Sylvi is kicking my butt.

While happily knitting away on the first sleeve chez Purple Purl, I happened to ask what happened if you didn't get row gauge. Just as a discussion point. I never measure row gauge. I figure if you get stitch gauge (or something resembling it) you'll be fine.

However, when it was revealed that I will probably run out of yarn if my gauge is whacked, I thought I'd give it a quick measure. I must be close, right> I'm using the right needles on the yarn specifically called for in the pattern. OK, so maybe I knit a little tightly, I was trying no to do so this time. Just to check.

Oh horror.

OK, stitch gauge is supposed to be 3 st/inch. I was getting about 3.5 maybe 4, but I could sure block that puppy into submission. Row gauge is supposed to be 4 rows per inch. I was getting… 7. Not even freaking close.

I took it home, washed the entire gauge swatch (that's the sleeve for the people who don't know how I feel about swatching) and blocked the living bejesus out of it. I practically had my foot on the ironing board for leverage yanking it into submission when I realized this was not a good sign. And yes, I surrendered. OK, I left it on the ironing board to dry in case she has a change of heart, but in my mind I have accepted the fact I will have to pull out my miles of seed stitch and start again. (Shall I mention the fact that my sleeve, which I had been patiently knitting and was not quite at the 10" mark was measuring at LEAST 12"? Definite issues there. How the hell are you supposed to measure something that grows so much? Yank the snot out of it each time? Sigh. Knitting things that fit is a novelty for me.)

I shall go up a needle size, because that's what Sylvi wants. And since Sylvi is such a lovely beautiful creature, getting gauge should be a good thing, right? It won't created a flimsy, holey garment that the wind just whistles through, will it?

No. Sylvi wouldn't do that to me.

Oh, and on a more comical note, are these supposed to look like this? I mean, I get the felting thing and all, but these are ridiculously huge.

Why I knit.

I was thinking this afternoon the question all knitters seem to ask themselves at one point or another - why do I knit? I can think of several reasons:

• Knitting doesn't talk back. If i ask it to do something, unless I'm the one screwing up, it does it.
• If I don't like it that day, I just rip it out
• If I don't want to deal with it's issues, I can stuff it behind the couch, leave it in the car or do pretty much anything I like with it.
• I am not responsible for how it acts when it's 18 years old. In fact people should be relieved if it reaches that ripe old age.

These are all compelling reasons. It restores order and sanity and some small measure of control to my life. However, there is another really good reason to knit.

I started knitting again to try and curb my tv snacking. It's difficult - not impossible by any means, but difficult - to eat and knit at the same time. Stuck in the house every evening I don't have much to do for entertainment (trust me laundry and housework are NOT entertainment by any stretch of the imagination) so I like to have a little reality escape by watching tv. No wonder I hate reality tv. That ain't reality, kids.

Now I have discovered another, possibly better, reason to knit: it's hard to knit when you're drunk. My life being the way it is I'd probably start drinking the moment I walked in the door and not stop 'til I was passed out on the floor. This would be a large improvement while dealing with the nightly performance of Thing 1 and Thing 2. I LIKE knitting, and I don't like knitting drunk. Good thing.

I don't know what to do. I cannot cope with my wretched children. Today I had to resort to unplugging the tv and carting it out onto the front porch. Really, it was all I could do to stop myself throwing it over the railing. Only the thought of picking up all the pieces of glass from my driveway stopped me. Every day I tell myself it will be better - they won't be so awful, I won't be so crusty, but it ain't happening.

And what a surprise. I average about 7 hours of sleep a night, in 2 or three hour chunks. Isn't this what they do to POWs to torture them? Well it's working. I'll give up my secrets, my chocolate, my children just for an extended bout of sleep. Great, I get to sleep every second weekend, but it just. Isn't. Enough.

Last time I whinged to my doc about being on the edge she said I should ask for help. Great. Fabulous. Got any volunteers? My mom won't take my phone calls and besides, she's tied up in her roll as full time babysitter to my brother's kids. So nice to have her in the city. Steve has already divulged the fact that he is outdoing himself in the parenting department by coming every second tuesday evening. Lovely, really that I get to go knitting, but I have to get the kids ready before he arrives, and when I get home I have to do all the other things I should have been doing; clean up, do the garbage, pick up crap... not much of a break.

AND IF THE TORONTO STAR COME IN MY HOUSE JUST ONE MORE TIME I MAY HAVE A MELTDOWN OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. I don't subscribe, tit, and I don't read it. If you're going to bring it in, PUT IN IN THE RECYCLE BIN, for the love of Pearl.

So tell me, if I start beating my kids do you think I could stop? I don't think so. That's why I won't go down that road, tempting though it may be. It's not supposed to help anyway. Feh.

So anyone who tells me I spend too much money or wool can just fuck right off. It's better than the alternatives.

Meet Sylvi, my new best friend.

Unnecessary use of plastics...