Snaps to Veronik Avery, Boo To the World at Large

I finished sewing on the buttons, weaving in the ends, and putting on the cardigan yesterday. And I'm in love. My secret shame has been that, ever since my first sweater turned out, I had been cursed to never knit a garment that fit. Many sweaters got close, but there was always something wrong, even if it wasn't as dramatic as the Pin-Up Queen debacle. Like Poppy, which will soon be put to the knitting project graveyard to later be resurrected as something hopefully useful. But this sweater fits! It fits just the way I want it to! And it's cute, and flattering, and everyone is suitably impressed and surprised when they find out that I made it myself. Even though I screwed up a few of your design elements, Ms. Avery, you managed to come up with one fine sweater.
And on to darker matters. What is there to write about the tragedy at Virginia Tech that hasn't been written, or recorded, or photographed already? It's a tragedy for all these brilliant, loved people who lost their lives, and a tragedy for their families. It's also a tragedy for society, that a place where you're supposed to be safe, even coddled in an intellectual community, can be destroyed so easily. And it's chilling to think how precarious our lives are, and how they rest so terribly on the secret life of other people. I went out to a party last night, and had a good time, but before I went to bed I couldn't help but think, in spite of the wine I drank, of all the tricks of chance that separated me from the victims. And maybe the chill in my room wasn't from the weather last night.

The Button Band Players

This big blob of brown heather will hopefully be a finished cardigan soon. Just knitting up the button band, and then I'm off in search of buttons. Cute buttons. Buttons that will push this sweater into the category of AWESOME. These holy buttons will hopefully detract from the following things I would correct if I could go back in time and start again:

1. Jimmy with the patterning on the sleeve after adjusting its length, so that the patterning continues across the shoulders, as it does in the pattern picture
2. Read the tutorial on V.A.'s blog so that my interpretation of the lace decreases and increases is a little less free-form
3. Shorten the sleeves by yet another inch. I have tiny, stunted, vestigial arms, my friends.

Go buttons!

Weird...

Remember that Monarch Knitting book I found in the used book store? Well, I was looking through a list of upcoming knitting books at Amazon, and what do I find: they're re-printing it. And it's supposedly "hard to find". Moments of knitting coincidence like this frighten me.

Also, Véronik Avery's book is scheduled for release in September. I'm really looking forward to this one- I can't think of a dud Avery design. Annie Modesitt has a book coming out too, a little earlier in August. I have mixed feelings about Ms. Modesitt- sometimes her designs can be innovative and lovely, and other times they are... not so much. I'm still recovering from the baby onesie she design in the latest Vogue, which kind of reminded me of a Tyrolean flour sack. But then there's this corset top, which is gorgeous. Although I may be wary of her, after an ill-advised attempt at the Pin-Up Queen sweater from Stitch and Bitch. It was my fault, really, and I doomed it from the start. To be flattering on my figure, the pattern would have required a few alterations. Alterations that I didn't have the skills at the time to figure out. I did a stubbornly half-assed job on my swatching, a bad idea for Classic Elite Lush, which blooms prodigiously with wear and blocking. Actually, the yarn choice, while certainly luscious, was a bad choice for the garment I had in mind. I wanted a sweater I could just pull on and trot off to school in, one that would be flattering any day of the week. Instead, I ended up wearing a wee fuzz factory, one that sent puffs of fiber skywards with every moment, and matted with anything more than gentle use. Eventually, I conceded defeat, and hid it in the closet. I've been slowly frogging it over the last year, for a better purpose. And maybe Ms. Modesitts pattern will find a purpose too- with a better yarn.
One that doesn't cause a sneezing fit.

It's The Cardi That Never Ends...

Can't blog. Seaming.

Photogitron

Tuesday, I decided that I could only hide out in my room playing Online Boggle for so long. For one thing, I was starting to imagine possible Boggle grids in my head. Then coming up with fantasy grids, grids that would allow me to spell seven letter words with ease, or specially themed grids. I had to admit that I was clearly going nutty, and decided to head out with my camera to the Oratoire St-Joseph, as decided by my roommate's boyfriend. Unfortunately, by the time I decided to leave I couldn't find my lens cap. I was not leaving unless I got some pictures from the whole thing, so I took even more pictures of Oliver in between ransacking my room for the tiny little plastic thing. So, not only had I become a Boggle-playing crazy cat lady, but I had become a well-documented Boggle-playing crazy cat lady. Whatever, Oliver is crazy photogenic. Thankfully, I found it eventually, and headed out. For those of you non-Montrealais, the Oratoire was built in honour of Blessed André Besette, at the foot of Mont Royal. It has the largest copper dome beside St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, and it looms above the surrounding Cote des Neige neighbourhood. Pilgrims crawl up its (many, many) steps hoping to be cured of their afflictions, and there's a special chapel lighted by votives and watched by the crutches of those who have been healed. I need to take the tour guide's words for the last bit, because being a non-Catholic I chickened out of actually going in, preferring instead to photograph exteriors and such. I always feel weird being in religious places or events, particularly when I'm not a member of the faith. So, some other time I'll have to drag my Catholic roommate down as my guide. I got some decent, if dull shots of the place. It still feels like winter here, with all the snow we've been getting, so I'm getting a little sick of everything having that grey, muted patina of winter.

My next goal was to get a decent shot of the big cross on Mt. Royal. Here's where things started to go embarrassingly wrong. It's important to remember that, as its name implies, it's a GIANT METAL CROSS ON A HILL. Because, I could not find that big iron cross on a hill. There are signs, with arrows, on the paths that will supposedly direct you to that big cross. I followed the signs. The first one even had distances- 0.8 km, it said. "Well, a bit of a trek," I said, but nothing extreme. Why, I walk that far from my apartment to McGill each day." So I walked. And walked. Avoided joggers. Avoided power walkers. Was nearly trampled by a gang of people pretending to cross country ski with poles but without skis, but I continued walking. I followed the signs, and I followed the arrows, until another sign had a distance marking on it: 1.7 km. Why? Where did I go so terribly wrong? I should have let the faux skiers get me. The cross is visible from St. Urbain, and yet I could not find it. Please send help, and perhaps a compass. However, the day was not a complete write-off. I saw a fox on the hill who came pretty close to me, although none of the other walkers looked as impressed. I'm guessing that foxes are probably like pigeons on that mountain- chummy and used to humans. Here's Rabies Fred the fox, next to his favourite beer.

And then I went to see Grindhouse, since I was damned tired and it was late. I'm the odd person who likes Robert Rodriguez better than Quentin Tarantino. I think Rodriguez does what he does with a little more verve- I never feel dull after watching Desperado or From Dusk 'Til Dawn. I do have to admit, if only grudgingly, that Tarantino has had a profound influence on film, particularly American film, since the early nineties. But so much of that influence is confined to things I'm a little sick of in movies. Crime dialogue that's too clever by half, crime dialogue about pop culture, and shots of people's damn feet, for example. Which is why I ended up liking Planet Terror a lot more than Death Proof, and not just because I'm a zombie freak. Planet Terror is zippy, and has Rose McGowan with a gun leg. Death Proof has some amazing stunt work, and Kurt Russell is well-used, but any part not involving cars is rather dull. Still, three hours of fun, particularly the fake trailers. Please make either Hobo With a Shotgun or Machete real movies, film powers that be. I love Danny Trejo.

And, one of my good friends got herself a boyfriend and is being all cute. It's so nice when good things happen to good people, isn't it? Hopefully there's some of her magic left to spread around.

Dear Montreal Weather:

You can kiss my ass.
Yours,
Protagitron
P.S. By tomorrow, it should be all over but the blocking for the $1.50 cardi. Hooray!

Knitting Night in Canada

The Dollar and a Half Cardigan slowly grinds to a close. Once I finish this cabled cardi front, there's just the finishing left to do. I'll try and finish in a timely manner, instead of neglecting the unseamed, unblocked bits as I usually do. The pattern has the sides reversed (if made up according to the directions, the cabled front would go on the other side than in the picture), but I just knitted it as is. It doesn't really matter to me whether it looks like the picture, or whether the cable goes on the right or left side. I did wing the decreases in lace pattern, though. I'm pretty sure it's not the right thing to do, so I won't reprint what I did here, but trust that it looks fine. I also knitted this in wool instead of a linen yarn. Briggs and Little Regal in Brown Heather to be exact. I love knitting with this stuff- the tweedy flecks and heathery mix of colours, its honest wool hand, and the idea that it's a very Canadian yarn. Yes, there's a lot of vegetable matter, but I just pick most of it out as I go along, figuring whatever I don't adds character. I knitted it a size smaller than what I usually knit, since all of my knitted sweaters turn out larger than I usually want them to be. I figure if it comes out too small after blocking, I'll just give it to my roommate. Or cry, as I burn it and my Poppy on my balcony.


And here's a baby blanket, made in (Canadian- I spy a theme) Koigu following the Mason-Dixon log cabin directions. One of my dearest friends/mentors back home (frientors?) is pregnant with her second child. Since her first is one of the sweetest kids ever, I know she does good work. And since I couldn't knit when he was born, I decided this one must have something knitted that is more than my usual baby hat. Then I realized that I had no money left for yarn. Which turned out alright, since I did have a stash of Koigu. The purple semi-solid and the red and purple mix were supposed to be a modular scarf, but I didn't know how to pick up stitches the right way for reversible modularity, so it looked kind of stupid. The one with purples and greens was bought on clearance online. After it came in the mail, I realized it was on clearance because it was pretty much spun of the mid-nineties essence. Together I think they work, and since she's all artistic and such I'm sure she won't mind putting all that purple on a baby boy. What do you think- garish? Too gendered?

Happy Easter

My Grandma has a lot of weird stuff.

I hope everyone had a safe and happy Easter, Passover, or whatever you celebrate during spring. I visited Ingleside. It's hard to describe Ingleside, a small town not all that far from Cornwall in Ontario. It's where my Dad spent most of his childhood for a start. It's also the place where, a few days before Christmas, my brother and I were wasting some time at the lone dollar store, and heard the sounds of musical cards singing "Happy Birthday" and "Feliz Navidad" and the like an aisle over. Next, we heard a female voice say: "Hi, Jan! Sometimes I just come here and listen to the tunes!" I'm sure it has some great qualities, or at least better than the ones it has in my mind. Part of the problem is that we were conditioned by my Dad, who made sure to blow that Popsicle stand as soon as he could, that Ingleside is about as much fun as a case of herpes.
There's a sign just outside the town that says "You are now half-way to the North Pole."
You're also half-way to nowhere.
But, the grandparents still live there, and we love them. And her delicious, delicious pies. Plus, its closer to Montreal, and Ottawa where my brother lives, so we usually do Easter there. It was nice to see the family again, especially since my parents brought Smitty up. Remember the little gaffer with the white spot from all the puppy pictures? He looks like this now. And has the personality of a politician with ADD- charming, but exhausting. I tried to smuggle the cuteness back to Montreal, but no dice.

And expect more, and better, pictures. I went into Henry's in Ottawa, a great camera store on Bank, thinking I would just wander idly while my brother priced tripods, and walked out with a Canon Rebel XT. The body was used, but in perfect shape (they hadn't even put the strap on), so I got it for a measly four hundred bucks. And my brother gave me one of his cheaper lens until I could afford better ones. I've now become one of those annoying people who run around believing everything is for photographing, and for photographing at least five times. Yes. Also, I hit up Yarn Forward, and bought some cable needles and a Chibi. The Rowan RYC Classic Alpaca book managed to overcome my reserve, but I'll write about that later.

Other Goings On

In my absence, besides temporarily dropping out of McGill, I somehow made my way to MAC and am now in possession of a reasonable stash of make-up.

Yes, I know that those two ideas seem incongruous, but bear with me. I never wear make-up. Well, hardly ever. I was never really taught the correct way to go about the application of various facepaints and the like, so on the rare days when I tried, I would religiously blend and blend until I may as well have been wearing nothing at all. Even my prom in high school. I did my make-up myself because I had spent a ridiculous amount of money on my dress, which ended up amounting to tinted gloss and mascara, with the barest of eyeliner. I did my hair too, which with all my skill was left to dry in all of its curly, thatchy glory. I was Boadicea at the top and Audrey Hepburn from the neck down. I shaved my legs, yo. I tried my best.

Anyway, I figured I could at least try and learn the ropes. So, I begged my most fashionable friend to be my wingman at the MAC store. Fortunately, the salesperson was a kind, earthy type in a pixie cut, instead of the vampiric, cult-eyed foundations mavens you sometimes see working the aisles. She gave me a nice, basic look that doesn't make me look like a lady of the night, and I am almost capable of repeating it at home. I would grade myself at a B+. Now, I just need to get my hair cut again and I'll look semi human.

And yes, I know that cosmetics are just another tool of the patriarchy, or something. Women's Studies students, take the lead here. But it's a useful tool to have in my arsenal, and I'm too damn lazy to match my actions up to my feminist ideals. I even wear heels sometimes, the horror. But they are Fluevogs, which I think should be given a pass- I need to support my countryfolk.

My adorable foster cat Oliver is still looking for a home. I want him to find a good place before I have to go back to Guelph. He went to one adoption day, but I guess no one wants an adorable love magnet with a yen for food. Maybe his size puts people off- he's a little girthy, but the boy is a big cat. I swear he's about the size of my old Sheltie, Brydie. I would adopt him myself, but my parents have a new puppy, and just hate cats as a united front. He's calm, and patient. He's never malicious, and he wants nothing more than to be around us. He'll lay on the couch and watch TV with us, or on my bed as I work in my room. Like a good child, he loves his parents equally and will spend one night with me and the other with Katie, sleeping at the foot of our beds. He's come up with many clever ways of getting more food. Waking us up at separate times so he'll be fed twice. Opening the latched cabinets to eat his food. Tearing into a bag of Temptations cat treats like it was a freshly killed zebra carcass. But he has sweeter moments too- rolling on his back to show off his orange belly, or nuzzling my head while he purrs. He's simply an awesome cat, so if you know anyone in the Montreal area who could give him a fabulous home, get in touch with me.

Knitting Cowboy

Here we have a pile of brown wool, also known as the finished back and sleeves for the 1.50$ Cardigan. Since my last knitting project, Poppy, turned out a little hinky in spite of my best attempts, I'm just winging this. Like the decreases for the sleeves. Sure, I understood part of the instructions, but then again I understand part of Russian, and where did that get me? Making speeches about "easy pens "and "really big shorts". The prof used to dread my speech time. So, I decided to be a knitting cowboy and just do things my way. Yeehaw. It may not work out, but at least it will be an educational experience.
Yesterday, I went on a mini used bookstore crawl. Ever since dropping out of all my courses this semester (oh, the shame), I've had a lot of free time. And you can fill only so much of it by baking before running out of eggs, and starting to think of your now dim future. So, I decided enough was enough, I was going to do something productive, and that something would be trolling the used bookstores. I was hoping that one might have some Graham Greenes in the editions I've been collecting, or dare I hope, one of Elizabeth Zimmerman's knitting books, but no dice. I did find a copy of Rowan #31 for twenty bucks. And while this is not a bad deal, it was a bit more than I wanted to pay for a book whose designs, while lovely, just weren't firing me up. J. Westcott Books, close to my place, finally redeemed the whole thing. Not only do at least three cats live there, and as we all know the mark of a good bookstore is the quantity of cats, but they also had a trove of vintage knitting pamphlets. This Monarch Yarn pamphlet is from the twenties, and it features some truly awesome patterns. They are also very insistent that they are "MADE UP TO A STANDARD AND NOT DOWN TO A PRICE". Suck it, Toronto Dominion Woolens, and your skank-ass yarn, too! Some of the instructions have become hard to decipher with time. No gauge, naturally, and I think "ridges" means either garter or reverse stockinette stitch. But dabbling in some knitting archaeology would be worth it to knit an updated version of that jacket, no? I'm thinking a touch shorter, with buttons all along the button band. Maybe a bit more fitted too, but I love the art nouveau design. The pattern was originally knit in Cherry and White, but I want a different colour scheme.

I'm also fond of the vest in the upper right corner, although I would knit it in worsted, shape the waist and definitely shorten the v-neck. Thank God the colourwork designs are charted. The shawls and hats look interesting too. And there's the rest of my haul. A sock book from the fifties with some interesting patterns, Woolcraft with some nice basic patterns and boffo beehive hairdos, baby pattern book, and Paton's "Astra Easy-Knits For the Family", another artifact from the sixties. My Dad has been angling for a v-neck vest with very specific requirements, and I think this vest fulfills them. Plus, it's from one of his glory decades. I'm thinking Silky Wool, Calmer, or Wool Cotton. He has heat issues.