I'm Feeling the Love

I was completely overwhelmed by your outpouring of support and advice in the wake of my mini-rant (rantette? rantini? rantchen? ranteleh?) about the world shortage of non-variegated male-oriented sock yarns.

Turns out there's not really a shortage in the world, just in the places I've been looking. This had enitrely escaped my notice, which will surprise those who know me not at all. I appreciate all the pointers to the sort of yarn I had in mind, believe you me. Left to my own devices I might have stumbled around for years wearing socks in colorways like "Itty Bitty Baby Ducklings on Parade."

And I also appreciate deeply the offers to send me yarn, but darlings, you mustn't. Please don't ever interpret anything I say in here as a request for freebies. Money is precious. If you have a little extra, enrich your own stashes, or take your Mom out to lunch, or pay your kid's bail. I'm just glad you're here. There's no membership fee.

Meanwhile, the first sock is about 1/4 inch from toe shaping. No, I'm not going to show you a picture. Who wants to see a picture of that? Somebody asked what the yarn is. It's wool. I'm pretty sure it's from Regia. I lost the ball band somewhere between Wisconsin and Chicago. Should you find it, write and tell me.

I'm Franklin Habit. Who the hell are you?

I'm just finally getting around to writing about Monday's most enjoyable "Meet the Bloggers" event at Arcadia Knitting because it has been too hot to download the two photos I took. The heat wave is also the reason I haven't done laundry, or called Grandma, or finished shredding my old credit card statements, or vacuumed the living room, or learned Japanese.

What was I talking about?

The blogger thing at Arcadia. Right. Well, it was the hottest night of the summer–we're talking 111 degrees Farenheit after dark–and still about four dozen people showed up to eat cookies and play with wool. Quod erat demonstrandum, knitters are deranged.

Needless to say, I felt right at home.

Here are some of the deranged who held still for my camera. Please to identify yourselves in the comments, won't you, with links to your blogs? I swear I remember your names but not your blogs, which embarrasses the hell out of me. How the @#%%!* does Yarn Harlot do it?



Gail there on the left is just a little too happy about all the yarn. The absent Margene is represented by the sock, center. That's what they told me. The sock is Margene. Margene is a sock. (You see? Deranged. Deranged.)

Just behind Gail is Lynn. Lynn had been deeply moved by the post in which I described carrying a stitch marker in my bosom for several days without knowing. In a display of compassion worthy of Kuan Yin, she gifted me with two two markers rather more elaborate than my little orange rings of plastic. Lookee.



Could she have chosen better? No, she could not. Stitch markers that speak to who I am, to what I love. Stitch markers that reference my fascination with Orientalia and my long-time Anglophilia. Stitch markers way too substantial to ever get lost in this: