Wrapped In Snow

Fiona Apple is sashaying her smoky way from my speakers while outside the world is full of snow, snow, snow! It's a wonderful time for sleeping and I am sending longing glances toward the bedroom door. Anticipation of a toasty, snuggly day. Poor cats are clumped around the radiator in the porch, keeping company with a sleepy Star who is making barely audible whuffly sounds as she dreams. No doubt she is hunting giant carrots among the stars. Ever wonder what our bunnies dream of?

The right front of Danielle's baby's Kimono Sweater is starting to take shape on my needles. It's required quite some mathematical calculations already but seems to be working out to the pattern's dimensions. I'm going to have to reknit the left front as the width is wrong, but so it goes. It's looking stunning in the variegated blues and teals of K1C2's Wick yarn. It was snaggy at first but once knitted, the soy fiber is smooth and soft under my fingers. If I have enough yarn left over, I hope to make a matching beanie.

Not sure what the rest of the day will bring, as it keeps snowing. We never see snow this far south and with at least 6 inches so far, our little microcosm has come to a standstill.

I was at it early this morning, sweeping Dad's walk with an old sponge mop in lieu of a snowshovel. The two of us went out for a late breakfast of omelets and bisquits and gravy at the local gas station. The grill girls at DJs have husbands with snowplows so they made it into work when nearly everyone else from here to town are still stuck in their beds. Exhibiting unusual foresight, Dad picked up a can of sauerkraut and a package of hot dogs to fortify him in case we get snowed in. I got orange juice because, after all, going hungry is preferable to dying of thirst. And I have plenty of microwave popcorn in either case.

I didn't think we'd be able to get back home, or down our hill, but we did. Dropped Dad off (with his sauerkraut) and slogged to my front door. I came into the porch like an overburdened snow monster, scattering weirded out cats in all directions. And where did I head first? My computer. My lifeline. I sat down for an episode of Enterprise before bed and fumbled around for my knitting, but alas, I left the knitting in the car (drat). So here I am, blogging, instead.

I did buy another fountain pen. If it's only $10, does it count as a sin? Let's just keep this between ourselves. I need to confine myself to only buying ink from now on. Promise.

Time for me to give into the promise of that heating blanket on my bed and what dreams may come. Giant carrots perhaps. Among the stars.

Congratulations, Danielle

Yeah! A new Fennell is on the way! And I've been amusing myself with hunting for baby knits to make in preparation for the big day. I found a beautiful baby kimono top that I will be starting tonight. Not knowing whether it's going to be a boy or girl... at least this style works equally well for both sexes. I picked a medium blue color that, if it's a girl, I can add some embroidered flowers to later. The yarn is a mix of Pima cotton and Modal, making it soft and easy to care for. It can be worn alone as a top or layered over a onesie as a sweater. I saw a finished example and couldn't resist. Check out the pattern link to your left, under the In Progress column, for a pic.

Old Obsessions

Twenty years ago, I used my first fountain pen. It was as if I'd discovered the wheel. Being 18, with all the gawky naivete of the newly liberated collegiate, I thought I had become the ultimate worldly wise connoiseur. No kiddie Bics or clicky geek pencils for me, oh no. I was a real writer with a professional writing tool that made even frantic note-taking pleasurable. I used ink. From a bottle (really, from a little plastic cylinder, but let's not ruin the image here). I had found mystique.

What I eventually found was fountain pens leak. And when they do, mystique quickly vanishes in a haze of stained clothes and fingers. Yuck. Humiliating. After buying and tossing too many short lived Parker Vectors, I felt like I'd found the love of my life and been dumped by him, repeatedly. Weekly, even. And how much "starting over" can one girl do before her heart becomes irrevocably damaged?

With great reluctance, I buried my broken heart in felt tips and rollerballs and eventually forgot that the world had been different for one glorious season.

My pen fetish has never left me and, though my preferred tool these days is the old geeky clicker (.5 lead only, non of that fat .7 stuff thank-you-very-much), history has the tendency to repeat itself. Yes, the wheel and I discovered each other again and renewed our love affair. Time apart (not to mention the advent of the Internet) has greatly improved my chances that this time, finally, the fountain pen is here to stay.

My natural obsessive tendencies have been going into overtime, however, and for the last two weeks I have been dreaming--yes, dreaming--of fountain pens every time I close my eyes. Maybe it's being older, maybe it's being single, or maybe it's just a natural consequence of me being me (insufferable yet delightfully unique and often bored). Personally, I blame the Internet and all the crackpots with bizarre interests who find each other and create mailing lists to draw in other crackpots, so we can perpetuate our crackpottyness. Just a thought.

I now own an unassuming black and silver fountain pen of Chinese-German parentage that sits in my pen cup eagerly awaiting the bottle of ink that will bring it to life. The ink in question is no ordinary ink, of course (where would the fun be if I started this off with ordinary?). No, the ink has to be archival quality, mechanically lubricating, waterproof, fadeproof, and otherwise so amazing it's called "bulletproof". Bright green, because I feel guilty and plebian for wanting miracle ink to be boring black.

While waiting for the miracle ink, I have sudden doubts. What if I want to use this pen at work? What if I run out of ink? I can't pack an inkwell next to my laptop--that's just asking for the gods of Murphy to smite me... and my precious laptop. Oh no, how could I possible buy into a miraculous pen that I can only use at home?

(Wait for it now. Wait. Wait. Ah, yes, here it comes--)

I have to get another pen! One that uses cartridges that are portable. Well done self, yes, brilliant solution! So I buy another pen. And, while sitting back happily, a niggling thought suddenly burrows into my brain--um, I don't have any cartridges. Crap. So, I gotta buy cartridges. Ok, I can do that, but only after another 3 days agonizing over color choices (it just doesn't seem right to get black, though I'd like black, but after using the miracle green ink, I'd hate to be stuck with black...) And, well, if I'm already paying for shipping and handling and, well, to make a long story short (hah!), I now have:

1 pen of Chinese-German parentage
1 cartridge using German Pelikan pen
1 bottle of miracle ink (Noodler's Eel in Cactus Gruene)
1 crept in to my shopping cart when I wasn't looking pen (Hero 110)
1 bottle of Private Reserve Chocolat ink
12 cartridges of PR Burgundy Mist

and

a burning desire to aquire two other to-die-for inks: one mercurichrome colored Dragon's Napalm, the other Dumas' Tulip Noire.

It all just goes to prove the old adage that old obsessions never truly fade away and are just as likely to come round again for another bite in the derriere of "older and wiser". So be it. Anything that helps me write and finish that book of mine... but more about that on my other blog.