This morning I picked up the rose Lamb's Pride shrug, and knitted a few rows. And watched the mohair shed. And thought, "Gosh, it's kind of hot to hold this on my lap to knit it." And thought, "Though I'm right on gauge, it looks like it's going to need some really vicious blocking to get it to the measurements in the pattern." And damn, look at that mohair shed.
And about four rows into these ruminations, I frogged it. I wasn't that far into it, maybe a foot, and honestly, what the hell was I thinking? If it's annoying me while I'm making it, when would I wear it? I wouldn't give a friend something that annoyed me too much to wear either, so it would end up in a drawer and eventually under a cat. Gone. Finito. Buh-bye.
Another blogger's (so sorry, I lost the link!) Monkey won my heart, and I bought Knitted Toys mostly for the monkey. I do love that monkey!
I've been thinking a lot about what I knit vs. what I should be knitting, what I have stashed v. what I really wish I had, and realized that I am happiest when I'm knitting accessories, bags, socks, toys, small items, as well as larger items like afghans once in a while. I have no need for scarves, one hat will last a lifetime, and even sweaters - pullovers are virtually useless in this climate, and I have enough cardigans. I still love to knit, I can't see giving it up, but I should be making monkeys, not Lamb's Pride shrugs too hot and hairy to wear. I need to make kids' toys and the occasional cotton tank top. That's my knitting reality.
I think All's Quiet on the Western Front - I talked to my mother last night. I can either talk to her or she will call constantly, getting increasingly frantic if she can't reach me, so answering the phone is far easier than paying the hysteria freight of letting it roll to voicemail. Anyway, they want to run a couple of tests on my dad because of some other symptoms he's having, but the doctor doesn't think it's serious. But of course you know DOCTORS NEVER TELL YOU THE TRUTH! That, along with THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A WRONG NUMBER, IT'S SOMEONE SPYING ON ME! are standards in my mother's paranoia repetoire. After a half hour of this, she says, and this honestly almost made me snort into the phone: "This is SO hard, it's been going on for days I'm so exhausted, I can't stand it, I just don't know what to dooooo...."
It is a measure of my self-control that I bit my tongue and didn't say what I was thiking: "Yeah, I know, I did it for two fucking years." Two years of medical crises, comas, hospital bed in the bedroom, walkers, wheelchairs, IVs, radiation, on and freaking on. He's in for a week and she's a helpless basket case. I sometimes can't believe these people actually gave birth to me.
I'm really looking forward to yoga class.