Losing My Wool
I took a trip across the country over winter vacation. I brought the change purse-to-be with me on the plane, ’cause I could. On the flight from Halifax from Toronto, I discovered that while I was not self-conscious about knitting on an airplane, taking pictures of the knitting on the plane so I could post a photo here was embarrassing indeed. If you want to feel like a big dork and a weirdo, there is nothing like taking pictures of a few rows of poor knitting in front of an airplane window.
At least, this is what I thought for a short period of time. I soon found out that there are much more embarrassing things just waiting to happen to me.
I was sitting in the pre-boarding area in the Toronto airport. When the announcement to board finally came, I got up, joined the line by the gate, and waited to board the plane.
Then this woman said, “You’re losing your wool.”
At first I didn’t realize this had anything to do with me. Then I noticed she appeared to be looking directly at me. Losing my wool? What the hell? I glanced at my bag. There was a strand of blue yarn snaking out of it. And snaking, and snaking, and snaking. It formed a trail about fifteen feet long, leading back near the chair I’d been sitting in. There was a ball of blue variegated yarn on the floor, happily unravelling with every step I took. And all these people were looking at me.
“Thanks,” I said to the woman. I gathered up my errant yarn, showed the staff my boarding pass, and got on the plane.
Losing my wool. I guess it’s better than losing my marbles.
That’s my most interesting knitting news from the holidays. I know that I cast the embryonic change purse from the runaway yarn on too loosely and am eventually going to rip out my stockinette practice and start the change purse over. Ninety-some rows into The Scarf That Time Forgot, I made a mistake (accidentally winding up with eleven stitches in a row instead of ten) and spent way longer obsessing about fixing it than actually fixing it. My method of “fixing it” did bring the number of stitches in the row back to ten, but one of those ten was so loose that I had to rip that row out and do it over again anyway, because I didn’t know any efficient ways of tightening it up.
Before my trip, I mostly took pictures of my cats. There is a reason why my cat who lives at my parents’ house and my kitten who lives at my apartment are in separate pictures: they hate each other. A lot.
On my trip, I took a lot of pictures of food. I love pictures of food. I really have to buy a copy of Everything I Ate: A Year in the Life of My Mouth by Tucker Shaw because I am insane enough to think that it is awesome. These are not all of my food pictures, just a sample.
My boyfriend and I had sandwiches and pop at a mall food court. He used a coupon. He loves coupons. Can you blame him?
Shrimp on noodles, Vietnamese rolls with fish sauce, and strawberry juice at a Vietnamese restaurant.
Waffles with a nut sauce, berries, and whipped cream at my boyfriend’s friend’s house.
Supper at my boyfriend’s aunt’s house.
Ukrainian fast food at a food court in West Edmonton Mall.
Okay, now I’m officially hungry.