Yarn Harlot Read online

  I saw a moth. I also saw some little buggies of undisclosed identity lurking about in the bottom of a sales bin.

  Despite the fact that I am a knitter and, therefore, discriminate against moths in a reflexively unfair way, I do try to mediate my response. Perhaps this is a little too granola for some knitters, but the way I see it, it’s probably unrealistic to expect that there wouldn’t be some critters who eat wool in a wool shop. It’s an enormous buffet and the wool-eating infiltrators are only doing their thing. I’m sure that lots of yarn store owners wage war on moths on a regular basis. I can understand that this is apt to be a silent issue, and that no yarn store owner would ever admit to having a moth problem. It seems counterproductive for a yarn shop owner to make an announcement that would send her clientele screaming into the streets. But it only stands to reason that the occasional yarn store infestation happens. I figured that it was my responsibility to protect myself, so I didn’t freak out. Peace and love.

  I bought myself some dandy wool that wasn’t anywhere near the winged pox (whose presence I completely respect as part of the circle of life) and left the store. I inspected the wool very carefully, and when I got home, I put it in quarantine, keeping it away from the main yarn stash until I was confident that it was “a clean hit.” It was a good-looking wool with no sign of trouble.

  That was a couple of months ago. Now, I confess, I probably should have microwaved it to kill any potential moth eggs or taken some sort of preventative action, but I didn’t. I relied solely on the slightly riskier quarantine method. I know that this is disappointing to moth activists and I’ll try to be a better person from now on, since considering what came next, I may have made an error in judgment there.

  Scene 1

  The kitchen. Enter knitter stage left. Cue moth to flutter near cupboards.

  I saw a moth. In my home. Remember all my lovely sentiments about how the moths are just doing their thing? You know, we all the share the planet, you have to expect wool-eating critters where you have lots of wool? All that lovely talk about how if you have a yarn buffet, you can’t really blame anyone for coming to dinner? Screw it. This moth was in my house. I froze in my tracks. I stared at the moth. (S)he didn’t stare back. (S)he just fluttered about, trying to act all innocent and avoiding eye contact. I fell for it. The moth was in the kitchen. (S)he was probably a cereal moth, sure … that’s it. That made sense. (The astute among you will note that this rationalization makes no sense. I have way more wool than cereal.) Even though I managed to believe that this was not the sort of moth that would eat my wool, I was uncomfortable with him or her and I delicately removed the moth to the backyard near the butterfly bush. Just to be safe, I gave the stash a cursory inspection, paying special attention to the bag of yarn from the yarn store with the moth problem. Nothing, nada, zip. Perfect stash. No indicators of any kind of beastie whatsoever. I resumed my kind critter-tolerant life.

  Scene 2

  Repeat Scene 1, only increase the level of alert and jumpiness of the knitter.

  Scene 3

  The kitchen. The knitter is making dinner, the moth aloofly flutters by the Brussels sprouts.

  This time, I decided to check all my cupboards. (Yes, it does say something about the sort of housekeeper I am that I decided to do something about it on the third sighting.) I spent an hour looking for the infested cereal (because in my special world of denial these moths still had to be cereal moths). I found nothing, but did succeed in trashing my own kitchen and creating several hours of work for myself. I decided to throw away a bag of oatmeal and some cornmeal anyway. It made me feel like I was doing something.

  Scene 4

  The knitter is in her bedroom/office talking on the phone. Cue “cereal moth” to flutter through doorway and across computer screen.

  When I first saw the moth-that-eats-cereal-and-not-wool in my office, I stopped to think: Wait just a minute here. The office has no cereal.

  It took a few horrible seconds for the truth to sink in. There might be no cereal in the bedroom but it was, however, about ten feet away from my stash!!!! Without even a nod to the possible karmic implications of such an action, I squashed the living daylights out of the moth. I’m not sorry that I did either.

  It was time. I could no longer ignore the possible threat to my stash. I ripped apart all of the stash boxes and inspected all of it to within an inch of its life. After hours of making a mess of it, I found nothing. No moths, no moth larvae … zip.

  I used a few choice swear words that I need not share and checked my clothes. I checked the kids’ clothes. I checked the out-of-season coats hanging in the downstairs closet. In a completely desperate move, I checked the bin of single socks in the laundry room.

  The evidence continued to evade me. I began to think up questions:

  Can there be moths if I can’t find evidence?

  Am I looking for the right kind of evidence? What is the evidence?

  Can our suspicious little infiltrator simply be a moth from outside?

  Assuming that he is not an interloper, but a visitor, what can I do to keep it that way? Is there a magic protection I can work on the stash?

  If I can’t find moths now, how do I know when they are dead?

  Is it normal to feel this nauseous when the stash is threatened?

  Clearly research was needed before I could relax. I got books from the library. I e-mailed other knitters. I called the government. (This last idea seemed more reasonable at the time. I thought somehow that they would know something. Doesn’t it seem as if there would be a department of Canadian bug research or something? You would be surprised how little the government of this enormous country knows about the common clothes moth. You would probably not be surprised by how little they cared about my dilemma.) I spent hours learning a great deal about moths and their antiwool ways. The fact that I had no moths on which to inflict this knowledge did not deter me at all.

  Scene 5

  Several months in the future. The knitter appears happy and relaxed. There are no moths in sight, though it is clear that the knitter should dust the house.

  I wasn’t thinking about moths at all. In fact, now that some time had passed, I had almost forgotten about moths. I was no longer on high alert, since the variation on Murphy’s Law regarding moths says that if you have spent days giving yourself a course in moth prevention, murder, and disposal, you will likely never see another moth. I had resumed my happy life and am a peaceful knitter once again.

  One day, I went deep into the stash, far, far past the canopy, and dredged up a beautiful Aran I had put away a year before. I settled on the couch and put the balls of beautiful cream wool beside me. I began to knit, but I only got a few stitches along before I had to pick an odd little cobweb off the yarn. Strange, thought I, but I wasn’t the sort of person who pays much attention to odd things, so I kept knitting. A few moments later, there was another. A weird little cocoon-shaped cobweb.

  It took a minute. Then it started to hit me. Slowly.

  Cocoon?

  Remember the moths I couldn’t find? Remember how there was no evidence? I spread the Aran on my lap and looked closely at it. The horror spread over me as I saw little holes and weak spots, cocoons, and in one spot an interloper that was almost too nightmarish to speak of, an actual moth larvae eating my sweater. He didn’t look even the least little bit sorry or ashamed.

  I immediately ran to the kitchen and shoved the sweater into a garbage bag. I didn’t even stop and rescue the needles. I vacuumed the place where I’d been sitting, and then (despite my deep concern for the stash) I took a very, very long shower.

  After hours of exhaustive legwork, inquiry, and investigation, things started looking up. Only the box that the sweater was in had any evidence of moths or of evil moth offspring or … well … seemed suspicious. I needed only two drinks to get through checking the entire stash.

  I then developed a comprehensive plan for blasting the little nasties; one that, I think, was reaso
nable—although (I ask you) if vicious vermin were poised to eat all your yarn, what would you think was unreasonable?

  The plan:

  Positively identify the enemy. These were little beige moths with little brown heads. These were clothes moths. Their offspring were tiny little worms of the same coloring. These were the enemy! Don’t feel sorry for them, and don’t worry about the impact of killing them on your karma. They started it.

  The whole stash went into the freezer. I live in Toronto, which was a freezer at present, so I stuffed my stash (which wouldn’t fit in a freezer anyway) into garbage bags and tossed them into the backyard. For the sake of safety, I bagged and tossed all acrylics, even though moths find them unpalatable. I wasn’t taking the chance that a moth could take refuge in there until I brought the wool back indoors. I also bagged and tossed all works in progress. I left them there for three days. The sweater and yarn at the epicenter of the attack stayed in the garbage, joined by everything else in that box. As much as the thought of throwing away all that work and wool made me deliriously hostile, it was better than letting down my guard and having the filthy winged beasts back.

  After three days I brought the stuff in. Straightaway I began unbagging and sorting. I carefully inspected for any of the little cocoons, holes, or other evidence. Then I shook each skein or work in progress over a clear plastic drop cloth on the kitchen floor. Listen carefully—did you hear that sound? A noise like little bits of sand hitting the plastic? Those were eggs. Any yarn that made that noise was getting special attention.

  I made three piles: acrylics; wool or wool blends that didn’t appear to have any evidence of infestation and weren’t near anything that was infested; and stuff that showed evidence of infestation, or made sand-dropping noise over the plastic, or was in the same container with stuff that did.

  Any yarn that made that noise got beaten half to death outside, then vacuumed. Some tight balls had to be skeined to do this really well.

  I rebagged everything, even the acrylics. I kept it separated into the three groups. Moths were nasty enough not to be trusted. They might not be eating the acrylic, but they could be hiding in there. I left everything bagged up in a reasonably warm place for a couple of days. Then everything went back outside or into the freezer. The first freezing should have killed anything that was alive in the wool but didn’t get the eggs. (When they come back inside, they think it’s spring and hatch, and then you freeze the little bastards—sneaky, yes?) The sneakiness made me feel better.

  After three days of freezing, I brought the bags in and repeated the beating, shaking, and vacuuming with the wool that was suspect or infested. I put the acrylics away and let the rest warm up in the bags for three days.

  Anything that had absolutely no trace of moths could now be microwaved. Nuke the stuff for about ten seconds per ball. Watch the labels. I had one spectacular event because I missed a staple. (Don’t do this—although if you have kids they will be really impressed.) It’s also a good idea to do this alone in the house … some people just wouldn’t understand.

  The stuff that was infested took two more trips through the freeze-thaw-beat-vacuum cycle. (Do you want to win or not?)

  After the freezing business, I microwaved, skeined, washed, and carefully dried the wool that was directly involved. I bagged it in a clear bag so I could monitor the bug situation. Remember: Moths are devious, underhanded little critters well equipped for survival. Don’t let your guard down.

  Given my unwillingness to use a chemical solution (sorry, but we’re ecofriendly tree-hugger types), and the research I did, I didn’t think that there could be any moths left after this. While the stash was making its trips in and out of the great outdoors, I also washed, vacuumed, and dusted every square inch of my house that had had wool in it. This was a big job (I think there is wool in every room of my house) but again, I decided to err on the side of caution.

  I’m watching. Just you wait, you little horrors: Show a single wing and you are toast.

  Dangerous Liaisons:

  Or, Yarn Can Be Addictive

  Archaeology

  I’m knitting a sweater, and I think I’ve almost knit far enough that I could start the shaping for the armhole. It’s a great moment, moving from one phase of a project to the next, meeting goals, and getting things done. You would think that I would be thrilled. You would think that I would be sitting with smug satisfaction, peacefully contemplating accomplishment and serenity. Instead, I am ripping up the living room.

  I have pulled all the cushions from the couch. My baskets of projects and yarn are overturned and the contents scattered. Balls of yarn have rolled everywhere. The credenza that the TV sits on is opened and trashed, and I am in the process of dumping every single thing out of the drawers. My hair is wild, my face is red, and I am completely furious. Incensed. Enraged. Why would a grown woman shred her own living room? Especially a grown woman who has not yet met her lifetime goal of teaching her children to pick up after her? Why you ask? Why?

  I’m looking for a tape measure.

  I estimate that in my thirty-year knitting career, I have probably bought/been given/acquired at least two tape measures per year. Some years, I manage to procure three or four. I purchase a tape measure every time I think of it in a sewing shop. Then I buy them whenever I can’t find one. I have never, ever thrown one away, and I don’t pack them off as gifts. This means that I probably own about eighty tape measures. So, I beg of you, just where the hell are they?

  The house should be filthy with them. We should be tripping over them. It should be that every single time you turn around, there is another stinking tape measure. Joe should be forever asking me to manage the tape measure problem. We should be having long conversations that start with statements like, “Holy cow, Steph, do you really need all these tape measures? Look at this place, for the love of wool—there’s one in the bathroom and two on the landing. Get a grip.” Think about it: At least eighty tape measures in this tiny house—that’s about eleven and a half per room. I should have whole boxes of tape measures wrapped tenderly in colored tissue paper with little shrines above them. When people come into my home, they should start to think that I have a real but unhealthy obsession with knowing the size of things.

  Instead, I have been looking for one skinny little traitorous tape measure for almost an hour and I’m starting to think that it’s a plot.

  That’s it. It’s a conspiracy. There’s a club of hostile knitters who sneak into my home and take knitting notions. No—knitters wouldn’t be that cruel. Would they?

  I hate even to contemplate accusing my brothers and sisters in wool, but since the crime is not limited to tape measures but also includes a mind-boggling number of darning needles and stitch markers and a frightening array of double-pointed needles, it is clear to me that our perpetrator, whoever he or she is, has an interest in the needle arts.

  Joe wanders into the living room and surveys the damage. Wisely, he keeps his mouth pretty much shut whenever we are having a tape measure episode.

  “There are eleven and a half tape measures in this room,” I fume as I dump the contents of the DVD shelf on the floor, “and I am going to find one of them if it kills me.” Joe watches as I open all of the cases and look inside. “Steph?” he says. I glance up from my mission. He gives me a look. We’ve been married long enough that I know that look. It’s his “you are starting to get a little crazy with this” face. I take a deep breath. I know that he’s right.

  Looking in the movie cases is a little unreasonable. It is highly unlikely that anyone who lives here would have gone to the trouble to coil up a tape measure, then take a case from the shelf, open it, meticulously flatten the tape measure inside, and replace the case in order simply to hide a tape measure from me. As much fun as it is to watch me completely melt down every time I need to know how long my knitting is, we are talking about a family that can’t be bothered to put dishes in the dishwasher instead of on it. No, no … a member of this
family would not hide my tape measures in such a labor-intensive way.

  “I bet the kids took them,” Joe offers. I try to imagine what the children would need eighty tape measures for. Some strange club? An invention? An extremely precise Maypole? It seems too implausible. I imagine the kids in a darkened corner. They have candles and they are muttering. Around them are all the tape measures, stacked in little piles.

  “What would they do with my tape measures?” I ask Joe.

  “What do the children do with anything?” he replies. He has a point. Anyone who has kids knows that it is not at all unusual to find three spatulas and a plastic turkey baster in the Lego bin. Children sometimes have plans that are … abstract, to say the least.

  I start upstairs to check the Lego bin. The Lego bin turns up nothing but Legos, three Barbie shoes, a butter knife, a button off a sweater I knit last year and the screwdriver that Joe looked for all last week. I do a little better in the toy box, where I find all six pairs of my scissors. Maybe they take the tape measures and cut them into tiny bits that are easy to dispose of. It’s tape measure murder. It’s possible that I’d notice a whole tape measure in the garbage, but who’d see it a little at time? Perhaps they take the thousands of little snipped bits out into the world and throw them away in stages? One at the mall, two at a friend’s house, three in the garbage can of the lunchroom, where the bits join all the other things that children take from their parents in order to try and put the parents into an early grave or an institution. It’s possible—but again, my children are untidy enough that it’s impossible that there is no evidence. There would have to be a few incriminating fragments of tape measure in the bottom of the toy box to support my theory.