Better make that “Holy buffalo chips, Batman!” Here is Clara’s review of the door prize I won at Whirled Fibers’ grand opening earlier this month.
Sometimes I just love my inbox. Last night was one of those times. KnitPicks now makes their Gloss [70% merino, 30% silk] in DK and heavy worsted. For you knitting muggles, DK is short for double-knitting, though I have no idea why our British friends dubbed it that. It’s a little bigger than sport yarn and not as big as knitting worsted, which is what I grew up knitting. Heavy worsted is about Aran weight, a little bigger than worsted but smaller than bulky and super-bulky.
To put it in terms more of you can relate to, and guessing wildly since I don’t have the ladies all lined up here in my living room for your viewing pleasure:
Laceweight is Twiggy, or that Olsen twin.
Fingering yarn is Kate Moss or Heidi Klum.
Sport yarn is Sandra Bullock.
DK is Susan Sarandon.
Worsted is Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Aran is Kristin Chenoweth.
Bulky is Marilyn Monroe.
Super-bulky is Mae West.
Each of them lovely in her own way. [Your mileage may vary.]
I have a new iron. I bought it a few minutes after the oh-where-is-my-car adventure. I saw Lorelai when I stepped off the train at Richland Hills, but I was almost immediately swept up into theta-stage, designing a skirt for my doll or more precisely wondering how to tweak a pattern I saw on Knitty a couple of years ago. I walked down to where I usually park, and Lorelai wasn’t there. I looked back up the sidewalk. Multiple vacant spots, but no Lorelai. I walked farther down. No car. I walked back up to where I had stopped. She had not materialized. I was beginning to get worried, because the train had pulled out and nature was calling. [Rather in the mode of Minnie Pearl hollering HOW-DEE!!!] So I walked back up toward the platform, and I found Lorelai cuddling between two big, bad pickup trucks. The hussy!
Whenever something like this happens, I wonder if it signals the new normal. But I seem to have been perfectly lucid for the remainder of the evening, having ice cream with a friend from church, dashing through my email, getting things ready to make this morning’s departure a mite easier.
I was hoping to be able to say, “Behold Autumn Asters pinned out on my bed.” But my tape measure is still AWOL, and I probably need more T-pins. So I will be heading to Jo-Ann’s or Hobby Lobby after the stake Pioneer Day activity tonight. To which I will be late, because I am going to ride the train and have a nice visit with Trainman and some happy knitting, which I will need, because:
[cue the Music of Doom] I was not able to get to the laundromat to wash the infernal team-building shirt for work today. I may just pull it out of the hamper and swipe it with a damp washcloth where the banana ricocheted. Or I may wear something else and smile peacefully at the office manager. Either way, I will not be wearing that shirt on the train this morning. Or this evening. I will wear a nice blouse if the shirt absolutely has to go through the washer, or my dontcha shirt if the washcloth works.
It’s not like I have time to go to the laundromat every week. Or that I’m a 16-year-old parochial school student who has to wear a uniform or be expelled. Maybe it is time for some exquisitely civil disobedience.
Remind me to examine my forehead while washing my face: does it suddenly say Gandhi?
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!