I know I’m in Texas, because I can see a Lone Star flag out the window. Make that four Lone Star flags. Query: Is it accurate to call it a “lone” star when there’s a caboodle of them?
Houston is the first place I’ve been to in four months that isn’t suffering from the kind of frigid weather that makes headlines: HUNDREDS IN METRO AREA DEAD OF SNOWFLAKE POISONING.
The weather here is just fine, thanks; yet nobody seems to notice. A nice lady from the café I’m sitting at as I type this came over and asked if I’d like to move to a table out of the sun. Get out of the sun? That’s like telling a famine victim he only gets one trip through the buffet line.
I tend to be slow on the uptake, so it’s hard to fathom that I’m sweating in Texas so soon after shivering in New York. Last weekend I was in Manhattan for the maiden voyage of Vogue Knitting Live!–me and something like 3,000 other knitters. The New York Hilton is a dim, grim Death Star of a hotel, but we warmed it right up.
Everybody was there. Tout le ever-loving monde. This was my first gig as part of an all-star cast; I almost went blind from the combined mega-wattage at the mandatory teachers’ meeting on Friday. Example: I was talking to Cat Bordhi when Stephanie Pearl-McPhee tapped me on the shoulder; so I turned around and almost tripped over Iris Schreier, who was sitting next to Carol Sulcoski and Cookie A, who were sitting next to Meg Swansen, who was talking to Beth Brown-Reinsel and Nancy Bush.
And there were donuts.
It would have made one hell of a picture, but I don’t photograph knitters I love at 7:30 in the morning, especially before the coffee kicks in. That's a great way to wind up with 23 needles stuck in your neck.
The last time I turned giddy from meeting knitters whose work I greatly admire (at TNNA), I caught flak from some folks (mostly guys, oddly enough) for the perceived sin of name-dropping. I expect that will happen this time, too. Know what? I don’t care. If you can meet Debbie Bliss, Mary Beth Temple or Catherne Lowe with indifference–good for you. This blog is my party and I'll squee if I want to.
I have to get ready for tonight’s event (book signing, Twisted Yarns, 5:30–7:30, y’all come on down), but first a snippet of between-class conversation from VKL between myself and Melissa Morgan Oakes, noted author, designer, apiarist and chicken-killer.
Melissa has taught at the famous Knitter’s Review Retreats organized by Clara Parkes. When I mentioned that I’d like to do the same, she informed me (with a touch of nyah-nyah-nyah in her voice, may I add) that I have to wait for somebody to die before a slot will open up in the roster. It’s that sweet a gig.
I looked downcast. Melissa cheerfully suggested I could be pro-active and kill somebody, instead of waiting for the Grim Reaper to cull the herd. She then went down the list, teacher by teacher, trying to determine who should be the prime target.
“Not Cat Bordhi, obviously,” she said. “Ann Budd…no, definitely not.” And so on, until only one name, and one likely victim, remained: Melissa Morgan-Oakes.
“Wow,” she said wistfully. “I guess I’d be the one to kill. Dang.”
Never fear, Melissa. I’m Buddhist to the core. Plus, I hear from the chickens how good you are with that axe.
I'll just wait.