July 8, 2005
Post-Holiday Fluff
This entry was to have been posted yesterday with apologies for the lack of knitting content and assurances that I will be posting lots of pictures and status updates very soon. Turning on the news in the morning, I decided that yesterday wasn't a day for such frivolous things -- so I held off until today.
If Jason is catching up on his blog reads and suddenly bursts into laughter, I know there's a 50% chance he's reading Skot's Izzle pfaff!. (The other half of the time, he's reading dooce.) So when he forwarded me a link to an Izzle pfaff! entry the other day, I made sure that I wasn't eating or drinking anything and headed over to read it. Here's the story: Skot's wife is performing in a play, and she's been looking for a hobby to keep her occupied backstage during rehersals. She tried a few things, but none of them really seemed suited to situation.
And then a friend turned her on to . . . knitting. Which is possibly the most disturbing one yet, at least from my perspective. Because while I know it works for her situation--it's quiet, productive, passes the time, etc.--it is really sort of disturbing to be sitting around the home, I'm watching SportsCenter, and then to look over at my wife . . . knitting. My breathing becomes shallow, and the adrenal glands go juicy. Oh, God! I think. My wife is seventy years old! Because, I'm sorry, I do associate knitting with the elderly. Inept scarves and ill-fitting scratchy sweaters and all that, those lovingly-made gifts that have ruined countless Christmases for children.
Read the rest of the hysterical -- and gleefully profane -- entry here.
Not long after Jason passed on Skot's entry, he also pointed me to an August 2004 newspaper story out of Port Townsend, WA. One minute a woman was riding in a car, happily knitting on a sweater and the next she was sporting a bruised finger and this:
No warning, no explanation... her needle just exploded. I haven't felt safe picking up my metal needles since!
Posted by shannon at July 8, 2005 9:29 AM