The universe does not want me to be a lace knitter.
First of all, here's how I feel about lace. Like Triple Ginger Cookies. I love the Triple Ginger Cookies. I covet the Triple Ginger Cookies. Even if I'm not going to make the Triple Ginger Cookies, I'll get the candied ginger out of the pantry and stare at it lovingly from time to time, maybe even sniffing it. But I don't actually want to make the cookies. I'm going to whine and beg until my sister-in-law makes them for me. baking is no fun when you have to follow extremely specific instructions.
Like lace knitting. That's not fun. That's like trying to learn to play euchre. It's just plain hard and I'll never get it right anyway, which is not play. It's work.
But I want the lace shawl. I covet the lace shawl. I'll get down my hand-dyed laceweight baby alpaca and give it a sniff or a cheekrub and maybe even an affectionate squeeze. But I'm not actually going to make anything with it.
Here's how far I got last time:
That was so hard it actually made me cry. And it's like the remedial shawl pattern. I'm so ashamed.
Ok, fast forward to.... Last weekend. I'm sick. I get this swollen lymph node thing on the side of my neck/throat sometimes that's just excruciating. I watched every romantic comedy I could find for two straight days until I thought I would jump off my balcony. Partly because the stupid things kept making me choke up and get all emotional, which made my throat hurt worse. I tried watching Disturbia, but the suspense/terror didn't work much better.
I thought hmm what can I do quietly in bed oh I know I'll knit some lace!?!?
I think the fever had gotten to me or something.
So here's the pattern I tried first, which is technically not even lace:
I know, you can't see the scarf very well, but maybe that was the author's intention? It looks so dainty and lacy from here, doesn't it? Well this is what it really looks like:
Oh so ugly. And that's after blocking and with no mistakes. Ok hardly any mistakes. I ripped it out, well actually I just chopped it off and threw it in a corner because, well, have you ever tried to rip back mohair and silk?
So then I'm like Argh I hate lace knitting! This makes me want to knit a lace scarf even more! I'm going to find a pattern that's certain to be too difficult for my skill level! Huzzah!
(I didn't actually say huzzah, or even think huzzah, because I hate that word. It just seemed appropriate right then.)
And here it is!
the pattern author's finished scarf.
Here's my first pattern repeat or whatever you insane lace people call it:
What is going on here?
The ugly scarf is starting to look pretty good, eh?
Now in my defense, I've had to overcome a few challenges to get to this point.
1. My printer wouldn't work. I got So. Stinking. Mad. Like this:
So just picture me doing that in my craft room, but without Luke Skywalker.
2. So I finally get the stupid pattern printed out. I get all comfy in bed, relaxed and prepared to snuggle with my kidsilk haze. And then I realize my size eights are in the car. And it's dark. Aaaand I'm not wearing any pants.
Douglas went down and got them. Crisis averted.
3. Or not? I make my first cast on stitch and Both. Needles. Come. A-freakin-part. Refer back to instance #1 for reaction. (Apparently leaving my Knit Picks Harmonies in the hot car all day was not so brilliant..)
4. Needles cemented back together and drying overnight. Backup needles located and carefully examined for signs of sabotage.
Torture Knitting can commence. I get through the first few right-side rows alright. I had to call my mom to explain the ssk again. (An extremely complicated maneuver akin to brain surgery for those of you emotionally healthy people non-knitters.) Ironically enough, I always run into trouble on the purling back row. I purl like I'm preparing my safety rope for climbing Mt. Everest. It's so tight that I had to go find a safety pin to help me get the needle through the next k2t.
By the final row of the pattern, my jaw aches from gritting my teeth. My armpits [and other parts of me] are disturbingly sweaty. The needles are about a half inch from my face. I flop back onto the pillow, breathing heavily and moaning. Douglas looks over suspiciously. I think that's enough for one evening.
5. I skip Bible Study tonight, because my throat still hurts pretty bad and I have the nap yuckies from falling instantly into a two-hour coma as soon as I got home from work. I'm looking forward to a quiet evening of doing a few more pattern repeats on the scarf. I'm packaging up an order first though, congratulating myself on being so crafty. I'm imagining how I'll wrap the finished scarf and mail it to my friend Debby. I can just see the look on her face when she opens my ridiculously clever and creative package. She pulls out the wispy silken scarf and cuddles it to her cheek. She wears it the next day and everyone she passes stops to tell her how gorgeous her scarf is. She tells them all how her breathtakingly beautiful and not at all chubby friend made it with love just for her. Then she-
With all my daydreaming about how fabulous I am, I failed to notice the danger in sawing through a rubber stamp with a serrated steak knife.
Yep, I sawed right into my left index finger. Ohh it's making me dizzy just thinking about it. The knife went right down into the side of the nailbed, too. Omg I'm so disgusting! I'm telling you guys, the pain was so bad I really thought I was going to faint. I thought about going to the ER for stitches but can you imagine what they'd do?? *shudder*
I think the universe got a two-for-one here. Not only did I learn the importance of never ever skipping Bible Study, but I've been knocked down a peg regarding my superior feelings about self defense. Remember the post about the nightmares? I'm terrified of aliens and dinosaurs, but totally ok with psycho stalkers. If someone tried to knife me, I'd be Jamie Lee Curtis. With pants. Or maybe not pants, you know what that's not important here. The point is that if I was babysitting and some psycho in a mask tried to gut us all, I'd have a complete battle plan. (Obviously cannibal pirates are my limit.) And usually, the heroine will get knifed at some point but not mortally wounded. She fights through the pain. I totally thought I'd be like that.
So I've learned that if I ever really did get knifed by a serial killer, my first reaction would be to cry like a baby and then run straight to twitter for sympathy.
I laid on the couch and sobbed for a few minutes. Then I made a bandaid blood cup, if you will, and secured it tightly. Which is currently feeling quite full and... sloshy....
I foresee no lace knitting in my near future.