Oganisation Schmorganisation

This is just a quickie - quick wave to say hello - because I have spent the evening wrestling with student essays and the little wretches have sucked the creativity out of my brain. However, today's task is:

How do you keep your yarn wrangling organised? It seems like an easy to answer question at first, but in fact organisation exists on many levels. Maybe you are truly not organised at all, in which case I am personally daring you to try and photograph your stash in whatever locations you can find the individual skeins. However, if you are organised, blog about an aspect of that organisation process, whether that be a particularly neat and tidy knitting bag, a decorative display of your crochet hooks, your organised stash or your project and stash pages on Ravelry.

Oh, the mirth involved in contemplating an answer to this question! Organised? Haw, haw.

But I pulled myself together.

How do I keep my yarn organised? Frankly, I don't. It's everywhere. I recently found a skein in my knickers drawer - and it was a nice cotton/acrylic mix, too. I was pleased to find it again (it seemed to have made friends with a pair of tights), but I still have no idea how it got in there. I'd like to believe that it has a mind of its own, but a more likely explanation is that I swooped it up when I was sorting out my laundry. I find balls of wool all over the place, and when I stand up to get a glass of water, I usually leave a trail of yarn that stretches from the living room to the kitchen. I'm turning into a Half-Woman, Half-Spider, as I seem to be weaving woolly webs wherever I go.

My container of preference is a basket - simply because this house was full of them when we moved in (for recent readers I should add that we moved into a house with a bizarre inventory: here's one of our favourite pieces.) Sometimes my yarn looks like a big, tangled mess but I'm proud to say that it also sometimes manages to look like this - a thing of beauty and a joy for five minutes.

Baby Realta

I actually finished this last week but I just haven't had the chance to post it. This is the same pattern as the Realta afghan, but done in worsted weight yarn and in more demure colours. It's destined for my new niece as a ... um, what do you call them? Blankets that you plonk gently lay babies on so they can flail around wave their little limbs about? Let's just call it an extra thick blanket for the sofa or the floor.

Anyway, same pattern, different colour combination:

An Award for Me!

Renee over at East of Eden has presented me with this award. If you don't read German, it means 'Favourite Blog'. Isn't that kind?

 

You have to pass this award on to people with blogs with fewer than one hundred followers. Which was the case with me when I was given this award, but in the past 48 hours, the number has burgeoned. Oopsie!  I now have over a hundred followers, which really should make me feel very honoured and empowered, but instead makes me feel very nervous. A bit rabbit-in-headlightsesque. Or hand-in-cookie-jarish. Or finger-up-noseistic. You're all (whispers) watching me.

Anyway, it only took a year but I finally figured out how to follow blogs. There's a button for that, did you know? It has FOLLOW on it and when you press it, it gets added to your reader. Yup. Snazzy, eh? Before that, I used to manually seek out people's blogs via Google. Oh, ye of little technosavvy. So here are a few of the blogs I dip in and out of. In no particular order:

Hookin' It With Mr Lick Lick. When this name first appeared in my comments, I was rather nervous, thinking I was being targeted by Chinese spammers. The reality is a lot less dramatic - a very nice lady in Georgia hides behindthe name, - but you have to find out yourself who Mr Lick Lick is ...

My Name is Not Gracie. No, it's not. Really. If I ever need to lust at people making far more sophisticated yarn purchases than me, Non-Gracie is your girl. Go and have a little lust at her yarns. Lovely wool, lovely projects. She's also a teacher, so she shares my pain.

Useless Beauty Not only does Susie have an Auntie Kath, who (I suspect) is my Auntie Maureen's separated-at-birth twin, she also shares my love of quality romantic fiction. And her quilts are too die for. One of them that she promised to me without knowing that she did is temporarily resting at her mother's till I pop by and pick it up.

A Snippy Girl - You have to visit Erica's blog if only to see the picture of the beautiful Irish crochet dress she has in her last post (she didn't make it, but I'm sure she could make one just like it.) Lovely crochet projects and loads and loads of yarn. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Growing Things And Making Things because that is exactly what Rachel does. She grows things (lots of things, she's in the process of planting a garden. I can't keep a pot of basil alive) and makes things (she knooks! She even made her knook-hook all by herself!)

Is that five already? I could add another five! Maybe next time, these were at the top of the blog roll (now that I've figured out how to use it.)

One Year Older, One Year Wiser

 

How much progress have I made in crafting terms this year? Goodness, I'm a veritable crafting diva now. Haha. Or not.

I discovered that I don't knit funny, I knit combined continental. Yes, it is a thing. And it looks like perfectly normal knitting, thank you very much. I knit two hats and a cabled scarf, plus I did half a sock (but, sadly, no photo to prove it.)

I crocheted tons of stuff. Really, I did. I can't begin to show you all the things I crocheted last year or I'd be commited to an asylum. However, more importantly than the actual crocheting was learning how to write a pattern. Write a pattern that other people could follow. Uh-huh! It's not as easy as you might think and it requires all kinds of mathematical skills that I thought I'd left behind when I skipped down the avenue of St Mary's secondary school on my last day of school, waving my school tie in the air in glee. If my long-suffering maths teacher, Sr Helen (now working out the Pythagorean equation beyond the Pearly Gates) had realised that little Miss Gingerbread would be employing the basic principles of geometry, trigonometry and algebra of her own free will and in her leisure time, she would've exploded with joy.

In any case, despite great leaps and bounds in my mathematical education, I continue to be plagued by lapses of discalulia, guaranteeing that I shall never be placed between Newton and Archimedes at a celestial dinner party. But I keep on writing patterns, using my trusty 99c calculator to help me work out stitch repeats and hexagon angles.

A Tale of Two Yarns

*** Parental Warning: This will not interest you, parents. We're talking about wool in this one. I'll put something up for you tomorrow. xxx ***
(Sorry about that. Otherwise I'll get a reproachful phonecall to the tune of, "Why can't you write about something apart from yarn and crocheting?") 

A bunch of ladies (maybe a couple of gents, too, but I suspect we're mostly women) on the Ravelry group The Blog Hub are taking part in a Knitting and Crochet Blog Week. I really wasn't going to take part because I can barely tie my own shoelaces at the moment, let alone get myself to blog daily for a week, but our Fearless Leader, Eskimimi, has organised it so well and so professionally that I thought I ought to get my bottom in gear and contribute. She has set us a writing task and we have to complete it daily. It reminds me a bit of the homework we got at school, but Eskimimi is nowhere near as frightening as Sr. Alphonsus and her flapping veil, though she does keep us in line: all of our contributions are neatly tagged and lined up in Google to read. Impressive, ne c'est pas?

So today our task is this:
Part of any fibre enthusiast’s hobby is an appreciation of yarn. Choose two yarns that you have either used, are in your stash or which you yearn after and capture what it is you love or loathe about them.

This is going to be a highly controversial post and I may be about to rock your world - brace yourself, crafters.

My first yarn is Red Heart Super Saver. Mostly I've chosen it out of contrariness. Everyone else is choosing Bamboo-Silk Unicorn's Hair or Handspun Mermaid Bumfluff - I felt sorry for this much-maligned American yarn. Entire pages of scathing comments are devoted to it on Ravelry, yet there's more of it in the stash database than practically every other yarn. While other devotees seem keen to hide their plebian tastes, I stand by my love of cheap acrylic yarn. I'm not going to knit jumpers from it or crochet bridal shawls, but I am going to make afghans and woolly hats ... objects that will probably be the only thing left standing after the apocalypse, along with cockroaches and Tupperware.

This, by the way, is my Shelley Stash. I haven't used it yet. I mostly just look at it and arrange the colours in a more pleasing fashion. Yum, yum.

What do I like about RHSS? It's robust and tough and a lot of people hate it (= support the underdog.) What I dislike about it is that you can only buy it in the US. Globalisation - where are you when we need you?


The second yarn I choose is sock yarn. No particular brand, I love it all. In fact, I haven't met a sock yarn yet that I didn't like, and I find more to like on a daily basis. I like the colours. I even find the outrageously disgusting colour combinations fascinating. The sad thing is that I have, up to now, knit the sum total of half a sock, accompanied by Mammy Gingerbread, aka Lightning Needles. In recent weeks, I've had the yearning to try it again - especially after reading about this charity, Socks for Japan. In my own head, I am a Crafting Philantrophist, churning out socks for the needy, lickety-split. In reality, I have to donate to the Red Cross because I don't want to add to the Japanese people's trauma by making them wear my hand-knitted socks.

But I digress.  
What do I like about sock yarn? It's colourful, often in delightfully unexpected ways. What I dislike about it is that it is often sinfully expensive. One little skein costs half an afghan. Well, not quite, but it's expensive enough to only be bought on special occasions, high holidays and as presents for other people. Fortunately, I have an opportunity to buy someone a gift, so I went shopping and bought a couple of skeins of a new yarn. Isn't this luvverly?

I'm Back!

I'm sorry for my absence, readers, but the Forces of Evil (my bank manager, my mortgage, my day job) engaged my time and attention elsewhere. Perhaps I should add that my bank manager is a sweetheart, my mortgage is reasonable and I love my job. But having to leave the house to do the last, in order to pay the second and, thus, keep the first happy is rather tiresome. Frankly, I have better things to do.

My colleagues and I were discussing this today: if you won the lottery, would you give up your job?
Well, would you, readers?
I would, more or less. I'd continue to teach four classes a week and they would be so well prepared that students would weep and applaud me at the end of the lesson. Trainee teachers would be sent into my classroom to watch me sweep across the expanse of the classroom and engage students on a level that could best - perhaps only - be described as inspirational. My grammatical explanations using blackboard drawings of stickmen would reach dizzy heights of perfection.
Then I'd have my chauffeur drive me home, so I could have a nap after my exertions.

I'd write to my heart's content. Your blog rolls would be on fire, readers!

 

And read a lot of Fat, Interesting Books, so I could discuss them with my father, my partner in The Perusal of Fat, Interesting Books. We're in the process of solving a number of burning social issues, but I feel I need more study. As you can see below, I am very interested in history. Nothing like a 2000-year catalogue of human bumbling to put things in perspective.

And I'd crochet. Well, I'd crochet more, obviously.

You might have noticed on the top right-hand side of the page that there's a little button under 'Patterns For Sale' - I have actually got my act together and prepared my Réalta pattern for sale. And, eeek, people (real people, people not related to me) have actually bought it (the people related to me would have to buy it as well, except they spent a week falling over the darned afghan in Ireland and have had their fill of it).

But that's old news - no sooner is it off the hook than I'm on to my next project. What about something like this?

The idea is that you could make a nice little blanket with rows of little hearts. Wouldn't that be cute? I'm still at the stage where I'm trying to extract a rather vague and inexact idea in my head and create a physical prototype. This is as far as I've got but, all things considered, it's not a bad start.

Outdone! (or Outcrocheted!)

You might remember this post from October, in which I wrote up the pattern for my Ribbon Afghan.

It was a pattern I kind of ... well, slid into. I had yarn, I had a hook, I did a long chain, I added a few DCs and SCs ... and it more or less just created itself. I was the one wielding the hook, it's true, but it seemed to be a self-crocheting afghan (ooooh, wouldn't that make a nice fairytale? Along the lines of the story of the magic porridge pot, but for crafters!)

In any case, the knitting/crocheting forum Ravelry has a wonderful gallery feature, which displays photos of all the projects made from a particular pattern. And, to be honest, I got a very funny feeling the first time I discovered (by accident, mind you) that other people - real people! - had made things - real things! - from my patterns. And it's even weirder when you look at photos of finished objects and realise that their version of your pattern is even nicer than your own, haha! Look at just two, for example (there are others in various stages of completion, here are two finished afghans):

Cheryl's blanket - look at that gorgeous cat!

Melissa's blanket

So even though the original is on my sofa, I can't help but feel blanket-envy - I want one of them instead :-)

Adventures in Ireland - Part II

I Bought New Underwear for My Boobess

I wish I were one of those women who can stroll into a lingerie shop and whip a few bits of lace off a hanger. My chesticles are more of the bombastic variety and finding a receptacle for them is akin to trying to bag two piglets. After a year of denial, I finally accepted that I had put on weight and needed new underwear, so Joyce, my kindly sister-in-law, offered to head to the nearest large town with me on a girlie underwear-buying session.

The shopping centre was nearly empty. Ireland is in the depths of a dark recession and shopping as a recreational sport - previously an Olympic discipline in boomtime Ireland - has taken a nosedive. That's the reason why the young Polish shop assistant in the fancy lingerie shop was thrilled to see me when I walked through the door.
"It's very quiet out there," I said, indicating the silent concourse, where tumbleweeds blew past the empty shops, the clerks leaning on the countertops, bored, or engaged in chat with their fellow workers.
"Is awful," she said earnestly. "Today most exciting thing is visit from cleaning lady."
Poor girl.

I explained my predicament and her practised eye swept over my bosom.
"We not have your size," she said, "but I am measure you anyway. Okay? Then you go department store and buy there."
"Do you mind?" I asked.
"Nothing to do," she said and shrugged.
In we went to the cubicle and she whipped out a measuring tape.
"This bra all wrong," she said, "You are have four boobess because too small. You want two boobess."
She held up two fingers. I nodded. Yes, indeedy. Two boobess would be preferable.
"Important with bra is," she said, "must separate boobess - " she made an elegant sweeping motion, like Moses parting the Red Sea, " - and also to keep down."
With that, she patted the air energetically. I understood immediately. Those of you who are generously endowed know how spooky it is to have your boobess try to sneak up and smother you.

She worked out my size and sent me on my way, after giving me a little lesson on style ("Lace look very nice, but here this grandma style ugly but much better under t-shirt") and form ("This pretty but make uni-boobess, remember we want to separate.") Armed with this knowledge, I went next door and bought half-a-dozen miracles of engineering and then popped in to show her my purchases.
"Very good!" she said, beaming. And, distressingly, added: "Good luck!"
With my chest, I probably need it. But for now, I think I have the girls under control.

Adventures in Ireland - Part I

Well, after twelve hours of travelling, I'm back in the Gingerbread House with my husband. He'd even vacuumed. The man is truly a gem.

Those of you who read this post will probably begin to suspect that whenever I travel, disaster follows. If I were very narcissitic - or slightly paranoid - I would start to become concerned that my desire to fly unleashes some natural catastrophe, this time the earthquake in Japan, subsequent tsunami and the reactor meltdown. I not only feel very sad and quite shell-shocked about the whole situation (I can't watch any more news reports - too distressing), I also have lingering feelings of responsibility. I think I'll stay put for a while.

To take our minds off terrible things, let me tell you what I got up to in Ireland:

I've Got a New Baby Niece
Baby Erica arrived on Pancake Tuesday, my brother and sister-in-law's first child. Naturally, much rejoicing was had, and Mammy and Daddy Gingerbread even decided to brave a trip to Dublin to see the new baby - and I got to go along. This might not seem much to you, but it involved major trauma for the Gingerbreads. My parents do not like to travel. Anywhere. And although Dublin is only an hour away, getting from the depths of the countryside (where they live) to Holles Street Hospital in Dublin city centre is no less stressful than a shuttle launch.

Needless to say, we got lost. Dublin is devoid of road signage, which had a significant role in this development, but let's just say that it came as no surprise to any of the car's occupants that we ended up driving in circles. My parents' forty-year relationship teetered on the brink of destruction as snippy comments flew back and forth across the gearstick divide about someone's driving skills and someone else's navigational talent. Finally, I was sent to ask a taxi driver for directions.

When I returned, my brother was on the phone, frantic. The visiting hour was ticking by and no relatives had yet turned up to admire the fruit of his loins. I tried to give my father the taxi driver's directions, but these were intercepted by my mother, who was trying to simultaneously calm the new father and calm my father - and trying to amplify the instructions for my father, who suffers bouts of selective deafness when concentrating on the road:

Me: "The taxi driver said you drive straight on till the traffic lights, turn left, cross the bridge over the canal and turn right after the third set of traffic lights."
Mammy: "TURN RIGHT AT THE CANAL AND TAKE THE THIRD SET OF TRAFFIC LIGHTS ON THE LEFT. Yes, Michael, I'm still on the phone. Just giving your father directions."
Me: "No! Drive straight on till the traffic lights, turn left, cross the bridge over the canal and turn right after the third set of traffic lights."
Mammy: "Okay. Did you get that? DRIVE THROUGH THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS AND TURN LEFT AT THE BRIDGE WHEN YOU'VE PASSED THREE SETS OF TRAFFIC LIGHTS. Yes, Michael, we're on our way."
Me: "NO! Drive straight on till the traffic lights, turn left..." etc.

But we finally found the hospital, which was tucked away in a busy side street, and gathered around the cot to admire the little sprog. She was passed around like a swaddled parcel and declared to be perfect.

Finito!

I spent this morning edging the blanket, weaving in and snipping ends. Ugh.
But now it's finished and all that remained to be done was to take a few photos. Sadly today is so windy that the daffodils in my father's garden are bent double to the ground. So taking a decent photo was a challenge. Zuppy turned up to help and then scuttled off when it got too cold. If you look closely at the photo, you can see that he was watching me out of the corner of his beady eyes: as Iset up the photo I had to push him away with my leg while struggling to pin the darned blanket down in gale-force wind. He was determined to get up on the bench (and note that he's a vertically-challenged terrier so he tried to use his sharp little dog-claws to get a leg up) while I tried to shove him aside and keep the blanket from flying across Farmer JohnJoe's field next door (and they spread slurry yesterday so I was rather stressed.)

The pattern has just been tested and - all going well - it will be published at the end of March!

Glendalough

On Sunday, the pater familias and I decided to Get Culture. And, after a huge family reunion that involved obscene quantities of food, we thought it mightn't be a bad idea to Get Exercise and Get Fresh Air as well. So we headed off to Glendalough.

Glendalough - which means the valley of the two lakes - is an ancient monastic settlement in east of Ireland, not far from where we live. This 6th century monastic settlement is nestled in the valley that is now the Wicklow National Park. And although it was a foggy, cold Sunday morning in March, there were hundreds of walkers and tourists out and about. Not only Irish people, but also several dozen blue-lipped southern Europeans and brightly-clad Germans and Dutch, revelling in The Nature. For my father, the most fascinating of all was the young Asian man who was wearing an interesting pair of pants with the crotch situated at knee-level.
"Do you think he knows that his trousers are falling down?" asked my father, concerned.
"I think they're supposed to be like that," said I - fashion expert that I am.
My father was astounded. Gobsmacked, in fact.
"He wants to look like that on purpose?" he said. "Those trousers are deliberate?"
I had to break it to him gently that they were indeed a fashion statement and not just a very unfortunate sartorial oopsie.

With the patience of a preying mantis, I waited till they'd wandered off to the side to get you, dear readers, a selection of tourist-free photos:

St. Kevin's Church

St. Kevin's Church and the Round Tower in the distance

Round Tower and graveyard

The Wicklow Mountains and the remains of an early Christian settlement

One of the loughs (lakes). Guaranteed Nessie-free!