It’s been an interesting couple of days here in New York. The strike is having all kinds of negative impacts, but at least some people have been getting some precious knitting time in the bargain. Sadly, I am not one of them. I won’t go into my tale of woe; suffice it to say that I spent two and a half hours in the cold yesterday morning waiting for a company bus. It was far too cold to knit, and all the while I had longing thoughts of handknit armwarmers and giant felt boots I could put on over my work shoes. What I really wanted, when I finally got to the office, was one of Norma’s rum toddies. Sadly, there wasn’t any rum on hand. But here at Blue Garter, we like to think there’s a solution for every problem. So here’s what I did when I got home:

Hot bath with fizzy sugar cubes (it was a five-cube occasion), sock knitting, and Colin Firth. Heaven, my friends. Mr. Garter was kind enough to set up the tub for me. For some mysterious reason, the little lever that stops up the bath can only be manipulated by him. It’s not about brute strength; he just has the magic touch. Not quite magic enough to overcome the extremely ghetto plumbing in our overpriced apartment, though…we had to get creative with saran wrap and an iron pot lid before we could fill the tub and have it stay that way. But everything ended happily and very prunily. I didn’t climb out until Lizzy and Jane left Netherfield.

Today everything went more smoothly with the bus, and I have to say I love our driver. He’s just hilarious. His English isn’t the finest in the land, but he gets his point across and he’s just so affable. Every time he stops to pick someone up, he’s considerate enough to warn them that the opening door may clonk them in the head. He does this by leaning out of his seat to shout at them through the glass: “WATCH OUT YO’ FACE!” If they can’t understand, he mimes punching himself in the head until they step back, either in comprehension or alarm. No one’s been hit by the door yet. Riding his bus through mid-town traffic is vaguely reminiscent of the mechanical bull you may have been tempted to mount at your local honky tonk bar, but he’ll take you absolutely anywhere and keep you laughing all the way. He practically drops all forty of us off on our respective doorsteps on the way home. And I especially like this part: glued to his dashboard is a medal his mother must have given him. It’s an angel holding a banner that reads “SON, PLEASE DRIVE SAFELY.” So cute.

So we’re T-4. How’s the holiday knitting coming along? Well…um…I did this:

I’ve finished the body of the twisted float cardigan, complete with the picot edge I freestyled. The magenta and brown stripes you can see are where the arms will go. Don’t ask me why I wasted three valuable hours doing this. It’s a child-sized sweater for a child who doesn’t exist. I just couldn’t stop knitting the darn thing! Lorna puts an addictive chemical in her Shepherd Worsted that makes you crave it fortnightly, smart ass! (Gold star if you know what I’m loosely quoting there.) Here’s a close-up of the twisted float action:

Somebody smack me and make me knit that cursed sweater sleeve!

I’m a lapsed athlete. I was that coltish kid in the seventh grade who set the girls’ school record for the mile and was never defeated in her (brief, and admittedly B-league podunk) track career. I played in the Oregon state soccer championship (we lost). This was ten years ago. As recently as three and a half years ago, I was capable of gasping through a six mile run. But since I’ve come to New York, any pretenses I ever had to athleticism have died a quiet death. Maybe this is because Mr. Garter is Triathlete Extraordinaire and I figure he does all the working out for both of us, and for most of the other people on our city block. More likely it’s just because I lack discipline, and having been relatively fortunate in the genetic lottery, I’ve gotten lazy about exercising to make the most of it. But every now and then I build up the urge to go do some physical activity. So I went to the gym.

I ran an easy two miles at a 10-minute pace, or even a little slower. Then I ended with three-tenths at a 7:20 pace. At this point, I was well out of breath and decided I’d call it a day so as not to scupper my chances of willing myself to do it again tomorrow. I don’t like distance running. I’ve never been able to reach the point where it’s exhilirating, relaxing, focusing, meditative, euphoric, or any of those other blissful adjectives my husband claims it is. I find running for its own sake intensely boring; I need a purpose. I need to know I’m doing it so I’ll be able to beat someone else to the ball, the puck, the wire. However, it’s undeniably the cheapest way to get in shape.

Unfortunately, running doesn’t like me, either. When I stumble off the treadmill, it’s not a pretty sight. I turn a shade of red that’s really not suitable for public display. I’ve always had fat, rosy cheeks. People used to tell my mother what a healthy baby I appeared to be. Except for one lady on the ferry who looked down her nose at my poor mom and said (you’ll have to imagine the Lady Catherine de Bourgh voice Mom uses when she tells the story), “My, her cheeks are very red. Have you had her lungs checked?” It would be fine if it were just the cheeks. But it’s the entire face, particularly the nose. Boiled lobsters bow to my superior vermilion. If this were a paint color (and pity the neighbors if anyone were to use said paint), we’d call it Livid Sunburn. And it lasts a long time, people. An hour later I begin to return to normal.

But it’s worse than that. Running makes me stupid. It took me from the time I was in the shower until I was halfway home on the subway to remember who won the World Series this year. (Why was I trying to remember this? I believe it may have been because the frightful shade of my face above my blue T-shirt reminded me of the Red Sox team colors.) And it makes my fingers stupid, which hinders knitting. And that I can ill afford at present.

So I’m hoping I can work some deftness back into them as I pick up my dad’s sweater. I’m determined to finish that Christmas tree and the first raindrop row tonight. We’ll see about a return to the gym tomorrow.

I’m back from my sojourn in Portland, OR with Mr. Garter’s family. The family time was great; the transit less so. I knew nothing good could come of flying from Newark to Portland via Atlanta. And I was right. The first plane was delayed, so I missed my connection despite sprinting half a mile through the airport with my luggage and arriving at the gate five minutes before departure time. I’m convinced the gate agent sold my seat, and those of my four fellow athletes trying to make the same flight, and didn’t have the cojones to admit it.

Him: “Sorry, we closed the door five minutes prior to departure time.”
Me, looking at the clock on the gate information screen: “But it’s 6:20 right now. The plane leaves at 6:25. Can’t you open the door again?”
Him: “Um, that time isn’t really relevant. The next plane leaves at 9:33.”

The official airport time displayed on the information screens at every gate isn’t relevant? I sat around for three hours knitting furiously and composing angry letters of Austenian eloquence to Delta, and I watched four other planes depart late because they waited for passengers on connecting flights. When we finally did board a Portland-bound aircraft, the other woman from the Newark flight was seated across the aisle from me. She watched me poking along on my yellow socks and asked, “Are you knitting all kinds of stories into those?” I looked down at my knitting and laughed:

See that wonky section a few inches down from the cuff? That’s the part I knitted in the Atlanta airport. Stories indeed: Deranged Woman Mauls Unhelpful and Testicularly Challenged Delta Gate Agent with Size 0 Addi Circulars During Peak Holiday Travel.

Ah, nothing better on a Saturday night than a shindig with your knitting girl buddies. Stephanie has a sweet pad, a godlike cooking husband, and a mean hand with a martini shaker:

And a pomegranate-blueberry martini looks mighty nice with a ball of Socks That Rock in “Jewel of the Nile”, we all agreed. Here’s a peek at a few of the attending Spidies:

Veronique showed off her beautiful Mystery Shawl. We were duly impressed…

…some of us so much so that we pounced on her Merino Oro leftovers during the subsequent yarn swap:

There’s a fir cone lace shawl in Wrap Style that’ll be perfect for this lovely stuff. And can you identify the background in the photo above? Yes, it’s one fifth of Cozy – one ball of interesting nubbly School Products cashmere down, four to go!

Apologies, again, for the delay in the posts. I’m pestering the host guys about it. I have learned the following: my server is named Grizabella. I find this rather adorable. Let’s all send Grizabella some chicken soup and alpaca yarn (knitters’ penicillin?), since she’s obviously a little under the weather. While I wait for her to recover, I’ve reduced the number of posts on the front page to six in the hopes that it will help the site load faster. Check the archives in the sidebar for older content.