Am currently attempting to knit some anklets from a pattern that would make SO much more sense if the authors would just go ahead and admit in the instructions, “Oops-sorry. Here’s the part where we accidentally smoked some crack.”
Harnessing the healing power of snark
There was lots of excitement here yesterday, because I received a package full of new supplies for my uplink to the Borg collective CPAP machine. This was a very good thing, because apparently someone felt it necessary to bite their way through my previous air supply hose. TWICE.
I’ve been doing a lot of research on fibromyalgia lately, but I’ve discovered that a great majority of books on the subject were written before the advances of the past few years. This was especially brought home to me yesterday when I was reading to my husband a passage from a book written in 1998. If you felt a great eruption yesterday, don’t worry; that was just my engineer husband’s response to the helpful instructions stating that, “The World Wide Web is the segment of the Internet with graphics.”
So despite the “assistance” of the cats yesterday, I was able to dive right in with my trusty knitting needles, yarn, and two knitting instruction books. And the most important thing I learned yesterday was, that I am apparently NOT a person who can learn how to knit from a book.
Fortunately I found a yarn store that was open today, where I planned to go and throw myself on their mercy, or quite possibly throw myself on the floor, whatever it took if only someone would please, please show me how to do a knit stitch.
Unfazed by my dramatic entrance (which apparently happens there quite a bit), the owner of the shop was more than happy to teach me the basics. Soon I was easily casting on, knitting, and binding off, right up until the time when I accidentally unraveled an entire row.
There was a knitting circle working in the store while I was there, and one of the nice ladies jumped right up to help me repair the damage.
“I do have a few holes here and there,” I said as she worked to recover my stitches.
“Oh no, honey,” The Nice Lady quickly corrected me. “Those aren’t holes. Those are design elements.”