My Brush with Knitting Greatness

You better watch out, you better not pout, you better not cry I'm telling you why. Yarn Harlot-Claus came to Lexington on April 21st.

OK. It's official. I am a goofball -- not a small, run of the mill goofball, but a full bore, all out, no two ways about it giant goofball. It probably has something to do with the fact I have been going on weekend fiber benders and the Cheneyesque death throes of tax season.

My decent into goofball hell began Friday, April 20th. On the last day of a hellish week at work, I started the morning dreaming of my trip to the Blue Grass Festival of Books in Lexington to see the Harlot. I had to do something to keep my spirits up between rude phone calls and all the paperwork. At some point during my day dream, I became obsessed the the notion that Pink-O needed a matching friend - not just any kind of matching friend, but a very particular kind of matching friend. A Vera Bradley matching friend. At first I tried to fight the insanity, but I felt it sucking me under. By lunch, I had convinced myself that I could not, under any circumstances, meet the Harlot while carrying Pink-O and her dreary companion, Hempy. Like the Yarn Harlot would care one bit, but such were the ravages of my insanity.

I have made a point of not caring whether my bag is stylish. I carry what I like and what I find functional. I am generally not subject to bag envy with an exception, Brenda Lee's bag in The Closer. So this crisis du bagge was tres terrible! (I just love speaking faux Francais.) Thankfully I found something small that matched Pink-O without a lot of agony. I say without a lot of agony because not being familiar with the subculture of bags known as Vera Bradley, I spent a good deal of time standing in front of the display trying to figure out how I got sucked into this and why everything matched.

Saturday's alarm beeped too loud, too long and too early for hubby, who accused me of hating him because I woke him up before 8 on a Saturday. Assurances to the contrary did little to persuade him.

The hour and a half drive passed quickly to the soundtrack of Patti Griffin and The Chieftains. The terrific weather made me wish I had a sunroof or better still a convertible. Music I enjoy driving to without having to hear how it is chick music. I actually missed the exit I was in such bliss.

When I arrived at Lexington Center, the parking lot was packed. Not wanting to schlep 30 pounds of extra knitting and knitting accoutrement a quarter of a mile, (I do have my limits) I cleaned out Pink-O into the trunk of my car. All the while, I self consciously watched as these stylish, Southern women streamed past me, their blonde hair perfectly coiffed, their ensemble immaculate. I panicked. Drab ole me meeting the Wonder from the North after she has signed all these other fabulous women's books. She won't even speak to me. On top of that, this woman walking next to me has a humongoid camera. I forgot mine. Then the blonde pulled out her phone and started kvetching about the parking. Hey, I was glad to get a free spot somewhere in the same zip code. After her breathless bitchrant - it's hard walking in heels don't you know - she exclaimed, "Well, I hope Paula Deen is worth it!"

Paula Deen?! Who gives a crap about Paula Deen? I'm here for the Harlot. My heart leapt. All was not lost. She might have time to talk to me after all.

I walked into the grand ballroom and just stared. The room was full of writers; lovers of words; crafters of sentences; people who know what books smell like and love it. I began to hyperventilate. I - WAS - IN - HEAVEN! I toured the room savoring the moment. I saw authors of every genre. I also discovered after all the contemplating the moment, now I was consumed by shyness. Shy. Moi. Yes, it's possible.

Sanity check - If I had been with it, if my brain cells were not being choked by tax season, and if I had the energy to go into planning mode, I would have actually looked at the list of authors. Why? Because if I had, I would have also taken some of my favorite novels to be signed by Ann Hood and Silas House. (I will have a book review of Ann Hood's The Knitting Circle on the blog soon.) Susan Anderson of Itty Bitty Hats fame was also there. She has designed some cute kiddie hats. (A review of this book will also be forthcoming.) Then again, I might have died from the perfection of it all if I had known.

I stood in the short line for the Harlot. The geezette in front of me for some reason thought it appropriate for The Great One to relive the hell that was her Ann Arbor trip. Just reading the Harlot's account of that trip gave me post traumatic stress, so I could only imagine being forced to relive the nightmare by one of your fans. You don't become The Great One by being rude to your fans, and the Harlot was a class act the entire time.

Of course when it came my turn to get my book signed, I was a total dorkus magnus (I love speaking Latin fakeus). I said something incredibly stupid and lame. I got my book signed and Pink-O got more jewelry. Pink-O was thrilled.

After my small brush with greatness, I was exhausted. I went downstairs, got a cup of coffee and worked on a pair of socks out of Schaeffer Lola. Then, in a move that would have made the Harlot proud, I corrected a mistake 15 rounds back without ripping out the entire piece, but only the two affected stitches, re-knit them in the pattern, and got on with the sock. I smiled. My knitting mojo has recovered.