March 5, 2004

Desperate times

Call for desperate measures. After reading the comments yesterday I decided that The Claw and I were going to call it quits on knitting for 24 hours and see. After reading Liz's comment about not being able to knit for six months The Claw and I made a doctors appointment. If I had to give up knitting for six months somebody would have to take me down with a sedative blow-dart like something out of Wild Kingdom.
It turns out that if I didn't knit, I would clean my house more... last night when I ran out of things to vacuum and started prowling around the house contemplating reinstating my pack a day habit and possibly taking up heroin while repeatedly saying "I need something to do with my hands" (and big thanks to my charming husband for his suggestions....) It hit me. Crochet.

I know. I remember that I hate crochet and that I haven't done it in years and that I think it's stupid. I know. I remember that everything I make out of it looks wonky and cheap (and that probably has more to do with my ability to crochet rather than crochet itself) and that I have repeatedly, and in public called it "dumbass". I know. I remember that in the nineties I had some kind of a crochet breakdown and crocheted hundreds of doilies. (I swear weird is that?) I remember that I swore it off when I gave my mother her 43rd doily and she said "Darling....what the f**k am I going to do with this?" I know.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. My sister's friend swears that for her birthday, my chic little sister would like this. It's some Jessica Simpson fad thing. No, I don't know who Jessica Simpson is, but my sister's friend swears that she is culturally significant and thinks that I should try to pay attention to the world a little more. I don't get it myself, but mine is not to question why, mine is just to give my sister something she will like. So, I raided the stash, found a hook and gave The Claw a crochet test drive. It turns out that The Claw has no problem with crochet (how bitter a twist of fate is that, I swear that you should at least be able to count on your own body parts to back you up) and here we have the beginnings of ...whatever the hell it is.


You may mock me now.

Posted by Stephanie at March 5, 2004 10:20 AM