Etherknitter

What I did on my summer vacation

Chicago.  Saturday.

Mr. Etherknitter and I fly to visit his family.

Humid, hot, overcast.  Dinner at Tango Sur, a wildly popular Argentinean BYOB.  Reservations, a table for six, and we bypass the hourlong wait for a table.

Our waiter is Alfredo.  He is not unaware of his impact, and poses as he probably has posed hundreds of times before.   Do not sigh.  I see his future:  he woos you, wins you.  Soon, his paunch grows.  You begin to  irritate him with small indiscretions that only he perceives.  He smacks you across the kitchen with the back of his hand.  You cannot leave and are consumed with self-loathing.  No one is happy.  Trust me.  I am right.

Sunday.  Father's Day at Wrigley Field.  The Cubs win.  The old ballparks resonate with the sounds of summer. Those Aero-astro-fliptop-domes are NOTHING compared to the majesty of the olde shrines.

Tuesday.  Fiddler on the Roof, Topol's farewell tour.   This is my first time seeing Fiddler, and it is a grand way to do it.  Topol is magnificent in the role.

We are exhausted.  It is 95 degrees every day and every night.  The AC at the house is broken.  The repairmen have not returned our calls.  Sleep is elusive. 

Knitting is accomplished every spare waking moment.  Smooshy socks see a little bit of progress.  The baby blanket is now large enough so that nonknitters do not think it is a hat any more.  Circular blankets wean one from the idea of rows (360 st and increasing 8 every other row) towards the idea of process. 

More to come. 

Kitchen sink post

I am in the middle of startitis, which means I will finish nothing soon, and have a good time in the execution.  People are reactionary:  the initiators are the exception.  Clearly, I am one of the herd, reacting to something in the ethersphere.  New spinning projects are layering the floor with roving.  I am knitting projects that represent more than a MILE of yarn stash (900yds + 1000 yds + 880 yds + 500 yards).  It is a very good thing that socks don't count, since I have countless socks in progress.    I spent an insomniac night last weekend, Friday, I think, re-re-realizing that if I don't get my exercise program regularized, I will look and act my age.  That is unthinkable.  Unacceptable.  Hooping is FUN but so far it doesn't meet aerobic or flexibility or muscle strength goals.  New beginnings, new WIPS, new yarn and fiber diet.  (Yes, really.)

There just doesn't seem to be enough time in a day.

The annual BYOB picnic for the wine guys and girls was the Sunday just past.  Six degrees of separation showed itself once again.  I met a man who sported a nametag that said "John".  No last name on the tag proved to be surprisingly unsettling.  We swapped lies about great wines, compared what was in our current glasses, and, finally, I admitted my need to know his last name.  He told me, and it was a familiar surname.

"Oh!  Are you related to *famous spinner/knitter in the Boston area whom I met last year at SOAR*"?  He is her father. (Since he has no real idea what "can I blog you?" means, I omit the identifiers.)

You may recognize Wool Peddlars' shawl around my shoulders. 

Clematis Candida languinosa is taking over the dogwood by the porch.  This year, it climbed up the back of the tree.  No vantage point exists for the photographer trying to show the extent of bloom (phenomenal).  I unvented a classic photography trick.  Make the subject look filmy and sensuously soft by photographing through the upstairs bathroom window screen. 

Rain/rain/rain/sun/rain/clouds/dusk/rain is responsible for shoddy photography.  I'm not complaining, just explaining.  (Rain = free water for the garden, and I am happy.)

These were Foxfire Fibers batts.  The fibers are some combinations of BFL, cashmere, angelina, and silk.  My plan for these skeins involves either a hat or mittens with corrugated ribbing, and a bit of colorwork.  Measurement of available yardage will be key to the planning.

Laceweight brown and blue:  one ply of alpaca purchased at SPA 2006 so I could learn to spin alpaca, one ply of Shadeyside Farm alpaca/silk, both two ounces.  They were spun during Mr. E's bone healing convalescence.  After hanging around the bobbin rack for three years of indecision, they were plyed together in the service of freeing up storage bobbins.  (Internal debate:  should I be a purist and ply each one on itself, or should I mix the two to obtain more useable yardage?)  The latter won, and turned out beautiful yarn that marks a moment in times past.  I turn out my share of craptastic yarn, and this isn't it.

Elegantly Simply Triangle Shawl, in Hunt Valley black cashmere, MDS&W 2006.  One significant omission from this picture?  A lifeline.  Heh.  Time to live on the knitting's keen edge. 

The alpaca baby shawl pattern (Rav link) appealed as a unique and beautiful baby blanket.  I'm using Tess Yarns superwash merino.  Her superwash is a guilty pleasure.  It is smooth, knits into a beautiful fabric, and will promise easy care.  Like all lace, it will look like snarls until blocking happens.  The knitter starts on dpns, then transfers the stitches to a circ, to knit a square in circular technique until it is about 34", 880 yards (more or less) or declared to be done. 

Swiped: Ten favorite things to do during "Me" time

1/2.  Knit and spin.  These two play swapsies on an intermittent, unpredictable schedule.
3.  The dreaded internets:  email, Bloglines, Ravelry, generalized looking at yarn and fiber. 
4.  Relaxing with a glass of wine, Mr. E, and a knitting project on the porch in the summer.  It IS summer, so the porch qualifies.
5.  In winter, this one is obvious.  Ski.  Downhill edges cross-country just a bit in the thrills department, but cross-country edges downhill in the food and time that is leftover for knitting department.
6.  Admire my garden.  Since the tick episode several years ago, and the onslaught of deer and voles, the actual act of gardening is a little less pleasurable than it used to be.  But I can view the bloomers from a safe distance. 
7.  Sleep.  This is pathetic, but it is true.  My job takes everything I've got and more.  Sleep heals the body and the psyche.   I keep telling myself there will be enough time to sleep when I'm dead, but the argument so far has not changed the need for sleep.
8.  Quietly watch the local wildlife.  My hummingbirds, my chipmunks, my birds at the feeder, my reproductively-challenged robin who abandoned her nest when the eggs didn't hatch, the rabbits on the lawn that hop out of headlights' view in the quiet evening dusk. 
9.  Read.  This used to be #1 before the knitting and the spinning.  Another pathetic development, but there really are only so many hours in a day.  And night.
10.  Speaking of running out of hours, 1-9 takes all the time I have.  I dabble at cooking.  I fail miserably at cleaning and organizing.  A quiet piano sits in the house, mourning our previous relationship. 

This little guy lives under the deck.  I always imagined chipmunks were cheerful until this picture showed only worry and fear.  I suppose there was too much Alvin, and not enough reality in my childhood when it came to chipmunks.  His cheeks are full of sunflower seeds.  He is plotting his escape from the camera, and the biped who is blocking the way out. 

Etherhooper

Elizabeth contaminated me first.  Amy Boogie threw on the finishing touches at Cummington.  Hoopnotica sent the most ridiculous package I've ever seen in all my retail therapy experience.  (I couldn't believe it arrived undamaged.)

This is my second hooping session.  Is muscle memory the same phenomenon as neural pathway formation?  No matter.  This is FUN.