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I've been asked to contribute to a crochet book from a newbie's perspective <img alt="banana.gif" src="http://files.kickrunners.com/smilies/banana.gif"> and she wants all she can get...it may be published it may not. But would you mind taking a moment to read what I have?<br><br>
Kthankz.<br><br><br><br><div style="text-align:center;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">8- Plied and Conquer</span></div>
<br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">It started as a lark.</span><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Two days before Christmas, and the household was in that lull between “Oh my God, how will we ever get all of this taken care of?” and “Okay, can it be Christmas now?” The breath that everyone takes when all the guests have arrived and someone is making popcorn between the second and third airings of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The ingredients for Christmas Dinner were listed, purchased and put away after the obligatory twice-checked list. All should have been well. Right?</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Nope. The proverbial comforts and joys were elusive on so many levels that a Slinky and I could have had hours of good clean fun. I had quit smoking less than a month before and despite all assurances that the nicotine was out of my system, I still felt as cagey as a Sasquatch at a Beautician’s convention. Even if I hadn’t quit smoking, I just don’t wait well and I never have so waiting for Christmas was a little more than my jangling receptors could take.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Finally, after the fifth square of peanut butter fudge, I queasily asked my girlfriend for a ball of yarn and a crochet hook. She knits but told me that when it came to crochet, I was on my own. I took them anyway; thinking that at the very least the attempt would burn up a few hours of what my schedule told me was “Teeth-Grinding” between four and seven, followed by “Lint Picking Lessons” after dinner.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">My first attempts were abysmal failures but somewhere between the third pass at chaining 25 and then turning to begin another row, it got personal. As the pile of haphazard chains and knotted yarn balls on the coffee table grew, so did my resolve to own this yarn and make it bend to my will.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On the train to and from New York City, I tried. During several movies, I tried. Dreams that should have had sugarplums in them instead had pirouetting yarn balls and a crochet hook jousting match.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">While the rest of the house slept off the turkey, I sat in front of a laptop watching videos of disembodied hands perform this strange dance between string and stick. Frame by frame, playing each step back, I mimicked them. But I wasn’t obsessed. No, I wasn’t. No. I. Wasn’t.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Then suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a chain was made, and then…a row…and then…another row. Wait, I thought to myself. Am I doing this? I’m doing this. I’m DOING THIS!! Crochet, dear sweet crochet, you are my bitch! (I’ll pause a moment while you imagine the crochet-in-fist that Winona Ryder will raise when Hollywood makes a movie out of this.)</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Over the following week, I read, researched, asked questions, and –by God- entered my name on the waiting list for Ravelry.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Amazingly! Miraculously! Car rides were about the crocheting I could do on the way rather than the destination. Appointments that ran late were tolerated, even welcomed. Oh yes, I was on the verge of a hot, sexy infatuation with yarn which hoped would settle into a comfortable Sunday morning kind of love.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I had no idea how important crocheting would become.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Life was good. Well, tolerable anyway, but since the sun first rose on the very first day there have been good times and bad times and our character is shown in how we handle both.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In the New Year, my son’s behavior escalated from annoying and perplexing to defiant and dangerous. Crocheting saw me through many long evenings racking my brain for solutions. It saw me through lunch hours where I wondered if I would be getting a call from the school or the bus driver.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In early February, it became clear that the things I had been seeing in him were not classic teenage rebellion. There was something very wrong and I couldn’t wait any longer to act.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I remember vividly that I had a crochet hook and a skein of tan Red Heart Super Saver in my lap while I sat waiting for my son to come out of a crisis counselor’s office. It was there when she agreed with me that he should be admitted to the hospital for psychiatric evaluation. It was there when I sat dazedly on the couch later that evening after kissing him goodbye and hearing intake counselor lock the heavy doors behind me.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I still have the scarf I made that day. You can actually see the places where the stitches mirrored my own zigzagging of emotion.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">He’s in residential treatment now and crochet allows me to deal with not knowing what will become of my brilliant, sensitive, and funny boy. I know at this point, the best and most helpful thing I can do is get out of the way and let the people who know how to help him, do so.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I figure that at the very least, I can make sure he stays warm. And I can do it without smoking. That’s something, isn’t it?</span>
Kthankz.<br><br><br><br><div style="text-align:center;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">8- Plied and Conquer</span></div>
<br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">It started as a lark.</span><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Two days before Christmas, and the household was in that lull between “Oh my God, how will we ever get all of this taken care of?” and “Okay, can it be Christmas now?” The breath that everyone takes when all the guests have arrived and someone is making popcorn between the second and third airings of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The ingredients for Christmas Dinner were listed, purchased and put away after the obligatory twice-checked list. All should have been well. Right?</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Nope. The proverbial comforts and joys were elusive on so many levels that a Slinky and I could have had hours of good clean fun. I had quit smoking less than a month before and despite all assurances that the nicotine was out of my system, I still felt as cagey as a Sasquatch at a Beautician’s convention. Even if I hadn’t quit smoking, I just don’t wait well and I never have so waiting for Christmas was a little more than my jangling receptors could take.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Finally, after the fifth square of peanut butter fudge, I queasily asked my girlfriend for a ball of yarn and a crochet hook. She knits but told me that when it came to crochet, I was on my own. I took them anyway; thinking that at the very least the attempt would burn up a few hours of what my schedule told me was “Teeth-Grinding” between four and seven, followed by “Lint Picking Lessons” after dinner.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">My first attempts were abysmal failures but somewhere between the third pass at chaining 25 and then turning to begin another row, it got personal. As the pile of haphazard chains and knotted yarn balls on the coffee table grew, so did my resolve to own this yarn and make it bend to my will.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On the train to and from New York City, I tried. During several movies, I tried. Dreams that should have had sugarplums in them instead had pirouetting yarn balls and a crochet hook jousting match.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">While the rest of the house slept off the turkey, I sat in front of a laptop watching videos of disembodied hands perform this strange dance between string and stick. Frame by frame, playing each step back, I mimicked them. But I wasn’t obsessed. No, I wasn’t. No. I. Wasn’t.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Then suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a chain was made, and then…a row…and then…another row. Wait, I thought to myself. Am I doing this? I’m doing this. I’m DOING THIS!! Crochet, dear sweet crochet, you are my bitch! (I’ll pause a moment while you imagine the crochet-in-fist that Winona Ryder will raise when Hollywood makes a movie out of this.)</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Over the following week, I read, researched, asked questions, and –by God- entered my name on the waiting list for Ravelry.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Amazingly! Miraculously! Car rides were about the crocheting I could do on the way rather than the destination. Appointments that ran late were tolerated, even welcomed. Oh yes, I was on the verge of a hot, sexy infatuation with yarn which hoped would settle into a comfortable Sunday morning kind of love.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I had no idea how important crocheting would become.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Life was good. Well, tolerable anyway, but since the sun first rose on the very first day there have been good times and bad times and our character is shown in how we handle both.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In the New Year, my son’s behavior escalated from annoying and perplexing to defiant and dangerous. Crocheting saw me through many long evenings racking my brain for solutions. It saw me through lunch hours where I wondered if I would be getting a call from the school or the bus driver.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">In early February, it became clear that the things I had been seeing in him were not classic teenage rebellion. There was something very wrong and I couldn’t wait any longer to act.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I remember vividly that I had a crochet hook and a skein of tan Red Heart Super Saver in my lap while I sat waiting for my son to come out of a crisis counselor’s office. It was there when she agreed with me that he should be admitted to the hospital for psychiatric evaluation. It was there when I sat dazedly on the couch later that evening after kissing him goodbye and hearing intake counselor lock the heavy doors behind me.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I still have the scarf I made that day. You can actually see the places where the stitches mirrored my own zigzagging of emotion.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">He’s in residential treatment now and crochet allows me to deal with not knowing what will become of my brilliant, sensitive, and funny boy. I know at this point, the best and most helpful thing I can do is get out of the way and let the people who know how to help him, do so.</span><br><br><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I figure that at the very least, I can make sure he stays warm. And I can do it without smoking. That’s something, isn’t it?</span>
