Last night the fiancé took me to see The Dark Knight (short version: I liked it. Also? Watchmen trailer. Woo.)
I suggested we dress up for the occasion--he likes to get dressed up and go out, but we don't very often, because I don't exactly share his passion for restaurants where there are three forks in the place setting. Waste of silverware. Anyway, I felt guilty, and he looks awfully good in a jacket and tie, and I figured I could do heels and a cute dress for one night. (After offering it, I realized I had to run out and buy heels on account of not owning any. But I digress.)
So I have this cute little periwinkle-blue dress with flutter sleeves in which I look dead sexy*, but I wanted something to drape over my shoulders so I wouldn't be flashing my dead sexiness at everybody in the theater, just my fiancé.
Enter two skeins of Rowan Felted Tweed in Phantom (some of my very very favorite colors: cocoa-brown with flecks of copper and periwinkle blue and white).
"Helloooo, Dolly!" crooned the tweed, sounding rather more like Cornelius Hackl than the Phantom of the Opera. (Last movie I saw in a theater before Dark Knight? Wall-E. They could've picked a less annoying musical to play clips from umpteen times. Honestly. I think my yarn would've been talking to me in Michael Crawford's voice even if it weren't named Phantom.)
"Um, hey," said I to the tweed. "You're for a hat." I shooed it away and went to see if I had anything that looked like a shawl in my stash.
"Aww, c'mon," said the tweed, hopping after me. "Just hold me in your arms. You'll see. It only takes a moment."
"You're a fedora," I said to the tweed. "I'm going to felt you. It'll be awesome."
"Touch me," oozed the tweed, one ball-band slipping forward to cover half of what would have been its face. "Trust me. Savor each sensation..."
"Cut it out," I said, reaching for the tweed to stuff it back where it belonged. But the second my fingers made contact with the yarn, something changed. A shudder ran through me. Electricity.
"Ohhhhh," I sighed.
And cast on.
"This will be awesome," I purred to myself, my reason totally obscured by the tweed's sexiness. "I'll just do a background of lace and add in a picture in stockinette. A rose! In bloom! I can chart it in Excel!"
I charted. I knit. I got through the first leaf and started on the rose.
I looked more closely.
The picture...did not resemble the thing I had charted in Excel. I cursed, ripped back, and did it again. Twice. Then I let the offending stitches drop and redid them with a crochet hook.
By this point it was clear that my beautiful plan was not working. Lace is more complicated than holes and solid space. Lace moves the yarn around it in mysterious ways. I'm pretty sure wormholes are involved.
So, with two days left until our night out, I ripped all the way back to the plain lace portion and did the whole thing in eyelet lace.
It's okay. It's a satisfactory little capelet. But lace has once again proved itself more cunning than me, and until I defeat it, I must content myself with hating it.
(Also? It can't carry a tune. There. I said it.)
*I do not ever actually look dead sexy. Sexiness levels have been altered for the purpose of the narrative. (No one wants to hear about the periwinkle-blue dress that makes me look dead average.)
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