The Endless Cast-On

I have a lot of them. Some of them are horrendous, such as the theory that I could melt two circular needle cables to make the perfect cable needle. In practice, I ended up throwing away a perfectly good cable needle. In theory, I knew I was going to end up throwing away a perfectly good cable needle. Other ideas I have are better. Such as the theory that if my arm measures 13 inches around, if I’m getting 4 stitches per inch and I have 52 stitches, by golly, that sleeve will fit.

This is one of the decent theories. It’s not a bad theory that has destructive ends worthy of tears nor is it so blissfully simple and supported by math that if it fails, it’s due to user error. This is a theory that falls somewhere in between.

But first, a somewhat fuzzy picture.

This is Elphaba as she stands now. After increasing until I was ready to cry, I was suddenly done and ready to put the sleeves on some handy-dandy waste yarn. In fact, I added an extra set of increases to make more room for my bust. This, in itself, was a theory. I took my perfect gauge (which I checked in three places on the sweater to verify) and I took my total stitches, did some division and came out with 39″ for the bust. Now I was keeping up with the measurement that my chest was 40″, but we’ll get there. Assuming that I wanted something cozy and not too tight, I decided that I wanted to add an inch to the bust. Instead of doing these as darts, I just added an extra increase.

Good idea in theory, not in practice. Following the pattern, I misplaced these increases and put half of them on the sleeves, making the sleeves capable of holding a 14.33″ arm, not a 13.5″ arm. The sleeves are monstrously too big, but luckily the chest is still okay. The back also seems fine.

Why no picture? Well, unless you wanted a full on shot of my boobs, that’ll have to wait until later.

Well, blog-author, you say, that doesn’t sound so terrible. Anyone can make that mistake! But did you question your author on how she put on the sweater? Of course you didn’t. You assumed she merely slipped it over her head because, after all, it’s a top down sweater; why wouldn’t you? Oh, you may wonder, is the needle and cable long enough so you could fit it over?

No, you realize. 40″ bust on a 32″ needle just won’t fit kindly. So, you conclude, you must’ve put the whole thing on waste yarn, because that’s what any sane knitter would do.

But sanity has never been a quality I would list in a survey nor would my friends chose to use that word frivolously when describing my personality. You see, like many, I am afflicted with a sort of laziness that is so immeasurable and goes to such extremes that I will come up with huge, complicated theories just so I can save myself five minutes of something else I would rather not do. It happens at work, it happens at home and yes, today, it happened with knitting.

I looked at my needle, knowing full well I would not get this sweater over my head without dropping a LOT of stitches. So I thought, hm, what is the problem exactly? It’s the needle; it’s too short and I’m fearing too any dropped stitches. Normally, I would put the 176 stitches of the body that are left on to waste yarn, slip on and that’s it. But this seemed like a huge waste of time.

So what I did is something similar. I took some waste yarn and threaded it through the stitches on either side of the needle tips. I put the yarn through 24 stitches on one side, 24 on the other, which, in essense, added 12 inches of stitching that my needles could slide back through the stitches and they wouldn’t be dropped. I still say it’s a genius idea in theory and I didn’t have to thread 176 stitches.

I put it on, pulled at it here and there to check the fit and admired the neckline (which, I must say, fits perfectly. I’m amazed of how well that looks). When I flipped it back over my head, I realized where I had a problem with my theory.

Six inches in each direction wasn’t enough. About 20 stitches had fallen and some of them had fallen three or four rows below.

In the end, I sat in the bright light of my bathroom, worked the stitches back on the needle and no one else would be the wiser. It looks fine and even, if one of the sleeves is a little loose. I can fix that later, of course. I didn’t save myself a minute of time, but hey, I tried on the sweater and so far, it’s going great. Awesome pattern. Zephyr designs nice stuff.

In the end, if you’re ever looking for ideas, don’t come to me. They’re pretty rotten.

I haven’t written in a solid eleven days and there is a good reason for that. I was actually avoiding this blog. While I have my readers (which is more than expected, actually — I love having ‘the blog’ now and all the comments and emails I get are very endearing), writing in this blog has made me realize that I won’t write when my shit isn’t in order. When I’m depressed, I suck down some wine or beer and distract myself with reading or video games. If I’m stressed, I stare at my television while knitting half-assed. I don’t write it down and partially it’s because I’d like to lie to my readers and say that my shit is always in order. There is never a thing out of place and maybe it’s because I don’t like reading depressing pieces of the internet and I fear boring you.

But I doubt it. I think it’s because I didn’t want to face the fact that my cat ran away this week.

Angel, you guys will remember, came to us at Easter. We only had her about six weeks. This past Tuesday, Taylor came home to the screen from our bedroom on the catwalk and Angel missing. He informed me and I came home right away. We both searched around the apartment, made flyers, put up flyers, talked to strangers, made Craigslist ads, went to shelters, put out food, hung up toys and familiar smells and whatever the hell else you’re supposed to do to find a cat. Today is the third day and while some people keep telling me, “Oh, she could come back,” I’m not the type of person to hold on to hope. Don’t get me wrong — I want Angel to come back — but after the first forty-eight hours, which have passed by now, the chances of an animal returning diminish. Some of you may tell me an anecdote of the cat you had or your parents had who would disappear for two weeks and come back. I sincerely hope that happens with Angel, but I’m not holding on to that idea of that’s how it’s going to work.

In the mean time, I’ve been floored by my own boyfriend. In relationships, especially when you live together, you get used to each other. You forget the things that made you fall in love with them. You said, ‘I love you,’ but it may not have the stomach-tickling effect it had when you first realized it or when you first said it. You realize it again when something goes wrong. Taylor and I have been through some tough times; we’ve had difficulties financially and with our relationship and he is the kind of guy who sees a situation, says nothing and just deals with it. When it came to Angel, he didn’t show the emotion I did (which included me sitting on my couch to sob about my cat). He created our flyers, he did countless searches within a block radius.

I sat back at one point and was just in awe at him. He took charge. In our relationship, I’m usually the one taking charge of things. I say when we grocery shop, when the bills are due and I need his half, we usually take my car on our errands and I make the socializing plans. Taylor sits back and lets me direct it all; if he disagrees, he just says it. Normally, he doesn’t give a shit about most things. But with Angel, he took charge. I just did what he said.

At one point when we weren’t sure if she was ever coming back, he paused to hold me. I cried against him and even though my cat, our new family member, was gone, he made it better. It dawned on me why I’m still here. It’s a wonderful moment to have when you get so used to living with the same person and they do something that amazes you.

In the end, we decided that we will search for Angel for the next few days. If she doesn’t turn up by the time the quarter ends, which is in about two weeks, we will adopt another cat. For one reason, we spent a ton of money on cat supplies. We have a 26 gallon bin filled with cat food along with twenty pounds of cat litter still left over. That and we both have our hearts on loving an animal.

I’m hoping we don’t have to get another one (even if I would adore a kitten). We hope Angel will return. But if she doesn’t, we’re both emotionally prepared for that. It’s altogether shitty, but sometimes, things just are. And if anything good came out of this, it gave me a whole new perspective about the man with whom I share an apartment.

Sometimes, life gets so boring and so repetitive that some people will go out and do something crazy. Maybe your thing is screwing some random dude you met at a bar. Maybe you take your car and just drive until sunset, hoping that you don’t end up in Murderville. Others, like me, start thinking about the things you did when you were younger when they were big, huge deals because Momma said no and Daddy said just don’t tell Momma.

When I was in high school, one of my best friends had a piercing gun. I don’t know where she got it from and frankly, I’m surprised my ear didn’t rot off for being unsterilized. But she took the gun and pierced what would’ve been the third hole in my earlobe. I stuck studs in it, hoping my mother didn’t notice. She did notice, but it was okay because at least I got the holes in my earlobe. When I was in college however, Rance and I decided we had to get something we both would have. Tattoos are what most people do, but I’m too fickle and I think he was too broke. We opted for piercings. Maybe some people would’ve gone for eyebrows, lips, ears or nose. Not us. No, we were complete badasses.

We got our belly buttons pierced.

I loved that piercing with all of my heart. Getting the procedure done was horrifying. The piercer, a woman as big as a barn, laid me on a chair and mounted my then-small thighs and stuck a sharp needle through the skin of my navel. Rance nearly fainted. We didn’t know he was afraid of needles, but he was a brave boy and got it done too. I forgave him when he removed it (because really, that was really threatening to his heterosexuality) but I kept mine until my belly got big enough that I didn’t think it looked flattering anymore. But I went home to my parents proudly when I got it done, prepared to show my mother the damage I paid $45 for. Her bright blue eyes bulged out of her head and I thought she would’ve murdered me in my sleep. She told everyone she knew with as much spite as she could possibly muster.

Everyone said the same thing: “Well, at least it’s not a tattoo.”

There’s something thrilling about putting holes in your body. It’s not so much about the hole, but the jewelry that goes in it. You become attached to it. I had a faery in my belly button for a solid six months; other times, I had tear-drop jewelry and other times, just a bar bell. I loved each piece. They made me feel sexier and there’s something about a piercing that makes your body feel new.

When boredom hits me, I like to reminisce and feel nostalgia. I am an adult now, or so they tell me. If I want to add new holes to my body, goddammit, I’m going to. After thinking about it for a while, I decided I wanted another piercing. I did some research on local tattoo shops and decided on Chameleon Ink here in Bellingham. The people there made me feel gorgeous. They didn’t compliment me or flirt with me; they enforced the idea of one’s individuality. I don’t exactly think piercings and tattoos really show one’s individuality, especially since people get them in the same places. But how into they were in their work and how much of a people’s business they made it made me even more excited.

That thrill of something new, the anxiety of the incoming pain and the delight of looking just a little different made up for months of grumblings of complatency, boredom and restlessness. Dana, whom I instantly adored, was such a delicate piercer. We talked about what I wanted, where I wanted it, and how it would look. We talked about why we like piercings (his face, by the way, was LOADED with them, but it made him charming) and he described the process. He showed me the tools, told me what they were for and reminded me to take deep breaths before he shot the needle through. He bounced his head excitedly when he thought of the idea of the new piercing I was going to get and we both bonded, for just a second, on its awesomeness. Then, after he marked the spot with some ink, he held my ear, told me to breath in, out and then there was a harsh pinch and it was over.

The top one is the new one, while the bottom one is getting fitted for a near earring on Thursday. The bottom hole is getting stretched just a wee bit to accommodate a thicker ring, but it’ll match the one above it. I’ve also decided that my head looks lopsided, with two rings on the left ear and none on the right. After some time, when the tenderness around the piercing subsides, I’ll begin working on the right.

I had to pick something that wouldn’t interfere with work. Frankly, I’m not huge on face piercings but if I had a more forgiving job, I’d probably consider it. For now, it’s ear piercings that I can hide with my hair. When my stomach is flat again (we’re getting there), I’m going to get the belly button piercing redone as a reward.

Adding holes to my head made me feel so young again. I loved it. I can’t describe why paying for pain really makes a difference, but I’ll tell you what: do whatever you can to make yourself feel good. Life’s too short to sit around moping and grumbling about being bored.

Needles vs Guns

Take a moment to note that I do not, under any circumstances, advocate using a piercing gun. Lots of kiosks in malls and Claire’s use only piercing guns and they’re a horrible idea. They’re incredibly rough on the skin; what they end up doing is, instead of creating a hole, they push flesh aside to accommodate the jewelry. If you look at the picture closer, you’ll see a lump by the bottom piercing. It was originally done with a gun and it got so infected that I almost lost the hole. I went to a tattoo shop and they cleaned it up for me, saving the piercing.

If you’re adding holes to your body, go to a tattoo shop, even if it’s for something “girly” like an earlobe piercing. They don’t care. Research your tattoo parlors and see if their workers are worth their salt; if they are, they’ll have absolutely no problem piercing just about anywhere. They use a needle and their tools look horrifying, but believe me, it’ll work out much better for you. It’ll hurt a hell of a lot less, be less prone to infection and bleeding and it just takes better care of your skin.

Again, no piercing guns. Let the big guys use the needles. It’ll be over before you know it.

First, before I get into this, I want to thank those who left me notes both here and on Plurk about my restlessness. Some intimate conversations made a huge difference (including those on my predictability — thanks for nailing it right on the head there, Rance) and I feel a little more like me. That and I took off Memorial Day. There’s something about three day weekends, aren’t there?

Last night turned out to be glorious. I left work and it was a crisp 50 degrees outside. As we are no longer heating our apartment any longer and won’t be until October (I love my $40 electric bills), it gets chilly sometimes. Chilly enough that I thought, “Hey. I’m cold. I need a sweater.” I grabbed my Owls and wore it until I went to bed. It needs a tag (I wore it backwards for about two hours) but it was wonderful in all sorts of ways. Someone needs to remind me to buy blocking boards and make the stitches even. Overall, though, I had such a mesmerizing feeling of accomplishment. I took a bunch of brown yarn and two nickle-plated sticks, moved them around a whole bunch of times and made a sweater. A sweater that had sleeves and owls with beaded eyes. I felt like a genius.

There’s something about making your own clothes. While the Owls sweater is currently the only knitting article I consider real clothing, I can see myself filling up my own closet full of my own knitted work. My Ravelry queue has about six other sweaters I’d like to do in the next year or two. Six. That’s a week’s worth of clothes. Add two, since the Owls is certainly off the queue and so is the Wicked sweater. That’s eight sweaters.

My nerding causes me immense pain.

Now, I’ve got the start of sleeves, shoulders and a collar on Elphaba. When I look at the stitching, I’m immensely proud. It looks like a machine did it. I’m brutally impressed, since a year ago, I couldn’t hope for one stitch to be even and neat. Let alone stitches that are consistently even and neat. I once said I knit as loosely as a whore’s morals, but that’s no longer true. I knit like a goddamn machine and I do it quickly.  I sometimes feel my project knitter genes poking through as I’m becoming more and more anal about mistakes. I worry about fuzziness in my worked objects (hence why I bought a $5 sweater stone yesterday) and I actually give a shit about gauge.

But something occured to me. The Elphaba sweater, like most top down raglans, have you put in some stitch markers and increase until your eyes are bleeding. In this one, you have 21 sets of 8 increase rows.

Let me say that again. In laymen, Muggle terms.

21 rows where you increase. 8 stitches to increase per row. That’s 168 stitches to increase.

I ask again. Where are my ruby slippers? I’ve reached the middle of the sweater. I hate the middle. It’s so far from that magical beginning where everything has gone perfectly (and it has so far, I might add, may the Knitting Goddess not fuck with me). It’s so far from the end where I can cuddle it with pride. I’m on the 13th repeat of my increases. That’s 104 stitches increase. Only 64 to go.

“Only” is inappropriate. I’m reaching the point that I had come to on the Owls when I had attached the sleeves. The “I don’t love you anymore” moment. The moment where you wonder if you even like knitting anymore, so you decide to go out/watch tv/read/play video games/cry/sleep/kill yourself.

So here I have a sweater, not even a quarter of the way done, sitting on my needles and all I know is that I don’t want to DO them anymore. No more increases. I might have to pluck out my eyes with a melon baller. And yes, I do own a melon baller, so don’t test me.

I will have this sweater. She will not defeat me. But good God, does she test my patience.

Normally I don’t use this blog to divulge the grossly personal thoughts I have in my life. At least, the grossly personal details I find grotesquely boring. We won’t discuss how 99% of the world couldn’t give a shit what I recently discovered with knitting. But over the past few days, I’ve felt.. on edge. Cranky. Like something’s wrong, something out of place, and it’s taken a few days of thinking to figure it out.

I work every day; as much as I’d like time off from work, I am happy there. My job is easy and offers occasional challenges; my boss adores me and so does her husband. I understand my job, I know that it’s predictable and hey, if I ever really need time off and decide it’s time to go on vacation, she’s never told me no. Ever. In the past year, I’ve called out suddenly and missed work for silly reasons, and it’s never been an issue. I have a good boss and good employment. So that’s not it.

I have friends. Taylor and I are doing good; we went to see Star Trek last weekend (and oh man, that movie… go see it. Stop reading right now, go see it and come back to this. It’s that worth it). It’s what I’ve been wanting lately, so he’s a homebody and I lose my shit if I stay home too much. I also have Jaime and Rance, two people I talk to more than Taylor often times (the collateral damage of living together) and to be honest, they are the best friends I’ve ever could have dreamed of having. Taylor thinks I need friends here, which I probably do, but I prefer to chill at my own pace and I haven’t met anyone in Bellingham yet who really gets that. So I’m content to go out occasionally with the people at the knit night (they’re so welcoming) and have what I have. So it’s not loneliness.

I knit. A lot. I also write a lot. I edit for Rance, I’m apart of a writing group and we’re really working well together to create work that could be published. I’ve knit a sweater, I have a hat that’s half done and I’m working on the next sweater (which deserves it’s own post at this point). The novel is coming out well and I’m pretty sure at this point, one day, I’ll find a book at Barnes and Nobles with my name on it. So I don’t need a creative outlet.

What I’ve concluded is that there’s few things in life I have to look forward to. The novel might be halfway done. Knitting is knitting. My friends and boyfriend are loyal and my job is consistent. My life is safe and I feel that there isn’t some big thing I’m working towards. I’m just working. I’m just going to work from 8-4:30 and then coming home to play on my computer, talk to friends, knit, write or watch TV. The novel would be a bigger thing for me if I were anywhere near done. I’m going to visit home again in August, and don’t get me wrong — that’s always fun — but it’s not new. I feel like I’m stuck in this middling place where nothing new will be happening and I’m just going to keep doing the same thing, day in and day out, until I’m old and withering.

So how do you break out of that? Is that the real curse of being an adult? Complatency? I complained about the same thing when I was with Jason, but it was misplaced; I was unhappy in my relationship that would never change or be good. With Taylor, it is good. I have a safe home with a beautiful (if demanding) cat, the bills are always paid, I have money for yarn and I’ve done what I hoped for when I moved out here: happiness. But now I’m ready to accomplish the next big thing. If only I knew what that is.

I need a change, guys. And I’m not sure what that is. I’ll let you know the minute I figure it out.