Mossy Cottage Knits

Cross-Cultural Communication

The wonderful restaurant we go to for special occasions always makes the event a little extra special by scattering rose petals on the table and giving you a card commemorating the event. As enlightened a city as Seattle is and as hard as the restaurant tries, however, everything comes a cropper when it comes to same-sex relationships. When I called the restaurant to make the reservations, the end of the conversation went as follows:

She: Is this for a special event?
Me: Yes, for an anniversary.
She (fishing for what to put on the card): Mr. and Mrs?
Me (simply answering in kind and not associating this with the card): No, Mrs. and Mrs.
She: Oh.

And so, thanks to my inexact response and her not knowing she should probably inquire further as to what our two last names are, this is what was in the card:

We had a good, long chuckle and happily brought the card home with us.

Something similar happened at the Space Needle. They also ask if the dinner is for a special event and use that information to alert the maitre d' ahead of time so he can wish the diners "Happy (Special Event)" as he seats them. The maitre d' did not wish us "Happy Anniversary" but, not having celebrated an event at the Space Needle before, we didn't know anything was amiss until about 20 minutes into our meal when he rushed over all atwitter and wringing his hands and wished us "Happy Anniversary" in an anxious voice. He then proceeded to apologize profusely and explained in one long breath that he saw the "special event" information on the reservation but thought it had to be in error because we were both women and two women couldn't possibly be celebrating an anniversary because we couldn't be together in "that way" but the hostess had explained the situation to him and he really felt bad and he was really sorry and he would know better in the future and, well, "Happy Anniversary" again. And again. And again. And again. We reassured and thanked and calmed the poor man and went home with full tummies and a great new story which we have happily trotted out many times over the years.

Knitting Knews
I am pleased to be able to present the finished Arboretum Sock which, yes, I hauled kicking and screaming over the finish line the night before Guild. I misted it with water, put it on one of my infamous cardboard sock blockers and, by 6:00pm the next night, it was ready for its debut into society.

Don’t be looking for a mate any time soon. As I mentioned before, this sock is too small, for my feet at least. I need to either add stitches, maybe go from 60 to 64 stitches or more, or knit it on size 3s, but I think that would cause the vine pattern to lose some of its crispness.

On a brighter note, generous commenter Jean Silver has written up for me left-side and right-side patterns for continuing Le Vine down Le Foot. (She confesses that she did some of the patterning while in a meeting! A true knitting rebel!) Thank you, Jean!

I also learned it pays to have friends in high places (and to write about them online every Monday, Wednesday and Friday). At the Guild SockFest, the board members had been asked to come up with categories of socks to which to award prizes. They came up with categories such as “Smallest Sock,” “Longest Sock,” “Sock I Could Never Knit Because It Has So Many Colors,” “The Sock That Best Reflects the Fact That We Meet in a Church,” "The Sock with the Most Stitches per Inch," and, last but not least, Janine’s unique category “The Sock I Have Been Watching Be Knit Online.” Guess who won that category (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). Thank you, Janine, you sly fox, you. My prize was this kicky assortment of novelty fibers that are crying out to be knit as accents into a black sock, I think. A perfect prize for someone who, as I’ve said many times before, needs to learn to think outside of the box!

Dye Garden Dyegest
I found a never-ending supply of salal berries in, of all places, the parking lot of my workplace. Last week, rather than hustle straight to my car, I headed across the parking lot and deep into the salal bushes, clutching an (unused) one of Frankie's poo-bags, and spent a Zenish 1/2 hour picking berries. I have about
1 1/2 cups. Rumor has it that salal berries make blue dye but the berries look suspiciously dark purple.

What happened to the salal plants in the dye garden, you ask? Well, although K watered frequently this summer, they still died the Death of a Thousand Thirsts. Two of them are in Plant Hospital and just recently recovered enough to rustle their leaves once for "yes" and twice for "no." Next, surgery, medication, and months of physical therapy. Or we could just buy new plants.

Posted by Ryan at October 17, 2003 09:33 AM