I refer you to the posting of February 25 in which I admitted to having bought this sock yarn:
This yarn has become one of my all-time favorites but not because of hand, sheen, drape, lack of splitting, yardage, durability, fiber blend, cost—none of these. It’s one of my all-time favorites because it’s magic! I know, right?! Its special magical power is that it makes all social niceties disappear—poof!—making usually sensitive and kind knitters say astonishingly detestable things. (In their defense, once they say whatever it is, they clap their hands over their mouths and look at me in horror but, two seconds later, we’re shrieking with laughter, tears pouring down our faces.)
Up until now, I’ve encountered two levels of yarn approbation:
1. Unequivocal, Drooling-Slightly-From-The-Corners-of-the-Mouth Approval
With Unequivocal Approval, knitters turn visibly pale, go weak at the knees, develop a slight tremor in their hands, grab, squeeze and caress the yarn, maybe bury their noses in it or rub it languidly on their cheeks. Frequently they giggle, bat their eyelashes and say cutely coy things like:
“Don’t turn your back on that yarn. It might just disappear!” [ha, ha, ha, bat, bat, bat].
Or “Guess who’s my new BFF?” [ha, ha, ha, bat, bat, bat]
Or “I could really use a pair of socks out of just that yarn.” [ha, ha, ha, bat, bat, bat]
Or they hide it in their bras*, armpits, purses, or knitting totes, knowing full well you’re watching. [ha, ha, ha, bat, bat, bat]
2. Guarded Approval
With Guarded Approval, knitters perhaps like the yarn but don’t like the color or vice versa, or find both slightly distasteful. Still, they try to behave themselves and say half-assedly nice things like:
“Didn’t they have that in another color?”
“Nice yarn but sorry. Can’t touch it; I’m allergic.”
“I can see how you would like that.”
“My grandmother used to have some of that. She loved it. We threw it out when she died.”
With the Fluormania, however, knitters lose all politesse. I’ve gotten tsks-tsks, raised eyebrows, snickers, disdainful laughter, gasps of disapproval, and the knitters have said, and I quote:
“That’s the ugliest yarn I’ve ever seen.”
“What were you thinking when you bought that?”
“Could you hide that?” (Said to me by a good knitting friend at a little knit-in at a local donut shop, when another knitter, unknown to us, came to the table).
The knit-in eventually disintegrated into a game I call “Let’s See How Much We Can Insult Ryan’s Yarn and Get Away With It.” Apparently they could get away with a lot because I was On The Floor. It just got better and better by the minute. And now I invite you to join the game of Insult Ryan’s Yarn. Have at in the comments!
(But, in the end, I win. How much will it lift my spirits the next gloomy Seattle winter to look down and see this peeking out from under my jeans?
* Any time a knitter tries to hide yarn in her bra, it’s a larf. Either she’s so well-endowed that the ball of yarn disappears (cough…me) or she’s so flat-chested that she ends up with a very obvious large pooch between her bazoombas.
Much to my surprise, the Kit the First/Kit the Second/Ms. Drag On story continues and does so in a spinning/knitting vein.
Ms. Drag On and my two non-dragon friends, Linda and Ann, and Ann’s non-dragon, non-human, big-eared companion went to a local weekend-long spinning event and this happened:
The next day, Ms. On channeled her spinning diva while sitting a tool basket she insists was custom made for her (Franklin Habit's Delores, anyone?), and I would be hard pressed to disagree.
Lastly, thanks to a rolag and drop earrings, we have the fire-breathing, snaggle-toothed, cross-dressing George Washington look: