Over at See Eunny Knit, there is a whole series of posts going on about steeking. I am currently working on a project designed with steeks, and while I have chosen to work it flat so far, I will (sometime in March or April, at my current rate of speed) need to decide whether to steek at the sleeves. I'm inclined not to, but I am reading all I can on the subject in order to make an informed decision. Eunny says that it is faster to work Fair Isle from the front, and gives this as the reason for steeking rather than working on the flat. My response is "so what?"

But that was just a brief comment. The series is primarily composed of photographs of the various methods of steeking, step-by-step, with arrows and lines and stuff. Eunny has actually made multiple swatches and steeked them in different methods, apparently all for the delectation of the blog reader. This level of dedication is so far above and beyond any required (and perhaps any reasonable) degree of blog duty that she deserves to have people come over and look at it.

So go, knitters, and admire.

Partygirl and I returned to our class after the Christmas break. We were standing there singing and my mind wandered a bit, because I realized that I was surrounded by silly scarves.

It snowed a little here yesterday (It will be back into the 60s today -- it was just reminding us that it could snow if it wanted to), and it made sense for people to be in their woolies. But here were ladies in barn jackets and sensible shoes, with the addition of a skinny lilac-colored eyelash yarn scarf. Brisk young accountants in pumps, with bulky excrescences draped around their necks. Pierced goths with shiny miniature Hogwarts scarves. It was like the one thing (apart from being in the class) that the majority of the women had in common.

I did not wear a scarf last night, but I did have this hat on. It is made of Harrisville wool.

This is what happens if you begin your usual hat pattern with a feather-and-fan. Any favorite lace stitch, really. Do one repeat of the pattern and carry on with stockinette. Then just complete the hat as you usually do.

One of the knitting bloggers calls this kind of thing "moose lace" -- lace made in sport or worsted weight. It gives you a neat scalloped edge and a suggestion of laciness without much effort.

Arrived home, I got in half a row of Erin while checking out what my 1943 sewing book had to say about nightgowns. The one I am sewing is from 1912, but that is still closer to 1943 than to 2006, so I thought it might be enlightening.

Apparently, you must first decide whether you are making a Utility nightgown or a Luxurious one. Utility nightgowns should be made several at a time, in an assembly-line fashion, by machine. Luxurious ones (you can adapt your evening gown patterns to make them -- I know that will be a relief to you) should have hand-rolled hems, especially on the ruffles, and may be  "encrusted" with lace and embroidery.

In fact, while you are in the mood to encrust things, the book goes on to say that handmade bra and panty sets make welcome gifts. I tried to imagine presenting Partygirl or The Poster Queen with a handmade bra and panty set. Can't quite envision that. Something has changed since 1943.

I dropped by the store (I had forgotten #2 son's poster board -- junior high students often need poster board) and stayed awhile to talk with The Empress. She had been to a recital over the weekend, and there had seen a mutual friend of ours -- or perhaps I should say former friend.

He asked her whether she thought that his relationship with me could be mended. Now, we went from being friends to enemies in about 30 seconds last year with no participation on my part (aside from bewildered apologies), so I suppose we could return to being friends. I had concluded that we hadn't really been friends at all, since friendships can't end in 30 seconds, but I could certainly manage the facsimile of friendship again. As Christians, The Empress pointed out, neither of us really has the option of holding a grudge.

The question apparently followed on the heels of a request that The Empress and That Man sing in the Rutter Requiem which our old friend is hoping to get up, and I know that he has -- with much the same method that turned us into enemies -- recently lost his last remaining serious alto. So I have to admit to a bit of distrust of his motives in proferring this olive branch.

But he claimed that now, with his medications fixed up, he is like an entirely different person.

I had spent the morning going first to the dentist and then to the library, neither of which I would have done last year, before I Overcame Agoraphobia. From the moment I woke up until I drove out of the scary road section where the new library lives, I had my usual physical symptoms -- icy fingers, nausea, a general sense that I will burst into tears if I do not control myself. Last year at this time, my life was bounded by aversions which either prevented me from doing things at all, or caused me such extreme anxiety that I would go to great lengths to avoid them. Having worked through the Snap Out of It Method of treating mental aberrations, I am now capable of doing these things, albeit with physical symptoms over which I have no control.

Over my behavior, however, I have control. I am unfailingly courteous and cooperative with the dentist and his staff, I drive responsibly if not normally (I admit that I sometimes slow down excessively, when it seems especially likely that the car will fly off into space), and I am pleasant and friendly to the librarians. (I think I snap at my kids a little when they want me to do something to which I have an aversion, but not enough to induce a vendetta.)

Admittedly, there is a big difference between my little spot of agoraphobia and bipolar disorder requiring medication. Is there some point at which mental aberrations allow one to refuse all responsibility for one's behavior? Some point, that is, short of institutionalization?

I always want -- desperately -- to pull over at the side of a scary road, get out of the car, and walk away. I have never yet done so. Would I be at fault if I did, though? The compulsion to do so is very great.

If the compulsion to throw temper tantrums at people is equally great, and you give in, can you later just say that your medicines were wrong and go back to where you were?

I've done a couple more rows of Erin. At this rate, it will be March before I reach the armscyes.

Accordingly, I put on a movie and cut out this pattern. It turned out that I did not really have enough fabric. I tried all the usual dodges to make it work, and I suppose I can adapt if need be, but I intend to go to the fabric store and see whether I can get another yard of the stuff. I had picked up five yards for $1 a yard at Hobby Lobby's clearance -- five yards was the amount called for, but I believe that it shrank a good bit in pre-washing, so all the bias-cut things and odd-shaped godets and whatnot ended up requiring a bit more.

I haven't done much dressmaking recently -- with four epic projects on hand I probably don't need to take it up again, really, but I had priced new nightgowns at the after-Christmas sales, and this one for $5 is a far better option than the ones I saw. Or even for $6.

Later -- I stopped by after the gym and picked up a remnant -- the last three yards of the fabric. This will be enough to undo all the scrimping cuts and make the nightgown as it was supposed to be made.

I also checked online reviews of the pattern -- since I am re-cutting, I might as well benefit from others' experience, right? I was amused to discover that one reviewer found it hard to do dishes in this garment. She correctly concluded that Edwardian housewives didn't do the dishes in their nighties.

Sunday morning's sermon was about stress, and had some sensible suggestions. I got back to Sunday School after a long hiatus and was impressed once again by the ribald cheeriness of the older ladies in the group, and so having spent 90 minutes laughing and singing, I wasn't feeling stressed at all.

This may be why the thing that really stuck in my mind from the service was an announcement about a special collection for the undeserving. Yes, the undeserving. Next week's collection is for a mission that serves gangsters, drug dealers and users, juvenile delinquents, and the like. We usually give for the deserving, insofar as we consider whether people deserve largesse or not. As it happens, people do not generally get what they deserve in life, and our care and giving are not about justice, but about mercy.

Is my sweater deserving? I rather think it is. (This is Erin from Alice Starmore's Celtic Collection.)

I continue to be surprised and pleased by the colors. How can I possibly be surprised, when I chose the pattern and colors? Because I chose these colors in the most random and unreasonable way possible.

I never bother much about what yarn is called for, any more than I pay attention when a recipe specifies WONDRA flour. I just swatch and choose something I like. In this case, I decided to use Elann's Highland Wool.

The pattern lists the yarn requirements -- 150 grams of Juniper, 50 grams of Madder Red, and so forth. I could have sat down at my computer screen and attempted to guess whether the Tuscan Green of the yarn I was using was most like Juniper of the yarn called for. But since I was buying the yarn online, I had no chance to see how the yarns looked together, and little chance to ascertain how they would look individually in real life. So I just ordered 18 colors that I liked. More skeins of the ones I really liked. Then I sat down with my yarn and -- going with the amounts I happened to have bought as well as how they looked together -- I determined that Rosewood would stand in for Madder Red and so on. This means that I am having nice surprises (nice so far, at least) as I knit.

Considering the way I make decisions, it is a wonder my life has turned out nicely at all.

Since I worked on Saturday, I have today off. I must go to the dentist as the jolly beginning of the day, and come up with dinner when the cupboard is nearly bare for the jolly end of the day, and my list in between is exceedingly long. However, the pastor reminded us that much stress comes from thinking too much about ourselves. This is true. I will therefore think instead about my sweater and what color surprises might be in store for me.

You don't think that's what he meant?

After work yesterday, I talked with #1 daughter on the phone. She is a good wife and not one to complain about her husband, but she had to mention how he comes home and immediately begins playing online games. He is with people all day and wants to kick back after work and not have to talk or really even think. She is by herself all day, and wants some human interaction.

Men of my generation are more likely to come home and watch sports on TV, but it is the same problem. My husband, overhearing our conversation, said that Son-in-Law was right. A man comes home tired from work, he said, he needs quiet. He enjoys having his wife with him, but he doesn't necessarily want to interact.

This is, according to James Dobson, the most common complaint among wives.

Women, of course, come home tired from work and cook dinner, but that is an entirely separate complaint.

In any case, I had three suggestions for #1 daughter. The first is to recognize that it isn't an insult to her that her husband doesn't always want to take her out or even to talk with her. The second is that she should have her knitting or quilting, so she can sit in the same room with him in companionable silence. The third is that she should go back to work.

Son-in-Law doesn't want her to work, and my dad agrees that being a Navy wife is a job in and of itself. But Abercrombie has offered her a management position, and I think she should go ahead and take it. She would make some girlfriends, have chances to talk with adults during the day, and might have some fun.

Since she doesn't need the job to live, she could always quit if she felt like it, or if it makes life unpleasant for Son-in-Law. This is the best way to undertake a job, really. I have always felt pretty relaxed about work, because I have never had any trouble finding work. This could change as I get older, but for now I have no fears.

My husband feels dependent on his job, because it is our source of health insurance. Losing it -- even if he found a new job the next day -- would mean we would have no insurance for six months or a year. This is customary in his industry. This is why we have to tolerate long layoffs, and why he puts up with his job whether he is enjoying it right then or not.

This is very common. In some areas, too, getting a new job is not so easy as it is where I live. As the Wall Street Journal quaintly put it last week, "Most workers have not participated in the economic recovery." This is a special, exclusive, Republican kind of economic recovery that doesn't include working people. Never mind, I am getting too political here.

I am singing a solo in church today. Better go warm up.

Feebeeglee suggested dishcloths for a zombie project, and sure enough I do have a couple of balls of Sugar'n'Cream hanging around, and I also need a couple more dishcloths. What's more, when I tracked down the cotton, I found with it a nearly complete skein of the yarn I used for my DNA scarf and beret -- enough to make a matching pair of mittens. These zombie projects should see me through Erin perfectly.

Leonidas says that a non-chatting gym is calming, and he is right. When you are working out, you can focus entirely on physical sensations, and that is very calming. Even on the treadmill, where chatting can be fun, I like catching up on my magazine reading. Also, the person next to me at my gym is probably a 24-year-old guy with a cap and tattoos, and you know I am not going to strike up a conversation with him about his lats.

But while I don't want to talk while working out, I find that I would like to talk about working out. Unfortunately, working out is One Of Those Topics. Most people are no more interested in discussing the difference between triceps kickbacks and bent-over lat rows than they are in discussing mattress stitch versus backstitch.

This is understandable. While everyone should be able to discuss ideas, current events, and the arts, talking about a particular hobby can be difficult if you do not take part in it. I once worked with a group of people whose conversations were generally limited to shopping and TV. These are the two most popular hobbies in the U.S., but I do not happen to share them. So there they would be, talking completely over my head. I remember one occasion in particular when the discussion began with "Did you watch the practice last night?" In my experience, a practice is either music or sports. I weighed the possibilities and asked "Soccer?" Apparently, "The Practice" is a TV show. They behaved as though I were from Mars.

But I digress.

I have found that the knitting blogs are a great place to talk about mattress stitch vs. backstitch, so I thought I would find a fitness blog. Just as the knitting blogs allow us to participate in a community of knitters without concern for geography, I reasoned, there must be fitness blogs that do the same thing. There must be people out there being deeply amusing about their adventures with elliptical trainers, swapping hints on free weight techniques, and sharing terrific vegetable recipes.

No, actually. So far, most of the supposed fitness blogs I have encountered have fallen into one of two categories. Some of them are not blogs at all, but ads disguised as blogs. Others are diet diaries, and last for about two weeks, which must also have been the length of the diet. This could well be an effect of my technical ineptitude, though. If you know better, point me in the right direction, please.

I tried a xanga search, and found one that mentioned fitness. It seemed to be written by a teen with little nutritional knowledge and an unfortunate self-image. Being a mom, I left her a bit of motherly advice. Then I visited her blogrings, thinking that I would find some gym rat with an interesting writing style. Nope. It turns out that I had stumbled onto the xanga anorexia webring. These are some very miserable little girls. So if you are able to enjoy the healthy body you were born with, be sure to take a moment of gratitude for that fact, on your way to the gym -- or the ice cream parlor, for that matter.

And if you have thoughts on those tricep kickbacks, let me know. I'm interested.

There are always a lot of new people at the gym at this time of year. Most of them do not stay. The gym I attend is used mostly by body builders and college students, but yesterday there was actually an overweight middle-aged woman there. I kind of wanted to say something encouraging to her... I didn't come up with anything, though. It's probably just as well. Though I live in a region where total strangers will share details of their hysterectomies in the average ladies' locker room, this particular gym has a non-chatting culture.

Overall, the New Year's Resolution phase of gym life just means that for a couple of weeks we regulars will have to wait for machines. 

But there was one guy yesterday who mystified me. I was heading for the leg press, the last stop on my circuit, and he was sort of hovering over it, so I figured I'd wait for him to finish.

He put 100 pounds on one side and went and had a drink of water.

He put 100 pounds on the other side and had another drink. He came back and stood over the machine for a bit.

Then, leaving the weights on the machine, he wandered off into the aerobics room. I gave up and left. I guess he was having to work himself up to actually using the machine.

Just so, I'm still sort of working my way into my new year of knitting.

I subscribe to the epic/zombie approach to knitting. That is, I like to have an epic project -- something complicated and requiring lots of attention -- and also a zombie project which I can do while reading or otherwise not paying much attention. Often, I do the front of a sweater in some fancy stitch or pattern but do the back plain, so I can trade off when I want a break.

At the moment I am knitting this Alice Starmore design, Erin. I do not expect mine to look exactly like this, any more than I expect to look like the model while wearing it, but as you can see from the photo of mine on the right, it is still distinctly epic knitting. It slows down my reading considerably.

So I need a zombie project as well.

When I started Erin, I was finishing up a prayer shawl, but now that is completed. I also had a little scarf from Debbie Bliss's Home, which I was knitting from some fuzzy yarn I bought for a quarter a ball at Target. Within just a few inches, it was clear that the stuff was going to knit up like a cheap stuffed toy -- nasty. I had to give that up.

I am in need of a zombie project.

Now, the first thing to do in such a case is consider one's WIPs (Works in Progress, for the non-knitters out there). I have a lovely lace possum-fur shawl underway. Clearly, this is epic, not zombie.

I have a nice quilt already sandwiched together and ready to be quilted. Unfortunately, quilting is never zombie work, and cannot be done while reading.

So I must give up the thought of simply picking up a WIP.

Next we should consider our UFOs -- UnFinished Objects. The difference between a WIP and a UFO is that we have given up on the UFO, or not touched it for a very long time.

My UFOs include this Celtic Cross quilt, which got the better of me last spring. I hope to return to the struggle this year, but it is not a zombie task.

 

My other UFO is this crocheted bedspread, a splendid lace project in tiny cotton thread on a miniscule hook. I haven't worked on it in years, and I hope that I haven't lost the pattern.

Clearly, both my UFOs are in the epic rather than the zombie category.

No, what I need is something with swaths of stockinette. The kind of thing that can be done by feel, without actual visual input.

The next step is to check out one's stash.

A knitter with a self-respecting stash can always pull out enough yarn for some simple project. However, I don't have a stash. I have a bit of leftover wool from my Christmas projects, and will have more after I finish Erin, but even then it will be the kind of stash you use for Fair Isle, not the kind that accomodates swaths of anything.

I may have to read less, and watch TV instead so I can get on with Erin.

I am told that I have wronged South Dakota. I have been thinking of it as a snow-covered wasteland populated with strong, silent people of Scandinavian extraction and many secret sorrows. In fact, it is a very beautiful place, and the people are kind and cheerful, as well as being brave and true. Whether or not they are of Scandinavian heritage is irrelevant (though in fact the census tells us that 40% are of German ethnicity, 15% Norwegian, and then the proportions go into single digits).

"It can be 20 degrees below," one fellow told me, "and they never cancel school."

He said this as though it were a positive thing.

So I know that Pokey and the sock monkey and all their companions will be enjoying their sojourn in South Dakota. And I apologize if I sounded snide. That was not my intention. It is merely that South Dakota, like Yorkshire, is one of the many, many places about which I know nothing.

In fairness, however, I must provide you with this link. This terrifying scene is just exactly what I thought South Dakota was like, and it is the first photo that comes up when you look for images of South Dakota. It is on a site discussing cutworms. (Granted that it is only terrifying to people with agoraphobia. Don't you find it just a bit scary, though? Add creepy music to it mentally. That might help you get the full effect.) Another popular photo is the historical one on the right. And that is before you add the snow.

Here's what the people of South Dakota need to do, some day when it is 20 degrees below zero and they are looking for a project. They need to put some nice pictures of their lovely state online and label them "South Dakota" so that they will come up easily during a google image search.

I have been working on the forthcoming historical encyclopedia for the state where I live. I've reviewed articles and fact-checked them, and now they have asked me to write one, and even offered to pay me a meager amount for doing so. Of course I have agreed to do this. We may not have many flat empty fields or much snow, but we have a startling number of picturesque violent episodes. Being a fan of mystery novels, I naturally enjoy a bit of historical violence, the more picturesque the better. Also, of course, the longer ago the better. I don't care for current violence at all. Give me a few centuries' distance, though, and some interesting circumstances, and I like a good murder story.

One of my favorites occurred during the Trail of Tears. The newspaper reported that a party of folks travelling through the town where I live on the Trail of Tears stopped off to buy a keg of beer. In the course of the party, someone was knifed to death.

It was clear that the party itself wasn't news, and obviously the knifing wasn't. Everyone carried knives around here in those days -- there were fancy ones for formal occasions. The news was that someone had died. The writer appeared to feel that this was over the top, at least for a weeknight.

I had just never thought of the people being forced along the Trail of Tears stopping off for a party.

I cannot include this story in my article, because I will be writing about the county to the east of here. However, I feel sure that they have their own picturesque incidents. I look forward to learning about them.

The boys go back to school today. Last night in choir practice, Janalisa gave the excuse (she and I were having a theological discussion and missed an entrance in "Behold That Star") that we were "still on vacation." I have been using that excuse a lot myself.

This is it, though. Tonight is Twelfth Night, the end of the revels. Vacation is over. Life is real, life is earnest.

Oh, and we were discussing the virgin birth, and the director did not accept our excuse.

Here's Erin. I like the colors. Can't really see the design yet.

I can't think much about it, though, because today #2 daughter is leaving.

This is the last semester of her senior year, so it is possible that she will not be living here again. I may be doomed to be the only woman in the household from now on. I talk with #1 daughter on the phone and by email, but it is not the same as having your daughter in the house with you.

School doesn't start for a while yet, but there is a winter tour for the choir #2 daughter is in. They are going to South Dakota. Somehow, I doubt that many people choose to visit South Dakota in January.

The sock monkey has never been to South Dakota before. There is a music museum there, though, that he is dying to see. This is the reason for his cheerful smile.

He will be stuck in a car for five hours, and will then take part in a brief, mad flurry of activity before getting on a bus for who knows how many hours. That Man gave #2 daughter a book of Sudoku puzzles, though, so she and the sock monkey will be amused on their trip.

Here it is: Yorkshire tea. It promises "a proper British cup of tea." This bright-colored box lists many health-giving properties of this special Yorkshire tea. It claims that nine million cups of the stuff are drunk daily, and assures us that if we find ourselves in Ilkley, we will be warmly welcomed with cakes and Yorkshire tea at Betty's tea rooms.

Now, while I read British novels and watch British TV -- in both cases, probably in equal quantities as American ones -- I actually know nothing about England. Upon seeing "Yorkshire," I think of the Wars of the Roses, a vague stereotype of a down-to-earth frugal Yorkshireman, and I think that maybe Yorkshire might be in the north of England.

I know more about Senegal than Yorkshire.

So the fact that nine million cups are drunk may mean that every man, woman, and child in Yorkshire drinks three cups of this every day, or it may mean nothing at all. Still, I found it rather reassuring. The people who made this braggartly box must have thought the number would be impressive, since they listed it before even mentioning antioxidants. They also tell me that the Queen has recognized them for being a particularly socially responsible company, and that they pack the stuff in Harrogate, which is "the home of good tea."

How could I resist?

I bought this at T.J. Maxx, where I have also sometimes found Lifeguard tea, which is apparently blended specifically for people who have been shipwrecked. It seemed to me that a tea that revived the shipwrecked ought to be sufficient for me, even in the winter. However, they did not have any of that in stock yesterday, so I made do with this Yorkshire tea, and it turned out to be quite satisfactory. Here is my comfortable chair, with novels, tea, and knitting. This is how I spent the day yesterday, the last day of my long weekend. I did go to lunch with #2 daughter (in the back room of the optometrist's office), and I did fill a prescription and go on a tea run to T.J. Maxx, where I had the opportunity to call out, "I'd just like to buy something!" and move right to the front of the line, away from the many who were returning things.

But mostly I was ensconced in that chair, knitting. Thus, I have made some progress with it. Not a lot of visible progress, since there are so many stitches. Really, there are more than are comfortable for the needle. It is nearly impossible to spread the thing out and have a look at it. Since it is an Alice Starmore design, I am taking it on faith. And I have actually used this particular chart before. It is not easy to read a chart and a book at the same time, so I am not getting in much reading, but I have managed a lot of talking, a couple of movies, and a crossword puzzle.

Don't think that I am the only lazy -- or rather, relaxed -- person in the house, though.

 Here is an unrecognizable picture of my boys turned into cartoons. They remained in this position -- playing video games -- all day, except for some brief spells of playing boogie-woogie piano or blues guitar.

#1 son got a Sam Cooke song book for Christmas, and has been working on his barroom piano skills ever since. I am looking forward to his honing those skills. I love that style of piano. If nothing else, it reminds me of my grandmother, who could rag hymns up on the piano like nobody's business. At the moment, though, he is doing this music in 3-minute bursts, in between games of Madden 2006 and Prince of Persia. This -- and hanging out with friends and family -- has been the shape of the holiday for both the boys.

But things were different for the remaining family members.

Pokey went out on the town on New Year's Eve and spent about an hour counting down to the new year and another four hours attempting to get back into my car, which she had locked with the keys inside. Being Pokey, she did this with a collection of boys to help her. She gave up in the wee hours of the morning and got a ride home in time to catch a little sleep before church.

While she and I were at church, my husband went downtown to see if he could rescue the car. He has good skills with physical objects, and I had expected him to succeed. There were apparently quite a few people down there trying to get into their cars. It may be a natural consequence of the New Year's Eve revels. However, my husband was selected by the police for questioning.

I have to wonder about this. Pokey and half a dozen boys spend hours trying to break into my car in the middle of the night, without a word from the police. My husband goes down there in broad daylight and is nearly arrested.

Eventually, the police accepted his story and agreed to try to help open the car. They could not do it either. I have one hard-to-steal car, I'll tell you.

Pokey and I had just returned from church when my husband came home, having given up, and we called a locksmith. He was able to get into the car quite easily, for a mere $45.

My car is now home and safe. My husband as well. I did not mention this story before, because it wasn't funny until they were home and safe. Our motto is, "If it's going to be funny in a few years, why not laugh about it now?" but sometimes it takes a little distance. Granted, the car was home and safe on Sunday, but the $45 prevented it from being funny until today. Pokey covered most of it, but since I am panicking over her unpaid tuition, this did not make it Not My Problem.

Actually, since my husband has been out of work for over a month, and will not see a paycheck for another week and a half, even though he goes back to work today, unpaid tuition is not even the worst of it. And yet I am, unreasonably enough, going around being cheerful and unconcerned most of the time. In addition to the motto about things being funny, we also have another that is relevant at times like these: "No problem that can be solved by money is really a problem." It is good to have a few mottoes hanging around in your mind when challenges arise.

I think the Yorkshire tea helped, too.