The little bolero from yesterday is finished, and I was right, my life does actually feel more complete and rich, even though this pattern departs from the usual "open in the front" bolero rules. What the hell, I mean...once you've lawlessly stopped in the middle of a row, rules are nothing to you. Nothing.
Laura asked for the pattern source (she also asked what a Bolero was..but I already answered her), and I'm destined to disappoint. Not only is the pattern from a weird little Patons book from the 50's, I changed it. The original was done in a two stitch basket weave, so I changed it to a ribbed slip stitch, from 365 Knitting Stitches A Year (Which I love, even though the considerable errata is here) and I made the cross over front slope a little less slopey. The main issue was the basket weave. I hate basketweave stitch, I hate it enough that I have never really even tried to get over it. I know I'm being unfair, I'm ok with that. I believe that basketweave stitch, and all of its incarnations are "puffy" and that this puffiness, when used in a garment that goes anywhere near a person who is not a truly unhealthy kind of skinny will transfer it's qualities of puffiness to said wearer, thus making them look puffy.
I won't even stand near somebody wearing basketweave.
I have, in the last 12 hours developed an obsession with ponchos. I have looked at ponches before and almost knit Steph's pretty clever ponchoification of Charlotte. I decided against it. (I have reservations about Charlotte. We'll talk about that another time).
In the end, I wondered why I'd want to make a poncho at all. Big, easy, shapeless...not usually what I'm into at all. Then, I saw Aven's poncho here, and something snapped. I am obsessed. I can't explain it. I have spent several hours over the last 12 cruising poncho's on the blogs, looking at patterns, folding up napkins in attempts to design a poncho, ripping yarn out of the stash to see if it's poncho material....I can't explain myself.
Why do I care?
Then I was talking with my mom. I mentioned the poncho obsession, and she said "Christ. Not this again." Turns out that that when I was 7 I wanted a poncho very, very badly. I begged, I pleaded, I folded tablecloths into artful and wearable poncho shapes and I was denied. My mother thought that ponchos are stupid, so now, it turns out that once again ....I'm scarred for life.
I'm going to have to knit a dumb poncho. (Now that I think about it, this could explain the odd attraction I have to fringe too...)