Author: kokomeau

Here are some of the gals who keep me knittin’ pretty. We meet every Saturday morning at the local coffee house from about 9:00 to noon (or however long we can convince ourselves to stay). We’re all at different levels of knitting, with Caryn being our ‘local expert’ (though she’d beg to differ). I’m on the left, then Caryn, Anita (we like to call her “Aknita”), my sister Molly (who, though a school teacher, refuses to learn to read a pattern), and Brooke (who told us today she PREGGERS!). The only one missing is Kay. I’ll catch her next time, though.

It was sad. She’d worked on it for weeks. The pattern was difficult to read, especially for a beginning knitter with no fear. We all tried to help. Even me. (That was more like the blind leading the blind.)We’d seen it done before. Caryn, frustrated with a quick-knit cardigan sewn together wrong (we blame ourselves; there was a lot of yakking), and having a heck of a time trying to frog it, impulsively and with no regret tossed the whole project into the trash can. We were shocked. (Although I have to admit I was a bit impressed, myself.)

But we all learn by example. Even those of us old enough to use our mom’s words on our own kids. Aknita tried to fix her mistake. I tried, too. So did Caryn. In the end, after hours of picking and pulling and snipping and bitching, what else could she do? A precedence had been set.

I don’t know what happened to me, but a couple nights ago, before bed, I thought I’d try and knit up a gauge swatch for this great-looking sweater in the book Hot Knits by Melissa Leapman.  Well.

I was using Debbie Bliss Cotton Cashmere, a really beautiful yarn, but also quite slippery on Addi circs.

Not being real familiar with lace, I was trying my darndest just to see if I could accomplish a swatch in the lace pattern written. Instead of winding down for bed, I got so wound UP in this dumb, slippery, swatch that my frustration level (and blood pressure) kept rising.

Then I made a little “harRUMPH” noise. Which turned into a little giggle. Which then turned into a laugh. Which led me to hoots and guffaws and screeching laughter that finally caused my son, waaaay down the hall with his headphones on, to come to our room to find out, “What’s the matter with mom?”

I could barely see through my tears as I found my way downstairs. By the time all was said and done, my insides ached, my nose was stuffed up, and my face looked like I’d had a bad botox job.

here is a fine line between hysterical laughter and just plain hysterics.