I know I've gone on and on and on here about my inability to figure out a math problem with any success and much crying concerning another knitting project. Well, peeps, there's more math in Level 2 than you can shake a stick at and it is totally unintelligible to me. Me. The Master's Math Moron.
There's the whole damn gauge thing with cables again and then a question about measuring a swatch of lace to figure out how many this and that it would take to make a 12 +12 pillow top. I can't even get through reading the steps to figuring this out without getting a headache, a stomach ache and the urge to kick the table over. I know the Master's people only have our best knitting interests in mind but I'm beginning to hate them. I feel as though I'm tilting at windmills doing this and I will never, ever finish and that the whole committee is laughing at me for even trying.
I had to have my daughter come over again to help me. The one who took advanced calculus in school just for the hell of it. She doesn't knit but that minor point doesn't matter. It was the problem, the calculating of the problem, and then all those horrid decimal points that I knew she knew how to do without crying. She enjoys numbers as much as I enjoy knitting and I say 'hooray'! We all need the skills of others to help us get through life.
She read the problem over, had a way to solve it that I didn't understand at all and had me near tears again. I can figure other stuff out....why not this? Sigh. I have a brain that just has a little blank space where the math portion should be. Then...a light bulb went on in the sewing part of my brain! I needed a tape measure not a pencil. I needed something with marks on it that I could see. Not some series of plus and minus signs, decimal points and question marks. That's for sissies. I measured the top, middle and bottom of the damn cable swatch and got the same answer for alleviating cable flare as she did. Success!! That is how I would fix a dress that was a little too tight in the waist and the same applies to a cable that pulls in. I really have to use my sewing brain more because I've been able to make fabric fit since the '60s. And that was before I was kicked out of math class for being the stupidest person on earth.
All I can hope for now is that the committee accepts my long winded story on how I figured out the problem. If I have to show my work it will be with stick figure drawings. Me + tape measure+ swatch = 3 stitches. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
 This is what failure looks like. A nasty, ugly rendition of Swatch #9. This is what happens when you pay attention so hard that you cease to be able to pay attention.
I really don't know what happened. I was knitting away on the first half, doing short rows like a house afire, thinking I knew what I was doing and being very, very careful to follow directions. Then I knit the second half. It looked kind of funny so I ripped it out and knit it again making sure I had the short row wrap and turn deal under control. Damn! It looked funny again but I decided to wait until the next day to look it over because hubby was talking to me, the news was on, and it was that time of night where the cat gets involved. He wants to sit on my lap. He wants me to scratch under his chin and around his cheeks and he doesn't want any damn knitting in the way. He will poke his head up under my knitting just to make sure I know he's there. If that doesn't work he will start biting on the yarn or the needle cable and then if that fails to get my attention he will bite me on the hand. Oh, yes. He bites and then wants me to pet him. I don't get that either. It never works.
I took what I thought was a good look at the swatch pieces the next day and thought to myself, 'that looks okay, I guess'. Sigh. I know okay isn't good enough for the Master's people but I thought maybe it would all come out right in the blocking. Yeah. I actually thought that. What was really going on was me wanting to do the Kitchener stitch. I love doing that. Call me crazy but I can't get enough of weaving two pieces of knitting together and leaving no visible seam. This was the swatch I was waiting for. I held the two pieces together and thought they matched up just fine. Fine. Great. Where's my tapestry needle and my green yarn? I had a little shiver go through me as I started in on the first stitch. God, I love doing this. K, K, P, P....on and on the needle goes. In and out, back and forth making lovely even stitches where there weren't any before. I always hum a little tune as the stitches form and I'm always a little sad when I'm done. Knit, Knit, Purl, Purl....it's mesmerizing. When I came to the end I tossed the swatch into a bowl of water to soak so I could block the thing and get a good look at my handy work.
How is it that something feels so right and then ends up to be so wrong? Seriously. I did not notice that the swatches pointed in different directions until I had the things wrung out and was starting to pin one end down on it's blue blocking board. Really. They were supposed to be in a V shape. I was still in that 'it's okay' mode and obviously still in the afterglow of doing the Kitchener stitch. I was astounded that the thing looked so shitty. I was even more astounded to discover that I had done one piece totally wrong. I had done the short rows wrong. On the wrong side. Wrong. How I thought it was right in the first place is a mystery to me. I read the damn directions over and over and over. I looked up the references I needed. I wrote some of the important parts down. I knitted. I ripped. I knitted again. How is it not right? Oh. I failed to notice that one tiny sentence that stated that the second piece should end on the right side. Damn.
The good news? I got to do my beloved Kitchener stitch all over again.
I do not care for my name. That's the truth. I cringe sometimes when I hear it and I would rather have someone just call me 'hey you'. Mom, Grandma and Honey are all much better ways of getting my attention and make me feel so good. My name makes me feel as though someone said it by mistake. I wish I could change it.
My name is Rebecca. Rebecca Jean. Now, the only time I ever heard Rebecca Jean was when I was in trouble and the only time I use Rebecca is when I have to fill out paperwork or sign a check. It always had such a formal feeling to it and I didn't like that because I was that scabby-kneed kid with glasses who always had a stain on whatever I was wearing. Not formal at all. When I was little I always thought formal meant white gloves and clean white anklets folded over just so. And no scuffs on my shoes. I was so not that. Oh, maybe for a little bit...one morning a week when we all went to church where I somehow became rumpled before we got home. There are old black and white photos of me in a clean crisp dress with tidy braided pigtails and socks that are folded over just so but I'm sure I only stayed that way for a minute after the picture was taken. I was Becky. Becky-Wecky. Becky-Homecky. Beck-ra. And Beck. The kid with the scabby, knobby knees.
I don't like Becky either. It has such a harsh tone to it and I'm not a harsh person. I may be cranky but I'm not harsh. My name has points. And Becky sounds like a kid's name. Like Bobby or Betsy. I'm an old lady now with a little kid's name and I'm still not formal enough to be called Rebecca. I've had some people, adults who should know better, make fun of my name. Actually...they made fun of the fact that I went by Becky instead of Rebecca. When I was that little snot-nosed kid there were kids who made fun of my name just because they could. It rhymed with so many odd things. Becky Pecker comes to mind. And because I was a seamstress for most of my life I got Becky-Homecky.
I would like a plain name, please. A name that sounds good for a little girl and also sounds good for an adult. Like Jean. Or Anne. A name you can sing The Name Game to. Jean, Jean, BoBean....Just try that with Rebecca or Becky. It sounds crazy and sometimes kind of naughty. Oh, I am kind of naughty occasionally but really....I could also be a little naughty and be named Anne.
I'm kicking ass in Master's Land. I have six swatches done with references noted. I've written out long explanations on how to seam the swatches up and they are set for editing. I always write more than I have to and later take out the silly parts. I have learned that I love the mattress stitch and really enjoy sewing up seams. Any kind of seams. I guess being a seamstress in real life I should have guessed that. The perfection of a well done mattress stitch, especially with the purl side up, gives me a little tingle.
Here's my problem though. You knew there would be a problem, right? The vest. Damn. I decided to start working on the required vest because it is bitterly cold outside and I could stand a mass of wool on my lap right now. By the time I finish this whole thing I know it's going to be summer and I don't want to sweat all over everything. I believe that is not allowed anyway. No heathered yarn, no tweed yarn, everything labeled and no sweat. I'm to the point in the swatches where I want to stop for awhile anyway and I already had some yarn for the vest so it was all a go for me. I had my pattern set, my favorite wooden tipped needles set, my yarn in a nice bag and.....oh, hell....I had 5 balls of Rowan Felted Tweed in a lovely soft gray and I couldn't use it. I had read the instructions again and yeah...only knit in plain, smooth wool, please. Damn. I emailed my contact just for the heck of it but no...she was nice about it but no. The stitches needed to be seen clearly without any slubs or heathers in the way. It was back to the drawing board for me and the vest.
The requirements for the vest are seamed sides and a V or U shaped neck that has picked up ribbing. It's not that easy to find and I'm not up for taking a seamless vest pattern and trying to make it work. I'm also not up for designing my own pattern. Yet. That comes in Level 3. Another problem? I don't wear vests. I am not a vest person and I hate like crazy to knit something that nobody can wear. However, hubby is a vest person and has quite a few. He suffers in the cold of winter as much as I do in the summer from the wicked heat and usually wears a vest to work every day. Aha! Make a vest for him! I searched Ravelry and found the beautiful Dr. G's Memory Vest. Perfect. I just needed new yarn. Smooth yarn. So I took myself off to my favorite yarn store.
You know, some days it just doesn't pay to leave the house. I wanted that new yarn, I needed that new yarn but it was such a struggle to find a light gray yarn that wasn't heathered or tweeded that I almost had my mind made up to forget the whole thing and come back another day when I wasn't so manic about yarn. Seems all I had to say to the gal helping me was 'Master's Program' when some other customer popped up right in my face to tell ME all about knitting the Master's Level 1. She never took a breath during her long dissertation on swatching and the other requirements of the program. Why I am so polite sometimes is beyond me. I could have just interrupted her to stop the torrent of words but I stood there watching her mouth open and close as she listed off the swatches one by one wishing I could just smack her upside the head and tell her to shut up. And go away. I ended up buying some yarn but I fear it is too dark of a gray. I just couldn't concentrate anymore with Talky McTalkerson's voice in my head. I had to leave her and her noise of words still bouncing off the walls of the yarn shop.
I got home and promptly wound my yarn. I started the vest. I ripped it out because I had started with the wrong needle size. I began again and it seemed to be going along pretty good. I loved the cables and hubby loved the cables. I love my wooden tipped needles and the vest was motoring along when it dawned on me to maybe measure the thing. Oh. It's going to be too small. Damn it all to hell. I had measured him, thought I knew what gauge I get on Cascade 220 and just started in. I'm a dunce sometimes but I'm blaming the whole thing on Talky McTalkerson. I feel as though she spun me in a circle and twirled up my brain. The vest is still on the needles and taking a little time out while I knit more swatches, seam them up, and think of what to do. Do I knit it on bigger needles? Do I knit a larger size? How many times will I have to rip it out and start over? Will I kick it into a corner, stomp on it and then put a chair over it? Hard to say. It's Monday and I'm starting over.
 Well, here I am....first of the New Year and back in the crazy-making world of working on the Master's Knitting Program...Level 2. It's so much more complicated than Level 1 and I'm trying like hell to be more organized about it. The long table we set up for the big Christmas meal is still up and now covered with reference books and binders and papers and many little snips of yarn. I find it's a great place to work...to be able to spread things out so that I can see them instead of digging through this pile and that pile and where in the hell did the other pile go? I don't know as though hubby is going to be thrilled with the table being up for any length of time but it is so much easier to sew up a mattress stitch seam on a table than in a lap. With a cat on it. I think my knitting looks better this time around and I'm being way more careful with the cast on and bind off. I even found a way to minimize that big last stitch of the bind off. Mary Forte says to put the needle knit-wise into the stitch below the remaining stitch and then through the back loop of the remaining stitch. Knit them together, finish your bind off and ..Bob's your uncle...you get a nice looking last stitch instead of that big nasty loopy thing. It's magic. I found this blessed article in the 'On Your Way to the Master's archives of fascinating articles on the TKGA website and have printed out most of them and put them in a binder. And highlighted and tabbed the hell out of them. They save me lots of time and most answers are found in those articles. Hubby gave me the giant and unwieldy Principles of Knitting for Christmas and it is also a life saver in the working of the program. It has every answer to every question a person would ever want to know about knitting. It's a huge book and is way easier to read flat on that Christmas dining table than it is sitting on your lap on the couch. It still needs to be tabbed because it hurts my incision to flip a mass of pages back and forth looking for that thing I just saw the last time I was in it. It's fabulous though, I can't say enough about the book and the bibliography alone is worth the price of admission. Every swatch, every question and every darn thing you do has to have one or more references noted and this is my problem now. The answer to Question 1. I'm stalled even before I really begin. There are 19 questions to answer, some of them easy and some of them look ungodly hard but this first one.....I can find no definitive answer to in my piles of books, the fabulous Principles of Knitting and my binder of articles. Does that mean that I write what I think the answer should be? I know in my head what the answer is but in everything I've read about seaming two pieces of knit together nowhere does it start with what the answer to the question is. How can I make a reference to nothing? To what is in my head? And if I do they will surely send all my stuff back with a long note about what I did wrong. Hell. I think I am just going to move forward and leave that silly question for the end. Perhaps I will come upon it as I am looking for something else. I have 3 swatches down and many, many more to go so the time I spend dithering over this question is time wasted. I need to knit an argyle sock and a full sized vest so I hope to god the question answers itself along the way.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. If I may be so bold as to quote Dickens. 2012 just stunk to high heaven for me but I did get a new hip and a heart that beats like it should out of the deal so I should concentrate on those two things. Oh, and I passed Level 1 in the Master's Knitting Program. Three things. For me though...I continue to concentrate on the negative...that might have to be my New Year's Resolution. To quit being such a gloomy sad sack and to look on the bright side like Pollyanna.
My year was filled with trauma and it seemed as though every day brought a new crisis to pick at and worry over. Selling my mom's house turned out to be a bigger mess than anticipated but I was already worn out by the hideous Reverse Mortgage nightmare. Mom's diagnosis of Alzheimer's should have made me happy because...YES...there is a reason for her latest behavior and all the money she spend on useless crap to the point of having nothing to live on. But it just made me sad and mad. Mad at the VA who really has their collective heads up their asses and mad at my mom for leaving my sister and I in such a precarious position. We have to make new decisions every day and none of them seem like the right thing to do.
Then there was all my health issues. Wow. I turned 60 and promptly fell apart. Literally. My already replaced hip began to slide out of place at a moments notice...mostly on the potty. Turns out it had been a bad replacement from the get go and needed to be redone. I had to wear and sleep in a big brace that went around my waist and strapped to my thigh just to stay together. Sigh. A third hip replacement on the same damn side. I was thinking of getting a tattoo right along the big scar line that reads 'Open Here'. During the process of getting ready for the new hip it was discovered that I had a heart problem. Oh. There was a flurry of activity for a month before the surgery going to cardiologists and having expensive tests and being put on meds. Turns out I suffer from the same thing my dad did. Congestive heart failure. It was not what I wanted to hear. My summer was full of going to the doctor and being monitored. Having nurses call me about stuff and me writing it down on random scraps of paper only to be lost in the weekly big kitchen table clean up. Seriously....I did knit and pass Level 1 but I have almost no recollection of it. As I was recovering from the hip surgery and going back and forth to the VA with my mom and going back and forth to my own new cardiologist I lost my job. Actually there was a fight and I quit but still...no job.
When it came time for the pacemaker/defibrillator to be implanted because the meds weren't working I became very nervous. If it would have been another hip replacement I would have been fine. I can do that but this was monkeying around with my heart and there were so many things that could go wrong. My surgeon was the top guy in the Twin Cities but let me tell you this: when there is a gum snapping young gal in the room who doesn't know how many electrode pads to stick on the patient and where they should even be a person gets very nervous. A person wants a drug. Just a little something to take the edge off. That wasn't available. I kept being told that this would be a snap, that I was a 'Nervous Nelly', that I wouldn't feel a thing because, eventually, they were going to give me something called an 'amnesia' drug. Huh. And when it came time to 'test the device' I would be knocked out. I should have been knocked out for the whole thing because the first thing they do after the complicated electrode sticking is to tie your hands down. Then they velcro you to the table around your waist. Then they ask if you are comfortable. That would be a big no. They ask if you are claustrophobic and toss and sheet over your face. It all went downhill from there.
I felt every damn thing, remember every damn thing and didn't get the promised amnesia. The first 'little prick' felt like it went right into my heart. I was thinking that the surgeon was the little prick by this time. There was cutting and shoving and I was in there a whole lot longer than anticipated because, of course, I had a wonky vein on the left side and the thing had to be taken out and done over all with lots of things happening that left me bruised and looking as though someone had punched me good in the chest. I felt the stitches and by the time that was happening I was sobbing. A nurses face loomed before me to ask what was wrong and I told her that I could feel everything. Well, she says, it's almost over. Where the hell was the morphine? My face was a mess of snot and tears but since my hands were tied down there was nothing I could do about it but sniff and snivel. It was barbaric. I was still crying after they got me to my room and was dumped off in bed. I cried for most of the night and was so damn happy to go home the next day that I walked out before the discharge was complete. The nurse followed us down the elevator and gave me the business but I was in no mood to be nice. I'm not repeating what I said.
Christmas went fine with the help of my hubby and my daughters. Things got wrapped, food got cooked and Amazon was a lifesaver. I enjoyed the day to the fullest because my heart was beating like it should and I could sit without dislocating. I have my hubby, my girls, my sons-in-law and 5 beautiful and darling grandchildren. I'm okay. And I finally remembered that I went on lovely trips, watched soccer, found a new little job, have a beautiful garden, and am still alive. 2012 was the worst of time and the best of times and now the new snow has covered over the dirty stuff. Onward into 2013 with a better attitude and a grateful beating heart.
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