22 January 2010

Months later, she poked her head out

from the pile of wool, books, badly written papers and dog hair, and exclaimed, "Uh, oh! This new idea is either brilliant or bughouse."

I was just visiting here, the blog of Franklin Habit, whom I admire greatly and whose writing I adore with the heat of a thousand suns, and my verification word was "dymobl." I thought first of Diebold, then hissed.

Then I read it as "die mobile." Thought I, "Yes, I was planning to be mobile until my death."

Then "dye mobile," [as a verb and adjective pairing, so "mobile" rhymes with "global"] and here's where the trouble began. (Cue T. Rex's glam Druid anthem "Ride a White Swan.") If you are old enough to remember David Cassidy, jeans that were spray-painted onto people's bodies, and David Bowie wearing a year's supply of Tammy Faye Bakker Messner's daily cosmetic regimen, you may remember the Energy Crisis of the early 70s. As always, Americas' patriotic responses were immediate and varied. Some did nothing, other turned their thermostats up to 75, figuring they'd be the last to freeze to death. Some people responded by downsizing to Torinos. Some bought mobile homes large enough to be considered sovereign countries by the U.N. Some made clothing from newly-devised petrochemicals.

And some people cooked dinner in their cars. Really. They tried to save fuel by preparing their food in the morning, wrapping it in aluminum foil, schlepping it to work and stashing it in the refrigerator, then, after work, strapping the cold food package to the engine block and cooking the food on the way home. I think there were car cookbooks. (Is there a Ford fondue in your future?)

So, having read my verification word as "dye mobile," I started wondering if the same thing can be done to yarn. Soak it, drain it, roll it and toss it and mark it with 'B,' hit it up with some coloring agent or other, wrap it in plastic wrap and then foil, then let the car engine work its magic. Voila! Toyota Turquoise! Prius Purple! Buick Bailout Blue!

Godawful Gray Felted Gunk. How hot does an engine get?

I have some 30+-year-old wool given to me by Mom a couple of years ago that's lovely, but it may need a spin on the color wheel. I've got Lion Brand Fishermen's [sic] Wool that was the first yarn I bought that was not Red Heart, each skein a half-pound reminder that not only did the Sweater Curse work before I even had a chance to cast on, but that the Man Who Wasn't Such a Good Idea After All (#5,217 in a series) was a big guy. What the hell did I plan on doing with it, anyway, knit him an Econoline cozy? He wasn't that big (and as a good-sized woman myself and a lover of justice, I despise fat jokes); I am trying to report here that I bought a veritable shitload of wool.

So, instead of grading the last of the papers, I shall be doing some online searching about engine cookery and merrily extrapolating fiberwise.

I love the smell of wet wool in the evening...

(Hmmm... "Die, Mobil" just came to mind, and considering how I feel about corporations as people with the right to free speech, and especially Exxon-Mobil (ask an otter why), I rather liked it.)

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