It wasn't easy. I've tried knitting before and each time was overcome by the sheer blandness of it and gave up after a few stitches. But after two children, a couple thousand dirty diapers, and a vengeful scale in my bathroom, I've found my mind sufficiently addled to take on knitting once more. This time, it stuck.
I can purl, rib, decrease, cast off, fair isle and stockinette with the best of them. When the kids start fussing, my needles slash and click like Edward Scissorhands. I can finally understand the allure of gun ownership. When I'm holding two pointed metal needles, I feel impervious. The metallic hiss they make as they slide across each other reminds me of Mel Gibson in Bravehart dragging his longsword across the nobleman's armor. With my needles at my side, nobody will mess with me. And really, how would you rather die - gun shot or knitting needles? I'm a force to be reckoned with.
So far I have used my knitting powers for good. And really, death by knitting needles seems to be a rare occurrence. I could only find one instance online of a knitting needle accident - a Palo Alto librarian was stabbed through the heart with a needle - but the tough old biddy survived. So the chances of me going all Tomb Raider on anybody's hinnie are slim. Plus, anyone who knits knows if you had the choice of protecting yourself from a heinous villain using your knitting needles or preserving the hours of stitching you'd already accomplished, you'd choose to save your knitting rather than your life.
So I bide my time, knitting dolls and cuffs, just waiting for some foolhardy lug to look at me the wrong way. And when he does, there will be no more question as to the "avant gardness" of my skills.
For those of you wondering what in the world has happened in my life over the past year since I've posted, here are a few tidbits:
We aren't the Hollywood Flakes anymore. We're the Henderson, NV Flakes. But don't even think about calling me "Henderson."
I'm now fat and Spike is lean. An amusing development.
After bleaching my hair unsuccessfully multiple times over my life and promising myself I would never do it again, I did it again. It looks terrible.
I'm sick of sewing.
Pixie, my four year old, learned to knit (see her instructional video here).
After mistakenly ordering a 30 lb bag of instant oats, I've become a master chef of all things oat related. Yum Yums, anyone?
I decided to blog again.