My sister was watching the kids yesterday while I finished some work at the office. I stopped by a knitting shop on the way home looking for a pattern for a particular kind of hat I would like to make.
I don’t profess to be a talented knitter. I can make scarves and hats, and I suppose I could manage a sock if someone held a sharpened knitting needle to my head, but that’s about it. My interest really doesn’t extend to a sweater or shawl or anything that would outwardly identify me as a knitter on the street. I read the Crazy Aunt Purl blog not so much for the knitting posts but because I really enjoy Laurie’s writing style and drunken snapshots of the TV weatherman. I’m really not into crafts. Their meticulous nature appeals to me, though, and I find it helpful to gather my thoughts while my hands are ticking away at something repetitive.
When I was a kid my mom taught me how to do counted cross-stitch projects. I realize now that she knew that it would appeal to my burgeoning pathological need to set order to things; it would teach me patience, and, it must be said, get me out of her hair for a while. I never really liked what I made, or had any inclination to frame or otherwise use my creations. I like art, but not craft. I keep doing silly things like knitting scarves every once in a while because it gives me pause, lets me think without actually sitting still, and, well, you know what they say about idle hands...
So I wanted to find a particular hat pattern, and I found myself in a shop called Gail Knits. Yarn lines the walls and there’s a big table in the center of the shop where customers can hunker down and jabber while they knit. I caught myself eavesdropping while I thumbed through the pattern books.
The youngest woman at the table couldn’t be a day under 50. One of them was recounting how awful her desk job is and how incredibly rude and savage her co-workers are. She reminded me of every single entry on Passive Aggressive Notes. Then another knitting frau enters and sits down. She’s obviously not new to the group; the others welcome her and ask “So how is your relationship with your daughter this week?” “Not good,” she replies
I listen in. How could I not?
“So I confronted her last week with her behavior like you all recommended. I told her that it was unacceptable and steps needed to be taken to fix things.”
Oh, really? Yarn drama, where have you been all my life? She continues:
“I eventually forced her to take her medication, and she started thrashing and scratching me and yelling like you couldn’t believe.”
Another: “I told you that might happen. My son did the same thing.”
What the hell? Who are these people?
“Yeah, the vet warned me, too. He said that felines never learn to take medication well, and that I’ll just have to wear long sleeves every time I do this unless I’m willing to declaw her.”
What the-? They’re talking about their CATS. And then it hits me: I’m in a KNITTING SHOP, eavesdropping on OLD, KNITTING CAT-LADIES. Oh, fuck a duck. I gotta get out of here. I am NOT part of this demographic.
I’m not I’m not I’m not.
I still want to make the hat, though.
Cracked me up. I can totally relate. Where I live, I am engulfed in a sea of pot-luck lovin, Bush/McCain/Palin-worshippin church ladies and frankly, I'm drowning. I cringe when I hear them yack on about scrapbooking, recipe swapping and quilting. They sound like June Cleaver's BFF. I am not a part of this demographic either. I'm an island -- a city girl stuck in the country. Keep up the funny. You're a howl.
Posted by: Lisa Christiano Rose at October 28, 2008 9:50 AM