Pond Crossing Imminent

I grew up in a military family and we moved around a lot. To this day, the sight of brown cardboard packing boxes makes me as nostalgic as a whiff of dearest mama's green pepper casserole.

We spent so much time on the road that I was only six or seven when the first of my pre-trip rituals emerged. Books to be read while traveling had to be put into quarantine, literally set apart on their own shelf. They could not, under any circumstances, be opened until we were out of the driveway. I still do this.

Over the years a host of other ironclad customs have joined the first. Together, they form a lovely little framework of neurosis and superstition with which I shield myself from the fears that might, if I gave into them, possibly keep me from going anywhere at all.

The newest tradition debuted when I became a knitter. It comprises a 50-yard dash of finishing, weaving ends, blocking, and then worrying over the piece at it slllllooooooooowwwwwwwllllllyyyyy dries on a towel on the living room floor.

I know there are knitters out there who are much better about this sort of thing. They are never to be found frantically undoing blocking pins while the taxi to the airport is waiting downstairs. But there aren't any knitters like that in my apartment, which is good because I would smack them.

Well, a whopper of a trip is nigh. We're going to England today, Tom and I. It's a just brief jaunt, a whistle stop in London. And then we're sailing back on the Queen Mary 2. I can't believe it. Tom figured out how to do it without smashing all the piggy banks. He's smart like that.

So he gets a new knitted thing, in this case a simple but useful garment I'm calling the Transatlantic Hat.



It don't look like much but it was an interesting knit. First I did the outside - the cabled bit. Since the yarn is DK weight (the same I used in Grandma's Swallowtail Shawl) that made for a thin hat, not terribly warm. So, borrowing an idea from dear Elizabeth Zimmermann, I picked up stitches around the bottom and knit a lining for it in the same wool. And then, to make quite certain fierce Atlantic winds won't get through, I picked up stitches again and knit a roll-up brim in 2x2 ribbing to give extra protection to Tom's neck and cute little pink ears.

I'm sure there's a more efficient way to do all that, but since I was making it up as I went along I'm just happy it worked. I'm also happy it's finished. Even with a fan blowing on it, it took the sucker 48 hours to dry. At least I beat the taxi driver this time.

I Knit, You Knit, We All Knit at I Knit

I sent Queen Liz a gob of e-mails and kept poking her on Facebook, but she never got back to me so I'm going to hang out with knitters instead. I'll be at I Knit at 6:30 on Thursday evening, and as William the Conqueror said as he stood on the French side of English channel, I cannot freaking wait. I'll sign books and read some and draw some and generally natter away until they all throw shoes at me.

While I'm Away

The Etsy shop has been put into suspended animation for the duration, since there's no point in your ordering things when I can't ship them. The Guys with Yarn calendar will return to stock (along with prints, cards, etc.) when I get back. Meanwhile, the Cafe Press shop (which doesn't require my direct involvement) is still open for business for all your bag, shirt, ornament and thong needs.

During the trip I will have minimal access to e-mail, then no access to e-mail, because there's no way I'm going to pay Cunard's extortionate rates for a bad satellite connection in the middle of the ocean. Talk amongst yourselves, darlings, and I'll be back with a full report.

A Note to the All the Fibertarians

I can only imagine it's been a rough week for those who supported Dolores for President. I promise you it's been even rougher to live with her in the aftermath. She actually disappeared for about two days, presumably working through her disappointment in the company of one or more jockstrap-clad campaign advisors at the Lucky Horseshoe.

When she at last slunk back through the front door, she refused to receive visitors or answer her cell phone. Even very sweet overtures from the Obama camp regarding a cabinet post fell on deaf ears. I asked her if she might not want to issue a statement to all the loyal party members. She screamed "Thanks a million!" and threw an empty bottle of Everclear at my head.

And then, perhaps inspired by the sight of my own open suitcases, she left this note on the refrigerator.

There's no cure like travel. Have taken to the road to
rediscover my soul. Borrowed your rollerblades, your
portable sewing machine and your copy of The Eustace Diamonds.
Au revoir, cupcake.
P.S. Don't touch my stuff.