The Magical Man-Sweater - Part I

The magic bra

When I was ten, I had a lacy black sports bra, which served duty as my training bra. One morning, I opened my drawer and found two black bras rolled there. I laid the bras out next to each other and puzzled over them. They were identical. I looked at the Dean Koontz novel next to my bed, and out the frosty window. It seemed unlikely that a fairy had snuck in and left me a bra. Perhaps my old bra had reproduced like a tribble. Perhaps my dresser had a double in another dimension and a cosmic rift had opened. I was the sort of child who looked in wardrobes for snow and searched trees for faces. An enchanted bra was not the gateway to magical realms that I would have hoped for, but I'd take it.

As it turned out, the bra belonged to our neighbor, who gave it to my mother after seeing mine on the laundry line because it was a cheap thing that didn't offer enough support for actual breasts. My mother put it in my drawer. The mystical bra-fairy poofed out of existence. But the fissure of possibility had opened briefly. A thread of that fissure remains.

And this brings me to...

The Magical Man-Sweater

This fall makes 5 years since events unfolded, and I am ready to be over it. An idea formed itself in my psyche. I would knit the man a sweater - and in its creation, the sweater itself would become magical - transforming my heart as if dipped in the fondue of love. Every stitch would bind me to him and graft shut the injury to my heart. He would wear it and feel loved. And if he fucked up again, I could choke him with it.

And this is exactly why boyfriend sweaters are cursed.

So, knowing I was setting myself up for disaster, I decided to take the thing one step further; this project needs to teach me to be a better knitter, from the foundations up. There are two rock stars of knitting in particular who I consider to be opposites of each other in philosophy: Alice Starmore and Elizabeth Zimmerman. I will hitch this sweater to them and ride it to victory like a woolly chariot.

In her books, Alice Starmore has explicit directions, complicated charts, and even her very own yarns - all of which must be used exactly to correctly achieve her impossibly elaborate designs. Not for nothing is Starmore referred to in the knitting community as "LSD" - Litigious Scottish Designer; even mentioning her name here on my little blog sets me up for a potential slap on the wrist. I am a bit nervous. I just want to KNIT A MAGICAL SWEATER, OK?

Elizabeth Zimmerman, on the other hand, gives gentle advice instead of instruction; she guides you through the process of making a thing and leaves it up to you to fill in the gaps with your own good sense and imagination. And math. Lots of hateful math. She assures me I am smart enough to do this, but I don't think she has seen me counting the bank deposit for work.

So I bought the yarn ($60), ordered the books ($25.00), and took out my implements of mathematical witchery.

 

My design sketch:

The books: Knitting Without Tears, by Elizabeth Zimmerman, and Aran Knitting, by Alice Starmore

The man liked the snub-nosed Scottish model. 

I didn't see a pattern for her, though.

I've loved the the cables in Starmore's St. Brigid since the moment I saw them. The sweater is infamous and terrifying for its complexity.

AUUGH.

I wanted the cables to go up the sleeves, paired with Zimmerman's classic Seamless Hybrid sweater, which has folded hems and innovative construction to complement broad, manly shoulders.

Hmm, where are the sizes and measurements and charts? 

Oh, there AREN'T ANY.

The yarn arrived. Plymouth merino superwash in dark, heathered grey. I clasped my hands and went doe-eyed.

Yarn of DESTINY.

I got out my needles, ready to cast on. Zimmerman tells me that I MUST make a swatch. "Otherwise you may sup the porridge of regret with the spoon of sorrow." Well, shit.

She suggests making a hat as a swatch, but I am too cheap and lazy, so I cast on 30 stitches and worked up a little rectangle, instead. Perhaps not off to the best start. I got the numbers I needed and promised to be more faithful to methodology in the future.

It took 7 measurements to determine my gauge: 5 stitches per inch on size 7 needles. I pilfered a sweater from the man's closet and measured 41 inches around. That seemed kind of huge. He has a 36-inch chest and a 31-inch waist (jerk), but if I went by that, he would look like this:

Magic? OH YES. But I don't have a hat.

After 3 tries, my terrific math skills told me that 5 x 41 = 205 stitches. I decided to start with a sleeve, to warm up, and realized that I had no size 7 double-pointed needles. Or contrasting color for the inner hemming. Fack. Ordered the goods ($18.50) and cast on the body, instead.

It started well. I toted the sweater to work with me and knit on lunch break while listening to audio books, and toted it home again to knit in front of weeknight tv with a cup of tea and my bottles of antibiotics.

And then I dropped it out of a moving car.

There was a moment of horror when I looked down at the knitting on my lap and saw the tail leading under the driver's side door. I yanked the car over and jumped out, waving traffic around, and ran down the middle of the lane for 200 yards to roll it all back up into a ball on my hand. Tourists in renta-mustangs swerved, and I tossed a length of yarn over onto the grass, where it became snarled in sticker bushes. After a bit of yanking and cussing and leg untangling, I jammed the wad of snarled thorny yarn into the car and fled the scene. Disgrace.

a pox - the shmoopening

I am crap at history. The only reason I can remember the Battle of 1812 is because it was the name of John Crichton's pet robot in Farscape.

hellooo pants

I am fond of history, however, and retaining history is a brain function I wish I had - unlike, say, math and auto mechanics, which can shove it. I don't give a damn about weddings (except yours, Lorenz!), but I do care about historic events, and so I arrived at work this morning and rummaged the cupboards for double-sided tape so that I could stick a paper plate to my forehead like one of the princesses in this morning's Royal Wedding. My student helper blinked at me. "Who got married?" And I fell off my swivel chair.

Not cut out to be a junkie

I am still sick. I should have spent the week at home with my head in the toilet, but my co-worker was even sicker, forcing me in to keep the building open. Like a warm, fleshy doorstop. The Robitussin stopped being amusing as the week ground by in a flickering series of discolored scenes that smelled like old socks.

Someone was reported to be barking at hobos in the parking lot.

Someone pooped in the 4-foot-tall men's room trash can.

The candy fairy left a Snickers bar on my keyboard.

I read the 4-page "ahh - aaahh - AAAH - AAAHHHH" in Pigs Make Me Sneeze with enough gusto to draw intrigued/alarmed patrons to the storytime door.

I was punished passive-aggressively by a teacher for not returning a phone call a month ago, which I had not known I needed to. "Oh, I will have to give them these stickers tomorrow, since I didn't get the kids ready for this, because I didn't even know if you'd be prepared, because you didn't call me back." The kids were all present. Just HAND OUT MY EFFING STICKERS. Bah.

The new calves are on the hillsides, still wearing their umbilical cords. They're a few weeks early; last year they all appeared on May 18th.

Along with my sinuses and equilibrium, the cold pills have drained away much of my hope and happiness. I tapped listlessly through my work, slept on the floor under my desk during lunch break, and have been fever-whispering along to old songs.

It dredges up old questions and regrets and wishes. I browsed old entries and wished again that I had given myself permission to be angry and heartbroken. Instead of projecting manic "I'M FINE LOOK I'M SO HAPPY AND CAPABLE" and moving to California, I should have dropped a brick through the man's windshield and gotten a shack on the beach. But I wouldn't trade in the people who came after, and Leif is solidly fantastic, and our house on the hillside under the avocado tree is something perfect and good. I scribbled the brick off my time-machine list. Again. I'm still slightly angry, and more than slightly heartbroken. But the bright bits - they balance.

You should not eat that.

I am high on cold medicine and making poor choices. Things were going so well. My cold lifted long enough for me to run around the kitchen with a spatula and a dinner glass full of chocolate booze, sautéing onions and clipping artichokes and whisking batter. My mother was medicated to the gills and ready to sit upright and eat when the roast was carved. In the evening we dyed eggs, chucked the kids in bed, and the bunny delivered his baskets of candy, toys, bacon hot sauce, and zombie jerky (regular jerky with green flavor powder on it). Leif woke up at 3am and flipped in bed like a trout until we finally stumbled out at daybreak to put on the coffee. Delight and yelps because - as hoped - the rabbit ate the complimentary carrot. As well as the note.

Things began to take a turn after the chocolate. I gathered an armful of boiled eggs for the traditional eggs à la goldenrod, and the oven burst into flame. We watched it flicker through the tinted glass. Jokes about creamed eggs vs. cremated eggs were made. Mike opened the door and puffed it out, which was anticlimactic and disappointing. I got a pair of chopsticks and plucked out a lump of burnt cheese, and the man made a sad face. I think he wanted to eat it. 

It was a two-hour drive to the airport, and everybody wanted to come. I threw back a dose of Robitussin and sat wedged in the back seat between the boys, eyeballing them for absorbency as my stomach began to turn. Leif had a blanket. Gavin had larger clothing. It was a tossup. As I write this, my cold medicine has suddenly kicked in, and I am squinting and failing to remember where I was going with this. I didn't puke. I will not puke now. Probably.

There were bits about Chinese food, and kissing my mother, and waving her off to her terminal, and then finding myself in Walmart staring up at the birds in the rafters. The man deduced that I was high at this point, and tried to ditch me at Pier 1 while he ran off to a friend's house, but he was foiled by the giant "ENJOY EASTER WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY, YOU SELFISH ASSHOLES" sign on the store window. This was too bad, as I had decided I wanted to buy a bunch of overpriced couch pillows, dance in the curtain display, and maybe take a nap under a papasan. We made it halfway home before Leif threw up. He handled it well; an unhappy gurgle, a plea to pull over, a neat hurl on the side of the road, a swish with the dregs of my soda, and a stoic nod that he was ready to get back in the car. As we got underway again, I pulled out a stick of gum, and Leif asked for some. Normally this wouldn't fly, but I was doped up and felt sorry for him, so I tore off a piece and handed it over. A moment later, he said, "Here, done," and extended it back to me. This is when something went very wrong in my brain. I looked at the slimy blue wad as he tipped it into my hand, and was unable to remember what I was supposed to do with it. Instead of flicking it out the window or putting it in the wrapper, I thought, "oooh, sweet minty baby kisses!" and PUT IT IN MY MOUTH. The man stared at me. "Did you just -?" "It is really wet. I don't like this." "You know he just threw up and then chewed on that, right?" For some reason, this was a COMPLETE shock to me, and I started laughing like a lunatic, my head on my knees. And I still forgot to spit it out. At home, everyone ate leftovers for dinner, but I peered suspiciously into the gravy container and decided it tasted like mold. So did the lamb. And the Yorkshire pudding. I put it down as sick-person taste buds and went to get my jammies on. Got my toothbrush. Put toothpaste on it. Stuck it in my mouth. Marveled that my sick-buds made the mint toothpaste taste like cinnamon. Realized that something was wrong. Began to salivate uncontrollably. Spit and rinsed and gagged and licked a towel frenetically. SOMEONE had gotten into my scented bathroom oil diffuser and dipped my toothbrush into the scented oil.

It was a holiday of sensations. Horrible, unforgettable sensations. But nevertheless, the sort of holiday that contained just the mess of horror, food, and family that make them worth looking forward to every year. Now with Chocovine.

Easter 2011

Easter has arrived a day early, in a herald of lung-hacking and blanket-groaning. My mother and I were struck down by the airport virus gods, who demand the madre's return on Sunday evening - so the day of feasting has been bumped up to Saturday. The lamb is being rubbed down with olive oil, rosemary, amoxicillin, and a cherry Robitussin glaze.

A new discovery this year: Chocovine. Chocolate milk, what has booze in it. "It isn't a holiday unless everyone is slightly drunk by the time the meat is carved," I reasoned reasonably.

My doctor loaded my mother's pockets with drugs - sadly not encapsulated in rattling pink plastic eggs - and we are cozied at home against the blustering rain with the smells of pie and yorkshire pudding. 

"I will write a letter to the Easter Bunny and ask him to leave you medicine in your basket," says the boy. "Even though he ate the letter last year. And the year before."
"Yeah, I don't think rabbits can read so good."

"I'll ask him to give you yarn, too."

I don't know when I became the kind of person who would get excited about a basket of yarn on Easter morning, but I got out the paper and crayons.

spinning my wheels

 
The Boyfriend Curse

I've never knitted a man-sweater. Fellow fiber hoars know why: the Curse. If you start a sweater for a man, he will dump you before it is finished. If you finish it, he will not wear it, you will get pissed about it, and you will eventually dump him. The Curse can also be pretty handy if you're looking to end a relationship in the most passive-aggressive means possible, but it doesn't appear to have any effect on husbands. A husband can evidently endure substantial abuse by way of clown barf yarn and reckless pompoms. It is unclear how any of this applies to ex-husbands, however, and I got it into my head to test it. For science.

"I want to knit you a sweater."
"If we lived somewhere that required sweaters, or if I were the kind of person who wore that kind of thing, I would love to wear anything you made for me, because everything you knit is freaking amazing."

And that is the kindest rejection I have ever been dealt. I gave it up and wondered if I could knit a mustang cozy for the renta-monstrosity.

Two days later, a close friend announced his engagement. In New York. In the fall. And the man is in the wedding party. "I GET TO KNIT YOU A SWEATER!" I win. In a manner which creates a lot of work for myself, and which will cost a lot of money.

The plan so far:

My mother doesn't appreciate my sacrifice for science.
"When are you going to make me a sweater? You just made ones for the boys, and you're making one for yourself, and now you'll make one for Mike. I'm always on the bottom of the totem pole."
"I just spent 8 months making you a sweater!"
"Well, it's too hot."
*incoherent whargling*
"I want the one you're making."
"Well, it seems to be growing. You may be in luck."

It doesn't look huge, but it turns out that lace is stretchy. I should have known this - I WOULD have known this if I had swatched, but I never swatch anything, because I like the surprise. And because I am stupid.

It also turns out that long repeats of lace are a complete motherfucker to fix after your child rips out your needles and yanks out a chunk of it while you are in the bathroom. I hunkered on the couch with my knees up like a fence, deflecting small hands while frogging back five rows. One thousand stitches.

One thousand stitches.

I cried a bit, and then poured myself a margarita in a mason jar. Knitting is rough shit.


Mania and cave dwelling

A vague, pervasive sadness had settled over me in the past weeks, and a few days ago I decided to combat it by fiddling with my brain chemistry.

During my bleakest, most heartbroken days in California, my old friend Harris - he of the perpetually dilated eyes - schooled me on the relationship between serotonin and endorphins, pressing a bottle if 5htp into my hand in the CVS vitamin aisle. Within a week, I was laughing up at jet trails. Mike took this as a sign that I was sufficiently impaired to take him back and impregnate, and he was correct. This time, I am on to it. One 5htp pill a day, and no cloud-gazing or leather-clad men. I have been on the stuff for three days now -  and it has worked! My grim sadness has dissipated. Now I have panic attacks and lucid nightmares about losing my children to natural disasters and having sex with the fourth Dr. Who.

 It is possible that my brain does not need my interference.

The resulting mania is good for my productivity, at least. Two months have whipped by in a muppet-flailing frustration of inadequate screen time. I can knit a few rows or run off a few sentences between work and parenting and tub-rat disposal*, but illustration demands long uninterrupted hours in which to reach a state of artistic flow and physical malnutrition. My weekends are spent chasing my family out of the house, and as the last 5 weeks** to my deadline burn by, so too will my eyeballs.

That sunshine outside? It is not for me. 

I get the corner, where it is dim enough to necessitate a lamp at noon 

on a day when everyone else is at the beach.

I'm seeking balance, and inspiration, and self discipline. So far I have pills, dead rats, and a backache. We work with what we have.

* Those rampant vermin I mentioned have all been left dead in my bathtub. The cats are pleased with themselves. I found myself thinking about my illustrations and wondering if I could perform taxidermy with household supplies. I chucked them into the neighbor's bushes, instead.

**FAAAACK 5 WEEKS LEFT!

bored

Work defense system has been upgraded to two baseball bats. I am spoiling for a fight. "You want me to help you upload WHAT, SIR? What do you MEAN, show you the PORT?" Wham.

At home, the beer fermenter spewed all over the inside of the mini fridge, which now smells like a dead thing. In the bedroom. Of course it does.

Annual swarming of vermin. The roaches go into a pheromone frenzy, the cane spiders come out to eat the roaches, the rats come out to chew up the spiders, and I yell at everyone for using library books to smack them all with. That is what cats are for. Smacking vermin.

Started a ridiculously hard project. Because somebody is too busy coding a beer app to get off the computer and let me work on my book illustrations. Have been figuring out lace charts and staring daggers at him from the couch.

BEES

 

Solo weekend and finished object

The man and boy flew off to Oahu for the Highland Games, leaving me waving from an empty driveway with the infink - alone and defenseless for the wolves to feast on.

For two days, we ate cookies and watched early-morning Shaun the Sheep. We set Pandora to classic rock and hung out laundry with the Rolling Stones. We mowed half the lawn - I pushed the rotary mower and he raced ahead as if chased by a combine harvester. We dragged out the lawn chairs, sunning our legs and loading squirt guns. We caught up on icanhascheezburger and cuteoverload, and ate leftover homemade pasta.

For three nights, the child was bathed and read to and tucked into bed with a song by 7:30pm. There is nothing quite as heartbreakingly perfect as a sleeping child in footie pajamas. I kissed his curls and tiptoed out of the bedroom, to spend a few hours working on my illustrations with a small glass of whiskey and a few episodes of the Wire and Dr. Who. I've been trying hard to get sucked into Dr. Who, but it just hasn't hooked me the way Battlestar did. I enjoy David Tennant's bugging eyes and tiny teeth, though.

And while Leif dug in the yard with trucks, or laid his head on my chest to watch Ponyo and My Neighbor Totoro in the evenings, my hands were working.

 (River Forest Gansey) 

A bit of hobbit-wear for cool nights on the misty mountain with the friends.

Dark heather brown cotton, light and washable.

Leif checked on my progress intermittently, and put his arms out to try it on at every stage of construction. When it was done, he ran his hands over it and said, "Wow. Pretty. For me." My chest exploded from gratification.

I knit to distract myself from my thoughts; to channel sadness or shmoopiness or regret and achieve a sort of mindless focus in the repetitive motion. Every item has a feeling worked into it - some I need to give away, some go into a box, some get ripped out and cussed at. This one is the best of what I can do, because it makes my son feel loved, and that is everything I put into it during these days alone with him.