Cutting Steeks
All right! The "Elephants" vest is now ready to finish; here's a steek, about to undergo the shears:
Scary, huh?
In reality, I don't actually use shears. I use little pointy embroidery scissors, so as to be precise and careful. I just liked the way the shears looked in that photo. I would have used garden shears, just for the effect, but the backyard's completely covered in snow and ice, and I didn't feel like going out and finding them.
No, I use little scissors, and I'm very careful, and when I'm done, the cut steek looks like this:
and the vest is ready for the neck and front band.
So I'm sitting downstairs knitting, and right at this very moment I'm not watching "Ed, Edd n Eddy," because the child, who is addicted to all forms of water -- oceans, rivers, hot baths, snow, ice -- is out in it, sliding down the hill, and I am therefore choosing TV programs without consulting him. Sam is probably out there taking video footage. This is good, because I can't watch the child fly off to Certain Death. So it's good if there's somebody else out there to call 911. I'm like that at the beach, too -- other people have to take the child into the ocean, cause I'm forseeing Doom at every moment -- the ocean is after all nothing but a big ol' graveyard -- and it's not very restful. Also, I'd just as soon the child didn't grow up like me, at least in this respect. So we just get me on out of the picture and let him cavort and have a joyful experience in whatever Vehicle of Death he's involved with at the moment.
Knitting. I'm just knitting. Not even looking out the window.
(I made that mistake once last week, and looked out the window in time to see his little head disappear down the hill. I waited patiently for his little head to come back and it didn't, for what seemed like eternity but was probably about 5 minutes. Luckily for me Sam came by, and agreed to go find out if the child was dead. I forget why I couldn't -- it was either cowardice or my shoes, but I don't remember which. The child was down at the bottom of the hill, whacking the snow off bushes with some big stick. Which is what he does everytime he's down at the bottom of the hill. So. Knitting. That's what I'm doing. Not even looking out the window.)
Scary, huh?
In reality, I don't actually use shears. I use little pointy embroidery scissors, so as to be precise and careful. I just liked the way the shears looked in that photo. I would have used garden shears, just for the effect, but the backyard's completely covered in snow and ice, and I didn't feel like going out and finding them.
No, I use little scissors, and I'm very careful, and when I'm done, the cut steek looks like this:
and the vest is ready for the neck and front band.
So I'm sitting downstairs knitting, and right at this very moment I'm not watching "Ed, Edd n Eddy," because the child, who is addicted to all forms of water -- oceans, rivers, hot baths, snow, ice -- is out in it, sliding down the hill, and I am therefore choosing TV programs without consulting him. Sam is probably out there taking video footage. This is good, because I can't watch the child fly off to Certain Death. So it's good if there's somebody else out there to call 911. I'm like that at the beach, too -- other people have to take the child into the ocean, cause I'm forseeing Doom at every moment -- the ocean is after all nothing but a big ol' graveyard -- and it's not very restful. Also, I'd just as soon the child didn't grow up like me, at least in this respect. So we just get me on out of the picture and let him cavort and have a joyful experience in whatever Vehicle of Death he's involved with at the moment.
Knitting. I'm just knitting. Not even looking out the window.
(I made that mistake once last week, and looked out the window in time to see his little head disappear down the hill. I waited patiently for his little head to come back and it didn't, for what seemed like eternity but was probably about 5 minutes. Luckily for me Sam came by, and agreed to go find out if the child was dead. I forget why I couldn't -- it was either cowardice or my shoes, but I don't remember which. The child was down at the bottom of the hill, whacking the snow off bushes with some big stick. Which is what he does everytime he's down at the bottom of the hill. So. Knitting. That's what I'm doing. Not even looking out the window.)
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