Which brings me to this: I have often wondered why knitters, especially, happen to be one-type lovers when it comes to their crafts. I mean, the knitters, many or most of them are so knitter-like that when a crochet item comes into play they blanch. Me? I always sort of go with it, but the whole crochet thing has always made me stand there and wonder: If knitting is that more difficult than crochet, then why is it that knitters have so much trouble with crochet?

Crochet, in my mind, is supposed to be an introduction to stitchery. Well, not totally an introduction to all stitchery, because to be fair, we have the more advanced types like filet crochet, the Tunisian crochet, and we have the confusion between the English and the British double crochets, which has provided many of us, me included, with all manner of hah-hah moments, including finished caps that are twice the size I intended them to be, but oh well. (I guess I was supposed to know that single crochet was the same as double in those English patterns. I'm not bitter.)

All I'm saying is, I guess, what I am saying is, when I read that you're upset that a knitting pattern or magazine has two lines of crochet in it, I feel bad and a little frustrated. It's only yarn and if you can manage two needles for knitting, then certainly only one shouldn't be too much trouble.

If you're not a crochet lover, I'm sure you'll convert after I'm finished with these little skeins.

I have friends who needlepoint AND knit.

I have friends who quilt AND knit.

I have friends who sew AND knit.

I have friends who crochet AND sew.

I have friends who cook AND knit AND sew.

I have friends who freakin' hook rugs AND knit AND sew.

I have friends who crochet AND crochet.

And I have friends who knit AND knit.

But I do not have more than a few friends who both knit and crochet and I am sincerely asking why (Because, sisters and brothers, it's all yarn, and I do not know the answer to that question. If I knew I would tell you...so why don't you please tell me why oh' why?)

P.S. I really want to know.

There are times when I knit something and I see a mistake maybe a row or round or more before and choose not to rip it out.

I always, always regret it.

Just the other day, this past weekend, we were at my sister's house for a yard sale. It wasn't very busy, probably because she lives up on this hill and her house is just terrible to find. I mean, we've been there 26.4 times and HWWV still relies on the GPS. . .

Hey, don't ask me about the GPS because I could write an entire post on how silly I think that is, I mean, come on, who can't find their way to a house you've been to 26.4 times? Answer: My husband.

So, anyway, we had a lot of down time and although we declared it wine o'clock at around 12:55 p.m., I had made a mistake in these socks much earlier, like at 11:55 a.m.

So, as I pointed out the large hole I made in the heel of one of the socks, I asked the group if I should just continue or if I should rip. The group said, keep going and just darn it later.

Well, for crap. Me? Keep going and darn it later? This is what I have to say: If you keep going, you'll definitely say "darn it," later.

Wow. I'm schmaltzy this evening. Please ignore me.

Oy. I'm cracking myself up right about now. Must sign off.

So, I was just going to go on Twitter complaining that every. single. time. I go outside my neighbor to the right sweeps up her blinds--she has to lean over a big stretch of tile, a bathtub and whatnot to do so: That woman must be one of those superhero stretch types that double as wackadoodle paranoids--as if I am not completely aware that she's doing that.

But just as I was getting ready to tweet, or whatever the heck they call it, I realized that this world works out perfectly: Here, I'm complaining that she's staring at me all the time, and yet I've practically worn out the tendons in my neck, what, with me snapping my head to the left to look across the street at my neighbor's house every time I hear a stinking sound.

Oh, the tale I've started. I started it because it is a grand-scale tale, one that could have a movie surrounding it, not unlike Fargo (except there are no dead bodies, just a huge dead tree), and the hero isn't anyone, really, except for the story itself, the one in my head, and the way I've told it just doesn't do it justice.

I've always wanted to write a novel, but shoot, I need some practice on my delivery if I'm ever going to manage that.

To give some background, I saw the wife, back a year or so ago, just after my surgery, at the physical therapists office. She recognized me immediately and announced she was there to rehab her shoulder because she fell down the stairs. I asked, jokingly, "Were you drinking?" And she answered: "Yes, I was really drunk."

So fast forward to a couple months ago and HWWV coming home from a run and asking why all the cop cars are out front. I sprinted up to my room, no--I ran--up to my room and pulled the blinds up. This is what I saw: Three cop cars, and a new German import car parked out front. After awhile, they all left and I didn't see a thing.

This got me going, and I remembered Christmas, how the lights went up just after Halloween and how I thought, like I do every year, that this happens because "someone must be dying in that house and not expected to make it to Christmas." Then, I thought how the axe came out shortly after and that huge tree came down single-handed, roots and all, within a day or two. I knew, as I told you, that something wasn't right.

The next weekend, the cops came again, but I was already there at the window. The rain was coming down, and then the new German import drove up and out hopped the wife, and steady as you go, while the three or four officers looked on under the eaves, she brought out armful and armful of clothing. No boxes, just piles and piles of clothing. She had to run fast and all her clothes got wet anyway.

The next weekend, the same thing. And it was raining then, too.

So the Sunday of that weekend when Girlfriend discovered a new friend to play with I stood out front and met a neighbor who has lived on my side of the street for the past 12 years, just like us. For the first time we talked, and then I said:

"Hey, you know the guy over there that screams at his wife?"

"Oh yes," she said. "Lots of activity these days."

"Why'd he take down that tree?"

"With his own bare hands!" she said. "I have no idea, but boy was he fast. I bet that's the same axe I hear he used one time recently to try to hack down the back door when she locked him out."

So, we stood there for awhile more, exchanging information, and when I asked her why the cop cars, because, you know, I figured she needed the officers there for protection the way she was running in and out of the house, the neighbor I just met said this:

"The cops were there because he got custody of their child and they thought she might commit a kidnapping."

I suppose, sitting up here in my room, looking out the window--as long as it is lighter outside than it is inside--has given me a sense of drama that may or may not be there for sure.

...Except, to tell you the truth, I think what has happened is probably more dire and a little more depressing than I can actually say. 

You knitters know what I'm talking about when I talk about that one very special skein of yarn that you happen to either buy on a whim, or on the spot, or without a care, or just "because," and then go home and put it on the shelf and then you stare at it for eons, wondering what you could possibly make using just that one, perfect skein.

Each of these items take just one perfect skein. In fact, these were designed especially for that yarn, the one that is currently sitting on your shelf, staring at you.

These employ a variation of the same stitch pattern, but they are not the same. The Forever Scarf is knit circularly and the crossed sections run parallel to the cast on the edge. The Head Wrap version is knit flat and instead of garter ridges between crossed sections, it is in stockinette so it can lay flat on the head.

The Dream Swatch Forever Scarf is a lot of fun because you can wear it any way you want: Single, doubled, or tripled around your neck. You could even fold it just so and wear one of your favorite shawl pins. I even tried it on "Grace Kelly" style, and it works!

DREAM SWATCH FOREVER SCARF

DREAM SWATCH HEAD WRAP

DIFFICULTY: This pattern is recommended for an adventurous beginner or intermediate knitter who has a little bit of patience when rearranging stitches on the needles

The pattern contains instructions for both items, the scarf and the head wrap.

Click on the button below to buy a copy. It will be sent to you in a zipped PDF file via email when payment is made or eCheck clears. Thanks!

$5.00

Well, it's finished and I'm really happy with the way it turned out. This is something that I will wear--even indoors--because I like wearing regular, woven scarves. The Bugga! yarn is wonderful and sort of hard to get, but there is another yarn that will work just as well if you can't find it, the Pagewood Farms Alyeska Sock Yarn. Even another nice squishy skein of sock yarn that will take up to a size 3 needle will work (I am recommending a size 4 needle with this scarf due to openness of the stitch pattern). The key is, it has to be extra special and something you will love to wear close to the skin.

Any rate, the pattern is basically ready. I'll post it soon.

And, if you are wondering: I am going to include the pattern for the Dream Swatch Head Wrap. 

The stitch pattern used in this pattern is a variation of the Indian Cross Stitch which isn't super easy to do because you triple or quadruple wrap your needle as you knit and then on your way back, you drop the wraps to create elongated stitches, stitches that you cross and knit in a new order.

An advanced beginner could definitely do this, but they would have to be very patient when rearranging the stitches on the needle to avoid frustration. What I think I am going to do is shoot a quick video later today or some time tomorrow and put it here on my blog to show how it is done in case you're interested.

I guess the nicest thing about this particular scarf is that you can wear it multiple ways and wrap it this way and that. Plus, it's a great project for that one extra special skein of yarn you've been wondering what to do with!

It's so close, I can taste it, this blob here. I don't even know what to call it, but it's going to be a companion  to my old Dream Swatch pattern, unless, of course, the dang thing breaks my heart when it is finally off of the needles.

When I say "companion," I certainly do NOT mean that one should knit and wear both the Dream Swatch Head Wrap and whatever this blob is at the same time. If they did, they'd run the risk of looking like a bag lady with good knitting taste but with bad fashion taste, or worse, an overeager knitter who can't help but wear too much of a good thing--if this thing turns out to be a good thing, that is.

So, Dream Swatch Head Wrap will be available again, along with its companion, something I'll call in the order of "circle scarf" or "endless scarf" or "can-be-a-cowl" or something more descriptive, like used-to-be-a-blob (or, more likely: "The Sweetest Melody is an Unheard Refrain," my new favorite line from a beloved ABC song, "Poison Arrow").

I tell you what: There's nothing like the drama and suspense of an untried Object.

In the spirit of the Dream Swatch, I'm using just one dear skein of a very special yarn, which, in of itself, is a total adventure. This time, I happened to have one skein of Sanguine Gryphon Bugga! in an amazing colorway that was calling out to me. Alternatively, you could use just one skein of another similar yarn. The Pagewood Farms Alyeska is something that would work fabulously.

So that's it. That's what I'm doing. Getting ready to tackle the blob, bind off, try it on, either faint or rejoice and move on, wishing I never tried it on in the first place. (Like I said, sometimes in knitting, the sweetest melody is an unheard refrain.)

BTW: I know I owe an installment of crazy neighbor spy activity. All is quiet these days and I saw that he got a notice from the water/power company that they were going to shut off his services. He was clearly not embarrassed because he walked to his front door, took the notice off the door knob and, realizing that he forgot something in his car, put it in his mouth and walked all the way to it with the big yellow notice flapping in the wind and against his face to get whatever it is he forgot.

In terms of police activity and wife/daughter sightings. Each time the wife has visited, three cop cars have arrived with her. The reason will surprise you. It's not what you think.

And also: I'm on Twitter, finally. I keep Facebook kind of quiet, but I figure I can let loose on Twitter. My name there is KnitTonicWendy.

I would have finished this sock yesterday except I was at the park with Girlfriend, her little boyfriend, and his mom and grandmother. I actually don't mind going to parks--I used to hate it when she was a little one--because now, I can just sit on a rock or something and watch the kids climb and run with practically no effort at all.

Come to think of it, I should have brought the sock with me, but I didn't think it would be cool, especially since it was going to be the first time I would meet my friend's mom.

After we ate, my friend's mom, after hearing that I write knitting books, said she always thought of knitting as one of those nifty activities you can take along with you when you are in a social situation and want something to keep your hands occupied.

"Hmmm," I thought. "Maybe I should have brought the sock, afterall..."

And then, when she excused herself, stood under a nearby tree, and busted out some impromptu Tai Chi, I realized, next time, whatever it is I have on the needles will most definitely come along.

BTW: I don't think I'll have enough yarn for two of these socks, so instead of doing three repeats of the argyle portion, I'm only doing one, and it looks fine to me!

So we decided that we'd hit a known dive for lunch, and when I say "dive," I don't mean the usual kind of dives we frequent. The usual kind of dives we frequent at least have a kid's menu. The kind we chose today was definitely not kid friendly. Shoot, come to think of it, when I was 16 and worked at the pizza joint that is adjacent to it, it was absolutely forbidden that I set foot in that place, much less get within 20 feet, which wasn't easy because the two front doors are so close that, if your first name were "Stretch" you just might be able to put one finger from one hand on the pizza door and the other finger from the other hand on this joint's front door without too much trouble.

So knowing all the lore of the place (been there since forever, gritty, police action on weekends, lots of naughty college students drinking that nasty stuff that tastes like Vicks44, don't ask for silverware, or worse: your cheeseburger "protein style"), we went anyway thinking that the lure of their practically historically delicious burgers would be the treat of the week. Not to mention, now that I am of an advanced age, my daddy can't tell me not to go.

Everything is pool tables and darts, just as I had imagined all these years. We sat down and ordered (the white wine came from a tiny screw-top airplane style tiny bottle) and I sat there, the only gal in the room, and listened to the regulars at the bar discuss the usual stuff until the conversation prattled over to their blood pressure.

One guy said, "You know, my blood pressure went way up and I've had to begin to exercise." The guy a couple stools down said, "these burgers sure won't help your condition!" And just as one of the guys got up from his stool to go out for a smoke, the first guy, the one with the blood pressure said: "Oh, my diet's alright the way it is, especially since I started the water aerobics."

While I waited for the rest of the group to fall out of their bar stools, laughing, the third guy to the left looked down into his beer and said: "I always wanted to do that."

Only in California.

Speaking of "I always wanted to do that," I sort of always wanted to do socks from the toe up, but since socks my usual way is so automatic and doesn't require a pattern or anything like that, I never gave it a second thought.

But I got a review copy of Wendy D. Johnson's book, Toe-Up Socks for Every Body, (it will be available in March), I thought I'd give one of her patterns a shot. This particular book isn't a beginner book (she has another one, I think, that is more beginner-ish), but it has a great reference section that describes different cast on methods to begin the sock so the toe is seamless. I chose the one called "Judy's Magic Cast On" and in one short re-run of Beverly Hills, 90210, I managed to figure it out and knit this much of the toe.

Although I am used to the structure that toe decreases provide--the type you get when you work a cuff-down sock--I'm keeping an open mind. I like how easy the toe was to do, in spite of my initial resistance. Not to mention, once I work one sock, I'll very likely feel comfortable enough to do two at a time and avoid that nasty, ever-so-present-in-my-house nonsense that is known as "Second Sock Syndrome."

If you don't know what that nonsense is, Google it.

Oh, and I'm doing the Sneaky Argyle Socks, Malabrigo Sock in a teal and the accents will be in a tangerine color.

If you think that I spend my days staring out the window at my neighbors, you are only partially correct.

The few times I left my house last week, I got two earfuls and one eyeful at a few fast food joints. Two earfuls and one eyeful that I actually wrote down somewhere for safe keeping.

I don't know if it's my personality or the way my brain works, but for some reason, I notice too much about everything. My surroundings, what people are saying (my hearing is better than good), the lapsed vehicle registrations in the neighborhood and the smells coming from the houses around me during dinnertime.

Shoot, I can drive by a car with my windows up and still smell cigarette smoke from someone in a car that I passed a block back.

Thing is, with knitting, I barely notice a thing--especially if it is knitting done by someone else.

I mean, unless the thing is rife with unintentional dropped stitches, pills that would knock someone over if you brushed past them too quickly, or a bind off that gives it that very special home-made look which we either love or hate, I wouldn't notice. In fact, one look at it, and I'm sure I would think that it is probably the nicest hand knit I've ever seen, even though the knitter keeps saying they think their work is a hunk of junk.

So why is it, when I knit, if there's one purl where there shouldn't be, one purl tucked inside a hem somewhere that no one can see, that I can't get it out of my mind? Even the swatches that I knit: If there's so much as a loose bind off on the damn swatch you'd think the way it bugs me that I am one of those people with such bad sensory issues they have to cut the elastic in their underwear so it doesn't bind too closely (Oh, wait: My mom used to do that).

So, today was just one of those days. Trying to knit something for the book while its every flaw, sad nuance, quirk, lump, bump or semi-mistake just drove me up the wall.

There are days, my friends, when I can't decide if what I do is making me insane or if I am just plain insane, in spite of it all.

Or...that I had the makings of an insane person and this stuff has just tipped me into the category.

BTW: Monday in line at Burger King. Man in front of me orders a Big Mac. "We don't have Bic Macs here, sir," says the staff member. "Then I'll have a quarter pounder," says the man. Tuesday in Taco Bell drive-thru. Man in front asks for a Corona beer. Thursday at In-n-Out. Woman in front driving a monster truck, and when I say "monster truck," I mean it. Anyway, the restaurant is in an area where they must have a LOT of monster trucks because right before you enter the drive-thru, there's this huge sign that says, "LOW CLEARANCE 10" 3" or something like that. I hesitate getting behind this woman driving the tallest truck I've ever seen. I do it anyway, believing in humanity for once in my life. What does she do? She places her order, then rounds the corner, and manages to get the driver's side of the truck up on the sidewalk, which raises her side of the truck about a foot. What does she do next? She rolls down the window, stands up and bends down to reach for her burgers, her bleached blonde and permed hair spilling out all over the surprised worker's face. I could even see the sparkles on her painted nails. When it was my turn, the young man handed me an order that was all wrong and I didn't even say a word.

P.S. I don't normally eat that much fast food. This was just a blue-ribbon week.

I am a day late, and I think that I have mentioned this before, but you know I went to beauty school, right? That wasn't particularly the highlight of my life, having dropped out of a prestigious business program, one that, at the time, was compared to the one at Harvard, the one that my dad had to pull some serious strings to get me into, what, with the two-year wait and all, and to boot, I was only 17. I can only imagine what the other students thought of me.

But put a 17-old in a series of macro- and micro-economics courses with nary a cute guy in the room and you're going to lose her. You're going to lose her to the wonderful world of beauty. And that is where I went: To The Wonderful World of Beauty, The Blankity-Blank School of Beauty in Anytown, California.

Wearing my nurse outfit and shoes were the highlight of my day. And no matter what, I couldn't get out of doing a certain lady's toes. And as for hair, every morning, once they let us loose after our "theory class," the seniors would wait eagerly in line for their shampoo and sets.  One day, I found myself rubbing someone's forehead there at the bowl. It was mighty dirty. And the next lady, too, she had a dirty forehead. It took half a day for me to finally say something to my good friend, the one to whom I once gave a very unfortunate permanent. I said: "Man! Is this National Dirty Face Day or something?"

Reaching for the closest table to lean against, she said: "Trust me when I tell you this. Don't be rubbing anyone else's foreheads today, okay?"

Looking back, I can't help but think that it's a good thing we used to ask the ladies to remove their glasses when we did their hair.

BTW: The blocks on my Moderne Baby Blanket are a little skewed. I don't know if it is because I'm your everyday basic, lousy knitter, or if I shouldn't follow the pattern exactly and pick up and knit the number of stitches that "seem right," to me. So far, my rectangles aren't exactly rectangles, and some of them lean to the right when they should lean to the left. Oh well. If it doesn't block out, I wonder if adding some flannel to the wrong side will work.

Has anyone done that with knit blankets? And if you have, did it work, and was it pretty straightforward business?

When you sit by the window and knit for hours upon hours each day, you begin to see things and make uninformed decisions about the goings on and when all the dots don't connect, you begin to fill it all in with "might be's," and "could be's." What's worse is, when you sit by the window without all the information, you add into the picture things like possible death, a most certain rotting body that may have been cut to pieces and brought out, limb by limb, definite divorce if there's no dead body, a sick child who may not make it until Christmas, and a large tree that was so sick that it had to be pulled out with someone's bare hands without the help of major equipment and a posse of gardeners. Oh and here's something that never occurred to me: Maybe the dead tree was just a ruse or an excuse to dig a deep hole.

(See? "Nuts" isn't a good enough word to describe my current state.)

Thing is, I live in a neighborhood that has such strict homeowner's rules that when we left out our trash cans for more than the allotted 24 hours, we got a letter from the board and a threat of a fine. When we didn't pay our fees for a month and a half (our mistake), they threatened to put a lien on our house. Now, I don't know how a certain person two houses down has managed to have nothing but dead roses and dirt on his property for the last 12 years and get away with his life, but if I start writing about this sort of thing, I'll never get around to whatever has been going on outside my window, not to mention why the joke is on me. Let's just say, in this neighborhood, unless you are an attorney (the guy with the dirt and dead roses is, although I used to think he was a drug dealer or some sort of drug grower because he has a piece of cardboard in the upstairs window, supposedly to keep the light out--another huge broken rule in the neighborhood--but as I said, he's an attorney and seems to be higher up on the totem pole of allowed homeowner infringements before getting fined or receiving a death threat from someone with too much time on their hands).

I can't write anything but the first installment here. The drama is too dense and too chewy to gloss over. I will not give all the facts because I do not know them. That's the problem. All I know is what I've seen from my perch and from walking past on my way home from a couple walks a day.

It all began a couple months ago when it occurred to me that two of the people, the wife and kid who lived in the house, seemed to be gone. The cars were there. But the mom and kid weren't. Don't ask me how I know for sure, but I know for sure. The mom and kid weren't there.

But wait! There's something that I forgot to tell you. Right before Christmas (this is the house where the lights and decorations go up the day after Halloween), I saw the husband go out into the front of his house and start to rip out all the grass. By hand. Come to think of it, the landscaping was never that great, and I think I thought it was sort of weird than anyone would do such a thing "by hand," and without too many tools, but this man, he has a reputation for being a little manic once in awhile and as I watched him, I figured maybe he was going to replace the grass when we were again allowed to water our lawns, or maybe it was diseased and he wanted to start over. I even hoped, for a minute there, that what he was really up to was a nice re-design of the landscape. It would be so nice to look over there and see some pretty flowers instead of what was there before: a hasty hedge, some afterthought roses, a misplaced tree, and a water hose that was never put away.

So when he climbed to the top of the large tree and began to saw the major branches off, I got to wondering. That tree didn't need trimming! He kept chopping and chopping and chopping until all he had was a big, giant trunk about as tall as I am. And listen: This tree was no laughing matter in terms of girth and no one would ever call the man Strong Man Swanson.

And he did all that in a day's work: Just enough info and sights to get me gnawing on the possibilities.

By end of the next day, and with the help of a Klieg light (I swear), he had managed to chop most of the stump away. When I looked again many hours later and into the late night, the man had managed to pull  out most of the stump by digging and digging and digging. Roots, and all.

I even saw a few of the neighbors come out of their houses the following day, when no one was looking, and stare down into the hole in disbelief.

"This is one determined person," I sat and thought as I looked out. "Or, he's just plain crazy, or trying to get back at somebody, or trying to make someone mad, or maybe he ran out of money and is doing the demolition work to save on the landscaping redesign. (That's the most likely story, although, months later nothing's changed. And of course, you wonder if the homeowner's board has fined him. Thing is, this guy's an attorney, too, so probably not.)

It was after that that I noted the disappearance of the wife and kid. And that is when, every time I heard a door slam or a door open from across the street, I'd run to my window and look out. This happened over and over and over throughout the day. I'd hear something and then run to the window to look out. I became an addict for information. "Bam!" and I'd go bounding up the stairs to see what was going on. Next thing I knew, I was looking for alternative windows (there are three good ones) that offered a nuanced angle.

Then it happened: The rain and wind came. Next thing I knew, I was running to the window and was rewarded with very little new information. I'd hear a noise, and go running only to see exactly what I saw five minutes before: nothing new.

And I realized, the wind and rain was making our front door swell ever just so, so a noise would find its way up into my room. I chastised myself: "Wendy! You're a fool! Don't run up to the window at every little noise. It's the rain! It's the wind!" And so I held back. I skipped noises. I relaxed.

And you know what? After a time, I looked out the window at no noise prompt and things had changed over at that house. I totally missed something big. I can't say exactly what it is, but I just know that ignoring the sounds made me miss something big.

Friends: I am a fool for house noises disguised as car door slams from across the street. I have no shame.

BTW: Remember this vest? The pattern is ready, but I still haven't found the perfect outfit to wear with it!

A week ago or so, Girlfriend and I were standing in line somewhere behind a woman with the hugest nose I have ever seen in my life. It swooped. It swagged; it staggered, turned, and bumped the likes I have never seen before. So I glanced at her nose and then looked away and noticed Girlfriend checking the lady out.

Like any parent, I worried that she might say something from the heart--if you get my drift--and then, to my horror, she tugged on the woman's sleeve and when she turned around, Girlfriend looked up at her and said: "I like your nose."

BTW: I have closed comments on the previous post and am in the midst of contacting winners. If I don't hear back within a reasonable amount of time from one of them, I will make an announcement and then choose alternates, if necessary.

"My new gym is strategically located in a shopping center that experienced not one but two fatal shoot-outs in the span of two weeks' time. It is right next door to a grocery store that was recently covered in broken glass and yellow crime-scene tape.

I haven't told my parents this news. They may think I'm crazy to go to this gym. But I think it is serendipity. What are the chances of another fatal shoot-out happening in the exact same location again anytime soon? I look at it as a good thing--my gym has already been pre-crimed. I believe we got all the fatal shootings out of the way and now the odds are in my favor. It is probably the safest gym in the area."

When I read this passage from Laurie Perry's new book, Home is Where the Wine Is, I was hooked. When another person writes about their gym in this way, I am instantly curious and smitten. You know me, I'm a sucker for gym stories, and since I haven't been to my gym as regularly as I like to lately, even typing out her passages makes me hanker after an hour or two on one of the bikes for a bit of people watching.

I'm someone who doesn't read a lot of blogs, so when Laurie's publicist asked me if I wanted to read her book and write a blog post about it, I thought, why not? I knew who Crazy Aunt Purl was and had seen her blog, but never followed it, but now that I've read this book, I think I will.

She's funny, but I think most of you already know that. And this book? It's probably a lot like her blog: honest, hilarious at times, self-deprecating in the most charming way, and uplifting, too.

It's a quick read: I finished it in just a couple days of bathtub reading. There are also a handful of simple-funky knit and crochet patterns in the back and include some from Drew Emborsky (The Crochet Dude). Among them are kitschy numbers like matching toilet seat and paper covers and a felted wine bottle cozy.

The publisher will let me give away five copies of her new book (U.S. and Canada). So, just leave a comment to enter. In a couple days I will close the comments, randomly generate five numbers and contact you for your address.

BTW: Still watching my neighbor across the street.

COMMENTS NOW CLOSED.

Sitting and knitting by the upstairs window is beginning to drive me nuts. For the first couple years, things were fine because what I'd do--and know that if your husband comes home while you're doing this he may look at you funny--is turn the TV on in my upstairs office (where all the yarn and materials are) and then bring my computer downstairs into the kitchen/family room and turn the TV on there, too. Then, I'd sit and knit, and whenever I'd need something from the office upstairs, I'd jaunt up there and get whatever I had to get without missing even one second of a rerun of Beverly Hills, 90210 or One Life to Live, what with the TV's on all over the place.

But after those two years, I decided that spreading my junk around the house was no longer a good idea and that if I spent the ENTIRE day in my office that I would get a lot more accomplished. Plus, there's that big window in there that overlooks the houses across the street and all those beautiful canyons behind them.

Boy, was I wrong.

After a good month or so of sitting and knitting in the upstairs room, I started noticing the comings and goings of our neighbors. The family directly across our house runs like clockwork and the mom is very effective, and brings in her trash cans at exactly the right hour and wears the same heels and pressed jeans every, single day. Her boy practices violin at exactly 3:02 p.m. and never leaves once he gets home except to go to school the next morning. The other day, all of a sudden she started to drive a different car, not a new car, but a different car by the same make. Did her old car break down? Is it being fixed and is this a loaner? Did she trade it in for a used car? Why did she go from sedan to SUV-ish? Was there an accident? Is her son taking up lacrosse again and does she need a bigger trunk? Where's the car today? It isn't parked in its usual spot! Someone tell me!

My Italian neighbor on the left, the one whose cousins accidentally broke into our house a few years ago at 2:00 a.m., leaves at exactly 9:59 a.m. every morning except for Sundays and goes to one of his restaurants. This is good to know because there are days when I walk the dogs looking like hell on wheels and it'd be nice if he lived under the illusion that his neighbor, the one whose house was broken into by his cousins a few years back continues to be one heckuva looker. Thing is, I KNOW there is a teenager who lives in that house because the Italian neighbor told me so. It's his girlfriend's son. Thing is, this kid must be invisible because, try as I might, I can't see him no matter what window I look through to find him. It's like waiting for Godot, attempting to get a look at this teenager. All I know is, I spotted him one day about a year ago. He doesn't look anything like his mother, the one who does aerobics in their living room from time to time. The two of them, the Italian and his girlfriend, wear fluffy white robes in the morning and on weekends before 9:59 a.m. They are very continental.

This amount of activity I can handle, the orderly ones across the street and the continentals who are rarely home on the left who house an invisible teenager. Then the other day, all hell broke loose. The A-1 situation happened. The situation that not even your grandpa, the one who could care less about pretty much anything, would pay attention to with aplomb: Three cop cars drove up and parked near another house across the street. The one that gets Christmas lights on it the day after Halloween every year.

It is the house that I look at every year, right after those lights go up and remark: "Someone's probably sick in that house and going to die soon. Why else would they put those lights up so early? I bet whoever is sick isn't expected to make it to Christmas."

(And every year no one dies and the lights go up too early again.)

It could take pages to tell you what I've seen since those cop cars have turned up. They've been here three times in two weeks and I have all manner of theories going. All of them are good. They are sound. They are theories based on eyewitness accounts, eyewitness accounts that keep me from knitting, keep me from writing, from sleeping, or being reasonable. Heck! As I just typed this last sentence, I missed someone pulling their car out of the driveway! How'd that happen? I look away for one half-second and miss something very, very important!

This post is getting to be too long and I need to show you my finished Simple Things Shawlette. I thought it would take me a long time to knit, but it was about a two-day project (for me...the one who sits and stares out the window all day to avoid doing real work). I used the Pagewood Farms Aleska. I usually don't wear things like this, but I think I will most definitely wear this one because it looks very nice with my incognito sunglasses.

ETA: Changed spelling to Godot. Didn't know that my other spelling was pointing to something not so nice.

Whenever I'm under the gun to finish a knitting project--whatever the project--I lose my mind and during the home stretch, I end up casting on for new projects, even though I absolutely must finish something else. It's just one of those rules/truths in my life, like:

1. If I go to IKEA  for a single pack of their cocktail napkins, I will come home with something from the Basisk Series, three jars of Lingonberry, another toilet brush, two plastic ice cube trays in weird shapes, and oh, a piece or two to add to my dying Billy Bookcase System collection.

2. When cooking, if I see some errant piece of vegetable that's brownish and I let it go into the salad along with the other stuff anyway, once I toss it, it will ALWAYS end up on my plate. Ditto for gristle when dealing with animal products.

3. When I go shopping for yarn, I will come home with anything but what I went there to get in the first place.

4. When entering an airplane, I will look up and around, catch the eye of someone who looks like a nightmare to sit next to, and I will always end up next to them. Never fails.

5. Ditto for the bike at the gym.

6. And the yoga joint.

7. When we go wine tasting and all of us are standing in a row waiting for our tastes, every single time, the person conducting the tasting pours less wine in my glass than the other people. This is a theory we have tested time and time again. We have even traded places, thinking it was just where I was standing; but no, I always get less wine to taste. Ask HWWV and he'll confirm this hypothesis.

8. If I buy a lottery scratcher thingy of a certain theme that costs 3 bucks, I will always win 5 bucks, nothing more, nothing less. But when I take the winnings and buy that same 3-buck ticket and another 2-buck one, I will win that same five bucks again on that same themed ticket, and so it goes.

9. This used to always be the case, and I haven't had to deal with it as much as I used to, except for once in awhile now that I do occasional phone interviews, but whenever I have had to wait for a date or a meeting, the person who I was waiting for would only show up after the cat pooped or when I was in the bathroom and could hardly make it to the door or phone. In the case of the date, I'm sure they thought I was the one who pooped.

10. If I were the bachelor and some girl in a purplish dress and knee-high boots turned to me while crossing the road and squeaked or screeched, "squeeeee!" or something to that effect, I would send her home as soon as we got to the other side of the street.

This is my latest On the Needles project, this Simple Things Shawlette, one that I have no business knitting because, first, I don't usually wear these kind of scarves, and second, I should know by now that I start these kind of projects because I'm avoiding the obvious. The yarn is Pagewood Farms sock yarn. The one with the cashmere in it.

Okay, I just picked up my Blackberry and tried to change the television channel with it.

I have clearly been doing too much work. And, my toes itch.

It took me about a week to figure out what was wrong and it's not athlete's foot. It's something else and let's just say thank goodness the damp, cold rain has gone away. See, my office can get really cold and being a typical warm-weather person, I don't own slippers. And unless I want to wear a pair of mis-matched socks, I go without. That, and the tile floors had my toes literally freezing off. So stupid me, I decided it was a good idea to plunge them in real, hot water. I did this over a course of a couple days and got me some Chilblains. Yes, Chilblains. And they're not the same as fried pork rinds, either, although they sound a lot like a snack like that, or maybe pig intestines.

My toes, however, kind of look like fried pork rinds, come to think of it.

But you don't come here to read about my toes.

That said, I'm sailing along with the Moderne Baby Blanket. You can see from the title of the post that the two colors that I chose were Pear (a light green) and Raven (black). I know, black isn't typically a baby color but my sister and I were chatting online the other day and I asked her what colors she was going to use in the baby's room and she said "black and white."

So I typed: "They don't make baby things in black and white...unless there's red stuck in it somewhere."

And she shot back: "http://www.babybedding.com/black-and-white-dots-and-stripes-crib-bedding"

". . . Oh," I typed. ". . . but you'll have a heck of a time finding black sheets. All they have are pastels and white."

And she shot back: "http://www.babybedding.com/solid-black-crib-bedding-sheet"

You can tell how much I know about baby stuff. I guess I don't qualify as someone with a clue anymore, now that Girlfriend is the extended age of seven.

BTW: I have had a new interest in the book, Mason Dixon Knitting (their first one . . . did you know that it's coming out in paperback any day now?). Knitting the Moderne Baby Blanket has been a nice, calm experience. Since I knit and design for my new book all day, which definitely isn't mindless, when I have a chance to do something without having to plot or think about, like garter stitch, it's a welcome treat.

Also, congrats to Michelle in Illinois who won the stash of yarn. I sent it yesterday!

There's this thing about knitting gifts for others.

It's a total crap shoot.

And to be honest, I've come to the realization that if I'm going to do it, that I will not expect that the recipient will love it, admire it, like it, wear it, or take care of it. In fact, I've come to the realization that the best attitude for me, or for any other knitter out there, should be one of "I totally do not care what you do with this thing once I've handed it over."

Honestly. The nicest thing you could do for yourself is to adopt the old "out of sight out of mind" thingy. Because, really and truly, I don't want the recipient to have to remember to take out the knitted do-dad right before I come over to the house and lay it out just so I can see it. You know, the way you might deal with an ugly vase your mother in law gave you. The one that you think is so awful that you only take it out of hiding when she visits.

I don't know. I guess the thing about when I knit for others is that I get myself into a lather about the perfect color or the perfect style. Then, when the item is finally complete I second guess my choices, search for obvious mess-ups and more times than not, decide to never give the thing away.

But when my sister became pregnant, at first I thought I'd knit her baby a little sweater. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that they're not the type of parents to dress their baby boy in some sweater. I mean, even though I knit Girlfriend a ton of sweaters she couldn't wear them because it's frankly too warm out here to ever get any wear. Not to mention, kids: they grow.

So I put that idea away and when I was browsing through the first Mason-Dixon Knitting book, I came across the neatest baby blanket pattern. It's called Moderne Baby Blanket and it doesn't scream "baby" like so many others. Not to mention, I have a ton of stash yarn that I could use. (You can find a free pdf to the adult-sized version at Amazon. Just search "Mason-Dixon Knitting" and click on their first book.)

So anyway, I knit about three blocks, and although I have a nifty stash of my favorite cotton, Blue Sky Alpacas Skinny Dyed Cotton, I decided that I needed to have two other colors, in addition to the white Queensland Collection Maldive and the blue-ish Plymouth Linen Isle and the Blue Sky Skinny Dyed I already have on hand.

So, a couple days ago, I went to one of my favorite online stores and searched for two colors to add to the white, zinc, and blue yarns that I currently have going.

The ones you see in the background, the cream, the squash color, and the blue ("Glacier"), are for the winner of this contest and are not among my choices of the Blue Sky Alpacas Skinny Dyed.

This is where the contest comes in. Take a look at the colors I chose from here, and in my comments make a guess of the two new colors I chose. Remember: They are NOT cream, squash or that light blue. They are two other colors.

I'll leave the comments open until Wednesday at about noon-ish. I'll close them and generate a random number and the winner will get my entire stash of the Skinny Dyed Cotton, just about enough to make your own Moderne Baby Blanket.

We usually have a handful of rainy days each year. Normally, those three days clump together and then the natives have a collective breakdown. The Weather People, on the other hand, celebrate with a bottle of bubbly before their segments knowing that they get to finally use words other than "dry," "Santa," "Ana," "mild," "high," "pressure," or "chance-of-rain [wink!]."

Giddy, they stand there, telling us our lives might be spared, but only if we are very careful and get the sand bags out and pray for our lives and, nervous as all get out, run out the back door and hop onto a plane headed to somewhere where palm trees are guaranteed to gently sway in the breeze.

In spite of dire warnings by a guy named Dallas Storm (actually, I think his name is Dallas Raines), the native Angelinos will always venture out, because, let's face it: One cannot settle for a ho-hum home-brewed cup of coffee if there's a Starbucks within a 42-mile radius. I mean, why skip the opportunity to stand in line behind someone ordering a half-caf, half choc, semi-latte with 1/3 pack of Splenda and a half shot of espresso, not the usual kind, but a special kind, and can they have it in a special green container? One that will definitely not begin to break down in the 42-mile car ride home, but at the exact moment that it hits either the landfill or the trash truck, and not before, because if it did break down before that moment, it might make my recycle bin "icky"?

But I'm rambling and dinner's almost ready.

So, next thing you know, the stuff that's wet comes out of the sky and drops onto the windshield at exactly the wrong time and we all forget who we are and either turn into a speed demon who drives a black Escalade, Range Rover (also black) or, oh, the Lincoln knock-off of the Escalade (also black).  If we're not that type, we might, instead, turn into Elmer Fudd and decide the only choice is to drive one mile an hour and sob.

There is simply no in-between.

Friends, these three-day clumps of rain that happen once or twice a year are murder.

So the other day, when I traded emails with a quilter friend of mine who now knits more than she quilts, I suggested we hit the yarn store that's up the road a piece later in the week. She took the bait and when it started raining for real this morning, I was happy she had offered to drive. And to assuage my mild fear of all that pouring rain and gripping the wheel as if she let go her hair would catch fire, she said: "It makes more sense for me to drive, after all, because . . . I lived . . . in Oregon . . . for awhile . . . and it rains there a lot. . . . I have . . . more . . . uhm . . . practice. . . . Yes, . . it's better that . . . I . . . drive."

Speaking of rain: The boys (Chuck and Rocko), neither of them will go out when it rains. I try to tell them there is an army of squirrels outside and that they most definitely need to get out there and give them the what-for, but no. Even Rocko doesn't fall for it. So today, after two days of rain (and about a half-second of hail) I came home from the yarn store with fistful of yarn and spotted two rods of poop on the guest room bed (heh) and a chewed up Endless Knitted Cardi Shawl, needles and all, and I know who did it.

I guess even the dog(s) aren't immune to this particular clump of rain.

Just like any other happy accident, you start out with a hunch, knit a bunch, and end up, a lot of the time, with something that is not what you imagined; rather, it's a bit "off," and you let it simmer there, in the potential loser pile for awhile, while you decide if you should rip it back a little bit and try again, or if you should live with it, or if you should just chuck it altogether.

But this cap, since it's knit from the crown down, would be so easy to rip back and "fix." So that is what I did, and I'm thrilled.

Designed so you can try on as you go for the perfect amount of "poof," "slouch," or "bagginess," The Hunch is sized for Youth through Adult Large. It's a quick knit, too!

SIZES
Youth/Adult X-Small (Adult Average, Adult Large)
Adult Average shown

FINISHED MEASUREMENTS
15.25 (18.25, 20.5)” brim, unstretched

YARN
Koigu Wool Designs Kersti Solid (100% Extra Fine Merino / 114 yds / 50g), Color 400; 1 (2, 2) skein(s), Yarn used in youth version: Stitch Nation Bamboo Ewe (55% Viscose from Bamboo, 45% Wool / 177 yds / 100g), Mermaid; 1 (1, 2) skein(s)

NEEDLES
One Set double point needles (dpn) size US 6 (4.25mm)
One 16” long (circ) needle size US 6 (4.25mm)
One 16” long (circ) needle size US 5 (4mm)

NOTIONS
Stitch Markers; tapestry needle

GAUGE
22 stitches = 4 inches in St st on larger needles

DIFFICULTY
Advanced Beginner to Intermediate: knit in the rnd, use of short rows

Click on the button below to buy a copy. It will be sent to you in a zipped PDF file via email when payment is made or eCheck clears. Thanks!

$5.00

Finally got a couple decent shots of The Hunch*. It took three days, about four glasses of chardonnay (the cheap stuff), three mini tacos, some old Chicago songs, a cup of coffee with an old friend and a trip to a gun shop.

Don't ask me about the gun shop.

Pattern up tomorrow.

*When I was labeling photos for the pattern I titled them "hunchback1," "hunchfront2," and "hunchbackmain." And while I was doing this, I was reminded of a great joke and I'm allowed to tell this one because I'm blind in one eye and may as well have a wooden eye, so. . . There was a guy with a wooden eye. He felt bad about it and even though he was afraid to attend the upcoming high school dance, his mom said to him: "Son, I know you have a wooden eye, but you should go to the dance anyway. I mean, there's bound to be a girl who'd love to dance with you." So, in spite of his eye made of wood, he went to the dance. He even got a new suit.

Anyway, at the dance he stood there along the folded up tables in the cafeteria/gym and it seemed like everyone but him was dancing. He thought to himself: "Jeez. I have a wooden eye. Who'd want to dance with me?" And then, all of a sudden he spotted a girl across the room, tapping her foot to the music, but looking like she'd like to dance and no one had asked her yet. So, he walked across the cafeteria/gym, and noticed, as he got closer, that this girl had a hunchback. A very unfortunate hunchback. So, he stopped for a second, and then thought to himself: "So what if she has a hunchback! I have a wooden eye! Plus, mom says someone would like to dance with me in spite of my, uhm, you-know." So, he finally walked over and stood in front of her and he asked, "Would you like to dance with me?" And she looked up at him and exclaimed: "Oh, would I!"

Startled, he yelled back, "Hunchback! hunchback!" and ran away.