Hooked for Life (6 page)

Yes, I have an office, but I find I don’t always want to sit in there when I am working out a design. And I certainly don’t want to sit in there when I could be watching bad television programs guilt-free because hey, the TV might be rotting my brain cells, but I am actually accomplishing something by crocheting, so I award myself a free pass to watch whatever goofy stuff I like. I couldn’t watch anything serious or educational anyway—it would distract me from my crochet work. So bring on the sitcoms, I am working here.

Anyway, I have a light with a natural bulb, a small round end table, and a basket underneath it that is for whatever project I am working on at the moment. A large red leather armchair is my perch of choice, and there is a tapestry-covered ottoman in front of it. That is, I am pretty sure all of those things are there, but I haven’t seen several of them in years. I believe there is an odd sort of magnetic force emanating from that corner of the living room that attracts fiber, paper, colored pencils, and crochet tools. No, not a magnet—a tractor beam. Okay, I don’t exactly know what it is, but I know it’s there because, at any given moment, there are twenty or thirty skeins of yarn, four or five stitch dictionaries, a stack of graph paper, two or three sketchbooks, a bunch of recent magazines, half the world’s supply of Post-It notes (I like to play with Post-It notes!), and so many crochet hooks and knitting needles that the table top often looks like a porcupine.

Of course, when I am working on something new, or something with a deadline (like an imminent birth or major gift-giving holiday), or just something that excites me, the yarn, hook, needle, stitch marker, sketch pad, or pencil I need at the moment is nowhere to be found. It was in the pile yesterday. It might be in the pile yet, but I have no stinking idea where it is. After a cursory glance through the topmost layers of detritus, I usually give up and run to the store for backup supplies or move on to a different project.

About twice a year I get a burning desire to have that corner of the house look less like a dump site for homeless crochet projects and more like a place where a normal person would sit for an evening. After all, you can see that area from the entry hall, and I have on more than one occasion prayed that the mother dropping off or picking up a child is too busy to come all the way in the door, because if she turned her head ever so slightly to the right, she would see into the depths of fiber hell.

So then I clean it all up, relocate the “no chance of being worked on this month in my wildest dreams” projects back to the stash closet, file the magazines on the shelf where they belong, and throw out approximately two thousand yarn ends from finishing projects. Then I put all the hooks and needles back into their respective cases and discover that I have run to the store so many times since the last time I cleaned that I now own eight identical size H hooks. And so many tapestry needles (because I am
always
losing those) that I am afraid to count them all. But hey, I will never run out again, right? And look how pretty Mount Yarn looks! Hardly a mount at all, it’s more like a gently swelling hillock.

This lasts for approximately forty-eight hours, by which time the invisible fiber/tool/paper tractor beam has kicked in, and the pile has started to inexorably rise toward the ceiling again. I swear that I am not putting more things over there, yet there they are. Do they breed? I actually think yarn that breeds would be pretty cool, as well as a blessing to the budget, but I digress. Is there a wormhole leading from the stash closet to Mount Yarn? (See, I must have been watching sci-fi during my TV binge.) If you are a scientist who knows about these things, please drop me an e-mail. I am afraid someday I will get sucked in and never find my way out.

But what a way to go.

I
f you watch medical shows on TV, or police procedural, which are my weakness, you find out quickly that like-minded people speak in a language all their own. “CBC, chem 7, STAT!” or “Book that perp for felony murder!” I am not always exactly sure what all the words mean, but familiarity and context give me the general gist.

Crocheters have a language of their own as well. Some of it overlaps with what knitters say, some of it is completely different, and sometimes the words are the same but have different meanings or connotations. I have heard it said that England and the United States are two countries divided by a common language; I think the language of crochet and the language of knitting have the same sort of relationship.

I don’t want to go on and on about language but since I lapse into crochet-speak so much in the course of this book, I thought a little detailed explanation might be in order. Herewith, a little primer—a translation,
if you will, from crochet to English. That’s American English, by the way, I still get confused by UK crochet-ish!

Voy a la tienda del hilado
—wait, that’s Spanish. I may not be multilingual but I have managed to find yarn in every country I have ever visited. By the way, that sentence means, “I am going to the yarn store.” Learn it; you may need it someday.

“My WIPS are taking over my available stash storage
—
some of them are going to have to befrogged.”
In English, this means “My works-in-progress (meaning, loosely, anything that has a hook glommed onto it) have expanded beyond the capacity of the drawer (storage bin, guest room closet, second home) in which I store the yarn I have yet to use (and may never use because quite frankly I bought some of it because it was pretty/on sale/I was bored/all my friends were doing it), some of them are going to have to be ripped out (while I sob bitter tears over all the time I wasted on that ungrateful pile of fiber).”

See? The language of crochet is a sort of shorthand that expresses more succinctly the thoughts of the crocheter. Let’s try another one.

“My dealer hooked me up and now I have a raging case of startitis. I am going to have to CIP to get through this pile, and maybe join a CAL or two,”
is shorthand for, “My local purveyor of fine fibers, who is so intimately acquainted with my personal tastes that she can make wonderfully appropriate suggestions as to what sorts of yarn I should buy, found me some enticing objects at a fair price (made me an offer I couldn’t refuse/lowered the price on the sale bin detritus she was trying to get rid of to the point that I couldn’t put it back) and I am so excited by my many purchases that I must immediately yet thoughtfully (Hah!) begin a number of new projects. I am going to have to Crochet in Public (on the bus/during lunch hour/waiting in the carpool/at the supermarket/no matter how much my muttering while counting stitches embarrasses my offspring)
, and maybe join a Crochet-Along (in which many crocheters work on the same project at the same time and comment on it, ostensibly to give each other support but in actuality to make those who finish quickly feel superior and those who never finish at all yet another thing to berate themselves over) or two because the camaraderie (or mockery—much depends on the general tone of the group) makes the project go so much faster (if only to avoid FO envy—remember, FO means Finished Object, and I promise I will stop now).”

My, that was a long one, wasn’t it? Thank goodness, we have our crochet language to help us shorten our sentences or we would never be quiet long enough to get any crocheting done!

One last example:

“No, I haven’t started that sweater yet, I am still swatching to get gauge,”
loosely translates to, “Even though it is a fall sweater and November is rapidly approaching like an oncoming freight train, I am making annoying little square after annoying little square after annoying little square in my pattern stitch, using every freaking sized hook I own (including using two sizes on alternate rows because I am just that anal retentive) because I cannot for the life of me get anything remotely resembling the number of stitches per inch that the designer got, and if I can’t solve this problem I am going to have a sweater to fit a three-year-old or the World’s Tallest Man, when what I wanted was a woman’s size medium. I think I am going back to afghans. And don’t ask me again!”

As you spend more and more time in the crochet community, you, too, will pick up words to express your passion for crochet. And some of them you might actually be able to say in front of your children without fear that they will get in trouble for repeating them at school.

I
am rarely without a hook and a ball of yarn within grabbing distance. It’s as if I have a wooly umbilical cord that will only let me get so far away from the possibility of needlework, and I don’t want to get too far lest it snap and cut off some vital nutrients. Crochet, for me, is an ambulatory mood-altering substance that is both completely legal and unlikely to spill and make a mess. No matter how long I am stuck in traffic, how many people are in front of me in line, how late my daughter’s class runs
leaving me stuck in the carpool lane, if I have something to crochet I am not wasting time. And therefore, I am less likely to want to murder whoever is responsible for the holdup. The world around me is a better place if I have some crocheting to do, both for me and for those I must interact with. Trust me on this, for I know it to be true.

I started bringing crochet projects to school during the middle school years and quickly discovered which teachers cared and which didn’t. I am pretty sure I finished a poncho during eighth grade honors English—as long as my work was done and done well, Mr. Beckett didn’t care what I did with the other parts of my brain. Mr. James, however, who taught social studies, was insistent that he required my full attention and my hands to be still. I disliked Mr. James fairly intently—until it turned out he was a needleworker, too. He sat in on my sewing class one day (I have no idea why) and taught me a cool trick for untangling threads during hand sewing. But I digress. Middle school gave me the guidelines for crocheting through my continuing education—prove you know your stuff, quietly bring out some needlework at an opportune time, and see if the professor freaks out or not. If s/he does, give up for a while and try again after midterms. If s/he doesn’t, bonus!

But what about those joyous occasions that require almost constant interaction with those around you, whether you like it or not? Situations that are arguably less stressful, such as luncheons, picnics, and Aunt Emma’s tea party? Madame Mathieson’s advice aside, there are often places where I am just itching to get some quality time with my current work-in-progress but experience has taught me that whipping out the hook is going to cause me some grief. Weddings, religious services, school plays, dance recitals … while I understand that these events take on epic proportions in the minds of those most directly involved, honestly, the rest of us could probably get by with half of our
attention elsewhere. And with a little fiber in hand, we could probably get more enjoyment out of the event, at that! But start double-crocheting away at one of these events and you are bound to attract the ire of a noncrafty attendee.

I am good at multitasking. I really will hear every word of the wedding vows even if I am making a sweater for the baby shower that I suspect is soon to follow. And in the unlikely event that I miss something, in this era of high technology there is bound to be a highlight reel available within forty-eight hours of the event.

Of course, part of the reason I know I can handle all this multitasking is that I am very careful to match my projects to the affair. I plan for large events by bringing appropriate WIPs—even in my finishing-hungry delirium, I know better than to bring to Little Junior’s christening an entire throw or a lace pattern that requires me to count every row. But try explaining your considerate forethought to those around you who are firing you nasty “How could you?” looks. If it looks as if I am about to be strung up afterward by insulted parents and in-laws of those who are center stage, I usually cave in and put my crochet away—not because I think I am wrong, but because tea parties, like traffic jams, shall pass sooner rather than later. My crocheting will wait.

Sometimes just knowing I could crochet if I wanted to is enough to get me through an event. I may know ahead of time in my heart of hearts that there is no possible way I could work on my shawl during Great-Great-Uncle Whatsit’s funeral without setting off World War III, or at the very least insulting a cousin or two whose feelings I would spare during this stressful time. But I’ll tuck the hook and the skein in my purse anyway … purely in case of emergency. I keep a fifth of good vodka in the freezer for much the same reason—I rarely need it, but knowing it is there and ready for me when and if I do is a comforting thought.

Now, if only I could convince the nice lady at the gym that carrying around a pound of yarn that I know I won’t use is aerobic in nature. The gym, of course, is a social situation that does not lend itself to crochet. But only because I don’t want my yarn to get all sweaty or to entangle myself on the stair stepper to the point that I would need scissors to get away.

I have crocheted for years and years (and years, but I don’t like to admit to that last group). Crochet has always been fashion driven—it was popularized to glam up ladies dresses with lacy goodness—but recently it seems to be taking over the runways from Milan to Paris to New York.

Now, I am not a big follower of fashion, as a brief glance at my wardrobe would attest. My daughter keeps threatening to put me on one of those television makeover shows, although could you imagine the bleeping if the host tried to throw out one of my crocheted tops? I suspect I would not be ladylike about that at all. But I do love paging through the fashion magazines—you know, the ones that are about the size of the New York phone book—and checking out all of the crochet.