Yeah. I’m writing this in a taxi. There’s no wireless in the cab, so I’ll post it when I can. (note: I didn’t find wireless until I got to the hotel tonight, so this post, though written in a taxi, was posted in the bathroom of the hotel, the only part of the room I can get signal in.)
Rushing again. I feel like I was only home long enough to take in a ball game (Jays 10, Yankees 5. The sock was thrilled. Me? I don’t play favourites.)
Visit with Joe, arrange my life, do a little laundry and get back on a plane. Today I’m off to Boston, beginning the leg of the tour that will take me to The Boston Knitting guild, Porter Square books, Classic yarns of Grafton and WEBS. (The WEBS event is giving me the willies. I heard a rumour that they’ve moved it to a nearby hotel, so if you’re coming, check in to make sure you go to the right place. I think it’s talk at the hotel, then back to WEBS to buy yarn sign books.)
The last week or so has been so surreal that blogging from the back of a taxi seems normal. Even rational. Things started to get strange when I got a call from the people who run my life Storey Publishing telling me that when I got through with the event in Philadelphia, that I should make my way to NYC for a quick radio spot. Okey dokey I think. No problem. (Well, I mean, going on the radio is always a problem, it’s a terrifying chance to say foul things live to many people if you muck it up, but at least it doesn’t matter if your fly is down or your hair is bad.) The surreal part started when they told me that it was Martha Stewart Sirius Radio.
Martha? That Martha? Handmade gingerbread houses with delicate hand fashioned sugar windows Martha? Martha, the woman sent to this earth to remind me that I don’t iron enough? Martha? No thank you. I cannot speak to Martha Stewart. I am not worthy. I don’t own any matching towels and I burn cookies. I don’t accessorize myself, never mind my bedroom. I am not the sort of person to be anywhere near her. She wouldn’t like me.
I am reassured when they say that It’s Martha’s show, but Martha doesn’t host it. It’s a call-in show hosted by some very nice ladies who aren’t as scary as Martha. I decided to turn up.
That’s Martha radio. (Not the whole thing. Just part. The sock was still a little intimidated.) I made my way there at 7am (after arriving in NYC at 2am) without coffee, (I can’t stress enough the significance that this all happened before coffee…) convinced security that there was no practical difference between my name, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee and the name they had on the list “Stephanie Pearl-MacPhee” (Get out of my way. Martha’s people are waiting for me.) and straggled upstairs where they slapped a headset on me and told me not to be nervous.
First caller. A very nice lady who wasn’t scary at all. I start to relax. All I have to do is talk to knitters. I like knitters. I talk to knitters all the time. This is going to be ok. It’s going to be fine.
Next caller….MARTHA FREAKING STEWART.
I’ll give you a minute to cope. Goodness knows I needed one.
I said, and these three words are the last words that I remember before my brain disconnected itself from my mouth…
“Good morning Martha”
Just like that. Just like I wasn’t breaking blood vessels in my brain and hyperventilating. Just like a normal person would. Just like everything was ok. Then Martha was talking and my world was going black. She wanted to know about needles. I suddenly knew nothing. I answered anyway (probably a tactical error.) She wanted to know about wool. I babbled incoherently. She told me that you can’t knit in prison. You have to crochet because prison doesn’t allow knitting needles. I said something like “Sure, yeah. You could give someone a nasty poke with a knitting needle.” then I think I laughed. Probably like a hyena on speed. Martha laughed melodically. I though about strangling myself with the headset cord or stuffing my mouth with yarn. “A nasty poke?” Who says that? Who tells Martha that? Someone stop me.
The next thing I know Martha says I’ve inspired her to knit (She lies beautifully.) the producers are thanking me and saying they will have me back…(lies, lies, more lies) and I’m back on the Avenue of The Americas trying to put it all back together. and wondering in a dazed sort of way if I was ok, or at the very least stupid enough to be entertaining. I’m really smarter than that. Poke. Good grief.
It was a relief to get to School products and sit quietly with the yarn, move onto the next event. (PS. Despite what this knitter says, I did not bully her into buying yarn in the store. It is not my fault if she has no fibre resistance.)
This is Stacey. See that yarn in front of her? She spun that with her own two hands. See that spindle with the maple leaf on the front? She gave me both of them. The yarn and the spindle. I am a very lucky knitter. I test drove the spindle that very night. It’s beautiful.
This is Jana, Tracy, Erin and Chris. Not necessarily in that order. these ladies know how to co-ordinate a yarnesque road trip. (Chris is a crocheter. I leant her a sock for the picture so she wouldn’t feel left out.)
Charming Trek was in attendance as was the engaging Mary Beth, I got to see Annie Modesitt. , after missing her while she was in Toronto for a trip, the knitters were everywhere at this event and I’ve got to tell you. The Rutherford Library runs a heck of a knitting party. There was Elizabeth, a very young knitter (I haven’t forgotten to send you that pattern) , there were the nice people who run Yarnart (They make some cool stuff. Meg is currently enamoured of the one with sequins in it.) and a good time was had by all. (Well, likely all. Definitely me.) I returned to NJ in a fine mood, crashed at Juno’s for our last night together and wondered what I ever did to deserve such a great evening. Then I remembered.