I'm sad.

My favorite yarn store is closing.

I didn't get a chance to go there often, as the commute was a bitch. A roundtrip ticket from London to L.A. hardly made a good yarn deal worth the trip but I did go in every time I went back home. They carried Plymouth Yarns Baby Alpaca. They stocked some lovely bamboo. They had handmade knitting needles from a local artisan who was diagnosed with cancer and was only given months to live but has hung on for years. I attribute that to him finding his true purpose in life: to give joy to knitters in the Eagle Rock area - and beyond - with his gorgeous hand-turned needles. I wish I'd bought a pair of the size 12 needles (which all knitters know don't truly exist, but he made it happen) to add to my collection that has outgrown the vase sitting on my chest of drawers in my craft room. I can only hope that David is able to order a pair for me.

The first time I walked into That Yarn Store, I found David, sitting on the couch, barefoot and knitting. I felt immediately at ease. He was chatting to a couple of guys who lived in the upstairs apartment and was knitting something. It didn't matter what it was – he was knitting, like it was second nature to him. The homey vibe and overall sense of 'cool' wafted through the shop and made me want to take up residence. Who wouldn't want to be surrounded by wooly goodness and the feeling that one fits in, just by walking in the door?

I'm sad because the shop will not be in existence when I go back for a visit in May. I'm sad because I won't be able to fondle the yarn. I'm sad because, as a business and source of income for some really great people, That Yarn Store in Eagle Rock, CA will cease to be.

My consolation is that I will be able to visit their online shop but it hardly compares to walking into a yarn shop, being overtaken by yarn fumes, and spending way more than my yarn budget allows, all because I felt at home and that I wouldn't be judged on my inability to control myself when it came to yummy fiber. That and a guy sitting on the couch barefoot, knitting who cares what. He was knitting. That's cool.

Life is for the living

There are often times when I feel the need to remind myself to do things: do the dishes, fold the laundry, tidy up my desk, clean out the refrigerator and remove that slimy bit of whatever that has managed to fall behind the jar of mayonnaise. But I rarely remind myself to be alive.

Sure, I'm alive in the breathing, moving, eating, blood-coursing-through-my-veins sort of way but being truly alive has so much more meaning than housework and day-to-day 9-to-5 sort of stuff. We've all been there; in a rut with no foreseeable way out. There are always so many things standing between doing the things we need to do and doing the things we want to do. There are time constraints, financial barriers, work obligations, and sometimes, just outright laziness. My laziness is what makes me a bad blogger, though I love to write. My best thoughts come to me when I lay my head down at night in hopes of getting a good night's sleep but I'm usually too tired to get up and dispense with the 'brain vomit'. I need to get it out of my head if I'm to have any hope of truly resting but I can't be bothered to extract my body from the warm, comfy sheets to come downstairs and sit at my computer for 10 minutes to do so. The release I enjoy from being creative brings a sense of calm that is so genuinely welcomed in my life. That's probably why I knit so much. In the same way that writing settles my mind, knitting affords a peace as well as tangible evidence of my creative work. But knitting elicits many more ''oohs'' and ''aahs'' than most of what I put on paper or the computer screen. I feel a sense of closure when I finish a project, that all my dedication, hard work, and, sometimes, cursing because I've had to rip back 3 rows of a lace project because I realized I missed an all-important yarn over or forgot to knit two together has finally paid off.

My grandmother had the outlet of cooking. I'm sure it started out of necessity to keep her family well-fed as best she could, even when times were tough. She could cook anything and cook it well. There was very little of her cooking that I wouldn't eat, even though my mother couldn't get me to eat the same food at home. There was just something about Grandma's cooking that was, well, magical. Tomatoes seemed more red, corn seemed sweeter, green beans were little sticks of joy, drizzled in bacon grease from the morning's breakfast. (I never said her cooking was particularly healthy, but it was tasty.) She always had a garden so during the summer everything was fresh and wonderful. What she could not use right away would be canned or frozen for use in the winter. When she knew I was coming over, she would cook her special apples for me: sliced and cooked with butter, sugar and cinnamon. She chose to spend most of her time in the kitchen - even when she wasn't cooking - and I believe she developed a love for what she did there, even though to others it would have been considered nothing but work. While she was there, listening to her radio or watching the news on her little black and white television, she liked to do crossword puzzles. She felt that they helped to keep her mind sharp and allowed her to broaden her vocabulary. She did crosswords every day: TV Guide crosswords, newspaper crosswords, crossword books that everyone in the family bought her for birthdays and Christmases. Grandma loved filling in those little boxes and completing each puzzle, no matter how difficult. They showed how much determination she had and the proof was right in front of her. It wasn't about showing others that she could do it, it was about knowing she could do it and proving that to herself. I even did a few alongside her to understand why she was so crazy about them and found that I, too, liked them. They were never a part of my daily life but I did enjoy doing the occasional word game.

She was always afraid of 'losing it', about not having the wherewithal to take care of herself. I could never imagine that because, as far as I'd ever known, Grandma was the strongest person I'd ever known. She raised four children during some of the leanest times imaginable, in a rural area where resources were not ideal. She made her children's clothing and those pieces of clothing were handed down to the next child who could wear them. She darned socks to get the most life out of them because, even though in later years when money was not so much of an issue, she didn't see the sense in spending money if it was not truly necessary. She used clothing that was beyond repair to make dust rags. Everything had a use even when it no longer seemed useful. She showed an enormous amount of strength when living with my alcoholic grandfather became overwhelming. At an age when most women would have simply resigned themselves to dealing with the situation, she left him and proved that she was more than capable of living on her own, no matter what he said to the contrary. She showed more fortitude than anyone I know when her youngest son took his own life at the age of 42, though I know inside it was killing her. And she kept on doing her crossword puzzles because they were her comfort. Until her comfort began to become her pain. Grandma started having trouble recalling simple words. She also started having trouble remembering where she had put things. And when my mother received a call from the neighbor 3 miles down the road from Grandma's house who said 'Your mother is here. Can you come get her?", we realized that she had forgotten to turn around on her daily walk and go back home. Grandma was soon thereafter diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The difficult decision was made to place her in the local nursing home.

At first, she hated the home but she came to grips with knowing that this is where she would be living for the rest of her days. She made several friends there, though some days they became her 'new' friends because she didn't remember them from the day before. I visited her one day and she saw me as someone she recognized but did not know who I was. It was then that I knew that Grandma may have been there in body, but the Grandma I knew and loved so much and who had taught me invaluable life lessons was gone. She was a shell of her former self.

Grandma died yesterday. Her body finally checked out just as her mind had done several years before. She was taken to the hospital where she suffered congestive heart failure. I'm not sad that she died, rather I'm sad that her mind had betrayed her and that all of the memories she may have still carried with her were a jumbled mess. I'm sad that the things she loved to do meant little, if nothing, to her in the end. I'm sad that I saw the decline. I'm sad that I lived too far away to see her often enough. I'm sad that I will not be able to attend her funeral due to time constraints, work obligations and financial barriers. The biggest problem with living abroad is that when something like this occurs, it is difficult to arrange a trip home but even more difficult to know that I can't get home.

The best thing I can do now to honor my grandmother is to live. I will knit more. I will write more. I will knit beautiful things for those I love in the most luxurious fibers I can afford and will spend a little extra every time I am able. I will knit for babies to give them something warm and comforting upon entering this crazy world. I will write letters to those I care about and tell them just that: that I care deeply for them and how much they mean to me.

And I will do crossword puzzles and think about Grandma every time I put pen to paper.

I love you Grandma and I miss you.

I've hit a new low

I always knit on the bus. Always. It makes the screeching of the three year old child whose mother is ignoring him fade off into the background. The woman who thinks the bus is her bathroom and uses her time on it to apply all of her makeup and spritz cheap perfume seems to virtually disappear. The man talking to himself ceases to be, at least in my little knitting fantasy world where everyone speaks in 'yarn pattern'. And the voices telling me to buy more wool aren't quite so loud.

So, my husband and I were on our way to the gym yesterday when I opened my bag to get my knitting and, to my horror, I discovered it wasn't there. I'd taken it out to put in my clothes that would be replacing my stinky, sweaty ones that would become stinky and sweaty after an hour and a half at the gym. It would seem that I had placed the bag containing my half finished gloves on my desk while I repacked my gym bag...and left it there. My husband, bless him, said not to worry because it was only another 20 minutes into town. TWENTY MINUTES! Twenty minutes without the thing that keeps me sane. Twenty minutes of listening to the screaming three year old. Twenty minutes of watching Makeup Girl curl her lashes, apply mascara, line her lips, apply lipstick, blot, apply lipstick, blot. Twenty minutes of wondering how the hell she doesn't ram her mascara wand into her eye when the driver hits a bump. Twenty minutes of hoping she does.

I made it to town. I'm not sure who was more frazzled, me or my husband for having put up with me. Before going to the gym, I had an appointment with my physiotherapist so off I went...and made a quick side stop at the charity shop that occasionally has a few balls of yarn for sale and always has a basket of knitting needles for 25 pence a pair and I found these little goodies:




I bought them. And I felt better.

I paid 50 pence for the yarn - acrylic, in case you're wondering so it will go into my stash for knitting vanilla ice cream colored preemie caps and socks - and was simply fascinated by the sheer length (14 inches!) of the dpns and just had to have them. I'll probably never actually knit with the things but the size of them is enough to start a conversation and scare the bejeezus out of my husband if I do dare ever use them.

The sad thing is, after all the time and energy spent lamenting about not having my knitting, people watching to the point of distraction because I couldn't knit to distract myself, and searching for something...anything...I could knit with, I didn't knit anything. I was just happy to have knitting supplies on my person.

This is the new low I have hit. I thought it was when I stalked a woman in the restaurant where I worked so I could figure out the cable pattern on her shawl. This has replaced it. I have to have workable yarn and needles on me at all times as a sort of security blanket. I might as well knit myself a nice little white jacket with sleeves that fasten in the back.

So if you ever see a woman on the bus muttering to herself and trying darned near anything to keep her hands busy, throw her some string and a couple of sticks. You'll either make a knitter who has left her project at home a very happy person or will be providing a crazy person the means with which to do herself serious harm. Or you. Either way, steer clear as those sticks need room to work.

And I will no doubt thank you for the string.

Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey and Sneezy

Okay, so I've got four of the Dwarfs down today and am working on getting at least two of them in; Bashful is not something that most could pin on me but I need to see Doc so I can be Happy again.

I've had a migraine for the last four days which is making me Dopey. The meds have made me Sleepy. The wet weather is bringing Sneezy into the mix. And finally, enter Grumpy. Grumpy is here because, not only am I in pain, but I also had to go into town today. There, I encountered people. Lots of stupid ones in large groups. It seems that when they gather, it's a requirement for them to spread out and block the way of others thereby prohibiting them from getting down the aisles in the supermarket, on the sidewalks (or footpaths, as known here in the UK), or into doorways of shops. I'm not a violent person by nature, but these folks were doing my head in and I was on the verge of bowling a few of them over in my quest for pain relievers. "Excuse me" wasn't working. "Pardon me" went unnoticed. I finally decided a light shove would do...so I did. It worked.

The bright spot in my day was at the charity shop where I found the coolest vintage ceramic coated pot, two Pyrex pie dishes, a La Parfait glass jar, and two lovely green drinking glasses that will probably become home to some of my knitting supplies. I'll post photos later when I can handle the light from the flash...

My husband would leave me...

My friend, Helen, came over today for a lesson in knitting socks with dpns.
The original plan was for us to meet at the coffee house in town at noon but at 10pm last night, my husband called to me downstairs. Seems our water tank was causing a bit of a problem and was leaking through the ceiling and all over the floor. So my plan of going into town was thwarted by a possible ceiling collapse and an impending visit from the plumber who will be here "sometime this afternoon". In the interim, we have no heat, no hot water, and some bits of stuff coming out of the pipes that I'd prefer not to consume (a great big thank you to Brita filters!). And no hope of getting into town since we all know that "sometime this afternoon" means around 6pm. In the meantime, we have buckets and bowls capturing the rust-coloured water that is dripping from the ceiling.

So Helen came to my house. When she got here I was making shortbread so I had a valid reason for turning and leaving the oven on in order to heat the downstairs. I made some tea and we sat down on the couch where she pulled out her cast on socks...and showed immediate distress.

"I have wool on four needles and an extra one left over. That's right, isn't it?"

I assured her it was and proceeded to show her how to join the yarn so she was, indeed, knitting a tube that would later become a sock and how to do so without twisting it. I knitted the first couple of stitches and told her that I would frog it so she could have a go.

"Oh, don't do that. I'll just work from where you've left off."

So she did. She did fine from that point on with the odd "I'm not sure this looks right" at which point I assured her that it looked as it should and would look better after a few more rows. I'm hardly worried about her; she's been knitting lace patterns and diagonal stitches at a point in her knitting career when others are still trying to figure out just what a purl stitch is. It would seem that no one ever told her she shouldn't progress until she's figured out the basics. I love that about her. We knitted until 2pm at which point she needed to leave to pick up her kids from school and, wouldn't you know it, still no plumber.

"It's a shame", said Helen. "I could have given you a ride into town had the plumber been and gone."

Before she left, I showed her my booty from the yarn stockist where they have the whole of their yarn department on sale. All of it. Every last yummy ball of 100% superwash merino and every ball of kid mohair. Every bit of Sirdar Cashmere Merino Silk. All the Luxury Soft Cotton. I pinched myself to assure myself I wasn't dreaming and once I wiped the drool from my bottom lip, I proceeded to the checkout with my findings. I only made it out with 10 balls of Sirdar Sublime Extrafine Merino but have plans for another trip when I get paid again. Helen said she was almost out of yarn and that she needed to stop by the store and get more whilst it's on sale.

"Out of yarn?" I asked? "I can't imagine that."

She said that she only buys enough for the project she's working on.

"But don't you have a stash?" I asked.

"A stash?"

So I showed her mine. First was the cabinet in the living room.

"Wow, that's a lot!", to which I replied that there was more upstairs. Raised eyebrows. Off we go to the computer room and into the wardrobe where I opened four drawers to expose various bits of fiber. She thought we were done when I left the room and she started for the stairs...or perhaps she was just frightened and was looking for a way out. No matter, I took her by the arm and into the bedroom we went where I opened a drawer of my dresser that was packed full. "Oh my." I told her there was one more place and took her to the guest bedroom where I pulled out four baskets, opened six nightstand drawers, a small trolley with two drawers, a rollalong case with enough yarn for a king-sized blanket, and a yarn tote with about 10 skeins in it.

"My husband would leave me." I think she'd gone white.

"Knitting isn't so much a hobby as an addiction", I told her. I think the only reason my husband hasn't left me is because I keep promising to knit him a sweater.

She left to go pick up her kids and we bid a fond farewell and promised to get together next week to check up on each other's sock progress. I still think she's a bit spooked, to be honest. I do hope to see her again...especially as she's borrowed two of my books.

It's now 5:45pm and I still haven't heard from the plumber. I've accomplished little today, aside from casting on for my husbands socks which I've been promising to knit him for two months. I haven't taken the dog for a walk because I know that the moment I get around the block, the plumber will ring me to say he's at my house and we'll have to turn around to come home.

The dog is depressed, I'm frustrated because this is the only day I can get into town until Saturday when I'm off from work and I have dozens of things I need to do there, and I've consumed way too much shortbread and coffee.

And it must be said: daytime tv sucks.

This is what boredom will get you

I have a problem. The first step is admitting it, right?

I can't seem to rid myself of leftover bits of yarn - no matter how small the bit - when I'm finished with a project. So I wind it into a ball, stuff it into a ziploc bag, and send it off to the yarn graveyard...that part of my stash that hasn't seen the light of day in ages, mostly occupied by acrylic yarns that I bought before I knew any better.

I was doing a bit of tidying up the other day when I found the dreaded bag of leftovers. I got that feeling I get when I find something tucked away in the back of the fridge and open it to find some sort of science experiment in which I wasn't aware I was participating. Still, I couldn't bear the thought of throwing it out. Rest assured, that is not the case with the aforementioned fridge goo. So what did I do? Enter the pompom! I sat at the computer watching online episodes of Dexter and wrapping little circles with yarn, then cutting and fluffing the little balls of yarn until my hands hurt.

Now, what to do with them? I mean, they're not particularly useful but they are kind of fun to look at, though not just piled up in on the table. I had a cute little bowl that was just sitting around, well, doing nothing but looking cute. It has now become the new home for my outlet for moments of jadedness and looks rather interesting as a decorative piece on my desk. At least the guilt I felt for being a bit of a hoarder has subsided...for now.

My name is Alex and I'm a stashaholic.

Charity Shop Finds

I found these six hanks of yummy green, 100% wool at the charity shop for 2.50 GBP. There's no information - no ball bands...nothing! - but for that price, I'm not terribly picky. I've been winding them into balls and have run into many little snarls and quite a few knots in the first hank but overall, I'm very happy with my purchase. I'm not sure what the wool wants to be yet but that's never stopped my from buying yarn.

Behind the yarn, you may also notice the bowl that the fruit is hanging out in. That's from the same shop and has 2 other siblings (3.75 GBP, all up), both tucked away in the cabinet. I was absolutely thrilled to find them as they are nearly identical to a set of mixing bowls that my grandmother used to have. I always wanted them but I'm certain my lunatic, kleptomaniac aunt took them and stashed them away in her overstuffed basement. If you've ever met her and subsequently found something has gone missing, chances are it's in her basement, along with anything not nailed down in hospital rooms (she's also quite the hypochondriac), hotels, and restaurants. That place is the size of a one bedroom apartment and is jam-packed with junk, with only a path from the stairs to the freezer; even the stairs have boxes stacked along the sides. When she dies, it will take a manned expedition and a few archaeologists to unearth what lies beneath. It's a scary place. The last time I went into that dungeon, I swear something hissed my name and tried to bite me.