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knitroglycerine

a different kind of string theory

Tuesday Morning is an unlikely place to find knitting needles, but I went there looking for a seam ripper and found these:

Big Huge #17 Needles

The other needles are #13 Takumis. These #17’s are by some company I’ve never heard of, Fiddlesticks, but they feel like Crystal Palace, which is A-ok! I didn’t actually have any yarn fitting for #17 sticks, so I combined some Paton’s roving and Stitch Nation 100% wool, and the result is lofty– which is good, because a superthick yarn on superbig needles would result in a superuncomfortable necker.

So far, so good, but I have noticed that while trying to divide and transfer some of my stitches into a holding pattern, the next row got stretched out. This happens whenever I do this project, regarldess of yarn or needles, but is easily fixed by switching to a thinner needle for the first row or two after the transfer. This time, however, even though I switched to my #13 Takumis, the first row stayed stretched out. Crap. I’ve already ripped out a bit and reknit, hoping for a better row, but it’s still stretched. Hm. Frustrating!

In other news, I apparently don’t know how to load a dishwasher. This is what happens when you grow up in the 1900 house. It is a running joke in my husband’s family that I am from the 1900 house, because when we first started dating, my mom’s water heater was broken and I would heat water on the stove and pour it into the tub for bathwater. It took a really long time to get enough for a bath, and the first few pots would start to cool off. What a pain in the ass that was! What they don’t know is that during the winter before that, the heater had gone out and I spent the whole winter break freezing my ass off, without a car to go anywhere warm, and took a lot of aimless walks.

But, so anyway, do you really think that I’d have a dishwasher if I didn’t have a working water heater or a furnace? Of course not. So when we moved here, almost two years ago, we had a dishwasher, and I did not trust it. I really didn’t see the point in washing dishes half-assedly so that I could put them in a contraption that would take 97 additional minutes to finish the job. Why not simply put a little more elbow grease into the task and have clean dishes the first time around?

I got teased some more, and while dishwashing is one of my favorite chores, I went ahead and loaded the dishwashing contraption with dishes and saved the pots and pans for myself. Lo and behold, it did give me more free time. I mean, who cares if it takes 97 minutes for the dishwasher to do it, if I’m spending those 97 minutes totally oblivious to what it’s doing all by its lonesome in the kitchen?

The problem was, I wasn’t rinsing the dishes off enough before I placed them into the contraption, and eventually it got plugged. After several empty runs, it was unplugged, and we started using it again, and I was pretty good about rinsing off the stupid dishes– until L. started bringing home his plastic snapware containers he uses to take his lunch to work.

He leaves them for days at the office or in his car, all tightly sealed up, complete with empty salt packets and slimy plastic forks, and festering and breeding God Knows What. When I open these botulism boxes, I want to gag. So, I hold my breath, open it, and stick it immediately into the dishwasher, because rinsing it would require SMELLING it, and I don’t want to do that.

And because I am sneaky, I try to activate the dishwashing contraption while L. is at work and won’t notice what I’m putting in there.

Well, yesterday, I was too late, and he came home and saw his botulism box with a few pieces of leeks or whatever stuck to it, and I got a lecture. Apparently, I’m driving him to drink. I pointed out that he drinks even when I don’t do the dishes, and when he has practice, and any old time, really, but it fell on deaf ears. When I went downstairs, I saw that only one bowl had a little speck of food on it. Huh?

I think somebody else needs to start doing the dishes. Like, the dog.

And now for something completely different:

My Desk

This is my favorite place in the world. This is where I do my writing while listening to The National and Mikael Simpson and Doves, ignore the phone, and look into my neighbors’ yards.

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