Annals of the Beach Dress

I'm mad at my knitting.

For the past month I've been diligently trying to knit this cute little beach cover up dress thing. So diligently in fact, that I've even refrained from casting on other projects! Although I did start learning how to play the guitar -- which, in the grand scheme of things, I suppose could be likened to casting on. Anyway, I didn't like it after the first few rows, I didn't like it after the first ball, and I don't like it now, 3 balls in and half way done. This is new for me. I typically like the things I'm making and I like making them. So here's why I don't like this one:

1. Don't like the yarn. I initially bought this yarn on impulse. I saw the pattern first, of course, and in a momentary lapse of reason, decided that this yarn would be the yarn for the job. It's what I would call a skinny slug. I've worked with slug before, several times actually, and have always been somewhat disappointed with the way it knits up. But for some reason, I keep buying it. I think it's just one of those yarns that manages to look better on the ball than it does as a fabric. (Which, when I get a chance, I actually want to buy another couple balls of this [in a different colorway] and try to weave a scarf with it -- the woven texture might be more interesting than the knit one, and I've never woven before, so it could be fun first project.)

2. Hate the color. It reminds me of the aftermath of a night of hard drinking. Or letting stomach flu have a romp through your system. You get the idea. Now, this wasn't the only colorway at the shop of course. There was a beautiful, pristine summer white, and an equally lovely taupe brown, the color of wet sand. (Uncoincidentally, those were also the recommended colorways in the magazine -- in a different yarn.) But no. I bought the "beach-y" color, and this whole time I wish I'd bought the white one. And I keep thinking that maybe, just maybe, it will look different if I keep knitting. As if 3 skeins in doesn't let me know. I'm threatening to dye it. Black.

3. The swatch lied. Yes, I actually took the time to swatch. Twice. I'm knitting at 26 sts and 36 rows (approximately -- the slug makes it kind of hard to count) instead of the 22 sts and 28 rows the pattern calls for. I'm also knitting one size bigger than usual, so I'm actually ok, circumference-wise. The problem is the row gauge. Since I'm off 2 rows to the inch, my "dress" is now about 7 inches shorter than where it's supposed to be. So now, it's more like a "tent" and edge happens to fall at the widest part of my hip. Awesome.

I'm at the point where I put the skirt on a holder and knit the sleeves, before joining for a round yoke. Inevitably, since the sleeves are knit flat and the rest in round, I'll get a different gauge for them too (what else could go wrong??). As far as I see it, I have 2 options: [1] block the skirt to see if I can even get remotely close to gauge, and [2] when (ok, if - I'll try to be optimistic) that fails, frog the whole thing down and start over on a larger needle. Or [3] accept that I'll be wearing something that could probably fit a 4 year old. Well, it is for the beach -- coverage is only necessary enough.

Making Stuff

I knit. I sew. I paint, I needlepoint, and I take photographs. I even built a bookshelf once. I'm not listing this to boast or brag, but I do think it's very clever indeed to have the ability to make stuff.

I feel that the addition of each craft gets easier to figure out, based on knowing that each is simply made up of a few basic parts (with endless manipulations and variations). For example, I began my craft career sewing. All garments are made from some modification of 5 basic pattern pieces -- skirt front and back, bodice front and back, sleeve. Having made enough garments by the time I picked up a pair of knitting needles, I understood shaping, drape, and construction. Knitting itself is made up of 2 stitches -- knit and purl. Photography is just the effect of manipulating light -- aperture, shutter speed, film speed, color temperature. And so on and so forth.

So it's with this building-block, I-can-figure-it-out mentality that I'm going to learn to play the guitar. This is how I see it: per the Craft Yarn Council of America, there are 38 million knitters and crocheters in this country (equivalent to the entire population of Poland). According to a questionable internet source, 65% of Americans know how to play the guitar -- or about 195 million people. If that many people (not accounting for the billions more scattered around the globe) have been able to figure it out, I'm sure I can too. After all, I make stuff. :)

Means Ends; Ends Means

I first learned to knit my freshman year of college. I didn't have a sewing machine with me, but I needed to craft, so I went to Wal-mart and bought a pair of size 17 needles, a skein of Lion Brand Homespun yarn, and the "I can't believe I'm knitting!" book. At some point, (on like, page 3) I got confused. I then bought the "I taught myself knitting" kit, because after all, two books telling you the same thing is certainly better than one.

I figured out how to cast on. Woot! I think I initially wanted to start out by making a scarf, but had no clue as to how many stitches to cast on, so I ended up casting on the entire length of the needles - 14" worth of cast on stitches. Size 17 needles are bulky and kind of awkward to use in general, but even more so when I was learning.

I learned to knit English. The book told me so. I hated it. It just seemed obnoxiously hard. Unbeknownst to me at the time of course, was that English knitting tends to produce a tighter gauge than Continental. I struggled to get the stitches off the needle, using the tip of my finger against the tip of the needle to give enough force to drag the stitch off. Well, you can imagine that after about a row of this, I had a very sore finger. (Plus I was knitting garter, which, in my opinion, is harder to knit than stockinette because the stitches "face" the wrong direction.) I think I got about halfway through the skein of yarn before I considered it quits, and the project got shelved.

I wrapped the knit part of the [what was now quite evidently more of a shawl than a] scarf around the remainder of the skein and stuck the extra needle through the middle. And so it sat. For 5 years. And got stretched out. But I picked it back up, this time with a determination to finish it. Not even so much to knit for knitting's sake - just to finish it. I ended up buying an extra skein to get the length correct (it being so wide and all) and finished it. One side ended up being a little wider than the other, but who cares? It's done! It actually stayed that way for about another 3 years, until I finally washed it and that evened out the stitches - sigh.

One knitting project down, why not start another? My mother had a bit of yarn (black, of course) left over from some project or another; she passed it off to me, and I cast on again - this time on size 8 needles - much easier! I'm sitting in the kitchen, knitting (or at least making valid attempts to) when my father walks in, glances in my direction and flat out tells me I'm knitting wrong.

Ok.

My grandmother, who was an avid sock knitter, but also a teacher (his teacher in fact), taught his entire 5th grade class to knit. And after all these years, he's managed to retain that information. I guess it's true when they say knitting is like learning to ride a bike - muscle memory never really forgets. He showed me the "proper" way to knit - Continental, of course.

For me, Continental was the gateway drug. It was faster, more intuitive.* It was easier to "pick" the yarn - for both knit and purl stitches - than it was to remember which darned way to wrap it.

Now, I'm not saying there is or isn't a "correct" way to knit. Knitting is the means to the end; as long as the fabric comes out correctly,** then do what makes you happy.

*Which is not to say that Continental didn't have it's pitfalls. For about a year and a half I didn't know the difference between k2tog (knit 2 together) and ssk (slip slip knit). K2tog: yes, ok, put the needle through 2 stitches instead of just one, and knit them, ok. Ssk: it's the exact same thing! Why would I slip them first? And what's with all this "back of the stitch" business? I am putting my needle into the back of the stitch! Of course I later learned, that based on how I knit, I had to put my needle into the front of the stitches in order to k2tog, and that k2tog and ssk are not the same because they slant in different ways. Oh, and about 3 weeks ago, I finally figured out how to properly make left and right slanting increases.

**Increases, decreases, yarn overs (a term that is entirely too vague in most patterns - I prefer the British delineations of yo, yrnd, and yfwd), and knitting in the round were all learned the hard way. I think almost every project I've ever made, save the last 2 or 3, has mistakes in it. Some which actually compromise the integrity of the garment - like socks with twisted rib instead of regular rib, that then won't stay up.

But I'm ok with it. So what? It doesn't prevent me from wearing the things I've made. I have a whole closet-full of lessons learned and I'm proud of each one. What's more, knowing that I still have so much more to learn is what keeps me knitting. Off to go screw something else up!

Clouds, Questions, and Cotton Candy

A quick update as to what I've been working on:

I finished the Cloud Bolero a week or so ago, but then got too busy to block it, so here it is now, finished and done.


I also finished Blackberry (finally) which was first supposed to be Christmas present, then a birthday present (maybe now an early Mother's Day present?) for Mom. I ended up giving it to her earlier this week, now that the weather is getting nicer and all. Oops.


The Drawstring Raglan is currently hibernating. I'm working with Jagger Spun Zephyr Wool-Silk. I love how this yarn knits up - but the colors are a bit wonky. I bought this yarn online, so I wasn't really sure what I was going to get when it came to colors. Initially, I picked out white, pewter, charcoal, and black. Seems simple enough, right? Not when "white" really means "winter white." Now, winter white is a lovely color, with subtle warm undertones - which unfortunately clash with the coolness of the grays it's supposed to be paired with. I tried to make it work - it didn't. Damn. So now I have 2 dilemmas: 1 - which 3 other colors to buy, to finish the cardigan, and 2 - what to do with 630 yards each of the pewter, charcoal, and black? For the former, I'm thinking either [a] daffodil (light yellow), ice blue, and indigo, or [b] mushroom (light beige), ice blue, and some shade of red. Fortunately, I have the opportunity to change my mind 12 more times, as I'm currently broke and can't afford to buy the yarn right now anyways. As for using up the already purchased colorways - I think a short sleeved pullover would be nice, using the 3 strands knit together. I still have to swatch for gauge, etc., and am on a mad pattern hunt - 630 yards really isn't much.

In the meantime, I've started knitting a beach cover up. This was a project I'd wanted to start last summer, but it quickly got shelved when the yarn decided to tangle itself into an incomprehensible mess. It would simply slide off the ball in chunks at a time.


I figured I could contain that by housing it in an old nylon stocking, which was fine, until I tried to pull from the stocking. What a disaster. Eventually, I rewound all the balls into cakes and let them sit until I was no longer mad at the yarn. I work decidedly better when I'm not angry.

Anyways, so far so good, as far pulling from the ball is concerned. I'm getting used to working with the slug, which no doubt forms an interesting pattern -- one that, upon initial reaction, is slightly reminiscent of the aftermath of eating too much cotton candy then going for a ride on the tilt-a-whirl. I hope this is a temporary condition. I hope that - as with stomach upsets - it'll get better as the day goes on and just work itself out.

And the beat goes on

It's my last semester at ID. Last of 6. 6 loooooooong semesters. Semesters where it's not uncommon to work over 100 hours a week. Where I've actually clocked in at 6am and clocked out 24 hours later. My longest meeting ever stretched 14 hours; it was for Demo. The second longest, only an hour shorter, was Systems -- I never thought anything could beat a Systems meeting. The longest I've ever slept in one night? 17 hours - 8pm Saturday to 1pm Sunday. Apparently I needed it.

I've lived and breathed by my Google Calendar, and have shared it with many friends. I used to tell them to look there first before asking when I was available to hang out. These are the friends who wouldn't take no for an answer when I said I was too busy - they just kept asking. :)

I've taken thousands of pictures, but wish I'd taken more. And I still don't own a damn point and shoot.

As I'm looking through the pictures in the ID flickr group, I'm overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia; there is something very... ID about those pictures. Maybe it's the presence of all that food. Maybe it's the miserable gray backdrop that is ID. Maybe it's the clear sense of bonding that occurs because of the misery.

Over the past 3 years, we've cried and fought - as teams and individually (I've personally lost count of my own breakdowns). But we've also laughed. A lot. And at some of the most inane and incomprehensible frivolity that can only be shared by someone who's as sleep deprived as you. We developed a unique sense of camaraderie that I don't think is found in B schools, or law schools, or med schools. We were here to help each other out (You can do that in InDesign?? Why didn't I know that yesterday...). We worked together, ate together, procrastinated together.

Now, as we graduate and are flung about the country to "spread design thinking" (if you've drank the kool-aid) or to simply find a job where we can somehow apply user-centered-ness, (or to move to Canada), I'll be sad to see my friends go. I'm glad to be out; but for all it's worth, I'll miss it.

Hibernating

I have a terrible habit of starting projects, getting distracted, putting said projects in a drawer, and ignoring them for a year or ten. The worst part is, most of these projects are mostly done. The garment has been cut, stitched together, maybe the lining's even been attached. It is a recognizable piece of clothing, certainly not in the stage where anyone would say "So, what's that gonna be?" Or it's fully knit and just the (eleventy million) ends just need to be woven in. So why do I keep getting derailed? Why do I make a New Year's resolution every year (3 - or is it 4? - years running now) to finish all the projects I've started?

Well, first of all, finishing sucks. I'm a process knitter/stitcher. I love the action of the making itself. I love to hear the whir of needles and to feel the fabric pass through my hands. I love that I can turn a really long piece of string into something other than a tangled mess. And I love that it brings clarity and focus into my life, especially during times of stress. But finishing a garment makes it real. It means that the oddly shaped pieces of fabric I've just put together actually have to fit. And look good. Which it better, after all those hours! This leads to derailment #1: Alterations.

If there is no forethought put into alterations prior to cutting fabric, casting on, or what-have-you, then alterations must be made as you go, on the semi-finished piece. More often than not, this requires ripping of some sort -- seam ripping, ripping down (byebye thousands of stitches...). It is easier to avoid the project by shoving it in a drawer, than to deal with the pain and frustration of trying to fix it, when the making of the thing itself is supposed to alleviate pain and frustration in the first place.

Inevitably, time management and overhead are pretty good derailers as well. Sewing requires overhead, a.k.a. a sewing machine. While that may sound obvious, it's not like I can take a sewing machine with me on the train everyday. When my sister and I are sewing, we officially take over the kitchen, the dining room, and sometimes the living room. Sewing requires time to set up, tear down etc, so for all that effort, there should be a sizable portion of sewing that gets accomplished. Because of this same reason, not much sewing gets done when time is tight. So when winter break is over, I'm generally left with an unfinished project or two - and by the time the summer rolls around, I've planned 14 other things to make.

Sometimes just the sheer thought of finishing sounds horribly boring, boring, boring. Again -- I've already planned the next 3 things before I even start the one I'm working on. Occasionally, by the time it comes to finishing a project, I'm kinda over it. It's practically already done anyways, and I've already cast on something else. This is a weak excuse, but it's true.

I finally came up with a couple solutions to this problem.

1. Be strict. I made a "no more buying yarn" rule - with the exception to purchase only what I need to finish a project (a fair compromise, I think), until I've worked a few projects through to completion and taken one or two more out of hibernation and finished those as well. Then I get to treat myself!

2. Be with friends. Friends motivate, inspire, and encourage. Friends tell you how to fix a disaster. Friends look forward to seeing a final product. Friends bond.

The former requires a lot of self discipline (let's face it, not buying fabric, yarn, needles, or notions is not fun), while the latter often spurs even more ideas (and trips to the fabric store!). But one of the benefits of crafting with friends is that friends often gather in a locale that is not your home -- meaning that you have to select projects to bring and work on. It's easier to finish something when that's the only option you have. So, I will finish all my hibernating projects this year -- with a little help from my friends.