Yarn Harlot Read online

  When I could no longer justify pretending that the green amorphous blob in the linen closet was a pool cover, I started working on it again. I was careful not to overdo it, since I felt that my dislike of the thing was like frostbite: Once you’ve had a dose you are very vulnerable to it. I knew that if I caught the green flu again, there might be no way back. I wouldn’t dream of not finishing, so I worked out rewards. I tried pairing the afghan with things that I enjoyed, but mixing it with red wine was trouble (friends don’t let friends knit drunk … that square was, well, not very square). I tried bribing myself with chocolate, but quickly realized that if you promise yourself a bite of chocolate after every row of a five-by-eight-foot afghan—well, let’s just say that it might not be such an oversized blanket after all.

  As the deadline neared I began to worry. (By “worry” I mean I obsessed about it every waking moment of my life.) I was almost done with the squares, but I hadn’t started the strips that joined the squares. We weren’t even discussing who I thought was going to sew this thing together. I was starting to feel like maybe when I knit on it I was giving myself an aneurysm. It was horrible. Licking a yak would be more fun. The evening that I realized that there wasn’t a circular needle in the world big enough to hold all of the border stitches just about finished me. I didn’t quit, although I did start to hallucinate a little. As I glared at the ocean of green in my lap, I thought about orange. Orange merino, orange like tangerines; yellow like canaries sitting on pomegranates outlined against the bluest sky and sea. I tried to think of anything not green. A bowl of red grapes in a cerulean bowl, set on a terra-cotta table. Persimmons laid on a quilt of gold and white. Strawberries, blueberries, lemons. Pink roses.

  I kept knitting. I started sewing. I bought four circular needles for the innumerable border stitches. I knit green until walking by grass annoyed me and salad filled me with hostility, and then I knit more green.

  Weeks later I watched Ian and Alison open their wedding present. I was filled with pride and joy on this special day. I knew that I’d done the right thing. They opened their gift and beamed at me across the room.

  Everybody needs a punchbowl.

  The Wedding Sweater Saga

  March 18

  Starting the Sweaters.

  This week has been some of the most satisfying knitting of my life. In November my good friend Ken took up knitting. In a massive show of love, he knit me a pair of socks and now proudly wears the title “knitter.”

  This past week some friends announced that they were taking the plunge and getting married in June. Ken decided that we should knit matching wedding sweaters for them. We bought the yarn, and happily cast on. Even though the pattern was complex, it made sense; it had a logical progression that was easy to follow. One repeat of sixteen rows and neither of us needed to look at the chart anymore.

  I cannot express the delight I’m taking in sitting beside my dear friend, knitting away on a cool pattern with yummy yarn, and discussing the whole thing with him and actually having him care! He’s always had the grace to pretend that he cared about knitting, but it’s different when you know he’s just not being polite. I’ve been raving about it all week. This is going to be so much fun!

  Now, if we could just stop competing for who’s farther along …

  April 7

  An Open Letter to a Famous Designer, AbFabFibers, Inc.

  Dear Famous Designer,

  Straight off the bat, let me tell you how very much I admire your work. My friend and I are knitting a matched set of his and her sweaters for our friends who are getting married in June. The pattern is inspired and the charts are very clear and easy to work from. You are truly a knitting goddess.

  This genuine admiration of your work makes it all the more shocking that I have now been plunged into anxious despair.

  I painstakingly read your instructions and carefully followed your chart and made my way through the back of the sweater. It ended, as you instructed, by decreasing purlwise across a right-side row. This finish looked a little odd, but I decided that the purl stitches across the shoulder look charming, especially given the inspired sleeve shaping with the strap that will knit into the shoulder seam—yes, you are clever, dear designer. Truly, an innovative design feature. You are my guide and I will follow your genius wherever it may lead.

  That said, I embarked on the front, knitting ahead of my less experienced friend, taking careful notes so that our work will match. I gleefully approached the neck shaping, dutifully stopping fourteen rows short of where I did for the back, just as you said. Except… now, Designer—not that I would doubt you for a moment, surely it is just that your own aptitude for this exceeds my own—if I follow your instructions for shaping the neck, I end up running that charming row of purl decreases across the wrong side, not across the right side as in the back. I also had to fuss with the number of rows to make it end on the wrong side, but let’s just deal with the bigger issues here.

  It could very well be that you do not like the front and back to match. This must surely be the case, as you specifically instruct me to work the purls across the right side on the back, and the wrong side on the front. It seems to me that this will make knitting in the shoulder strap odd-looking indeed, but this may all be part of the creative process, and part of the wonder of knitting a sweater of note.

  I have (very briefly) considered the possibility of a mistake in the pattern, but I can’t be sure, as the artistic photos of the sweater being worn by very attractive people show off the feel of the sweater to its best advantage, but they don’t let me compare front and back to figure out what’s up here.

  The other alternative is that all will be revealed in the fullness of time and perhaps if I just continue to follow with the blindness of a zealot, when I get to the shoulder strap it will all make perfect sense and I will once again bow and scrape to the wonder that is you. That’s a long way off though, and I’d like a little more reassurance.

  So, dear designer, if you are out there, I’d just like your home phone number so that maybe I could call you when these little things come up.

  Your faithful servant,

  Stephanie

  April 19

  Disaster.

  When we decided on the Wedding Sweaters pattern, we chose our yarns: a lovely light gray for me to knit for the bride and a darker gray yarn for Ken to use for the groom. There was careful calculation, much discussion, and eventually consensus at the time of purchase. Ken, the yarn shop owner, and I all felt that there was enough of the dark gray to pull it off. There really should have been, as we even used a calculator to figure the yardage. We bought all the yarn shop had and boldly embarked on the Wedding Sweater Scheme.

  As a new knitter, Ken has been terribly excited and has had to work very hard to stay on track for the deadline. He’s had to knit in public, knitting away on the streetcar on the way to work. Another man commented “That’s very brave,” the first sign that Ken’s sense of masculinity must be strong to endure this trial. The general consensus among our intimates is that, for a man, knitting in public is probably the closest you can get to wearing a KICK ME sign. Despite the obvious peril and a lot of ripping his work back, he’s still gung ho. Each row of the front and back took him fifteen minutes, and still both pieces are finished.

  On Saturday, he began the sleeves, and dipped into his stash box (Isn’t that cute, his stash fits into a box!) for a new ball. Shock, horror, and bewilderment! He’s only got three balls of the yarn left, with two sleeves and the neck to go. Clearly, he is not going to make it.

  Now that the shock has worn off, we’re trying to deal with the disaster. Only other knitters can grasp the kind of strain the poor man is under. It’s his first sweater, he’s on a deadline, he’s risked his life knitting in public, and now his strength of character won’t help him. He’s encountered one of the universal knitting nightmares. He’s run out of yarn and we can’t find more.

  I don’t know about you, but I don’t th
ink enough men knit. I think that I am blessed in having a friend who is well on his way to understanding the obsession, and will even say things like, “Wanna go to the yarn shop?” with a gleam in his eye and eagerness oozing from him. How many knitters have this? This one bad experience could put him off knitting forever.

  Do it for him, or do it for me—but, please, check your stashes.

  We need AbFabFibers “Simply Smashing”; color 53, lot 218. It’s a DK weight, in a charcoal gray. We are willing to pay, beg, grovel, trade my firstborn, sing your praises from the highest mountain, walk your dog—whatever you want—just send me the yarn.

  May 19

  The Yarn Hunt.

  First and foremost an important announcement: KEN FINISHED HIS WEDDING SWEATER LAST NIGHT!

  He informs me that we can’t call it a finished object until I’ve done the making up, but I’m so proud of him that I could just bust. Other than the total meltdown over the yarn shortage (read on for the full story), which is completely understandable, Ken didn’t whine, complain, or beg for sympathy through this entire thing. He’s a new knitter and certainly not fast. I think he deserves a medal. The sweater looks great. It’s worth noting that he finished before me (I think that’s especially important to him).

  I shudder to think of the time that I spent calling and e-mailing to find this yarn. The basic upshot is that there was no yarn in this dye lot left on the planet. I’m sure of this. I don’t know where it all is, or who was holding out on us, but there was not a ball to be had. Eventually, I discovered that the original yarn shop had two balls of the correct color but the wrong dye lot, and a not-so-local yarn shop had three. We planned a reconnaissance mission. Ken and I borrowed a car, put my three kids in it, and set off bravely. He was still unsure about my complex plan to combine dye lots, but I assured him (with a remarkable degree of feigned confidence) that all would be well.

  The original yarn shop had promised us one ball of the correct lot and one ball of another lot. In a stunning and traumatic development, the shop had nothing left of the original. Instead, we were offered a ball of a dye lot so far from the original that Ken was left crouching by the car, head between his knees, gasping for air. I comforted Ken (again with that remarkable air of false confidence) and we accepted the other stray ball and fled. There was a near miss when I spotted the “Cool Stuff” strategically planted by the door. I was completely transfixed until I asked the price—$123 per skein. While I really like this yarn, I cannot bear the look on the children’s faces when we are all homeless (with fabulous sweaters) because I’ve spent the mortgage money on yarn. Weeping, we journeyed on.

  As the yarn shop trip had been rough, we made the decision to stop at the Patons yarn outlet for comfort. We bought a little Ballybrae and a few other things (okay, okay, okay, seventy skeins of yarn—it was on sale), stuffed it and my increasingly obnoxious children back into the car, and moved along.

  The last stop on the yarn hunt was the far-flung yarn shop that I’d never been to. Ken and I arrived feeling pretty stress-ridden. The girls (ten, seven, and five) had lost it in the car, and Ken and I had been reduced to singing at the top of our lungs to distract them (or drown them out). We arrived at the last yarn shop ten minutes before closing. Now, for reasons I don’t completely understand (ha!), two desperate, stress-ridden knitters with three berserk children, arriving at ten minutes to closing on a Saturday, is apparently not one of these ladies’ favorite things. The plan was that Ken would purchase the dark gray, while I had a quick look-see for the yarn for a hat. This would be quick and efficient, and we would be out of there in minutes to take the three hot, tired, and crazed children home.

  This was not what happened. What did happen was that my darling daughters, sensing that we were already not terribly welcome in this yarn shop, decided that they had nothing to lose and (this may be an understatement) lost their freaking minds. Ken and I took turns restraining them, and we beat it out of there in a dismal twenty minutes. I don’t think we can go back to this yarn shop. Although if the ladies who were there that day are reading this (I’m sure you remember us) I would like to beg forgiveness on the grounds that no child can be nice about three yarn stores in three hours.

  In the car we examined our finds, bribing the children with chocolate to get two minutes of peace. It turns out that we finally caught a break on the sweaters—the dye lots from the two different yarn stores actually matched. I almost cried from relief. I had worked out how Ken could combine two dye lots, but three made me feel slightly ill. How did we do it? Ken frogged the sleeve (want to see a grown man cry?) and worked the sleeves alternating the dye lots every two rows. Then the gods smiled again, giving him a full ball of the original left over to do the neck.

  I learned several things during this period.

  The limit on yarn stores for my children in one day is two.

  Never buy yarn if there is no more, and you have only the exact amount you think you need (this is begging the knitting gods to take a shot at you).

  My friend is a man of remarkable patience and good humor.

  Famous designers are only human.

  May 25

  Unexpected Development.

  I am very worried. This afternoon I decided to begin making up Ken’s wedding sweater. His making up is atrocious, and after all we’ve been through with this, it just didn’t seem right to have shoddy sewing. I rented the new Rugrats video for the wee ones and sat myself down for the task. Now, Ms. Designer wants me to sew the sleeves to the body, then block it, then sew the rest. Me, I always do as I’m told (stop that laughing!), and so I cheerily did the sewing and marched up to the bathtub to wash it. I thought about just dampening it, but as you will recall, this sweater has been knit all over Toronto, and is bound to be a little grubby. I washed it, squashed the water out in between towels, and strutted proudly downstairs to lay it out.

  This is where it gets ugly. If you have a weak heart, then don’t read on.

  Try to imagine this: As I picked up the wet sweater, it grew. It stretched like taffy, in fact. It expanded more than six inches in length. It seemed to have grown some in width too, but the room was spinning around me too fast for me to get an actual measurement. Ken was off on a business trip, thank God, and wouldn’t be over to see how it was going until tomorrow at six-thirty. Probably best, since this would likely finish him. When I spoke with him on the phone, somewhat later, I downplayed my own concern, but he felt that he needed two shots of scotch nonetheless.

  I’ve pushed the sweater into the right measurements, but I’m concerned that when I pick it up in the morning it’s going to grow right back out again. I’ve considered leaving it there, waiting until Ken gets here, then when he picks it up I can look astonished, and say, “What did you do?” He’s new at this; I could probably convince him that it’s all his fault. This is a last-ditch measure though, as the man is a dear friend and I really don’t want to go on without him.

  This is the first time that I’ve ever had this happen to a sweater. What went wrong? Will it be okay when it’s dry? I need a plan if it isn’t. Has anybody ever shrunk a sweater on purpose? Can you shrink superwash? Will all the stitch definition be lost? Oh my … I’m getting dizzy again.

  I’m going to go have a little lie-down now.

  May 26

  Help, Whimper, Gasp.

  This is it. This is bad …no, worse than bad … are there words for how bad this is? Ken’s wedding sweater is still huge. I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but it’s starting to look like this sweater that he killed himself over is one big unwearable disaster.

  The length is now measuring close to three feet when I pick it up. The width is similar, if not greater, with the sleeves close to the floor. The texture is similar to lace.

  Remember … this sweater was the right size when it hit the water. I measured it. The wedding is in a month. There is no way on earth that Ken can reknit it by then … if I do the lion’s share we might make it.

&
nbsp; Someone has suggested that putting it in the dryer might restore its original shape … I put it in for a few minutes, but frankly I’m terrified that I’m going to shrink it, and that then I won’t be able to rip it back, if we end up trapped in the nightmare of reknitting it. I need help. What to do?

  This is nauseating. I am eventually going to have to tell Ken (sometime before he sees it at six-thirty) what is up with this thing, and I’d like to have a plan in force to prevent him from running screaming into the street. The sight of this mess is enough to send a seasoned knitter into a catatonic state; as it is his first sweater, I expect his reaction to reduce him to the fetal position, gibbering and weeping. This sweater is cursed, plain and simple. I’m sure that this part isn’t the designer’s fault (since the one I’m knitting to match is fine) but I’m angry with her anyway. If you give me time I’m sure that I can work out exactly how this is her fault … or maybe I could blame my mother … better yet, Ken’s mother. I’m supposed to be Ken’s knitting sensei, and look at this mess. I have no idea what to do. Some insane voice in the back of my head is insisting that I can frog it and reknit it before he gets here. Yeah … that’s it, I can knit a whole sweater in seven hours … sure … I can do it. Ken will never have to know.

  May 27

  Bravely Going On.

  The war wages on.

  I have learned something about superwash wool, which I never work with because I don’t like the feel of it. I have learned that the yarn is slippery, which is why it won’t felt. My friends have told me that superwash wool is supposed to be tumble-dried; in fact, it often requires tumble drying. This is not, however, what the ball band says; the label says DO NOT TUMBLE DRY. Who am I going to trust, the collective wisdom of many knitters or the manufacturer? I throw the sweater in the dryer, checking it every thirty seconds. It does shrink down, not to its original dimensions, but at least to something smaller than an XXXXXL.