Some pictures from this weekend

Saturday's highlight was when I fixed our leaky kitchen sink Saturday morning, all by myself (my friend Shannon was skeptical but I assured her my completely-not-handy husband wasn't even in the house).



It turned out the sink sprayer was leaking at pretty much every connection point. So I took it apart, replaced a few gaskets, taped the screw threads with Teflon plumber's tape and put it back together. And it actually worked! (for now).

I never would have thought I could have done it myself, were it not for this book. And thank goodness I saw this in the library, because how stupid would I have felt calling the plumber for this quick fix? The hardest part was finding the right size gaskets. I am never returning Lynda Lyday to the library (sorry, Carole!) Everyone should have this book. I guess you could make the argument that that's why I should return it to the library. Rats.



Sunday's highlight was the Knitting Olympics Closing Ceremonies Party at Cara's in-laws' house. Here's Wendy modeling her then-almost, now-finished sweater (I was too slow with my camera to get a picture of her with it stuck over her head).


Team MIT completed a relay blanket during their lunch hours, which they intend to donate to Afghans for Afghans.





Christine was in the final stages of her daughter's poncho:


Julia completed not only a gorgeous, beaded shawl but also a mitten a day for the Dulaan Project:




Cara modeled her bag o' Jaywalkers and her pirate mittens.
















And a great time was had by all!















I'm just sorry I didn't get a picture of all the great projects out there and the colossal achievements made by our knitting brethren to get their Olympic work done in time. Good work, Team Boston!


Meanwhile, while a deep freeze settled over the land


inside, orchids bloomed.

Swimmin' with the Fishies

Here are all my fishies, all spread out on the dining room table:

The end is in sight! I have six more to knit, plus a few that need to be re-knit for sizing purposes. Then they all need to be pressed, have their ends sewn in, and be sewn together. I do suspect they'll buckle some--they don't lie flat on their own, why would they sewn together?

I have to admit I have begun to tire of the fishies. It took a shockingly long time. I think it took so long to grow old because they are on big needles (excellent for resting hands), and it's an easily memorized, mindless pattern. But the mindless part is the part I'm tired of. I'm jonesing for something I have to pay attention to, like a lace shawl. I've been ogling other knitter's shawls, Googling "lace shawl pattern," and pricing KnitPicks alpaca. Shhh, don't tell the fishies.

But wait, it gets worse. I've done more than just lust in my mind. I cheated on the fishies by knitting a sock. See, Maggie gave me this Regia sock yarn, and I couldn't knit the fishies at SnB, 'cause Melanie was there (and it was still a surprise), so I started the sock. And then once I started, well, I had to finish. And sure, you can rationalize all that, but where it really gets to the assignation-at-the-cheap-motel-on-Route-1 point is that after I finished the first sock...



I started the second one.

Okay, okay, okay, I know it was wrong. But can I just point out two things? I tried two techniques new-to-me ('cause I've knit relatively few socks): Claudia's picot trim (since Maggie raved about it, and she gave me this yarn, I thought I ought) and the short-row heel. So at least it was an educational affair, like sleeping with your professor. Or something.

While the blanket won't be done by the end of the Olympics, and probably not even before the twins are born, it won't be too much longer. I have an ETA of mid-March--unless I keep knitting fishies until there's no cotton yarn left in my house. I'm pretty sure I've decided not to do that, but there's still a small possibility. I am, after all, in the winter of my destashment.

Strange Times in Portland, Maine

Lobsters dancing on the docks*, knitters and spinners clogging the Doubletree Hotel...

I made it up to Spa for one day, Saturday, and it was heavenly. Next year I'll stay. Claudia was supposed to come with me, but she ditched me for "relatives visiting from Sweden." That's okay, I'm not bitter or anything. Notice she didn't mention anything about visiting relatives in her blog? Just sayin'... ;)

At lunch with Sharon, Carole, Chris and Cate, we were discussing why all knitters and spinners seem to get along fairly effortlessly. Other crafting groups (quilters were mentioned) apparently do not have this ease of friendship. And on my solitary 2 hour drive home late Saturday night, jamming in the dark to the best folk/techno/punk mix CD Claudia's never, ever going to hear, I had plenty of time to mull over what I'd learned about my fellow knitters to try to answer that question.

1) We like our food. I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten a meal in a restaurant with a woman who drank a pint of beer, cleaned her plate, then ordered dessert. I eat like a starving wolverine and usually feel like a freak when I dine out with my friends, so this was extremely refreshing. I still ate the fastest, but at least I wasn't alone in cleaning my plate.

2) We like our booze. Mostly in moderation, of course.

3) We are sharers. We love our hobbies so much that we want to share them with anyone interested. Here, have some wool, try my wheel. Even those with brand-new wheels let others spin on them. (Caution: this rule has not been tested with food. Proceed carefully. Do not get your fingers too close to my plate.)

4) We like expensive, beautiful things. In the car back to the hotel after lunch, someone mentioned orchids and it turned out several of us in the car kept them. I would not be surprised if there were several serious handbag/shoe collectors or perfume junkies in our midst.

5) We are collectors, be it socks, spinning wheels, sock yarn, whatever. Some of us might be hoarders, too, but that's just collecting as an extreme sport.

6) We like other women. You know how some women don't like other women? They don't have any female friends and only hang out with guys? We're not like that. We love to hang with our girlfriends.

7) Our respect for creativity makes us, for the most part, accepting of other people's differences. You have red, green and orange plaid hair? Awesome, how'd you do that? (granted, I could just think this because I live in a blue state).

Many of these items point to our involvement with our senses: the tactile appeal of fiber, the flavors of food and wine, the visual stimulation of flowers and color. Some also point to our nuturing instincts. But why don't quilters share these characteristics?

Here's my theory: quilting is more geometric and has more rigid confines than knitting, so perhaps it appeals to a more engineering-oriented, analytical type.

I think those who are attracted to hobbies with a tactile element tend to bond more quickly, too, because we're always touching each other's stuff. Sweaters, wool, yarn, shawls: our first instinct is to touch. (Some smell, next, but I'm not sure that's a universal.) I went to a woodworking demonstration recently and I noticed a similar accepting friendliness in the woodworking community, and of course woodworking is largely tactile and they touch each other's stuff all the time, too. You know, in the manliest possible way.

So that, in a nutshell, is what I learned in my day at Spa. Well, plus I tried out about six different wheels, learned about vendors I'd never heard of, met new friends, saw old friends, pawed through fiber, learned a little about antique wheels, finally got to hear Stephanie talk, witnessed the birth of a new spinner, got about four new knitting ideas, petted a newborn baby bunny... it just goes on and on, all in one day! Action-packed and then some. There was so much that I'm sure I'm forgetting things.

I highly recommend it. Unless you don't like to be touched, 'cause I'm telling you, even the most ordinary hand-knit sweater will get petted at Spa.


*obscure Carly Simon lyric, not an actual news flash.

P. S. just kidding, Claudia! Although I am sorry you couldn't be there and hope the Swedish relatives were almost as fun.

Come Snowshoeing with Me!

Yesterday, I went spent the late afternoon snowshoeing down one of my favorite trails. I didn't do the entire trail--snowshoes are too slow and it was too late--but I did my favorite part. I missed my cross country skis the entire time, but if I'd had them, I wouldn't have been able to take pictures as easily, so the trade-off was worth it.



The trail loops around a marsh. I don't know how many miles it is, but it takes me about 2-2 1/2 hours to ski the whole thing. I'm the only nutjob who skis the entire trail. I know this because when I get to the (seemingly endless) middle section, it's always virgin snow. I just did the very end of the trail yesterday.



Below is the prettiest part of the trail, the only place where the sun shines over the marsh. I call it the John Denver moment. Seeing this near the end is the payoff for skiing the whole trail.



Below is a long descent along the side of a hill, between the trees. When you are on cross-country skis, this part is kind of a nail-biter. I've been known to grab a tree or two to slow myself down. Much of the trail, actually, is kind of scary--root-covered, narrow, twisty, with a number of steeply downhill, tight turns where, if you miss the turn, you're either going into the marsh or into a tree.



Next is the place in the trail where I usually hit the wall and become tired, hungry and achy. From the beginning of the trail (remember, I started at the end today) it's about 2/3s of the way around, and it's a long slog uphill. By the time I get here, I've usually hit a tree or two, and landed on my butt hard several times. Yesterday, I turned around shortly after this section to head back. It was too late to keep going.



I know I don't make it sound like much fun when I tell you how I ski into trees and fall on my butt, but it is. I learned to cross-country ski on this trail a couple of years ago. I've never skiied on a golf course or groomed cross-country trail, and now I can't imagine why you'd ever want to. How boring. Where's the adventure? Where's the challenge? Where's the observation deck?



Little creeklets in and out of the marsh wind throughout the trail. The Boy Scouts have built solid, well-crafted bridges over them for us. They also maintain the bridges as a part of their program.



Every time I ski this trail from beginning to end I have such a sense of accomplishment. It is hard and long and tiring and frankly, a little risky, but the scenery makes up for all of it. This little hill is near the very end of the trail. When I get to this point, I know I'm almost done. And even though it's a small hill, after skiing for 2 hours, it might as well be Mt. Everest.



Time to go home. The sun is low in the sky and the woods are getting dark and cold.



The End!

A Boring Post

Nothing doing here at Martita Rampage.

I spun up the last of the Tequila Sunrise yarn and have been concentrating on knitting cotton fishies for a blanket for Melanie's twins. I have 21 fishies left and my unofficial Olympic challenge (doesn't meet the rules, since I started the fishies months and months ago) is to finish them in the next 2 weeks.

Which seems tight, but hopefully doable. I just became president of my (very small) garden club, and that has been sucking up quite a bit of time lately. And I plan to spend several hours playing in our nice, fresh, fluffy snow.

Cammy got some quality snowtime in on Sunday and was so worn out last night she couldn't keep her eyes open. You'd be talking to her, and she'd be looking at you, and the minute you'd finally shut up, her head would just d-r-o-p. It's exhausting leaping through snow when it comes up to your belly.

We need to buy her snow boots 'cause last winter I suspect she got a bit of frostbite on her paws and now, after 10-15 minutes in the snow, her paws become ultra-sensitive. It's sad, because it means she can't go snowshoeing with me, and she loves nothing more than playing in the snow. I'm considering the Endurance booties here; if they were good enough for the Iditarod, they should be good enough for a lazy golden retriever who just likes to go for the occasional snowy hike.

And here are some pictures to help you feel like spring is not lightyears away:

the lettuce I'm growing in the basement

the paperwhites I have strewn all over the house

The picture I don't need to see is the young, confused poppy and iris foliage in the garden, now frozen beneath a foot of snow. I just hope it comes back.

Off to snowshoe this afternoon, for the first time this winter!

One Last Pet Picture

This is what I see when I leave for work in the morning...



and I leave anyway.

The guilt!

Village of the Damn Cat

*untouched photo

Look deeply into my eyes... relax... picture yourself floating on the gently rocking waves of the green sea... let yourself sink onto the bobbing raft... blink for me? Excellent.

Now listen to me: every time the phone rings, you will feed me tuna.
When you wake up, you will immediately sell the dog, to buy me more tuna.
Whenever I meow, you will do my bidding.

The cats shall inherit the earth! World domination will be ours!
Igor for President!

A blogger's silent poetry reading

Thank you, Grace's Poppies, for this excellent suggestion. It's such a beautiful idea on so many different levels that I wanted to take part, even though I knew I would be a little late to the party.

Lament
by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell.

Everything is far
and long gone by.
I think that the star
glittering above me
has been dead for a million years.
I think there were tears
in the car I heard pass
and something terrible was said.
A clock has stopped striking in the house
across the road...
When did it start?...
I would like to step out of my heart
and go walking beneath the enormous sky.
I would like to pray.
And surely of all the stars that perished
long ago,
one still exists.
I think that I know
which one it is--
which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,
stands like a white city...


From The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke.