Spin too long,

Open the goddamned door.

We at Fuzzy Logic have the unfortunate tendency to live out punch lines when we didn't even know there was a joke to be had. Sometimes this saves our butts. Other times, it kicks them.

(If any of you don't live with an eight-year-old who is trying to learn, with extremely mixed success, to tell knock-knock jokes, you are not only lucky, but you need a cheat sheet. So, Knock Knock. Who's there? Spin. Spin Who? groannnnn....)

And for the three of you who are horrified that I am teaching my daughter to say goddamned at the tender age of eight, calm down. You have nothing to worry about. She already learned that one when she was two. That, along with shit, which she said quite liberally and with great glee in grocery store lines. So we're way past the swearing-in-English issue, I assure you. We're into the French, and if you think English swear words are creative, whooooboy. Raise a kid in Québec.

So, why has it spin too long? Especially when I told you that I thought I'd be posting more often now that there was a good two months between me and a swift crack in the head?

Well, folks, I plied lied. Dude, even I can't go through with a joke that bad.

When the doctor said I'd be exhausted and it would last a long time, he was not plying. He doesn't even know how to spin. He does, however, know how to do his proper job, and he did it so well that I'm following textbook rules of what happens after someone cracks your skull open and messes around in there, no matter how light the messing around is. To wit: I am, in my husband's words, Astonishingly. More. Blonde.

I have some memory problems, which are not long-term, luckily, but the short term crapola is a bitch. Oddly, this does not extend to knitting or spinning. I have retained my original inability to forget everything negative I've ever done in both fiberly pursuits, to the point of repeating them again and again, just like I did before the surgery. Huh. However, remembering the separate but equally insane schedules of the entire household is a huge challenge which has been met with oversized calendars, thick markers, and lists before bedtime which get checked against lists before kid goes to school and husband goes to work and I continue to launch the Lance of the Free directly into my increasingly pudgy thigh (ouch) and STILL my husband has missed his dentist appointment and there may or may not be a parking ticket to pay, but I DO know where the silk is. That's easy. It fell off the fucking spindle and has become damned near impossible to ply. I work on untangling the singles every few days and add a few rungs to the Andean bracelet before I have to lie down and/or scream.

My daughter's theory for this change in energy level and coordination as well as my forgetting that I apparently promised her not one but two chocolates after every homework session appears to be as follows:

Note the artist's astute observational skills.
The top of my head is completely gone. (But I swear on everything
that is holy and a few things that are decidedly not
that I have never, ever worn little blue ribbons in my hair.)

I have done a few fiberly things since the last time I posted, such as write for Vogue Knitting (they renewed my contract, so I get to keep talking), and witness the opening of the best thing to happen to Montréal ever. That would be Effiloche Sewing Room and Knitting Lounge, the brainchild of my friend Ginette Verdone. It's located on 6252 St. Hubert, and is accessible by the Metro (Beaubien). There were 20 people at the first Stitch and Bitch, and this was on a Friday night, so it's clear that the city is hungry for a place to hang out and ogle yarn.

Ginette also sells Fleece Artist roving. (God, I love that woman.) Okay, so there's fabric and buttons and a roomful of sewing machines you can use but ROVING, people. BFL and merino. In MONTREAL. Pure bliss. As if that weren't enough, her son makes some of the best tiramisu I've had in a long time. It's a place I'll be visiting a lot.

My coordination skills, or lack thereof, have made me a bit worried about picking up, say, the lace patterns (dude, I need a 12-pack of paper towels every week just to handle the coffee travesties I appear to cause simply by looking at a cup.) But oddly, this lack of coordination does not extend to spinning. Much. Unless I ply. So it will not surprise you at all to know that I watched the Navajo plying video that some insanely fast and coordinated woman linked to a while ago, thinking it was a solution to my multicolored roving woes, and after wiping the tears of joy from my eyes, proceeded to convince myself that it was (a) elegant, (b) the perfect method for the Fleece Artist mohair I've been avoiding, and (c) do-able before Rhinebeck. Knitting included.

Twinkletoes thinks it would have made better hair,
because you don't have to ply hair.
(Yep, she said, "Look, mom, it's Mo Hair!" Sigh...)

Now, I've never spun mohair. Ever. And the multicoloured stuff has the danger of turning into mud. I actually bought the roving just to stare at it.

You'd buy to stare, too. But I succumbed to actual processing.
So this is step one of the Stephanie Separation Shuffle.

And then we have the singles. Wicked Slightly overspun.
All good so far, except for the WD-40 incident with the new wheel.
Did I mention that I decided to do this on
a new wheel I hadn't even oiled yet? I am stupid.

I forgot how much I hate to ply on a wheel. Plus I'm doing it on a brand new Hitchhiker which needs oiling every two seconds but I think it should perform like I've had it for years (did I mention I'm stupid?) and I've realized for the ninety-four thousandth time that I deeply need a tensioned Kate. The lazy Kate on my wheel just lets that single fly off and catch on itself like it got a look in the mirror and stupidly fell in love with its own reflection. And this is mohair, people. Untangling an escapist mohair single is like frogging a Birch, only I didn't even get to knit a few rows and spot the mistake yet. Fucking goats. How do they get through a day without catching on each other? I mean, does the goatherd have to pry apart an entire herd of the little buggers at the end of every day? Lonely goatherds, I salute you. (Oh, no. I am deeply sorry to have put that song from the Sound of Music in your heads. But it's better than Climb Every Mountain, right? Uh, oops...nevermind....)

Then there is the small matter of never having Navajo-plied. Ever. And I have no one but the video to teach me. So of course I decided that this would be elegant and easy and fast and I'd have it done in no time at all. Just a human crochet hook, that's me. Yeah, right.

Don't look too closely. This is, by far,
the worst plying job I have ever done.
I may be easy, but in Navajo plying I am neither elegant nor fast.
I did, however, preserve the colour pattern.

So I am now knitting the world's fuzziest bandaid. I have 109 yards of badly plied mohair (Still in its same colour pattern! Be impressed! It's the only impressive thing I've done in weeks!) and no idea whether the three-hundred something stitches I cast on are going to make a lengthwise scarf or the prettiest stripey cord with which to strangle myself you ever did see. And I am going to try to get it done on the way to Rhinebeck.

Just a side note to those of you who wish to follow in my footsteps: Wine may or may not help, having a sick child who gives you what she has does not help, WD-40 plus swearing fiercely and then trying to wipe "plying face" off your repertoire of facial expressions by the time your partner comes home are absolute necessities, and if you are a face person, wash your hands first.

I think that last one may deserve some explaining.

True confessions time. I love my husband's face more than cashmere. I kid you not. I don't know what the hell I'd do without that face to turn to, even when it returns the favour by telling me I have completely lost my mind, and gently suggests that I could use another roll of paper towels. As such, I tend to lean over (bad idea in an office chair...don't ask) and touch his face with my hands and tell him how I could not live without his face.

Um, spinners? Mohair comes from goats. When is the last time you smelled a goat and though, mmmmm, that would make a fabulous cologne? Never? I thought as much. Spin a couple of ounces, smell your hands, and get back to me. Consider this a public service announcement to the face people of the spinning world (it can't just be me, can it?). Tell your partners as much as you can that you love their faces, because it's important and it's nice for both of you, even if they roll their eyes and look at you like you're crazy. But dude, wash those hands first. You're welcome.

See you at Rhinebeck, and if not, I'll think fuzzy thoughts for you. I've gotten very, very good at thinking in a thoroughly fuzzy manner. Just ask my husband.

October 17, 2006 11:10 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (53)  | Print