Enchanting Juno

N is for Neville

It seems to me that there is a kind of galloping ennui pervading this little community.  Posting - not just mine - has been slow for a month or so, and everyone seems a bit limp.  Depleted.  I have been blaming the weather, except for the fact that while it is brutally hot, I don't believe it is really any hotter than any other mid-Atlantic summer I have lived.  And considerably less humid than memory tells me it was in the old days.

Someone told me a few days ago that it was because mercury was out of retrograde.  I was like, wait...isn't it supposed to be the other way around?  Uh huh.  It seems that the increased potential energy of a world out of retrograde is upsetting people - they're scared of possibility.  I would make fun of this except that possibility is a very normal thing to be scared of.  Very human.  Stupid, chickenshit...but human.

This same friend confessed that she has been suffering a sense of impending doom herself, and finds herself checking her email all the time waiting for...something.

I laughed and laughed and laughed....because I have been doing the same thing for several months.  I open my email box and no matter what is in there - 50 messages or none - I am disappointed.  Because I am expecting something and it isn't there and I have not the smallest idea what it is that I am waiting for.  And I really would like to know when I decided my email box was the oracle that would provide me with an Answer?  It is, if I understand correctly, a means of communication not the I-Ching.  (Though it would be pretty amusing if it turned out there was a secret subtext to the penis enhancement ads).

Dr. Who is back, which is very nice.  I can - and have - watch David Tennant be the doctor for an infinite number of hours.  I'm a very tiny bit embarrassed by how closely BBC Wales has captured my sexual ideal (I do so hate to be a cliche). Though, as my friend P pointed out when I asked him to please pack Mr. Tennant in a to go bag for me, should he happen upon him, he's pretty sure there's a waiting list for that.  So I am not alone.  I can't decide if that makes the mortification sting more or less.

I hadn't turned the a/c on until the night before last - fear of the power bill had me claiming comfort well past the point of believability - but I haven't been sleeping well and the change since I dropped the indoor temperature forces me to admit that it may have been heat related.  Oddly, I was knitting more before I cooled things off.   The blue pullover is done but for the neckband - it took me abut 4 hours to pick up and knit three rounds last night.

I did do some spinning. 

I've been working on these for WEEKS.  Camel Tussah in Fiddlehead from Foxfire.  This is a deliberate attempt on my part to spin with less twist in order to have a three-ply that is a leeeetle less firm.  The third bobbin represents a real failure of will.  It is significantly less good than the other two; as gorgeous as this stuff is, it would not be my recommended fiber for spinning in an 80 degree room in July.  Too fluffy and sticky and fine.   I kind of gave up on consistency a bit to just finish it already.  When I switched to some Shetland I carded up from fleece last spring I enjoyed myself much more and my spinning sucked way less.  Will ply when the third bobbin had a chance to go as limp as the first two.  Despite it all, I expect the resulting yarn to be rather nice.  I'm thinking a slouchy beret hat thing.

I found this in my change the other day.  1915 dime.  Pleasantly worn from nearly 100 years of handling.  It has given me rather a lot of pleasure these past few days to contemplate its adventures and the wonderful tactile smoothness of the old worn silver.

 

 

 

The things we carry.

Did I ever tell you about this one?  I bought the yarn using a birthday 10% off coupon at a local store.  In 2004.  It's South West Trading Company Phoenix, and it looks and feels like a soy shoelace.  Which sounds bad, but really isn't. 

I loved the color.  Love the color.  I was a brand spanking new knitter and I bought the Rowan Summer Tweed book and fell in love with the tank pattern called Rosemary.  (At this time in my life I did not go sleeveless in public, so I am not sure how this love came to be.  Perhaps I was beginning to be tired of self consciousness?)   But Summer Tweed I did not like the look of.  And Rowan stops their sizing at about 40 inches anyway, so I knew I would be re figuring and why not redo the gauge as long as I was tinkering?  Just look at the pretty blue and brown.

I was new.  New enough that I was unclear on ease.  Somewhere I read that you should allow 2-4 inches of ease.  I chose 4, as I am a big girl and I thought it was better for something to skim, rather than hug, the curves.  I made a swatch, even.  I did not notice the way the swatch relaxed into this lovely, thin, heavy thing.  I knit.  And knit, and knit.  Each skein has 175 yards.  I used every bit of the six I had and went back for the other four on the shelf.  I knit some more.

(While I still don't like Summer Tweed, this is actually a pattern with some thoughtful detail - a clever slipped stitch edge and well thought out shaping.  I might curse the name of Rowan, but I must do so fairly.)

It went on forever.  I bought my first addi turbos to move things along.  And one weekend I sat down - this was just before the blog, and I wanted to wear it that summer - and made myself finish.  This was clearly before wrist surgery.  The thought of knitting this yarn at this gauge on that needle now makes my wrist throb a little.

I washed.  I blocked.  I sewed up the sides and one shoulder - harvesting from the swatch to do so, because I had used every last scrap of my 1750 yards of worsted yarn.  I tried it on before I finished seaming, just to see.  Then I took it off.  I folded it up.  I put it in the closet.

And there it stayed.  Like this.

There's a lot of sweater in that pile, considering it is a tank, don't you think?  The v-neck stretched to below my bra, the hem to mid thigh.  It was vast.  Like a sail.  Like a Christo installation.  A trapezoidal Christo Installation.

When a friend visited for the first time - you know how you tour the stash with wool friends, right?  - she picked up the front (I had unpicked the side seams at some point).  Looked at me.  Looked at it.  Looked at me.  What is this?

Fuckin' Rowan, I replied with some bitterness.

And we howled.  It was Rowan's fault.  Right.  When we could breathe again she asked me - not for the last time - exactly how big I thought I was anyway?

For three years it sat, mocking me silently.  This weekend I struck back.

I still love the yarn though.  Maybe a shawl?

This, by the way, is how a sweater is supposed to fit:

At long last, a picture of Matilda Jane. The auto focus and I were having a disagreement.  But I think you can see well enough.

There was some construction to balance the destruction too.  A yin/yang of creation, if you will.

I'm not binding off the sleeve until I finish the neckline, get the length just right.  It looks good.  It fits like Matilda Jane.  There may be a connection here.

This is a bulky yarn knit to a worsted gauge (not something I would ordinarily recommend, but this is an odd yarn).  I bought either 14 or 15 balls and I will have one left over.  Maybe a bit more.  This is a hip length sweater with sleeves to the middle of my hand.   Using 1200 yards +/-.  MJ used about 1350 yards of DK.
The answer to the question is "a lot bigger than I really am."  Seriously.

This made me laugh.  I groomed the stuffing out of her this weekend.  I think I went one comb too far.  Either that or I just finally took the damn yarn out of her basket. 

 

 

 

 

 

apathy smapathy

I have had ennui.  It maybe showed?

But I have been to the gymnasium, which always helps, and I have eaten spinach, ditto. 

And though I have not done a little dance, nor in fact, made a little love, I did indeed get down last night.

The sweater A l'Orange is no more.  But I still love the yarn.  So it is enjoying a refreshing swim.  We will see if it recovers.

The Jo Sharp Desert Garden Sarong that has been on hiatus since July of of 2004?
Gone, gone, gone.

This one I never liked - the color, while pretty, was not what I wanted.  I wanted dandelion, or parakeet, not garnet.  Anyone want it?  8 untouched balls, plus at least 8 in this giant recovered skein.  There's also a little handful of 12 or 14 inch bits that were going to be the fringe - since this was loosely knit I changed balls at the edge and trimmed the fringe-useful lengths as I went.  If you're interested, I'll weigh the lot and guesstimate the yardage.  First comment to claim it gets it.  I'll even pay the shipping, that's how happy I am to have this out of my house. (It was about a month from becoming a great and terrible new god of retribution.) (Reference?  Anyone?)

I feel better already.  (I still need to finish something before beginning something else, but that final sleeve is looking totally manageable right now. And then?  Cables.  I'm thinking cables.)

8 things.

It is too bloody hot to knit.  I am averaging about 4 rounds a night - that would be sleeve rounds at 48 stitches per - while I argue with the cat about whether or not her desire to swallow a couple of feet of my working yarn any time she can is really healthy for her.  On several levels.  Also reading mystery novels.  Anne Perry.  Inspector Monk. 

I'm waiting for the tree guy to come give me an estimate on removing the - I hesitate to call it a branch, more of a tree section - that fell on my neighbor's fence two days ago.  We've had some thunder, whooo boy.

My blog is rated R. via Dr. Steph.

Mingle² - Online Dating

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

sex (4x) bitch (3x) ass (2x) torture (1x)

Update: After this post, my R rating is based on the following. 

sex (6x) bitch (4x) fuck (3x) dead (2x) hurt (1x)

I'm finding the justaposition of hurtful words emotionally and visually compelling.

I wonder how far back they go?  And I'm finding all kind of thoughts stirring - along the lines of what determines an adult rating, and why am I moved to say fuck some more?  Is this a contrarian streak?  A fear of being too benign?  Is the reflex to be contrary in reality the most conventional response?  I saw this t-shirt recently that said "I fuck like a girl" across the front.  I had a similar thought cycle about this - is it subversive?  Why?  What are my assumptions about how women have sex?  What are my culture's assumptions?  Is wearing it a contrary act?  Or a complicit one?

Someone told me yesterday that I was using an MRI to look at the world when a stethoscope would do.  I don't know what they were talking about, do you?

Fortuitously, since I have nothing to show, nor complete thoughts to share, my one non-knitting reader - actually there may be more, but this one I know about - has memed me.  You might enjoy checking him out - politics and opinion a specialty, Lance Mannion.

(Update:  In a moment of being extremely meta I didn't explain the meme. Assuming you all would know.  Which you seem to.  Which I am enjoying.  For the sake of accuracy:  List eight random facts about yourself.)

1) In college I was one of those girls who didn't want to be associated with those feminists.  It wasn't that I wasn't interested in the ideas or ideals of it, but I was extremely conflict averse and also didn't want to give up boys.  I don't think I understood the difference between 'strident' and 'opinionated' until much later.  (I did understand you could be straight and feminist, really.  In theory.  I think I just wasn't ready for the thorough way you have to question reality once you step into awareness.  It was simpler just to think that men wouldn't like me if I spoke up.  Which I did anyway without realizing it.  I was incredibly outspoken for a woman who thought she was quiet - for real.  I once told the principal of my high school that I was would not be able to give her the respect I gave my parents (which she had just demanded) until she began to treat me and my classmates as my parents did, as human beings.  Ah, the righteousness of youth. That was a good day.)

2) I was thirty-four before I kissed someone taller than I, thirty-five before I slept with someone ditto - I'm 6'3".  I much prefer it.

3) When I was a little girl - a tiny one, like 4 - I used to drag my little chair out to the milk porch (little covered bit by the kitchen door where the milkman left his goods.) during storms to watch the lighting.  I have incredible, vivid memories of this, and in fact, still do it.  Different porch and no milkman, but if the storm is right overhead, I'll be standing in a door way, or out under the eaves, watching the water drops strobe where they sheet off the roof, and feeling the ozone dance on my skin.

4) I think refrigerating tomatoes ought to be a hangin' offense.

5) I can eat the same thing over again for weeks.  Partly its just laziness - cooking for one is a bore.  But partly I get in a groove and just like it.  I'm on a spinach/kale, paprika, feta, chicken, onion thing right now.  It's really good. 

6) I hate to be thought of as predictable.  Even when it is true.  Especially when it is true.

7)  I have considered going back to school for an advanced degree just for the cap and gown.  Or, you know, just starting to wear a cape around.

8) I had a brief episode of religious mania when I was about 5 or 6 - I distinctly remember telling my father that "god is love, daddy" but it wore off fast.  Other than that instance, I seem to have been born with a non-conformist kink in my stride (a quiet one sometimes, see conflict averse, above).  Just ask my mother. 

Not going to pass it on - my mailbox is where chain letters go to die - but feel free to join in if you feel stirred to do so - leave a link in the comments for me to see though, okay?

The thing for which I really need Novacaine is my checkbook.

I have spent most of the week at the dentist.  It is really cutting into my knitting.  Also my talking, and you know how much I like to do that.

I have a great dentist, he's an artist in some part of himself (and a pragmatist, which is how he ended up a dentist I expect) and he cracks me up.   I went to him for the first time about 10 years ago when an old filling fell out, taking half the tooth with it.  He's mostly a specialist - maxilofacial prosthetics, which are really, really fascinating, though generally, I'd rather keep my own ear thank you, and specialized dental things and the odd client like me, who's just there for the usual.

He's been keeping an eye on my childhood fillings - most of them 25 years old at this point, about which I would rather not think, my dears - and about 6 months ago he said that 4 of them had to go - that they were eroded to the point of letting in trouble and I had decay beginning under them. 

I hate shots in the gum with a deep shivering ickiness, which caused me to block out this information for a while, but eventually I went in - what's worse than replacing fillings?  Root canal.  You have to weigh your phobias.

Last month I had the two on the right replaced.  I have some kind of weird anesthetic bio-resistance so we do this thing - he gives me a shot, we wait, he tries the drill.  He peels me off the ceiling, gives me another shot.  Ditto.  (I have a high tolerance for alcohol too)
By the third shot I can't feel my whole head, but I can still feel the drill a little bit, and I suck it up and he does his thing.   It was fine - certainly not enough to keep me from MDS&W the next morning - but he says that one of the teeth is at this point little more than a shell.  I need a crown.  How do I feel about gold? 

He was hilarious, kept talking about doing dentistry old school and how that's the standard for excellence and properly cared for it will last the rest of my life (SOLD!) but no one likes them any more - they want composite.  How much?  The same?  I allow as how I think I can live with some dental bling and he is a happy man.

Monday was the two on the left.  We try beginning me earlier with the Novocaine.  Same deal.  He keeps going  "How can you feel that!  If you can't feel your lip (which I can't) the nerve is asleep.  They're CONNECTED."  I dunno what to tell you, man.  The vibration, he hurt me.  The other dentist comes in and they look in my mouth and talk about abnormal nerve clusters while I drool into my bib.  I have particularly enjoyed the mumbling over the last few days, as somewhere around shot number three I think I got a little bruise on the inside of my tongue.  It has been difficult to e-nun-ci-ate clearly.

Dental work is a bitch.  I'm just glad he makes me laugh. 

This morning I went back for the beginning of the crown.  We finally have the balance of the anesthetic right - a little more than most, and it takes a little longer to kick in - just in time for him to be done with drilling my mouth for the next few years, but hey.   The shots were smoooth....and right at the end he says - I nicked a vessel a bit, you might feel a bit of an epinephrine reaction.

I start to say, "what?"

Except that I am sitting bolt upright in the chair.  My hands are shaking and my heart racing and my eyes are darting around the room.  I swear to you, I am looking for a predator so I can rip him apart with my hands.  I was one loud noise away from crouching in the corner with a projectile weapon, calculating my odds of survival. 

He says "We call that the flight or fight response.  Yours seems strong."

Suddenly I understand war better. 

I could not stop watching my hands tremble. The human body is amazing.

Once I was numb AND no longer vibrating (I could never take stimulants. Feel like that on purpose?  Forget it.), we went ahead with my temporary crown.  I loved watching him make it, something that will be in my mouth less than four weeks, he still shapes with an artist's eye, a perfectionist's care.   

Next month - gold tooth.  In the meantime, I am exhausted.

Something of a [breakfast] epiphany.

You know how sometimes you find something, something you never even dreamed existed and then you can't live without it ever again and this transition from one state of being - ignorance - to another - essential need - is instantaneous?

The other day I was at Whole Foods, which is a thing I try not to do too often as it is terribly expensive.

But they are the only place around here I can reliably find Dr Praeger's Spinach Pancakes, without which Saturday breakfast would be meaningless, so that's how much my fiscal integrity is worth right there.  They're really good.  With poached eggs and Indian relish on top, mmmmmm.
Plus I love Dr. P's motto - where you recognize all the ingredients.   I would love to be the kind of woman who cooked all her own food lovingly from carefully selected locally grown produce and made her own yogurt from the milk of virgin goats, but I have wool instead and there are only so many hours in the day.  I do try to make my shortcuts reasonably non-toxic.

Where was I?  Whole Foods. 

I went to the yogurt section becasue the only yogurt I had left at home was displeasing to me - unsuccessful flavor choice - and for reasons that are a little unclear I picked up a carton or two of something called skyr.is in strawberry.  I think it looked a bit like Greek yogurt to me, but with less fat and the container had a spoon attached which is wasteful except when you bring a yogurt to work without a spoon, rather compromising the success of breakfast.
And I have such a love hate relationship with yogurt to begin with I am always interested in new approaches.

Skyr is not yogurt, skyr is the food of the gods, or of Iceland, which may be the same thing.  It is thick like sour cream, and sharper flavored, and very high protein and non-fat but without that compromised flavor that often taints non-fat things and it turns out it is not even yogurt, it is cheese and my gods, I love it wholly.
The strawberry is a hair too sweet, but very good, the blueberry extremely so,  but a handful of granola muted the sweetness to palatability (I won't buy that one again).  I haven't been able to try the vanilla as it is always sold out - leading me to believe that it might be the most successful flavor - and the plain is incredibly tart but delicious.  Particularly the way I ate it this morning, with a cut up nectarine and some hemp granola and a little Vermont maple syrup and some wheat germ.  Yum.

This little container fills me up until lunch, it is delicious, it has 22 grams of protein and until I filled it up with granola and fruit, a mere 110 calories.  It is apparently the national food of Iceland - how much of these kinds of marketing claims do I choose to believe?  Plus I wonder if the Skyr we're getting here is the same as Icelandic Skyr really?  But I don't care.   I went back to Whole Foods over the weekend - the sole importer, according to Google - and bought 8 little containers.   I called people up to tell them about it.  I explained to random people at the market why they ought to try it.

I'm saving the little folding spoons though, I can't bear to throw them away.

(I will know I have truly succeeded in changing myself for the better when the morning beverage that accompanies this is a cup of tea instead of a diet Coke.)

Moore's Law.

I'm feeling enormously clever today.  Which is a signal of course that universe will show me the error of my thinking, but I'm enjoying the moment.

At work - a small business - we were forced by the planned obsolescence of software to upgrade our accounting software.  As is the nature of new software it is approximately 12 times more bloated than its 3 year old predecessor (I exaggerate. Slightly) (UPDATE.  I LIED.  It is 25X bigger.) which caused our computers - which are also approximately 3 years old (2?  Can't remember) to begin....to....run...... very.....ve...ry.....slow...ly.  (Imagine that movie, end-of-tape, slowed down hollow voice here, please). 

I refuse to replace the computers which are more than adequately large and powerful for anything we need to do if only the software people would stop growing their software so exponentially.  Though I admit that the changes are mostly good ones, including a correction to one or two things I have bitched about daily for 6 years.  So, well, OK.

Anyway -  my elderly desktops here turn out to have only 256 MB of RAM which was standard in the year of their birth - was it aught 4?  aught 5?  Whichever, the maximum at the time was only twice that, if I recall.  But the world has continued to turn, and computer memory with it, and now I can buy a one GB module to go in that extra slot.  For less than an extra 256 would have run then.  Some things DO get better with time.

So I ordered me some 1GB modules for each of the computers here, and an external hard drive to streamline the backup process and a new DVD drive for my desktop while I was at it - I've been using the CDROM drive from someone else's computer across the network for over a year.  Most inefficient.

So the boxes came and sat.  (I waited until three days before the accounting software was no longer supported by the manufacturer to upgrade that too.  I think it is human nature to be suspicious of change.  Or so I tell myself.)

Because it is intimidating for a humanities type such as I am to look inside the computer.  I have really always preferred to image a world of industrious hamsters living in there, not wires and electronics beyond my ken.

But still.  Slow computers.  Annoying. (Anyone who tells me to buy a MAC gets a smacking.)

So I opened on up and looked around.   No hamsters.  Extraordinary amounts of very fine lint, but no hamsters.   
I blew out the dust.
I examined the first 1 GB module. 
It seemed logically designed to fit into that slot...there.   
A little fiddling and it locked into place and rebooted smoothly and recognized its new memory.

That was easy.

So I did it again on my own terminal - ditto dust, hamsters, module, rebooting.

And then I unscrewed the CDROM drive and installed the replacement in about 3 minutes. 

And it works.

And I have to admit that this success is due far more to the folks at Microsoft and Dell who designed this thing that it is to my own cleverness - tempting though it is to abuse them, and I often do, this went well because of their long term planning, not anything I brought to the table.

But still.  When I look up a customer file now, it springs eagerly to my touch, instead of dragging its electronic feet for 5 minutes.  And I feel clever.   Amused at my own transparency.  But clever.

And this on top of switching my email server to a new domain registrar and coping with the planned inefficiency of Network Solutions - designed to thwart my move with inertia and obfuscation.  Which I also waited until three days before the renewal date to do. 

I'm thinking FDR.   

green traffic light.

I kept meaning to garden this past weekend.  I went as far as driving partway to Lowe's before I remembered that I wanted to buy my flowers from a small, local nursery and also, it was too hot to live.  So I stopped.

I refuse to turn on the air for two reasons. 
One:  Still May
Two: The Electric Bill 
Three (Because apparently there are more than 2):  Once the a/c is on, then the house becomes a no-outdoor zone, no sound of the creek, no air movement, just a wall of pre-packaging between me and the rest of the world. 
This is what is wrong with residential America anyway - we should be sweating on the front steps and talking to our neighbors instead of sitting in splendid, frozen isolation in front of the computer or TV.
Talk to someone.  Read a book.  Experience the actual temperature of the earth.  While we can. 
You know.

Live.

So I came home last night still ungardened, but with some new yarn I wanted to photograph.  Ahem.  So I stepped out into the back and took a picture of the shawl as things presently stand (about a third done).

Which caused me to notice that the Miraculous Rosebush of My Maternal Lineage was blooming.

This is a shrub that has always been a tall stick of no particular beauty in its habit of growth.   But it makes a flower - one at a time, maybe two if we were lucky - that smells divine and was my mother's favorite rose.   So much so that it was one of the things she took with her when she moved over a 10 year period.  So much so that when she moved to the southwest she invited me to take it.

I think we all know that when I say invite I mean insisted in a tone that reminded me forcefully of discussions of what was wrong with my ensemble, age 13.

So I did.

I plunked it in the ground, this tall stick with a bit of greenery at the top and there I pretty much ignored it.  I watered the first season because I really think if I let it die I might be out of the will, but other than that it has enjoyed 6 years of the most gloriously benign neglect possible.  And last year something odd happened.

It grew branches from stems that had always been thorn alone.  It flourished.  It thrived.  It stuck out new and shining bits of greenery.  I thought about pruning it, but I forgot.   It seems to be fine with that because it is covered with buds and three glorious blooms.  Two of which are now in my kitchen stinking up the place in a marvelous way.  Because while I was out there last night I sort of accidentally weeded the place into a ruthless respectability.   I find that gardening has to happen in an of-the-moment kind of way.  Planning for it just makes me want to have a little lie down on the chaise with a cold compress and maybe some smelling salts.

Oh, and I did  take a picture of the new yarn.  Eventually.  After I picked the thorn out of my foot.  Because accidental gardening does not have the forethought to put her shoes on before stepping in the rose prunings.

Sport weight merino/hemp from Dzined in teal and black.   This is great yarn.  Every time I see her booth I am compelled to stop, to touch the hemp blends, to buy something.  Which, now that I think about it, is pretty unusual.  We all know I can shop, but there aren't that many vendors I can never pass buy.   But I love this blend, these fibers together - it has this fantastic textural quality that I can't keep my hands off of.

Monday Night

French lentils, organic carrots, organic feta, sea salt, fresh ground pepper, balsamic dressing. 

Even better than it looks.  (go on, click for big.......)

Buckwheat Bridge Angoras 50 kid/50 finewool roving. 

Ditto.

Did not know I could spin that fine on a production wheel until last night.  Mohair is a wonderful thing.

Well, that was fun.

So much so I went back for another look.  I am digging the elbow room, mentally and physically.

The coral cotton blend I admit went back into the stash - I am weirdly attached to that yarn.  I should suck it up and knit something with it, really.  Maybe a cardigan.

And the black cotton.  Someday I will find a use for it. Mitts maybe - stretchy and comfy.

But wait, there's MORE!  As before, paypal or check, $5 flat shipping fee.

20 balls of Classic Elite Bam Boo in pink/red. Better picture - 77 yards per ball, 100% bamboo.  This was purchased before I full appreciated the way that plant fibers on a 6+ foot frame are just.going.to.sag unless they have something blended in to lighten things up.

7.50 a ball retail. Will divide into two lots - $90 for the lot. $45 for 10.  $80.00 for the lot, $40 for 10.  SOLD

10 skeins King Cole Luxury Mohair in a gray/white/black mix.  Mohair/wool/nylon.  110 yards each.   Worsted weight.  $40. $30  I hung on to this for ages after I learned that mohair made me itch.  It was just so pretty and almost lavender in some lights.  But no.  It is time to move on.  SOLD

Plymouth Sunsette.  Yellow.  88 yards each, rayon acrylic.  A baby project that never happened.   Free with purchase.  Give it some love.

6 skeins of Classic Elite Bazic Superwash.  I was going to knit a Christmas stocking.  Someone who puts up a tree more than once every three years ought to do this instead. $21 SOLD

2 1 skeins Socks That Rock Lightweight in Jade.  325 yard per skein.  12 bucks each.  SOLD

And can someone please explain to me the preponderance of green sock yarn I had in my life?  I haven't ever knit a sock.  I rarely wear green.  And I bought these and the Tess's yarn with in weeks of each other.  I do not understand.

11 skeins RYC Cashcotton 4 ply in color 906.  lavendery-purple.  See previous remarks about purple and summer sweaters.  197 yards a skein.  Cotton, nylon, angora, viscose and cashmere.  Retail 94 dollars.  Yours for $60.  SOLD

This is a heavy, drapey beautiful farm-manufactured boot sock yarn.  One 3.9 oz skein, one 8.4 oz skein.  Both are 45% Claudia the lamb, 55% Polly Anna the goat.  Enough together for a pair of large men's socks - though I'd go toe up to be safe.  Natural colored, 3ply, heavy-worsted and really beautiful.  If you knit socks.  $50.

20 skeins Noro Cash Iroha Silk/lambswool/cashmere/nylon.  Old 50g/113 m skeins.  Forest green (color 9).  $120 for the lot. SOLD