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!