extravagance at Starbucks, the young lady at the drive-thru window asked me about it. And I told this total stranger, "Well, it's my story. Everything on this bracelet represents something important in my life." And even though there were cars behind me filled with cranky people waiting for their coffee, she wanted to know how I did it. So I gave her the guidelines I used:
  • Make a time line of the important things or places or people or events that made you who you are
  • Go to a bead shop (or into your stash if you have one) and find a bead to mark each occasion on your time line
  • String the beads in order (I use 1mm elastic line so that I can knot it and not worry about clasps and such; you can use anything that works for you)
  • Wear proudly. Remember your story. Tell as much or as little as you want when people ask--for they will ask.
I hope my young barista makes herself a bracelet--or that she takes one of her friends out on a storytelling adventure. And I hope you do the same. I think we're all looking for this small sort of connection with one another--perhaps its one of the reason we blog. This is a small, simple way to share with the people we see everyday but seldom take the time to really know.

Uh oh....

spinning

I don't know how that got into the car. It must have followed me home. Yeah. It followed me home. Can I keep it?

Plying

spinning
So, I learned a couple of things this afternoon:
  1. Never try a new technique with a full spindle.
  2. Learning new techniques often takes more than one try.
  3. It really is only yarn.
Anyway. After a couple of false starts I have an almost acceptable skein of yarn made from the rest of the brown Romney. I failed at plying it, so I left it as it was. And picked up the 8 oz bag of NZ Sliver purchased when I first decided to learn to spin. I spun a little bit and decided to give plying another go. And this, my friends, is what happened:

Hokie smokes, Bullwinkle! That looks like yarn! I know, it's blurry--but it needed to sit with the spindle for scale. Here it is a little clearer:

It's not perfect. The first bits are hardly spun--I have a hard time beginning, but once I start, my spinning is almost consistent. Anyway--this is about 8 wpi and was a successful attempt at Andean plying. Next time I might be brave enough to spin a little more yarn before plying. Maybe I'll give the Romney another try. Or, maybe I should make dinner and work on the Christening Shawl.

Nah. I think this calls for a beer.

If you say so...

misc.


You are The Empress


Beauty, happiness, pleasure, success, luxury, dissipation.


The Empress is associated with Venus, the feminine planet, so it represents,
beauty, charm, pleasure, luxury, and delight. You may be good at home
decorating, art or anything to do with making things beautiful.


The Empress is a creator, be it creation of life, of romance, of art or business. While the Magician is the primal spark, the idea made real, and the High Priestess is the one who gives the idea a form, the Empress is the womb where it gestates and grows till it is ready to be born. This is why her symbol is Venus, goddess of beautiful things as well as love. Even so, the Empress is more Demeter, goddess of abundance, then sensual Venus. She is the giver of Earthly gifts, yet at the same time, she can, in anger withhold, as Demeter did when her daughter, Persephone, was kidnapped. In fury and grief, she kept the Earth barren till her child was returned to her.


What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.


In spite of my supposed creativity, I saw this on Laura's blog this morning and felt it was a much better way to begin my day than checking in newspapers or writing an interlibrary loan policy. It actually seems like justification to work on the sock languishing in my handbag. If only my boss would see it this way....

Or The Beloved. I wonder how he'll feel about my new identity?

An update--Spinning

spinning
Lest you think I've been slacking--well, more so than usual--I'll have you know that I have been trying my darnedest to spin. And today, by George, I think I finally got it. It's not perfect, but it does, in fact, resemble a single that one could theoretically ply with another single and make something that looks like yarn. I'd take a picture but for a couple of factors:
  1. There is no sun today and my house is like a cave.
  2. The single is still on the spindle and it's composed of brown Romney which, in the past, I've not managed to photograph well.
  3. I could take some of it off the spindle to show off, but that would necessitate The Beloved's assistance and he thinks we really should have progressed beyond spinning our own string. Foolish man....
So you'll have to take my word for it right now, and perhaps if I can hit Laura up for a plying lesson at some point in the future, I'll have actual yarn of dubious quality to show for my labors.

In other spinning news, Laura has led me farther astray by showing me how to use a wheel. Sarah helped (it was her wheel). Yes. This is what I do at work on Fridays--I attempt to avoid work by discovering new hobbies on which to spend my money. Next Friday Laura may bring me a wheel to borrow, and then the trouble will truly begin. The Beloved has already begun kvetching miserably: "Where are we going to put a spinning wheel?" Foolish man--it's not like I'm bringing home a great wheel. It will take up less room than my guitar. Comparable space anyway. And it will probably elicit similar strings of swear words. I can't wait.

Until then, I've got my trusty Golding spindle (God, I love that thing. It's ridiculous how happy it makes me when I can make it work.) and a little bit of Romney. I'm not quite sure the best place to buy roving here on the Seacoast. I'm not entirely sure that one can buy roving here on the Seacoast. So, I'll be exercising my librarian skills by looking for places that will take my money. Who needs groceries anyway?

Will someone please explain to me...

WTF
Why anyone would take lessons from a Sunday School classroom?

I understand that people consider church spaces public spaces, therefore, all that is therein must be public as well. People have used the baskets in the Sunday School room without asking, they have made off with our Christ candle and snuffer, they have moved things around and not moved them back. This is all par for the course. But running off with the cards for the Creation lesson? I don't get it. Why take that?

Totally beyond my capacity for understanding. I give up.

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