Butterflies, Brie, Ben & Jerry's and Balls and Balls of Beaded Silk and Wool

I don't know about you, but my summertime knitting this season has been.....uninspired. 

I've made a few pairs of 'gift socks' for assorted relatives ... a teddy bear or two and a couple of pairs of fingerless gloves. Nice 'easy peasy just in case I need a present', or 'OMG I need a present that I can knit in an evening or two' projects that aren't exactly what one would call Alzheimers-preventing-sudoko-for-knitters patterns. 

But it's summer...so...yeah...no sweat...
Because knitting in the summer can be a sweat inducing thing.  

I call my current 'on the sticks' piece a hodge-podge-palooza of leftovers.  I could spin this into an 'I'm being so environmental and eco-friendly' story.  But seriously: How many bits and pieces, end of roll, lovely sock yarn do you have in your stash? I have oodles and squoodles.  Hence my latest, mostly brainless knitting endeavour of which I am quite proud: I will soon be ready to recover the IKEA throw pillow in the playroom. 
 

Yes. I know. Excitement City.
You're panting just hearing about it. 
Ha!
Me too.
Not.
But it is pretty. 

It was inspired by all the butterflies that have been swarming around me in recent weeks.  (Is that symbolic, I wonder?)  Maybe I smell like milkweed. Not sure.  But the colour-ways I chose are based on my newly acquired butterfly friends.

Regardless of my location, they have been fluttering around.  Much friendlier than the August Wasps who also find me irresistible. 

But after the past couple of days, I think the 'knitting gods' are demanding I up my game a little. I believe the challenge of a complicated sock pattern is called for: and soon.  I have been happily floating through my summer daze with my low-neuron-engagement knitting.  But last week things went completely off the charts absurd.  Clearly, the powers that be felt I needed a jolt.  I texted my experience(s) to a friend via a Facebook chat one evening and having just looked it over, if I hadn't experienced the bizarre farce myself I would swear the person who wrote my texts was on a pharmaceutical cocktail of Timothy Leary proportions.

Walked into work and got accosted by a street person... which isn't weird in itself, because, I get approached by various 'characters' every day -- I live and work and wander around downtown Toronto -- this is nothing new.  HOWEVER... this dude was over the top. Normally I smile, am respectful of their various 'situations'.... but this guy jumped out of nowhere, right in front of me and started verbally abusing me... yelling... circling me... not letting me walk down the sidewalk... like I said... over the top ... Then a couple of 20-something year old business suited guys stop and one asked me "Are you okay Ma'am?" The first thing that hit my grey matter was: 'since when did I become a Ma'am?' ... I rolled my eyes and said - 'I got this' (don't ask me why -- I just knew I did.) And I stared right into the eyes of Mr. Wacky Nutbar and said in a very strong tone: "ARE YOU QUITE FINISHED? NOW BE QUIET AND GET OUT OF MY WAY" Shock and awe, baby -- totally worked.  One of the 20-something year old young men smiled with an "Oh - yeah - she's using her mom voice"... anyhow, I got to the office a couple of minutes later and that's when the adrenaline OMG moment hit me. What the hell? AND THEN I FELT BAD... I shouldn't have yelled at him..  but you know what? He pissed me off.... #1 Don't accost me #2 Never accost me before I've had my morning coffee... that's a really important thing.  Seriously. He was an inch away from my face yelling, screaming and when he started preventing me from walking passing... my lack of caffeine... well... yeah you know.... it kind of took me over. Mind you, it was good to know that chivalry still exists.  Some young men stopped to try and assist... I guess I reminded them of their mothers.  So the next day... I decided I had a choice... avoid the same street/walk into work or walk the same path. I decided that clearly I HAD TO walk the same way in -- otherwise I might be afraid to ever do it again...The dude was not there and I felt better. But as I turned the corner, some other guy comes right up beside me and starts walking stride and stride with me... no clue who or what he is about then he whips a harmonica out of his pocket and starts playing it to me.... like for 2 blocks.... inches away from my face -- what the hell? when I thought about it later, I started to laugh so hard I almost peed my pants, because the saddest part of it all was that he was a HORRIBLE harmonica player.   Then that same day, on the walk home, another guy slowed down on his bike and started riding along side me, singing (on the top of his lungs) some Italian Opera solo (alas, once again, only passable as a vocalist).  So, the next day, on the walk into work I start thinking: Maybe I should hang a sign around my neck: WARNING: I HAVEN'T HAD COFFEE YET... PISS ME OFF AND I MIGHT JUST CLOCK YOU. But no worries... my two lurkers are nowhere to be seen.  But then I turn onto the street where my office sits and guess what?  Yet, another one of the 'local flavour characters' tries to engage me. I think what happened next can be chalked up as 'Rebel Knitter has finally mastered the DON'T EVEN death glare". Because it was an immediate stand-down moment for the dude. Immediate.

Now, seriously. Can you blame me for finishing off my days with Brie, Baguette, and Ben and Jerry's.  Also look for a mind-bending project from me soon.  Bye-bye Brain Candy Knits, hello Brain Busting Lacy 3D magic.  It's my penance for blissful, low-brow crafting.

UPDATE: SHE BE DONE. ..

Mama's got a new pair of socks

How did Mrs. Noah knit on the ark?

April 8th... What a day. It's like April Fool's day caught up with me, one week late.

1. Walked to work and got caught in a rainstorm. 

2. By the time I left for physio in the afternoon, the rainstorm had turned into a 'hey, was that Noah's Ark that just floated by?' type of rainstorm... 

3. I got to the office tower where the PT office is and got stuck in a revolving door section with an overweight man who was texting while walking and didn't look before he got in and ended up wedging me face first into the glass window of the door...then he had the nerve to get into the same elevator as me. Seriously? You  couldn't wait for the next one? 

4. Finally arrive at the physio office and their electronic paying facility kept failing "must be the rain," the receptionist told me.

5. Sat down in the reception area to drip/dry, knit and chill for 10 minutes until Jocelyn calls me only to discover that MY YARN IS WET, EVEN THOUGH IT WAS IN A CLOSED ZIPLOC BAG!  and then it dawns on me...I am dripping on the only not soggy parts of my knitting. sigh  Which leads me to wonder, How did Mrs. Noah knit on the Ark? (Because surely she would have kept her yarn in Ziploc bags to keep the kittens and monkeys from getting into it) 

6. Then, when I went to collect my son from the gym this afternoon I got hit in the head/neck with a baseball. Seriously? Who plays baseball in a basketball gym while kids are playing pickup basketball? and ...

7.  oh never mind. my head hurts and my rant is done.

100 Days, a Passover Seder, a blanket, pillow, infinity scarf and a couple of pair of socks later....

Tick tock.

Time has passed.

It has been 100 days since the "triple axel, double flip" which left me in a cast.  9 weeks in a cast and 5 weeks of physio thus far...how quickly life can change in a split second.

Thanks to the miracle worker (a.k.a: Jocelyn, my P.T.) I was able to prepare for the holidays, in much the same manner as always.  I cooked all the traditional Seder foods, peeled potatoes, carrots, and horseradish, zested and squeezed a lemon and cleaned up afterwards.  

I won't lie - I am sore.. not just the wrist - I'm sore all over... but that's just normal after hosting a Seder, right?

100 days has helped me see who is the kind of person to jump in and help when I need them the most, and who .. well ... isn't.  What an eye-opener.  There were a couple of surprises -- both good ones as well as disappointments.  But mostly it was me who surprised myself.  I know I can be stubborn (many of you enjoy reminding me of this) 

But guess what?
Stubborn = Determined. 
 
I figured out how to do most things all by myself.  I didn't give up.  Tears were shed when I was frustrated, but they were 50% pain, 50% emotions; like when it hurt too much to play guitar or piano -- actually I think those tears were 75% emotional.  In calmer moments, realizing that I could, in fact, knit a fair isle piece, and it was a form of retraining finger muscles, those moments felt more triumphant than painful.

It was "hmmmm, I wonder if could do this?" pondering which led me to my latest knitting project.

I have always steered clear of toe-up socks.  Perhaps it is because I like the rhythm and math of a cuff down sock - or maybe it's just that I am so familiar with the expected basics of 'cuff-down' that the coding is permanently imbedded in my knitting brain.  What better moment, then, than this to seek a toe-up sock challenge? Also, I have never knit a pair of matching items in tandem. 

I think I will call these the Carpe Diem Socks.

Embrace everything, even the challenges of the day.  Dare to try so you can trust your abilities, even when it hurts. (D*mn, that was schmaltzy! Must be all the holiday carbs...)

50 Shades of Physio...And "It's Kind of a Funny Story"

True to my goal, the night before I got my cast off, I cast off and blocked Barb's baby blanket.  I was so happy.  In the process of this 'finishing act' I discovered that blocking with only one real functional arm is a pain. And imperfect. And still, I am pleased.

After being instructed to go cast-free, I walked straight to the Physiotherapist's office.  They had a cancellation and ba-da-bing, ba-da-bang I began physio right then and there.  But, d*mn, nobody warned me that physio could be that painful.  Funny - my therapist is about 5'2" looks like an angelic cheerleader that is still in high school and yet, those skillful hands that turn me into Gumbi OUCH! It's consensual, though, hence, my nickname for the clinic: "50 Shades of Physio" - if it wasn't consensual, I'd have to call my P.T. Jian.  Seriously, Jocelyn is a top-notch professional -- I may even get her knitting one day (yes - if those hands can perform physiotherapy miracles then why not wearable miracles?)

Barb's Baby blanket and matching decorative pillow... yeah.... It's Kind of a Funny Story....

OpArt Blanket - see http://www.knitty.com/ISSUEfall08/PATTopart.html

King of the Jungle - pattern by Rebel Knitter c.2014

King of the Jungle (detail) - pattern by Rebel Knitter c.2014

I knew Barb was pregnant even before she announced it.  How? Because I just knew.  Not the first time either - this "knowing" thing. My children's teachers, work colleagues, acquaintances...I just know.

Two things happened really quickly after the blessed announcement. First: "It's a boy..." and then: "It's a Jungle theme for the nursery."  Awesome.  I went yarn shopping that same afternoon.

Months later, blanket and pillow complete, I was showing the photos of the presents to a mutual colleague last week, and she looks at me with an apologetic smile... "Oh, I guess no one told you...she switched it to a nautical theme."  No.  No one told me.

OMG. Don't you know? Never change a decorative theme AFTER you've disclosed your original idea to a knitter!  Seriously!? Bye bye Jungle...Hello Nautical... Seriously!?

I will not lie.  I thought of passing the pillow off as a literary/sailor's nod to 'Life of Pi'.  But, no...that ain't no tiger.  Finally, I said "F*** it.  It will look lovely in a bassinet at her mum's place."  Besides, the shower is this Tuesday.  What can I say but Mazel Tov!  And R-O-A-R.

... in other related news ... I haven't been able to lead the Friday Afternoon Knitting Club at the children's school this year, but not all is lost. Maverick Knitter (a.k.a. Son of Rebel Knitter) has been bringing his knitting to school each day and has revived the knitting club in a peer-led 'it's cool to knit' fashion.   I have it on good authority that before basketball practice, a few members of the team limber up their fingers with some garter stitch and also, on those -33 celcius (no one is going out to play in the ice covered field) days, a 'munch and knit' has revived a version of the knitting club in this year's Grade 5 classroom.  I say: That's even better than his mom coming in once a week and leading a workshop.  Kol Ha'Kavod to the next generation. Increased engagement, motivation and performance... yet another example that peer-led learning rocks!  The Knitting Club rides again! Giddyup Maverick Knitter and Carry On! Love Mom xoxoxo

Sweet Sixteen

It was difficult to decide where to begin this post.  Do I go back to the first thing I ever knit you? Because it wasn't this Rasta Hat, Zoe. The "Every little thing's gonna be alright" hat was a last-minute-knit before I went into labour.  You were born the winter that Toronto Mayor, Mel Lastman, called in the army to shovel our mounds and mounds of snow -- it suddenly dawned upon me, a couple of days before you were born, that you were going to need some extra special warmth on your lid. 

Even though the first thing I ever made you that touched your skin was indeed the Rasta Hat, the first thing I ever knit for you was your baby blanket. I learned how to master cables with that project.  It was right then and there in the yarn store, with my belly protruding, that I decided there would be none of that placid "pastel shmastel" baby yarn business for any child of mine.  Also, having firmly decided that I did not need to know in advance whether you were a girl or a boy, strong, gender neutral colours were decided upon.  Good choice, it turns out. There's nothing placid about you, my dear. 

Every kippah, sweater, dress, or top has been saturated with pigment, and even if there was a soft and delicate colour in there, you suggested I pair it with a bold contrast hue.  My girl: always sassy, strong and sure of her opinion!  Whether it was an "If I can't dance, I don't want to be in your revolution" dress, cool cotton tank, or good Lord, do you remember that peacock-blue hoodie that I knit out of eyelash yarn? (You chose both the colour and the yarn, never forget that, my dear...giggle...giggle)

And then, came your Bat Mitzvah. First, when you were twelve: BAT MITZVAH SOCKS.

http://knittishisms.blogspot.ca/2011/01/bat-mitzvah-socks.html

Then, when you were 13: your TALLIT http://knittishisms.blogspot.ca/2011/11/zoes-tallit.html

Then allllllllll those KIPPOT.... nuff said.... http://knittishisms.blogspot.ca/2012/02/knit-your-own-bat-mitzvah.html
 

Now you are sixteen. It is overwhelming to think that you're not a little girl anymore!  Thankfully, I finished these "Socks for the 'young woman' who rocks my world" just a few short weeks before my accident (phew!)  I needed you to know just how much I love you, and hand-knit socks from your mum, is a definite indication of just that.  As I wrote in Knittishisms:

"If someone makes you a hand-knit sock they really, really love you. Why?  Because a sock is knit with what essentially are toothpicks and dental floss, the knitter must screw up their eyes to keep track of those teeny tiny loops and learn to master a perfectly turned heel flap -- not to mention putting a knot in their neck to do it -- and in the end, voilà, a sock... You see, you know they really, really love you... because THEN they make you a SECOND SOCK TOO!"  Yes, my beloved sweet sixteen: I love you THAT much. Happy Birthday!

Six weeks and 8,976 stitches later

Today is the six week anniversary of my idiotic, crash and burn moment. I  got the cast off last

week, essentially because I am just so darn charming. Actually, I confess... I had walked into that fracture clinic determined to walk out minus the fibreglass cast. I didn't care if I had to, dare I say, flirt; whatever it would take . Yes, I have still got 'it' because 'bam' I was cut out of that thing within 10 minutes of speaking to the doctor. My only surprise was that I will have to wear a brace for another month. AUGH. It will be 9 weeks of immobility before I can even begin physiotherapy. (I injured myself worse than I thought, it appears.) Terribly annoying. I miss my two handedness. I miss being pain free. I miss sleeping more than a 2 hour stretch at a time. I miss seeing 5 distinctive knuckles on my left hand, and I miss holding a fork with one hand and using a knife to cut with the other. Sigh.

Before the technician sawed the cast open, I was lectured by the doctor as to what I could and could not do. And I shared the news that I had been knitting throughout my convalescence. "How?" the surgeon asked..."very, very slowly," I explained. But still, not too shabby: 8,976 stitches in 6 weeks might be less than I would normally knit, but it is better than nothing at all.  (Yes, I did the math to get to that number).  I explained my 'knitting as physiotherapy' methodology and he was speechless. "Well, if it turns out that there is significant improvement in your soft tissue recuperation time, I would definitely consider writing about it," he said.  "Oh, you don't have to..." I replied, "I've been blogging about it!"

These six weeks have taught me many things. Some of which are:

• Everyone should learn how to crack and empty an egg into a bowl with one hand... the day may come when this skill will be a useful necessity and not just a cool 'show off in the kitchen trick'.
• I really, truly am the only human in my household who not only knows how to change a toilet roll, but also empty a garbage can. One evening, about two weeks into this ordeal, after a muttering and blathering rant that surely the whole neighbourhood had heard, I decided the reason why I was clearly the only one who could perform these 'highly skilled' tasks in my home was because, that is what all that Latin 'fine print' at the bottom of my Master's Degree meant... it was all fancy shmancy Latin mumbo-jumbo that proved that I was more qualified at Toilet paper roll changing and rubbish bin emptying than the average human. Yup, definitely.
• Eventually, you can get almost everything done with one hand. Almost. You just have to be really, really patient. Really.
• If something scares you, it's okay to do it anyhow. The first day I went back to work, I was terrified to walk there because it was icy. I knew that I had to walk it despite the inclement weather or I wouldn't be able to do it for the rest of the winter. It now takes me ten or fifteen minutes longer to walk to work, but I am doing it.

There is still plenty more recuperation, and all the necessary patience required along with it, but I don't feel like I am ready to give up quite yet. In fact, if I manage to finish, cast off and block the project I have been knitting, I may actually attempt the intarsia 'companion piece' I had planned to make as well. One handed intarsia knitting...don't know if it is even possible. But, like an icy sidewalk, you don't know unless you try.

Knitting as rehab...or distraction...or both

I would love to tell you how I am feeling and doing.  But I will spare you... I am hoping to stay as far away as possible from the kvetchy knitter persona we all love to hate; the one who's mostly b*tch and low on stitch at the dreaded yarn-night we've all been to. Don't get me wrong. There is a huge part of me that would love to wail, holler, b*tch and moan. But the truth is, I am trying to do as much as possible: as per usual.  The fact that my family is not the doting type helps: sort of like physio and occupational therapy all rolled up into one. Right now if I ask for help I get nothing but whinging.  And if I don't ask for help I get a tongue lashing for not asking for help. I don't know about you, but avoiding the whinging 'factor' far outweighs the threat of finger wagging when push comes to shove. And once the pain factor subsides I am sure things will be better. True, things take what feels like 50x longer than normal, but I have patience: duh...I'm a knitter. After a short chat with myself and the realization that I desperately wished to avoid joining the ranks of the stretch pant brigade I taught myself how to zip a zipper and button a button with just one hand. Sure, we are talking mom jeans here; there will be no skinny jeans for a good long while. But I am thinking YEAH! I'M LIKE THE STEPHEN HAWKINGS OF THE FASHION WORLD! On New Year's Eve, I  figured out how to triple bag and tape my arm up all by myself and though washing and shampooing my tangled up mess of hair proved both difficult and nothing short of a massive pain in the ass...I did it. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs I'M A FRIKIN GENIUS... in fact, once I finally worked out how to get a bra both on and off with only one hand I KNEW I was a frikin genius.  My girlfriend's partner boasted that he knows how to take a bra off with just one hand. "Good for you," I told him "you're a girl! When you figure out how to put one on with just one hand, call me, because Mazel Tov, you'll be a woman." Okay, so maybe I am a bit b*tchy...But you would be too after what I went through less than 72 hours after my accident. Let me explain:

I had my first Fracture Clinic appointment on Monday morning. Bye-bye 500 kilo plaster cast. Hello fibreglass Coco Chanel inspired cast. They were all out of the groovy Sargent Pepper Psychedelic colour options they usually have in supply. Black or Baby Blue were my only choices. I went for the Black Tie rather than the Cowboy Denim look. Also, black minimizes the potential for 'teenage sentiments' being scribbled upon the surface for all to see. (see previous blog post for that doozie).  Now I wasn't expecting this (especially as the Doc had already set the bones a couple of days before) but in order to do this little procedure they had to put my hand into what is called a finger trap. And thanks to the miracles of the iPhone, everyone's a documentary filmmaker and photographer.  Yes, for reasons that totally escape me, the hubby decided to commemorate this event as a Kodak moment. Seriously. Were not the births of our two offspring enough?

Some he videotaped, other moments he snapped jpgs of... I will spare you the shots that show my entire left upper extremity looking like the Cascade 220 colour chart... lovely visual, yes. But dear lord, look at this... this Finger Trap. Can you blame for thinking that at any moment,

John Cleese and the entire Monty Python crew would jump out from behind the hospital curtain and proclaim NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION. What is astonishing to me is that after all the money that I donate annually to this Hospital's Foundation, and all the advances in medicine over the years, THIS is the best they can do in the fracture clinic: mesh metal finger traps and a weight to stretch you out on the 'rack'. AAAUCH!  After they finish hooking up your fingers they weight down your elbow with what is, I believe, a 5-10 lb weight, I know!  Shut up!  But here's the worst part. Here's what made me cry. It's 8AM. Clearly the technician has had either too much or not enough caffeine. Instead of lowering the bed slowly the mattress drops with a thud. "Oops," says the dude... "pressed the wrong button". Yup. I noticed. Once again, the epic mental rant is sending me straight to Hell for sure. I actually saw stars. They were pretty pretty stars...no, they didn't give me meds. After the cast, What I did get, however was a cool souvenir.

Weird but trendy in medical circles, I'm sure. I posted a pic of this on fb and within seconds I got a Mazel Tov! response. We live in unusual times when a green piece of paper like this becomes part of the deciding factor on whether or not you get to enter the medical imaging location so you can be exposed to radiation. You know?

The unfortunate part of all of this is that it sent be back 2 days in the healing process. Back to the hurts like @#%^! of day one.  
Teenagers are hilarious. Before signing my cast, back on day one, my daughter stated one thing and asked another. Her statement: "Let's get one thing clear: I am not bathing you" (yeah - cuz I totally didn't do that for you for the first 8 years of your life) and her question: she asked about the pain. I told her it's really funny how they always ask you to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10. But most mothers I know reserve 10 as the childbirth rating.  Here's how brilliant this young lady is: "Well that's dumb... they should just have a separate scale for women... Rate your pain on a scale from splinter to birthing." YES! I AGREE!

So I may sound like I have things all worked out. But this morning I realized I didn't. Thank you to my Mum, who recognised that one day soon, I will be faced with the challenge of opening up a can of tuna. Given my current condition, she agreed that it will totally be my undoing. Visualise a broken down puddle of myself on the floor using toes, teeth and my one good hand. Not a pretty sight. I haven't owned an electric can opener EVER... it is the best gift! Thank you, Mummy! I love you. 

And now it begins. Rehab...Physio...etc. I consider this blog blathering not just cathartic, but good practise and physio, as well. My one handed typing skills far surpass those of a Barney Miller Cop typing up a report, so that's not too shabby!  And this evening I took up my knitting again. I could only knit half a row, but it's start. But, oy....
G-d forbid a stitch drops. I will be soooooooo screwed! I will have to call either Wooly Mammoth or Guerilla Knitter for a knitting intervention: dial 911-K1P2.
Knitting as rehab. I'm not sure if I say this in an OBAMA or BOB THE BUILDER way, but Yes, we can!