More expensive than wine, but cheaper than therapy

To say the last several months have been stressful is an understatement. I'm practically pooping diamonds, I'm in such a constant state of clench. In fact, on Saturday I finally succumbed to a nap (something I almost never do, for fear of missing something good), because after a week of looking after my mom and dad solo, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck then run over with a steam roller cartoon-style. My whole body ached. Slipping into blissful unconsciousness was such a welcome relief.

But since naps aren't always an option (really, I hate missing stuff), and vodka/wine/cocktails are (or should be) limited to happy hour, and I can't really afford therapy at the moment, I found something else...

First, there was Knitmap, a searchable yarn store directory I stumbled across one afternoon when I probably should have been doing something more productive.

And from there, Spun Fibre Arts, which is, incredibly, just minutes from home.

Minutes. From. Home. And I never knew.

My Beloved accompanied me on my maiden voyage to Spun a few weeks ago. He heard my contented sigh upon entering, and patiently followed me around the room while I touched everything I could put my little paws on, oohing and ahhing all the while.

I told him he could sit (there are couches in the middle of the store that are probably meant for knitting & crocheting class purposes, but certainly must frequently double as a man waiting area), but he said he wanted to watch me finger yarn.

Which sounds dirty, but really isn't. I swear.

I think it had just been that long since he'd seen me that content - lost in something that didn't involve old people on dialysis and my ever-present fear of the call.

I left the store with $40 worth of the most gorgeous baby llama yarn in soft lavender, and a buzz that I can only say rivaled a hit of Valium with a red wine chaser.

It was like they were pumping antidepressants in through the air system, the way they pump oxygen into casinos in Vegas.

I have simply not felt that relaxed in months. Months, people.

I have to think it actually had something to do with petting the yarns. It was almost meditative, moving slowly through the store from cubby to cubby, looking at all the delicious colours and touching each different flavour.

Yarn touch therapy. Is that a real thing?

If not, it should be.

Today I finally found a pattern worthy of my yarn, and started crocheting myself a rippled scarf. It's selfish to make something for myself out of the most gorgeous (and expensive) yarn I've ever bought, but it somehow feels right - like it's a continuation of the whole experience, which was so therapeutic, and so desperately needed.

So just for me.

Women don't do enough of this sort of thing. We're somehow biologically programed to look after others, and we spend an inordinate amount of time doing so, often at the expense of ourselves and our own precious peace.

So I'm telling you right now, go find your yarn store. Go find whatever it is that makes you feel the kind of contentment I felt that day at Spun, and do it - or eat it, or read it, or bake it, or sleep on it, or wear it. Whatever it is, just dooooo iiiiit.

Trust me.

This 'n that

I feel badly that I rarely respond to comments. I read them all (it's very exciting to know I'm not just talking to myself), and I'm so touched by each and every word you so kindly choose to send my way. Truly, I am. They make me laugh, cry and everything in between, those words do.

But I always forget that you can't see that, what with you not having spy cameras and recording devices planted inside my house.

So thank you, so much, for the support, advice, smiles, commiseration, sympathy, compliments, hugs and kind words.

You rock. In the very best ways possible.
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The other evening I was outside shoveling snow - a task that I normally loathe - and I found myself enjoying it.

The cold has finally gotten to me. I've lost my mind.

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This morning I started thinking that maybe I'd like to get a kitten instead of a puppy. A kitten would be much easier to work into our little family dynamic. Easier on Lucy and easier on us (never having owned dogs before).

I just wish the Norfolk Terriers weren't so cute, and that I hadn't already started envisioning nightly walks and furry dog kisses...

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On Tuesday I started a Facebook Group in an effort to promote good deed doing on Thomas' birthday, and I was floored to see that as of this morning, there were 190 members.

It has spiraled out from just people I know, to friends of friends of friends.

It's even gone overseas to Scotland, Spain and India.

And every time I think about it - about all the extra little kindnesses that will be done in Thomas' memory on his birthday all over the world - I smile.

I'm so proud. So unbelievably proud.

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This morning I read about a craft co-op in Toronto - a space where locals drop in to, well, craft. The co-op rents out sewing machines, space and tools, and people come in to make handmade treasures and commune with other like-minded artisans. They sell fabric too, but mostly it's a space to create.

I drooled. Enviously.

I'm a lone crafter out here in the suburbs. I crochet on the couch, sometimes with Lucy and Sandy nearby, but usually by myself, because I don't know anyone in my real life who shares my passion for hooks and yarn.

The thought of a cozy, creative, community space right here in my neighbourhood where other knitheads and hookers might congregate is so appealing.

I wonder...
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Sometimes I let myself think about what my life would be like if Thomas was still in it. I mean in the tangible, earthly sense.

With the passage of nearly four years, it's becoming harder and harder to imagine it. I had a sense of what the baby years might have been like. The house was littered with babyness and its accompanying paraphernalia prior to his birth - I could see that life. I know what it would have looked like, if not actually felt like.

But now? There's nothing about the house to suggest an almost four-year old could have lived here.

It's lost to me, that life.

The sadness that fact generates is no longer quite as desperate and agonizing as it used to be when I'd let myself wonder about my once-upon-a-time world. Now it's just sort of wistful. I sometimes even smile when I try to imagine a four-year old Thomas bounding up the stairs.

Maybe it's easier because there is no visible evidence to suggest a four-year old should be here.

Or maybe it's just that time has worn the jagged edges of my sorrow down so that it's smoother and easier to hold now.

I don't know.

The house is still too quiet. But I'm used to it. It's amazing what you can survive, isn't it? It's amazing what you can come to accept as normal.


I miss him.
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And finally,

To the person who wanted a monkey (like the one I posted the other day, who now lives on My Beloved's desk at work), I do manage to sell the odd bit of crochet work every now and then (which helps me to justify the time I spend doing it...mostly). And here's where you can find it ----> Plumpkin Heads

Monkeying around

I wish someone would pay me to sit around and write what I want to write and crochet what I want to crochet when I'm not writing what I want to write.

Why is there no job out there like that? Why? Why?

Sigh.

I suppose I'll just keep looking for other, less exciting paying gigs until my dream writing/crocheting job appears.

And blog and make monkeys with reckless abandon while I'm waiting.

The first step is admitting you have a problem, right?

So, today I decided to clean up the spare room (which, while it's sitting there being spare, has been doubling as my craft room - and by craft room I mean depository for all things vaguely craft related. And, sometimes, totally and completely unrelated).

Lately I've been having lovely visions of a pristine, freshly painted craft-themed oasis, complete with shelving for all my yarn. Especially shelving for my yarn. Shelving instead of plastic tubs that are surprisingly easy for balls of yarn to get buried in. Lost for months. Years, even.

A place for everything and everything in its place. This was my dream.

My Beloved and I went out hunting for cheap shelving today (I want order, but I'm desperately frugal about it) and were successful beyond my wildest dreams.

Plain, unfinished wood shoe racks. Just $3.97 each (50% off at Zellers, in case anyone is interested). Simple, light, cheap, stackable - and perfect for yarn. We bought eight of them. I wanted to have lots of room.

Uh, but...



I seriously had no idea there was this much yarn tucked away in tubs, bags and knitting baskets in that one, small room. No idea.

And now that I've put it all out there on display there's really no way to convince anyone that I need more. Even though, God help me, it feels like I do. Seeing it there all lined up neat and at the ready just makes me want more. Mooooooooore.

Yarny goodness. So. Much. Yarny. Goodness.

There's no 12-step program for this, is there?

In the absence of a proper post...

I have a couple of posts sitting in my head, but lack the energy to make them exit my brain via my fingertips.

So instead, I'll just say a quick thank you to those who were sweet enough to follow me to blog v.2, and to those who have posted some very nice and encouraging comments there. I appreciate the indulgence.

I'm really enjoying my little project. And, what's even better, so far have no niggling feelings of regret for starting it in the first place. I know I'm only 7 days in and all, but it has yet to feel like a chore. Not even a little bit.

Miracle of miracles.

I'm not leaving this blog...

...I've just decided to start writing this one too.

Because apparently I just. can't. stop. talking.

Yarn therapy

I know it's vain, but I was just so proud of this blankie I had to share. It was sent to a very special friend and her new baby girl.

I'm currently working on a slightly more masculine afghan for My Beloved's birthday. Also good therapy.

Apparently any kind of yarn play works for me.

And that's the hooker report for Friday June 27th.

There's something to be said for keeping busy

And monkeys, as it turns out, are very, very therapeutic.

The little blue hoodie

I'm feeling a lot better. Most likely because I've done nothing but lay about and get well for three days. Seriously, that's the cure for the common cold. If I could bottle and sell "laying about like a sloth" I'd be a millionaire.

But since I can't, I'll just pass the word along. Seriously, it works. Well, that and preventative doses of Robitussin before bed.

Anyway, while I was laying about today I decided to work on the baby hoodie I started crocheting a few weeks ago. It's in the loveliest, softest shade of blue - almost like a gentle dove gray, only bluer (if that makes any sense at all). The pieces (front and back and about a quarter of one arm) are so delicate and pretty. To little old unbiased me, anyway.

And I haven't a clue who I'm making it for.

It sort of dawned on me today, this fact. I started it because I liked the pattern and wanted to give it a try. I bought the blue yarn because I liked it. Only now I don't know who it's for. It doesn't really matter, except that for some reason it just does.

I could throw it up on my plumpkinheads.com website, but for some reason it feels like I'm making it for someone. Only I'm not. I'm strangely attached to it, but I don't need it. I'm not pregnant. I have no idea if I'll ever be pregnant again.

Part of me wants to tuck it away in my cedar chest just "in case". The other part of me wants to give it away to someone who I can see wearing it. Maybe to someone who I can hold while they're wearing it.

It's just that kind of baby sweater for some reason.

So we'll see. I'll finish it up and decide later. No particular rush.

But if a little blue hoodie should find its way to you (whoever you are), please know it was crocheted with a lot of love.