the Village Knittiot

….the Knittiot’s inner old lady. Sure you hear all the time about the inner child and its feelings. We are told to nurture the inner child. To look after it and be kind to it. But what about the inner old lady? She has feelings too you know. Like when she doesn’t wear her orthotics all week and can’t figure out why her sciatic nerve is bothering her. And then she decides, even though her back is bothering her, that it would be a good idea to spend 2 hours hunched over her spinning wheel. She feels pain. Pain in her lower back. Pain everytime she moves. There is no sitting, standing or walking position (or any posture in between) that she does not feel. The inner old lady has feelings alright.

And let me tell you this folks, when you spend three hours on a Wednesday evening trying to log on to World of Warcraft without success, the inner old lady gets cranky. Very cranky. Apparantly my inner old lady doesn’t like waiting. As a matter of fact, she seems to hate it quite a lot. Lucky for the folks over at Blizzard, she was able to log on this morning and play for a bit, or there may have been an unfortunate incident involving a hammer and some WoW servers.

I am now going to drag my inner old lady home so she can rest her aching back, take some Ibuprofen, and pour a Guiness for herself before settling down for a productive evening of playing more WoW — if she can log on. If she can’t log on, I can’t be held responsible for her actions.

Two major accomplishments on the knitting front.

One. I finished the thumb (again) for The Mitten. It fits. It looks good. It isn’t perfect, but probably nobody else will ever know in what ways it isn’t perfect except for me. I very much want to be excited about this, but there is a tiny little voice whispering in my head that it really isn’t that big of a deal because I am “supposed to be” done with these in one week. I am no fool. I understand that at this rate there is no way I am going to be done with these in a week. And I am one of those people who feels that putting pressure on myself about knitting is silly. It takes the fun out of it and adds, instead, dread and obligation. I hate dread, and I hate obligation. But mostly, I hate deadlines that are designed to make you feel crappy. I rebel against them at my very core. Yet as much as I hate those kinds of deadlines, I sometimes need the pressure of a deadline to get stuff done. It’s kind of a love/hate relationship. Of course, in order to truly work, the deadline has to be hard and fast, make or break. Unfortunately, with Christmas knitting, the only thing that I know for sure about the deadline is that it can easily be eliminated with a quick trip to Barnes and Noble. They didn’t know I was knitting them anything, so how can they be disappointed?

Two. I finally managed to untangle the massive knot of handspun merino that has been sitting in the corner of our den silently crying for well over a month. I have picked it up form time to time and made half-hearted attempts to free it from itself, but never making more than the smallest dent. This past week I focused my efforts and have been rewarded with a skein winder full of my (newly unentangled) handspun. It looks so pretty. I also managed to finish plying together everything I had sitting on my Bobbins so I now have naked bobbins all begging to be covered up, and probably 3/4 of a pound of soft, cuddly merino still waiting to be twisted. Hopefully this weekend I will get the chance to do some spinning.

For anyone dealing with any one of a number of holiday related dilemmas, get your self over to Norma’s and read her entry from yesterday. It’s good for what ails ya’ in the way that perspective always is. Her words, I’m sure, are timely for lots of us. I think it struck something in me, because I’m still trying to figure out how I fit into this season now. I am not big on the consumer mentality, and I’m not a Christian. These two things alone seem to pretty much place me on the outside of all the hullaballoo. Nevertheless, I believe in the importance of celebrations and holy days, and it is the holiday that (for better or worse) I grew up celebrating with my family. I guess I just fail to see what getting stressed out, depressed, lonely and in debt have to do with celebration and spirituality.

Now I know not everyone feels this way around the holidays, but as we are often reminded, it is far more common for people to feel isolated and unhappy than joyful and at peace. This year I have done my best to keep the space around me clear of the holiday clutter. The best decision we made was to bow out of the present game — not just for Christmas, but for everything. We decided that we will never buy each other a present because it is expected, only when the fancy strikes us. When we run across something that we want to give to someone, we will do so, but we will not be trapped into running around like maniacs trying to figure out what to buy people. And isn’t it exciting, then, that presents could strike at any moment and that they will always be inspired?

The woman behind the desk perked up the moment I told her I’d just moved here a year ago. Or perhaps it was because I’d said how much I liked the place. Probably it was a combination of both. You don’t work for Planned Parenthood and not take a fair amount of pride in what you do. And you don’t stay in central New York for the rest of your life without wondering at least a little bit if things are better elsewhere. When I said how much I liked it, how glad I was not to be living in the Midwest any more, and how wonderfully direct I found the people to be, she smiled as if it were all her doing - Planned Parenthood, the superiority of the east coast to the Midwest, etc. And I suppose, in a way, it is. I was reminded all over again why I loved the East coast. You could take someone from cool disinterest to genuine warmth in a matter of a few seconds by being forthright and honest. This kind of behavior makes me breathe easier. So does being able to go to a Planned Parenthood without having to wade through a crowd of bastards who think they know what is best for my uterus.

I sat down in the lobby, which was empty, and filled out my paperwork. When I was finished I brought my stuff back to my new friend at the counter who told me it would just be a few minutes. I sat down and picked up a magazine called Real Simple. When this magazine came out a few years ago, it touted itself as the magazine to help you live more simply. It came out not too long after a book called Simplify Your Life and somehow I thought they were connected in some way. Simplification was like this mini-movement at the time. And there were all kinds of books with all kinds of advice, a lot of which seemed to make things a lot less simple because they started to sound less like advice and more like edicts the must be followed. Nevertheless, the book I read taught me a few very important things, like making my bed was probably a waste of time since I was only going to sleep in it later and mess it up again. And that I didn’t have to spend a fortune on face creams and cleansers, and that I didn’t even need to wear makeup in the first place (which I already didn’t). It told me to get a hair cut that was easy to manage and to not allow obligation and duty to trap me in a life where I felt controlled by people and things. This was the point of reference from which I approached this magazine. So when I opened it up and had to wade through twenty pages of Jones New York and LancÃ?Æ?Ã?´me ads before I even got to the table of contents, I was unnerved. Even the simple people are consumer whores!

I’m not sure that there is any real connection between the book and the magazine, excepting of course that one was part of a simplification movement and the other was our society’s marketing solution for the simple folk. Nevertheless, I have always been vaguely suspicious of it, because it always looks so beautiful on the magazine rack - a very perfect and slightly sterile beautiful. A sort of minimalist Martha Stewart, if you will.

I had really only picked it up for one specific reason. “Great Hair for $7″ it had said on the cover. And as my hair is currently the bane of my existence, the promise of great hair was an attractive lure. My expectations weren’t high, or anything. I have short hair. I want short hair that doesn’t cost me $42 every four weeks. Right now I am going on month six of not having had my haircut and it is starting to look like a cross between Dorothy Hammel and a mullet gone wrong (is there any other way for a mullet to go?). I keep telling myself that I am growing it out, but it’s really that I’m too cheap (or too poor, take your pick) to pay someone that much to give me a haircut. I’m too afraid to do it myself. And too weary of Supercuts and their McDonald’s version of a haircut. Great hair for $7 seemed very exciting to me.

I skipped all the ads and went straight for page 48, only to be disappointed by the article, which it turns out was a breakdown of hair styling products and their costs - all under $7. How do hair products make your life “Real Simple?” Stupid magazine.

So, what did it take to get me knitting again, you ask? Well, as it turns out, all I needed was a day and a half at home sick, laying on the couch watching DVDs, with my lower back hurting too much to prop myself up and limp through a few levels in WoW (although I did log on for a half hour over my DHs lunch and we ran around for a little while until he had to go back to work). In just a day and a half, I finished the entire left mitten and almost all of Buffy season 6 (again). I took a picture of the mitten so you would know I was telling the truth about finishing it. See.

I show you this because today, the mitten once again looks like this.

I don’t know what happened, but the mitten, which had been going along perfectly, somehow went wrong just after the thumb. When I finished it and tried to put it on, it was so tight I could hardly get it over my wrist. The thumb was like a vice grip and I don’t think any blood was circulating between my hand and my thumb. Needless to say, after all that work, it was very disappointing.

See, I could hear my mitten say, see how it feels to be disappointed? I did see. I saw that I had made one simple mistake. I forgot that Anna Zilboorg is an anarchist.

Patterns, to a good knitting anarchist like Zilboorg, are a whole different kind of beast. Sometimes the inappropriately named “instructions” are simply suggestions, even though they may be phrased as a direct command. Sometimes they are, indeed rules to be followed. And then, sometimes, they are tests. Tests designed to separate the real anarchists from the casual toe dippers. Tests to see if you will, like a good anarchist, ignore them, throw caution to the wind and lean on your own instincts and intuition. Anna Zilboorg patterns are not for the faint of heart.

I haven’t done anymore knitting since I did all that frogging. The WoW obsession still lingers. Having set some rules about getting stuff done around the house has worked (mostly). Tonight, DH and I are preparing for a potential excursion onto the Alliance side of things. I tend to find the Alliance folks a little dull and lack-lustre, so DH and I have come up with the perfect way to make them interesting. Two human characters — a Paladin and a Priest — named Bland and Milquetoast (Together, they fight crime!). They are going to be very, very, very good. In a rather zealous and obnoxious manner. Should spice things up a bit, eh?

It has been nearly two weeks since I have done knitting worth any consideration. My mitten is no longer sullen, it is downright hostile.

On Saturday I agreed to pull myself away from the computer for a couple of hours and go yarn shopping with a friend. I have to admit it was fun to get excited about yarn again. My mind was awhirl with all the projects that I want to do. And that giddiness was accompanied by my usual panic over all the things I want to do and how very little time there is for them all. Especially when there is so much World of Warcraft to be played.

I came home from my excursion filled with that yarn euphoria, thinking I might get a bit of knitting done that afternoon, and promptly sat down at the computer to play WoW.

I started a new character last week — an undead priestess named Oola. Oola. The name just came to me. It rolled around on my tongue and it felt right. Usually I agonize over a name. I spend far, far too much time consumed with worry that I will pick the wrong name. And worse that I won’t know it is the wrong name until I have played her for too long and then I won’t want to start over, but I will also hate her for having the wrong name. So when Oola just popped into my head, I went with it. I thought it sounded vaguely Norse in origin. Some lesser known mythological creature that was somehow stuck in my subconcious, perhaps? As it turns out, no. Not exactly.

Three days after Oola and I started romping around the Earthen Ring server, a little alarm went off in my head. I Googled Oola and here is what I found. Oola, it turns out, is not so much stuck in my head because I have this great subconcious knowledge of lesser known Norse mythology, but because I am a child of the 80s. And because I saw Return of the Jedi in the theatre on opening night, and more times after that than I care to admit. Oola was the sexy Twi’lek dancer in Jabba the Hut’s court. You know, the one with the strange tentacle things coming off the top of her head. The one that got eaten by the Rancor (please don’t ask me how I know all this stuff).

Oola, I have learned, is also an aboriginal word meaning “Red Lizard.” If anyone asks me about it, I think I’m going to go with that. But I’m pretty sure that noone is going to ask me about it. I’m pretty sure that everyone just assumes that I knew *exactly* what I was doing. And I’m pretty sure, judging by the favorable interactions I’ve had so far (all with characters who I’m pretty sure are powered by adolescent boys), there are at least a few people out there who think that is just fine. As a matter of fact, they probably think it is just great. And they are probably hoping that I am, in fact, a girl.

*sigh*

Still, I love Oola. I love her with an unhealthy passion. So my husband and I have decided that we have to start setting some rules about the WoW playtime. This is probably good, because everything in my house (not just the mitten) has been feeling the neglect. Tonight we will cook and then we will do one hour of housework. Only then may we fire up our laptops. Last night, we went to bed at a reasonable hour. We are getting better. I promise. Maybe soon, I will have some knitting pictures to show you. Maybe soon my mitten will stop hating me.

The late nights and early mornings are starting to get to me. Not that I have any intention of giving up play time in favor of sleep, mind you. But I am tired.

My knitting, has been pretty patient about the whole WoW obsession, but I’m starting to detect a sullen air coming from my yarn. My mittens are actually pouting. Just so they would feel included, I put them in a bag and I take them with me whenever I leave the house. I know they feel neglected and in my heart I know that I should do something about it, but I am overcome with this need to kill things and take their stuff. I feel an obsession like I have never had before to increase my character level, to spend talent points, improve my skills, and advance my professions. If knitting is an addiction, I think WoW may be a disease.

Last night I had a Kung Fu dream — just like a movie, about 4 kids who were Kung Fu masters. There is a book somewhere in this…

My house is in total disarray, but I can’t be bothered right now to do anything about it. And since I’ve decided this is the perfect week to give up guilt, I don’t even feel bad.

Tonight is my usual “Me” night (we call it “Me-vening around here, it’s just one night a week where we each have the entire night to do whatever we want on our own). I plan to knit a little. You know, make sure the mittens understand that I still love them. But I’ve already been away from WoW for 5 hours and I’m starting to get twitchy. *twitch* See? I need help.

Here’s a little picture of Strand (my Troll character from WoW) getting a little shut-eye with her husband Brogo.