A blog about my life, knitting, and other stuff.

June 15, 2012


I just bound off the second sleeve for Cria. This sweater is turning into a disaster. I bound off the body last night. Can anyone tell me why I didn't measure it before starting the bottom edging? Because I really should have. Then I would have known that my sweater is 2.5" too short! So what now? I thought about cutting off the edging, knitting another 2.5" then grafting it back on or reknitting it, whichever feels less masochistic at the time. Then I thought about the pocket placement. If I lengthen the body but leave the pockets as is they'll be kind of high up. So plan B was to take off everything below the pocket placement (you create two openings when you knit the body), knit 2.5", then graft that whole mess back on. Besides the hideous amount of grafting, plan B also means that the 2.5" of stockinette I knit in the middle of the sweater might stick out like a sore thumb since this is hand-dyed yarn. It might look really obvious that something happened in that area beyond what is sure to be some mighty uneven grafting going all the way around the sweater. I'm stuck. I'm defeated. What tiny amount of knitting mojo I had just drifted away. Poop.

In other exciting news, I got home tonight with the kids. Older Son's job is to feed the dogs and pick up all the dog poop in the yard. The poop goes into a bucket in the sideyard through a big gated fence. I was doodling on my computer when I thought, "Gee, the dogs have been awfully quiet." I peered into the yard and didn't see them. I opened the door and saw the side gate sitting wide open and the dogs were gone. I screamed for Older Son as I grabbed my shoes. I threw open the front door and Isabella, who had been waiting dutifully (or perhaps lazily) on the porch trotted inside. I was still putting on my shoes as I ran down the front step yelling for George. I had no idea how long they had been gone or how far he could have gotten. Before I made it down the stairs I heard a woman call out from across the street, "Are you looking for your dog?"


"She's right here." (Not very observant but a kindly good Samaritan.)

I ran down the block and across the street to see George on a leash being held by a woman in conversation with a Parking Enforcement officer. It turns out that our phone number had worn off of George's tag but the PE officer does dog rescue and had her own leash with her and a microchip scanner (!) so they were in the process of getting our number from George's chip when I came out. I thanked them over and over and swore to get him a fresh tag. George, I believe, thinks this was the BEST NIGHT EVER.

The moral of the story is make sure your pets are microchipped and never trust a 14 year old to do anything right.

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