Crazy Lanea

Scanty evidence, finished objects, and questions of gauge and color

A couple of weekends ago, a bunch of us wandered out for the woods for a very relaxed camping trip smack dab between the Equinox and April Fool's Day.  Normally, I would carry back photographic evidence.  This time, I bring only this. 

It was really cold, and throwing an event is a fair amount of work.  But this bug sure is green!  I hope you can settle for it.

While we were freezing, I finished the butterfly moebius.  It ended up being a really great thing to wear while camping.  No dangling ends to be  a danger while tending a fire; soft enough to wear while sleeping; versatile enough to wear as a scarf, doubled up around my neck for extra warmth, wrapped around my neck and head--it's a great  garment.   I definitely want to use Seasilk again, and to repeat this knit.

I also finished the first of the horseshoe socks, and I really like it.  I need to give serious thought to my sock gauge, though.  I knew I was progressively knitting my socks tighter and tighter, but these served as a great touchstone when compared to  . . .

the kilthose I finally finished.

The hosen are knit on 2.25 mm needles, and they felt like tree trunks compared to the needles I'm using for the horseshoe socks.  I certainly want to continue to make socks that last a long time, but I think I'm risking injury and wasting yarn by knitting at this crazy gauge.  Must.  Stop.  Knitting.  So.  Tightly.  I had to use a contrasting heel and toe and still used 45 grams of the teal yarn for the body of the lace sock.   That's madness. 

Though, I will say that I felt like I flew through the last 3/4 of that second in the kilt hose pair, working on bigger needles in such a plain pattern. 

In case you haven't caught onto the repetitive color scheme working here, look at the skirt I'm almost done with. 

It's a very simple four-gore skirt in a lovely rayon batik.  I forget how much I hate to work with rayon until I, you know, work with rayon again.  And then I lament it, and whine, and cuss, and throw tantrums.  I'm toying with the idea of paying someone to hem this thing, because of the rayon,  the fact that I still haven't gotten myself a dress form, and my desire to wear this to a dance weekend in a few days.   I did set in the zipper with no complaints, so that was nice. 

Now--evidence that I occasionally work with colors that are not blue. Look--it's something mostly green and neutral . . .

The outside of the felt tote is entirely pieced now, so I just have to plot pockets, pick a fabric for the lining, sew that, and add the straps.  I'm loving that the two faces of the bag are relatively plain and the sides and bottom are brighter.

F is for Felt

F is for felt. 

I've been making felt for several years now, using a couple of different methods.  I was first attracted to it for historical reasons, of course--felt was probably the first fabric we humans made, and that warms my Luddite soul to the core.  But as I've worked with it, I've fallen in love with the way felting affects the color of the wool, and with the strength and water-resistance of good felt.  One of my favorite knitting bags is my Constant Companion, which is both pretty and bullet-proof--a rare combination. 

Felting is also one of those forms of frugality that appeals to my recycling, reusing, and reducing heart.  This bag I'm working on is made up of felted scraps from ruined sweaters.  I chopped up a few cigarette-singed beauties I found in thrift stores, but the rest of the felt for this project came from some sweaters Scott and I loved a bit too much.  I started collecting supplies for this a couple of years ago, felting commercial sweaters  that wore through at the elbows.  My stash of felt was too drab, so I just wasn't excited to start piecing.  Then a couple of weeks ago I went through my mending basket and realized there was no good way to fix a few of my favorites, which are in colors I love of course.    The purple one in the lower corner was theoretically superwash, so I put it in gentle cycle, and it came out unwearable.  Sigh.  The other three--including the spring green Cashmere at the top left--had irreparable holes.  All four felted like mad once I tossed them in a hot wash--see the kitchen shears for a sense of scale. 

I chopped the sweaters into 3" and 2"x3" blocks, and started piecing them to a thin twill foundation, also made up of scrap fabric.  Each face of the bag has a green nine-patch in the center, and the sides and a bottom are more randomly pieced. 

More than half of the felt tiles are affixed.  I'm trying to pick the right lining fabric and plot inside pockets and possible closures.  The greens and blues are much brighter than they seem here, so there is some great contrast playing on the bag.

If that's a confusing image, from left to right, it's a side, front above the bottom, side, and then back you're seeing there, with a big seam allowance for the top hem.   

I'll have plenty left to make at least one more bag this size once this is done.  And then maybe crazy-patched felt when only the small scraps remain.  Ahhh, felt. 

Midway points

I accomplished a fair amount over the last couple of weeks, but never got around to showing you.  I finished the first kilt hose (what is the singular of hose?  hosen?  holy crap, have I just realized that "hose" has no singulative? now I have to go read some linguistics . .  .)

I know it looks wonky, but I have clogger-calves, and relatively small ankles, and then bigger heels.   It's probably all because of percussive dance.  Anyway, yes, it fits correctly.  I feel like I've been knitting these since I was born.  And that leftover yarn goes to the blanket.  I've just barely started casting on for the second one--this is officially a slog.

Speedwell doesn't care about the sock-yarn or the kilt hose-one.  He just wants to chew on rodents outside.  Speedwell is not authorized to make his own decisions.

 

I also made and felted a couple of bags, though they're not entirely finished.  The first one is just a simple red merino bag.  This bag is going to have a particularly lovely spiral pattern felted onto it, if all goes as planned. 

Yarrow finds it a bit too interesting.  I had a feeling that his wool-thieving was going to rear its ugly head again with all of the Tuatha-supply creation going on.  Well, this is just the beginning, but we'll come back to this particular issue.

This is a good time for me to mention that felting is mercurial.  Never believe anyone who tells you otherwise.  I make felt swatches and keep notes, but sometimes wool gets tricksie.  Like, say, in this Lopi bag.

Looks fine, right?  The math said the body would look like that.  And it said the handles would shrink to a certain size.  You know what?

Wool just told Math to shut its pie-hole and stop trying to boss Wool around.  See the cat in the background?  That should give you a sense of scale.  Speedwell is a relatively large cat, and that's a relatively large bag, and those straps are out of freaking control.   According to my swatches, the straps should have shrunken to 40% of their original length.  Nope.  The straps are about 7 inches shorter than they were unfelted, but they are thoroughly felted.  And wonky. Good thing I'm not afraid to get tough with the wool.  These are getting the big snip, and some rehabilitative needle-felting.  And then some additional water torture.

And while I'm getting tough with the wool, I'll also need to get tough with the Yarrow.  I tossed the bags onto the table and went into the other room to do some laundry, and guess what I found.

I caught him wool-mouthed.  Can you see the evidence?

Drop the innocent act, buster.  I know what you were doing, and I know you'll do it again. 

Sheep and Wool

This has been really hard to write, because there is simply too much to say.  Each day really was several days long. 

Every year, I go to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival to help out at the Tuatha booth.  In theory, demonstrating Iron-Age wool-, leather-, and flax-working techniques and discussing Hallstatt, La Tene, and later ancient artistic styles allows me to give my friends a hand at the booth, teach some interesting things to the public, and protect my wallet a bit from the huge ball of temptation that is the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. 

This year was a bit different.  I was fragged from having to work like mad to meet a crazy deadline at my new job on the Thursday before the Sheep and Wool festival, and by the general upswing in work for my own festival, PCF.  By Thursday afternoon, I was downright punchy, what with the ten-hour days and the not enough sleep.  And then Thursday night I got a visit from my muse at about 3:00 a.m., and she wouldn't rest until I was in my studio, pen in hand, writing, well, something that may have once been part of the lexicon but went astray.  The new myth-poem isn't done yet, but let's just say I was either visited by genius, or I'm engaged in true hubris.  And then the beltway was closed on Saturday morning while I was driving to the festival, so, yeah,  I was punchy when I showed up.   I read Mary a snippet of the new piece, and she seemed to like it, so I was all bouncy, the way I get when I think I've spewed out some words that are worth keeping, and maybe even saying more than once, in public, possibly into a microphone.  And then:

That's, whew, that's what made me twice as bouncy.  The man in the next booth came over to see if I had, in fact, a tail that is a spring.  Never been asked that before, me.  Brooke gave it to my Saturday morning, on behalf of Tinsmith.  Mary polished it.  It's full of bugs.  It's huge.  Seriously huge.  The size of my palm.  I've been selling Tinsmith CDs at their gigs for a while now.  I do it because I like their music, and because I love Brooke and Mary, and because it just makes sense to me--you help your friends, you know?  It's what you do.  And they've tried to pay me a bunch of times, and I always refuse.  Well, I guess they showed me, huh?  I'm gobsmacked.

Anyway, I didn't end up doing a whole lot of demos on Saturday.  My brain was all a-sizzle, and I had money burning a hole in my, er, no pockets--here sir, please take this money and give me something for it!  Yes!  Hickory stools!  I need two.  Have you seen this?  It's full of bugs!  Where are you going?

(I love these stools, and the guy who makes them is a hoot.  And a great fiddler.  I've been trying to buy some for years, but I'm always too late.  Now I have two and, er, I have no idea where to put them.  )

And then I got back to the booth with some small furniture and the largest eclair in the world, or maybe it was ice-cream for breakfast, and Mary said a tall blond was looking for me.  And I wondered . . . Is Juno a tall blond?  I mean, she knows I'm dressed like a freak, but I don't think I know what she looks like.  I should sit still!  Ooh, crap, I'm incapable of sitting still.  . . . And all sorts of friends were dropping by, and there was chatter and snacking and oohing and aahing over their purchases and some sketchy plans to buy everything at the entire festival. 

So that's what I was like for the first several hours.  Etaine also had a hearing of the new bit of verse, and she didn't call for a good smiting, so I think it has promise.  And Jill giggled a lot when she heard it, and I think she out-bounced me.  So, you know, it may make a debut on a stage next month.  Sheeeww, no smiting.

And then I snuck over to the Knitters Review lunch, which was a hoot.   I met a bunch of people I'd only known from the forums, and I saw some of my local knitter pals, and I was driven to distraction by jealousy for all of their delicious woolen bits and bobs.  I saw Clara and Amy and Anita and Jayme and her sis Jennifer and Carol and e_looped and Vi and Ms. Glickafar and Purlewe and Naomi and all sorts of folks.  Forgive me if I left you out, my brain was sizzling, after all.

And then there was a tall blond woman at the booth, and it was Juno, and she's as great in person as she is online.  And the amber at the Tuatha booth sucked her in while I had to deal with some emergency Celtic Festival business (I swear, it's like a child sometimes, that festival). And Juno was with Rachel H.  and Cassianna and the Village Knittiot and Mr. Knittiot.  So I played hookey and we found what was left of the delicious cormo from Ohio, which Etaine's sis Michelle had scored.  It will be spun up on Juno's new wheel, which we then went to meet.  It's gorgeous.  I got to spin on it a bit, and I'm too short for it, I think.  I love it anyway.  A huge crowd formed around Juno and that wheel.  It's a work of art.  It's treadle is more elegant than many whole wheels I've seen. 

And I got some felt-food:

Which has a great destiny, oh yes, and it will meet that destiny on the Potomac Delta. 
And a tiny bit of sockyarn:

Because wet-felting on the Metro may land me in jail, and a girl needs a hobby.   

And then we all just sat in the shade between the barns, chatting.  It was wonderful.  I was finally still, and I was with folks I had just met, and I could bear stillness with, well, folks I'd just met.  Gorgeous.  Rest.  Interchange and colloquy and conversation .  .  . you see where I'm going.

But I knew I'd left Tuatha ages before, so I eventually went back to see if Brooke or Mary needed a break.  And Mary called on me to blow my (long-horn cattle) horn many many times.  Really, that may have been the activity that most filled the weekend.  That darn horn.  It turns me into a dancing monkey.  I had to call on Jill as a relief-hornblower,  there were so many calls for the horn.  Late Saturday afternoon, we learned that boy scouts will respond in droves if they hear the horn, but rather than offering assistance to the woman blowing the horn, they will ask to
a) have the horn or
b) play the horn  or
c) know where I got the horn, and upon learning it is far away and inaccessible to boy scouts
d) ask over and over and over if they can "please please PLEEEEEEEEZE have the horn.   Or" (whisper whisper) "buy it for  . . ." (mutter, turn in unison towards the chatty scout, look in their pockets, and count) "buy it for $7.21.  Please.  Oh come on,  please, lady.  Drat."

There may have been a wormhole involved, what with the lead boyscout saying "drat."  I can't decide if it was funny or if that lead scout was painfully sarcastic.  Wait, no, it was both funny and painfully sarcastic.  Guard your daughters.

Sunday morning was for shopping.  I had to buy at least three presents at Sheep and Wool:
A birthday present for my Step-dad, who is a wood guy:

Check: spalted ash box from Enchanted Forest.

A mother's day present for my mother-in-law, who is a quilter:

Check and check: a magnetic pin-holder and a gorgeous seam ripper.  There's a chance I got one of each for myself, but I'm not admitting anything at this point.  Just, um, draw your own conclusions.

And a mother's day present for my Mom, which I knew Tuatha would provide:

Che-he-he-heck.  A lovely piece of stained glass, from the hands of Mary O.  The center panel is particularly great, but tough to photograph--it's etched on one side with some New-grange inspired spirals and on the other with a swirly moon.  Fan-freaking-tastic.  This will be hard to hand over. When you expose your loved ones to your favorite artists and artisans, you dig yourself a deep comfy hole, I tell you. 

And then I got down to brass tacks.  Two Golding spindles, the little,
And the big:

Soap, for a fun project with the girls on the Western Shore next weekend:
Some mohair roving and locks, for the best present I may ever make anyone:

Wow, I hope I can pull this off. 

A tiny bit of spinning fiber:

A touch of Lincoln, for that big special felt project.

And a cherry nostepinne:

Mad.  Mad, I say.  I've never bought so much in so short a period of time.  Except maybe when we bought our house--the house is bigger I guess, but it didn't involve so many bags. 

So then Sunday afternoon I hung out with friends and relaxed and spun.  It was a fantastic weekend.  I don't think I can wait another whole year to do it again. 

P.S.    As I unloaded the car Sunday night, I forgot to close the door to my studio.  I heard a rustling noise, and turned to see my 8 pound pint-lion dragging the entire bag of Lincoln roving down the stairs.  When he got it to the bottom of the steps, he opened it up, climbed inside, and started huffing

He put up a real fight when I took it away.


And then he just stood guard.  In his own kitteny way, he was saying "All I wanted was a Pepsi, just a Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me. "

Yarrow is a wool thief.  And an addict.  I live in fear.  What if he gets Speedwell hooked too?  What if they get a taste for llamas? 

I got the sewing and shrinking blues

So, my Aunt Judy's birthday is coming up.  Judy asked for a felted purse like the one I made for my Mom a while back.  Since I'm trying to figure out how to make these bags more efficiently so that Tuatha can sell them, I figured I should go the knitting machine route with this one.  I used a single strand of Nature Spun in Blueberry, knitted a huge rectangle for the body of the bag, and then a long skinny one for the strap, using the number two plate for both.  And then I started sewing.  I know a lot of knitters have a hard time making up pieces, but I'm pretty comfortable with it.  This, obviously, was easy-peasy lemon-squeezy, since it was all straight lines.  But really, a few years of dress-making will wash the fear of knit-seaming right away from you.   

Then, it was washing-up time.  I also tossed in those booties I made a couple of weeks ago. 

The bag felted in no time.  I am now truly convinced that the double-stranding technique is foisted upon us by tricksy yarn marketers, and is wholly unnecessary most of the time.  Harumph.  I blocked it by stuffing it with the right books wrapped up in plastic and left it to hang overnight.  Meanwhile, I thought about fabrics.  And maybe I slept.   

This morning, it was time to get back to the needles.  I let the furnace installers in and sequestered my scary self and my scary dog in the studio.  A little bit of measuring, a little bit of machine time, and a little bit of plastic needle-point canvas came together like so:

And then became one with the felt:

And then they all moved to Pennsylvania. 

Now that I've been kind to the older sibling, I can show you the baby of the felt-family.  Lookie:

Damn those are cute.  Llama wool and mohair booties.  Lookie some more:

Hey, Peanut!  Come out.  You're making your Mom really uncomfortable.  Don't mess with Danish women.  Seriously.  She will have total control over you for years.  Do what she tells you know, and maybe she won't name you Snorri.  Snorri Thorlson Overgard Dunn. 

A day that was many days long

Dear Diary,

Not so much with the sunrise counting anymore.  The weather has been really really hot.  The stick-fighting got under way and I tried not to miss it all that much, and that seemed to work.  The heat probably helped convince me that abandoning my more martial hobby was a good idea, what with my lack of heatstroke. 

I did a little more shopping and some more browsing and found some great stuff.  I also managed to photograph a thing I made before you were around.  I know I know, I always told you that before you there was just me waiting on a block of ice for a Diary of my very own.  I forgot to mention that I occasionally worked with fiber while waiting for you.  Don't be mad.  I did it for all the right reasons.  Namely: love of craft, because I could, and shits and grins:   

Those are hand-tooled little green boots.  And the image, of course, is one of the illustrations from Master Gustav Von Snicktengruben's Krotchpunt: A Fectbuch.   One of the funniest most edifying things I've ever read.  See my handiwork em-biggened:

This is from the section of the buch that explains ridding yourself of children who vex you.  It is both the handy and the dandy, with the numbered steps for tot-removal.  Creating this was quite a public service.  The gold is linen (out of which I made Richard a tunic) and the blue silk (out of which I made Skutai and lurvly Mongolian tunic).  But please don't look at the stick very hard.   I am not eligible for a woodworking merit badge.  Someone who is might could replace that thing. 

Here--look at this moth on the tablecloth for a sec . . .


Hokay, I photographed the best bits and bobs I have picked up:
Bronze and antler sickle:

Hot damn giant granulated silver lunik:

Horde of goodness:

Which includes the lovely atlatl and darts Keegan gave me as a gift, last year's awesome repro pitcher and this year's awesome repro bowls, and the fantastically beautiful felted rug I snagged from Liadan as soon as I found out it was available.  I heart it.  She and Dubh made it in the traditional Mongolian manner out of undyed wools in a traditional pattern.  It has some leafy bits on it because I had no choice but to use it constantly while we were still in the woods. 

I guess I don't know what else to tell you about Celtic Summer Camp, Diary.  It's over, and that's sad.  It was mostly very very good, with a few dots of not-so-good for spice.  It was the best day ever.

Three Easy Steps

Dear Diary,

I finished my class prep for Early Period Arts and Sciences Day next week.  This one's a killer:
How to Be a Bad-Ass Bard in Three Easy Steps
Step One: Be F'ing Brilliant
Step Two: Be Really Charismatic
Step Three: Work Your Ass Off
It worked for Etaine, it worked for Anubh, and it apparently works for me.  If this class doesn't make me rich, nothing will.  Sheesh, I should have put it into book form first.  Doofus. 

What else, what else.  Days run together here at summer camp, you know.  Ooh, I gave Roderick his very silly hat.  And he jumped around and laughed, and I issued an order that he not wear it much during the daytime, what with it being hot as blazes and him turning purple while wearing it.  Gretchen seemed pretty tickled by it too, which is good. Gotta impress the ladies, you know.  She also said that the embroidered banner I gave them last year hangs in a place of honor in the Mandrake office, which made me all misty.  Richard's hat is, as I thought it would be, too small.  Which means I get to do it again, but better.  He laughed a fair bit when he saw it and again when he wore it up at the shop, so I won't have to eat it.  I think eating it would have had rather detrimental effects.  What a story to bring to the ER, eh? Oh, and we are, slowly but surely, turning Hannah's eyes towards the iron age.  Teeheehee.  This year: a striped linen tunic and some pants.  Pants on a young woman who was raised doing mostly 14th Century stuff--Earth-shattering!  Next year: a torc.

I've been sewing like mad.  Lots of hems to finish off.  And some luceting.  Which I hate.  Ooh, but Etaine likes it, so I showed her how and she made one of the cords I needed for Scott's hat, and then her art bees started clamoring to make strange luceted things out of handcut deerskin lace.  I wonder when she picked up the crack habit?  Anyway, I took her up to the merchant area and she picked out a lucet and some books at Brush Creek Wool Works.  And I accidentally got some lovely flax to spin, using my inscrutable spinning bowl of course.  And some lovely roving for Jayme, who has developed a spinning habit. 

Oh, and we were sitting up on the crassy knoll, like we do, having eaten some fine sausage (still a  fest, of course) and some delicious ribeyes and some baked potatoes.  And Keegan offered Etaine and me icy cold PBRs, and we drank them gleefully and asked for more.  And, apparently, that really confused many of the guys--the highly educated, brilliant ladies drinking the beer of the cheapness.  I wish I'd had a tape recorder.  Adon may never recover.  "Those aren't really PBRs, are they?  Those are expensive beers wearing disguises, right?"  Barharhar. 

And then Scott got here, and a stupid evil little yellowjacket stung him in the middle of the night.  When vespids are supposed to be sleeping, not stinging my fellah.  So he's in charge of the extermination program now, which is good because he's so much taller than I am.  And thus swats way higher up in the air with the special vespid-squishing expensive Israeli sandal.  If you're gonna do it, do it right. 

It was the best day ever.

Erratic, Nomadic, Emphatic

We went to Tim's on Sunday to eat Callinectes sapidus: beautiful swimmers.  That has to be one of the best summer rituals we Americans have come up with.  Water bugs taste gooooooood.  Old Bay tastes gooooood.  Drawn butter with lemon juice tastes goooooooood.  And then all of that together, with perhaps some beeeeer---mmmmmmmm.  Until it is all suddenly overwhelmingly disgusting, this whole process of cracking, dismembering, opening, scooping, dipping; and the vinegar and lemon burning in all of the little nicks on your fingers and along your lips is too much.  Check please. 

We were joined by my younger brother Andrew, hair-farmer extraordinaire, who will be tending our furry charges, our green charges,  our fridge, and our adult beverages in our absence.  Kayo and Scath are quite excited:  Andrew is pretty damn generous with the treats, food, and catnip, and he is apparently really good at sitting still with a cat on his lap.  And he went and graduated from college.  How on earth is that possible?  He's nine years younger than I am, and if he has a degree and can legally drink adult beverages, that means I'm clearly in my 30s.  Wacky.  So, does this mean I've officially crossed the line from "rebellious youth" to "crackpot?"  Cuz it's fun over here, wherever I've landed.

Just a few days left until I wander off for a few weeks with way too much stuff and many many good friends.  In preparation for the annual trek to Celtic summer camp, I always go a teeny bit overboard.  This year is no exception.  Despite all of my assurances to whomever would listen that I was going to take it easy this year and didn't plan to make much . . . well, let's just say I came by the "crazy" moniker honestly.  If I didn't make so much, the run-up to this vacation would sure be more relaxing  . . . . and if a frog had wings he wouldn't bump his ass a'hopping.  Scott was never convinced.  Scott can predict the future.  Scott deserves a pony.  I have been told, however, he doesn't actually want a pony because some silly police may come scold us for having livestock in the suburbs.  What-evah.  Maybe I can make a pony out of leather and rivets.  And felt.  And maybe I can do it right now. 

Somebody shake me.

I've sewn like mad.  Mad I say!  The ruana I showed you the other day--I had no intention of making it.  It was an accident.  It required hours of hand-sewing.  I couldn't help myself.  And then I went through the basket of clothes I planned to bring for the masses, and found that I had no medium pants left, so two pairs of pants, check.  And then I fell down and made a lot of tunics.  I think I made seven?  Wait, no.  Nine?  I don't remember--it's all a fog.   A few still need some hemming and are calling from the basket.  I don't even know whose they are. 

And then I fell down and made a couple of Mongolian vests--I only meant to make one but the fabrics I bought for it were fighting each other and I heard some whispering from the fabric stash.  And some number of hours (and lots of bitching about making luceted button loops, and some deliberation over buttons) later, bang, there were two lined vests.  Whoops.  And I made a new belt for Scott.  Because we wouldn't want the new del encircled in a shabby belt. 

And, of course, I had to finish the socks I was working on for my Mom, because she would never make it through my vacation without a new pair of socks.  In August.  Cuz the mid-Atlantic is so cold now.

And then I showed Andrew some of the felted hats I've been working on and offered to make him one.  Because, you know, I need to add something else to my "to-do" list. 

In all of this, I neglected to make a single new anything for me.  Not right.  Not just.  So I now feel bound to make myself something new.  I have some linen that seems to be calling my name . . .

When I wasn't sewing like mad, I was muttering things like "wouldn't a pig roast be fun, except for the huge amount of work involved."  I don't think anyone else is convinced yet.  And I accidentally volunteered to teach a class, but I have yet to pick a topic.  Crap crap crap.  I know I have all sorts of interesting stuff crammed in my head, but I can't think of anything anyone else wants a handle on.  The bring-everything-and-just-let-folks-ask-questions option is appealing for its lack of class prep, but unappealing because of the whole bring-everything aspect. 

And maybe I'll be done with a new translation.  And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt. 

Patience/Patients

I can't wait I can't wait!  The felt version of Ultuna is in the washer right now, hopefully binding itself tightly together into a stable, funny hat.  I was busting my hump last night to get this thing to come together.  I'm sure it's harder to make in steel, but it hasn't been easy in wool.  Fingers crossed . . .

In the meantime, I am playing amateur veterinarian.  I am bit ashamed to say it, but my dog, well, he doesn't mean any harm.  I'm sure of it.  But Kayo is a lion maimer.  And he has a problem with (stuffed) dog aggression.  He can shake the dickens, and the stuffing, out of his less, um, mobile friends in a heartbeat. 

Here is how it starts.  We come home from work, and Kayo wants to play fetch.  But it's dangerously hot outside, and Kayo is great at fetching but not so much with the not fetching.  He can't stop, and he'll run himself sick in no time.  He has a very heavy coat.  I should spin him.  Anyway, we come home, he wants to play fetch, we play very briefly, and then he mopes, like this:

Surrounded by toys.  Notice the two green lions?  We'll get to that.  He mopes, until one of us . . .

Cracks, falling for the classic "evil carnivore posing as sad innocent puppy" ploy.   Notice the huge belly wound in the lion.  He needs medical care, and soon.  Anyway, I throw the lion.  And then?  Then Kayo's all
 
Like that, with the shaking and the maiming.  The lion is best for this, what with the floppy rope arms and legs.  Apparently, dogs find the sensation of being beaten about the head and neck with the limbs of a prey species very satisfying.   You'll have to ask them--I, for one, don't get it.

Here, I should point out that Kayo theoretically has what is called a "soft mouth."  It's a thing you breed into retrievers, so they don't maim the ducks they are supposed to be obediently delivering unto their owners--you know, those nice people with the guns who will trade a delicious, juicy raw duck for a stupid liver treat and a pat on the head.  Oh, the injustices suffered by our underpaid working dogs!  Anyway, despite his breeding Kayo is not a duck dog, braving the icy waters of the Chesapeake--he shakes the heck out of whatever he fetches.  And I don't think the lion finds Kayo's mouth soft.  Because Kayo has big scary teeth.  Quite frequently, I find myself lining up the injured in my ad hoc animal clinic. 

See the maniacal look on his Kayo's face?  The predatory set of his ears?  He's anxious for me to throw one of these.  He needs treatment--seriously, we need to have an intervention for him, and one for our nip-head of a cat, but that's another story.   Until Kayo gets a lion, he'll follow me around and mumble and grumble and whine until I just can't stand it anymore.  I can only take both lions for about ten minutes before he, well, I don't know what he'd do after ten minutes because I've never kept both of the lions away from him that long.  We rotate lions.  I'm an enabler.  I know it.  So I decide which lion needs more care and round up the other frightened, injured (stuffed) animals, and begin mending, leaving the other lion to take more abuse.  At times, I have to transplant one of the lion's most vital organs: the squeaker.  Today, it's just sutures.  Sans anesthesia, or even sterile conditions.

After the mending comes the trip to the washing machine.  Which can happen now because Felt-tuna is out of the washer.  And I think it's pretty darn funny.  I think it's too small for its intended recipient, but it fits perfectly inside the Ultuna repro Richard made me. 
Steel funny helmet:

Wool funny helmet:

Oh, and if you know who's getting the hat, shuuuush, mmmkay?

Empty Plate

I finished my Red Tail Hawk Socks.  I finished the fifth Season of the Sopranos.  I'm temporarily done with the laundry, the catbox is clean, I'm pages away from the end of Bury Me Standing.  I'm pretty much convinced that we already had the 2005 Potomac Celtic Festival, though I can barely believe it, which means that I have significantly less festival work to do day to day.   I have literally no work to do at work today and my guess is that no one else is coming to the office to entertain me, and yet I can't leave until 2:00. 

What to start?  What to start!  I'm stuck at my desk clicking away on this box with hours to decide what to make next.  I think I'm going to be making something like this for Skutai this weekend.  And maybe a hat like this.  And I haven't worked on the linen quilt since I finished the blocks . . . maybe I can find something pretty to sash them with when we go fabric shopping for the new del. 

Tonight we get to see the Del McCoury Band and Old Crow Medicine Show at Wolf Trap.  I tried to replace our lawn seats with actual seats, but apparently other people had the audacity to buy tickets to MY show.  The nerve.  So cross your fingers that the sky will hold out through Old Crow and Del for us.  I don't mind leaving a show early, but I really mind lightning strikes during hot punk-grass sets.