Bobbled over

I didn't mean to finish it. I swear. Last Thursday morning, there was one row of bobbles left on Bobblicious--that's thirteen bobbles, and I only meant to knit a few just after I got up, leaving the rest to be finished at my book group that night. But I was in the zone, man, those dastardly little clumps of yarn were just sailing off my needles and there I was, blowing off my quotidian morning reading & writing and finishing the whole darn row. Now, if I were a rational individual, I would've said to myself, "Alright, very nice, now set the piece down and move on with your morning." But nooooo. I just had to try it on, go to the bathroom (which boasts the sole mirror in the house, although when it's dark you can see yourself pretty well in the French front door) and pin the thing with bobby pins, then spread it on the living room floor to be sewed up. Routine sound familiar? It's a little like the Seinfeld episode in which Elaine, tiny sliver by tiny sliver, eats up the whole slice of ancient wedding cake in Mr Peterman's office. I couldn't frikkin' help myself.

Then, as Elaine surely did, I entered a dark, dark world. Though mine wasn't intestinal upset: it was knitting withdrawal.

It seemed innocent enough at first. Coming back from my run that day (I kicked arse: fifty minutes in the sunshine, it felt sooo gooood) I "accidentally" cast on for Mash, which is basically an openwork one-piece poncho, with my still-warm size 15 needles and the other mysterious yarn of unknown content from that cool place in Montreal (story to follow very soon.) It soon became clear that the gauge was way off, the openwork not nearly open enough. This pattern wouldn't do for the yarn--no worries, I could think of something else. In the meantime, I could happily work on Jaywalker #1, even though I prefer to keep that project for the bus ride to work, and it's gotta last me a long time because I can't afford much sock yarn (story about bus knitting to follow soon as well--it's a tough thing to start a blog with a backlog of knitting tales.) Well--again, something rotten in Denmark. After having knitted about an inch and a half of my first-ever sock, I decide it's time to try it on. Too small. (The absolute bane of my existence are my chunky ankles and calves.) Check gauge--way off, half an inch off. (And I did swatch!) This situation requires one, possibly both of the following remedies: math that will severely hurt my head, and the purchase of bigger needles. Neither of which are immediate live options. Dammit. The whole thing is too painful, I set down the ball of yarn and its attendant pair of bobbing double antennae and walk away.

Moaning. "I have nothing to kniiiiiiit!" (I am a first-class whiner.)

I looked in my (pretty small) stash--nothing Wasted valuable time scrolling through patterns on the net--ditto. Moaned again. For three days. "I have nothing to kniiiiit." (My DH, ever so loving and patient, administered many long hugs and stiff drinks.) The upshot is I did finish reading KnitLit the Third on the bus.

And, last night, after our dinner guests left and hubby put on the Dylan documentary No Direction Home, I cast on.

That story--you guessed it--coming soon.

(A note on the FO: no pictures yet, but it looks exactly like the green version on Knitty, except that the first sleeve I knitted has stretched and is a good two inches longer than the other one. Oh well.)