Now Norma Knits

Craft Activism Available For Preorder

OK, so remember way back when Gale was visiting me? And we were all super-secretive and hinty-hinty? Well, now we have downgraded (or is it "upgraded"?) the situation to only secretive and hinty. 

How about let's just say that the book Craft Activism is now available for preorder from Amazon.

I've had a sneakpeek at one of the pages, and it's so fabulous I can hardly contain myself. Damn, that Gale and Joan do good work! 

The Extreme Long-Time Reader of Now Norma Knits will recall that I first met Gale at a photo shoot for the Red Scarf Project when it was really in its infancy. Those were the days when we really had to beg and scrape and worry that we might not have enough scarves. Now we just have to remind people that quality is more important than quantity, that the designs have to be truly unisex, and that yes, red is the color. The array of gorgeous soft, warm scarves that pile in each year are astounding and wonderful.

I just love the blog for being able to turn back the time machine for things like this. I looked up the post and the date of our meeting was January 26, 2007!!! Can you believe that? I can't. (Look at me with my blonde highlights! Ha!) It's so much fun to look at Gale's album from the photo shoot that day and to think how far we've come from those humble beginnings of the project. 

(Photo taken by one of the students with my camera.)

We had known each other virtually for a short while before that, but it was really the Red Scarf Project that brought us together. We were fast friends, though we met on what was probably the coldest day of the century. 

Didn't matter! We had all that Red Scarf love (and a hot coffee at a patisserie later) to keep us warm. It was the first day I had met any of the Orphan Foundation of America (now renamed Foster Care to Success) students, and if I wasn't already sold, that sealed the deal for me. Such mature, responsible, fun, and appreciative young women I met that day, and I have met several more in the intervening years. They are all amazing. And so are we red scarf knitters, crocheters, and weavers. 

RED SCARF ON, TROOPS! (And go order the book. You will be glad you did -- I promise!)

 

 

Just Because The Title Is Wrong Doesn't Mean I Don't Want This Book

Not that I need it, but still. I have the original (the real, the pure, the true -- the one that gives me as much glee and constant pleasure -- for I think the same reasons -- as some knitters get out of E.Z.), and I have the other fun one, Spunk & Bite, so I think I should round out my collection with The Elements of Fucking Style. Especially since it has the word "fucking" in it, and anything that bothers people who get their knickers in a twist over that word is fine by me.

I just wish the title were "The Fucking Elements of Style," because the way it's written, it sounds like a style of intercourse. Wonder who the fucking editors were of that.

I Used to Read

I used to be a voracious reader. We had no books at home, or hardly any (I am not exaggerating about this), but when I entered first grade (we had no kindergarten), I was determined to be reading at an 8th grade level. How could that be? What was I reading? How did I learn? My mother, a young widow with four children ages 5 and under, was too busy trying to be the town clerk (in our home -- a position she took over from my father when he died), grow a garden, keep a house up by herself, and literally just trying to survive, to ever read to us. I might have been reading to my siblings, but I don't remember doing it. And again, how did I learn? It's a mystery.

My nose was in a book close to 24/7 until I stopped pleasure reading for a period of time in my late 20s. I was a young mom, I was working full time, trying to remain fit, going to lots of canoe races and such, and producing 500 pages of transcript a week. There was no time for pleasure reading.

At some point I started to resent that, and so I made a rule to myself: After all the work was done, and when I went to bed, I would read every night for at least a couple of hours. I did. And I would go to sleep at 2 a.m. I kept that up for many, many years. A couple or three decades, even. 

But now I hardly ever read. 

That is not really accurate. I read a ton. But it's almost all on the internet, and it's almost all either news or spoof news or little snippets of mostly nothing of any substance. No novels. No in-depth magazine articles, no investigative journalism, no biographies, no treatises on ancient history or gardening or health or living the green life. It's sad, but nothing seems able to hold my interest anymore. 

I got the Kindle, and I have read more since I got the Kindle than I have for a long time, but I still have trouble finishing anything. I'm certainly buying a lot more books (it's so easy to make that click and lay down your 10 bucks for a Kindle book), so at least I am doing my part to help the industry. I tried listening to books, and I got an audible.com account. They put me to sleep. 

I have tried several different genres. Right now, my reading list includes:

The Land of the Painted Caves, Jean Auel

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson

When Everything Changed:  The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present, Gail Collins

The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, Sarah Silverman

The Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett

The Adventure of English: The Biography of a Language, Melvyn Bragg

Dead or Alive, Tom Clancy

The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer, Siddhartha Mukherjee

I'm somewhere in the midst of each one of these. A fairly eclectic collection, wouldn't you say? But none of them can hold my attention. I do not feel the excitement of reading anymore. I read something and think, "Yawn, yawn. Been there, done that. Trite, formulaic, predictable, I know already what the ending is going to be," etc.

[Special Abigail story I have to add in here: Abigail was a rather late learner in some things, reading included in that list. We just had to be patient, and she would extremely suddenly "get it." She did not seem to learn things methodically, incrementally, but would just go from 0 to 60. For two years, it seems, she could not learn to tie her shoes. Then one morning she got up, announced, "I have figured it out," and tied her shoes. Same thing with riding a bike and, it turns out, reading. And on the day when she finally learned to read, she could read just about anything. But when that happened, she was sitting in her car seat in the car. I was driving. She said, "I thought I would feel really different when I could read. But I don't."

I laughed at the time (without letting her see my laughter), and I laugh every time I think of that moment. I think she thought bells and whistles would go off. I think she thought sparks would fly and fireworks would go off. She described that she thought the world would change colors and a literal door would open and everything would look different. I think she was defining orgasm at age 6. I also think she thought that I and her dad had really misled her about what a wonderful thing reading is. I think she experienced what she had been hoping for and waiting for the first time she saw a Shakespeare play with me in England when she was 8. For her, that was the moment when everything changed colors and sparks flew and a key had unlocked a door.]

Anyway, back to the topic at hand:

Have I used up all my reading brain cells? Have I developed late-onset ADHD? Attention and focus have certainly never been an area of deficit for me, and that is rather an understatement.

I did finish The Help by Kathryn Stockett not too long ago. I loved it.

I thought I had my love of reading back. But nope. Like Abigail back when she was so young, when I start something new I get excited and hopeful, but then it fizzles. I keep waiting and wishing and looking for something more, and then I give up, never finishing it. 

Where has the pleasure gone?

And right now, a few author friends who have sent me books to review are getting a horrible sinking feeling in the pits of their stomachs.*

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*But don't worry, friends. I will get a grip on it again. I hope. ;-)

 

Wild Wacky (Maybe Even WTF) Wednesday

Well, you'd think that without the little Yorkshire Terrier running around trying to be the boss of me, and getting under foot and causing all kinds of chaos, life would be a lot easier. But no. It's more like I have phantom-limb syndrome. Always hearing the pitter-patter of little feet, always thinking I need to rush to get home to take care of him, always wondering what despoilation he's up to, and missing him on my lap and my chest and making me laugh. (The latest "I wish I had a video camera moment" was when he was "boxing" at me with his front paws and trying to stare me down, to get me to stop brushing him. Adorable doesn't even begin to describe it.) He really is a true love, that one. 

So, no. Even though I am so busy right now, with so much going on that requires so much of my attention, and it's a time that, by rights, it should make it easier not to have him here, it's not helping. 

David is in the same state. David, the confirmed (ha) non-lover of dogs. He's still reporting, "I took him out and he peed and he p... No, wait. That didn't happen."

I went for a brisk walk after my morning shift yesterday, because I needed to clear my head -- and clear my head the 2-degree-Fahrenheit temperatures surely did. I couldn't help myself, but I went on the regular lunchtime route that Mr. Jefferies usually drags me on. It just seemed like the right thing to do. And the whole time, I knew I was alone, but I was worrying about the cold and the salt hurting his paws.  

Nuts, I tell you. Absolute bonkers nuts. But I never said any of that, and don't say I did. I'll deny it.

But anyway.... I've been able to soldier on. I plunked a few seeds (50 to be exact, which I thought would be enough, but is not even the beginning of enough) in some poo pots:

At least I'm calling them poo pots. They are those things -- some of you know them -- that are flat little disks. They used to be called Jiffy peat pots, these things, but this packaging from a Canadian company is all about saving our peat bogs (I typoed "blogs," of course) and claims that by using their little disk thingies instead of peat ones, you are saving the peat blogs (I did it again) of the world. They call them "fiber" pots, and nowhere on the packaging can I find WHAT they are actually made of -- what kind of fiber, pray tell. But I swear to you that, when I wet them, the aroma was unmistakably moo doo. I really don't mind. If you are giving me dung pots, just be honest and tell me so. I'm all about saving the peat b(l)ogs too!

So what else. OMG, there is just so much going on. Soon my blogiversary is coming up, and not that it's a competition or anything, but I started my blog about the same time as my dear friend Margene. And as a part of HER blogiversary, she recently had a contest to reach her 60,000th comment. She had written considerably fewer entries than I had, and had almost 5,000 more comments in her blog lifetime than I. How is that fair, I ask you?! (KIDDING) I haven't been able to hold up my end of the blog-community bargain very well for the last year, at least. So I deserve to have you just pretend I don't exist. (Stop it! I'm taking the piss out of myself and NOT having a pity party as it seems. You have to hear the voice[s] in my head to realize my tone of voice.) (snork)

But. What if I were to bribe you a little, to give you an idea of what I'm going to be giving away on MY blog birthday? [a cone of cashmere, a skein of bison laceweight in red?] And told you that it all depends on your comments, and maybe some surprise commenter in the next two weeks will be the winner? Would that get you to show me the comment love? Nah, never mind. I refuse to beg. Poor li'l adorable Mr. Jefferies only got like 10 comments yesterday -- a blogging Yorkie who umpty-billion people claim they read and adore! And if HE can't garner the comments, when he works so hard to put on his dog-and-person show, nobody can. I'm not even gonna try.

Anyway, I'm sorta too busy to handle the comments right now. And don't expect an answer from me! This is a one-way street, and don't you forget it! 

I'm not complaining. Here are some numbers to let you chaw on. They sort of stun me. For realz.  

 

Lifetime Pageviews:  2,807,877

Total Posts: 2,290

Total Comments: 55,812

I have written 2,290 blog posts in THIS blog (more in other blogs such as the Red Scarf Blog), and I've answered in excess of 50,000 emails, in the seven years I've been blogging. I think I need to lie down, actually. 

 

And in other news, WHAT TOOK ME SO LONG to get this book????

Even if I never knit a thing from this book... but I probably will... it is just so much like drinking my favorite cup of Earl Grey tea, with a nice piece of almond tea cake, that I can hardly stand it. Funny -- I've only owned one other Elizabeth Zimmermann book in my life. I bought it, and then sold it (or gave it away or something), and then bought it again because someone (or a bunch of someones) told me I needed it for something, and both times I was underwhelmed and considered myself the anti-EZ fan, and wondered what defective knitter's gene I had been cursed with. But THIS one.... THIS one is really something special. 

Now, for that lie-down. But first, I have a lot of work to do. (Work has 'sploded, and you know that makes me happy, very happy. But it also makes me a little bit tired. Thank goodness I took advantage of that slow period to cleanse and rest up and pack my cells with nutrients. I need 'em.) And you,.... well, you just drift in and out and don't bother to leave a comment. Nobody will mind, especially not the winner of that fucking cone of cashmere. 

Terrier Tuesday -- Sweater Quest Blog Tour Edition

Dear Readers,

It's been really boring around here, and the weather has turned dull, rainy, sleety, and grey. And following on the heels of the gloriousness that was last week, with the blue skies and the warmth and the sweet-smelling air, it's even harder to take and shoves one's dysphoric mood into an all-time low.

You know how I hate to walk in those conditions! And A.Alpha was not giving me the attention I deserved. Where was the play?! Where WAS the play?!

I thought I'd die from the tedium, so I was suuuuuuuper-glad when the mail carrier brought me a copy of Adrienne Martini's new book, Sweater Quest, to read. 

 

It was a very fun read and it kept me entertained while A.Alpha was busy doing whatEVER it is that she does for so many hours while I'm just about ready to chew off my own leg. (And one of these days she'll be very sorry when she finds out I am not just bluffing about that, too.)

So I rang up Adrienne to talk about the book, and we had a nice little chat. It went like this:

ME: As you may know, Adrienne – you don’t mind if I call you Adrienne, do you? – I’m a Yorkshire Terrier. They tell me that my ancestors hail from the north of England, really not too far south of Scotland, where Alice Starmore lives. Tell me honestly: If perhaps A.Alpha were inclined to knit me a Starmore-inspired sweater, do you think I could I pull it off? Would it be too much? Would we both stand to be arrested and/or shunned by the entire knitterverse, by the fashion police, or worse:  be in violation of copyright?

ADRIENNE:  In my opinion, your average Yorkshire Terrier has sufficient panache to pull off a Starmore-inspired sweater. You, Mr. Jefferies have more than enough spunk to rock not only a Fair Isle jumper but a matching tam as well. On one such as yourself, there is no such concept as too much when it comes to handknits.

As for the knitterverse and/or the fashion police, I’m inclined to not care about the shunning. Seriously - have you seen Joan Rivers lately? Ask A.Alpha to show you a picture. If hers is the looks we should aspire towards, let me never reach that height.

As for copyright, well, I do not play a lawyer, either in real life or on tv. But I won’t tell if you won’t.

  ME:   I am intimately familiar with knitting – and I do mean intimately. Why, I regularly sleep on the lap of a knitter and I’ve been in trouble once or twice for mistaking a ball of silk-, wool-, and cashmere yarn for a toy. But as I was reading Sweater Quest, I couldn’t help but notice that you took great pains to define all the terms, specialized lingo, and acronyms that would be very familiar to a knitting audience, but not so much to a reader who is not a knitter. What lessons do you think that a person who doesn’t know his bits from his kibble knits from his yarn-overs can take away from Sweater Quest?

ADRIENNE: Sweater Quest isn’t just for knitters, which is why there are the explanations about the jargon and basic technique. My hope is that anyone who has ever been smitten to the point of compulsion by a craft project will find the journey enjoyable and enlightening. It’s a universal human thing, this creative/crafty itch and not just a knitter thing.

It may also be a Terrier thing - but you guys seem to be more about destruction than construction.

3.  ME: My Alpha is heavily involved with the Red Scarf Project and has even had me pose for a picture in a red scarf. She says it’s one of the prices I have to pay for the lap-time. FINE! Whatever! Tell us what you know about knitters and charity. They’re pretty freakin’ awesome; am I right?

ADRIENNE:  Knitters and charity are like chocolate and peanut butter; they are just a freakin’ awesome combo.

I’m continually amazed by both individual knitters' desire to help and the community’s ability to organize. While Stephanie Pearl-McPhee’s work with Doctors Without Borders is one of the more impressive examples, it is by no means the only one. Your Alpha has done great work with the Red Scarves (and I’m sure your input is appreciated). But charity works on an even smaller scale, too. My local knitting group is trying to make 180+ helmet liners, one for each local soldier stationed in a war zone. Like knitting itself, each of these individual stitches adds up to something inspiring.

Thanks so much for the questions, Mr. Jefferies! Please ask A.Alpha to give you a special treat from me.

Right, then. I'd say it's time for that treat. A fresh marrow bone would do nicely, thank you.

Love,

Mr. Jefferies

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The book is Sweater Quest, by Adrienne Martini, published by Simon & Schuster.  Read and hear more about it here.

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The Studhorse Man, a Postmodern Review*

When I posted the cover of the book I was reading the other day, several people wanted a book report. I'm sure Abigail will be mad at me for this (because she likes the genre), but I'm not gonna lie: Except in rare instances, postmodern literature is very, well, postmodern. This book is no exception. And that's all I'm gonna say about that. 

How's that for an in-depth [and very postmodern, not to mention tautologically tautological] literary review? Then again, if I wanted to be truly postmodern, I could perhaps give an anti-literary review of an entirely different book, or three others, plus the mail that arrived in my mailbox, and while I'm at it, throw in what I think of CFL lightbulbs, my cholesterol report, AND the instructions on the back of my new hair dye box, all at the same time, written backwards, and in no particular sequence. (Hey, I think I just figured out Sarah Palin! Damn, I didn't realize! She's brilliant after all! See what good comes of this everyday blogging exercise?)(Or have I simply lost my mind?)

And you thought I was just copping out because I didn't understand the genre. FOOLED YA! 

But the postmodern Olympic gold medal winner I can appreciate: Shaun White, just following his win, to the press: "I don't feel like talking right now, guys." (subtext: "Fuck off.") And then, when he did give an interview, he used the word "gosh" more than once. I could not control my mirth. A snowboarder saying "gosh"? 

Dude. I.don't.THINK.so. It felt somehow dirty.

But then he showed up on Oprah the next day! Hahahaha. Oh, how I love it. LOVE!

And the postmodern TV commercial, I can get into that, too. This thing has gone viral, I know. Even though I've pretty much been hibernating from the internet this week, and I did not watch the Super Bowl, I've seen this tweeted and retweeted repeatedly, and I saw that Ariana Huffington posted it. I even saw it on the actual teevee the other night during the Olympics. But in case you have been living under a rock, or even just for the sheer joy of seeing it again, here it is, (and WHAT a coincidence!) a (somewhat) different kind of studhorse man.

 

*OMG, I shudder to think of the poor Googlers who are looking for a serious review. LOL. Ah, the postmodern blogger.

Yes, We CAN!

Yesterday morning I got a text message from Ann asking if I were going to be in town that day, and if so, could I stop by her and her husband's store in the mall and pick up something. When I got there after my class in the evening, I almost dipped into the Borders book store which is right next to their shop to get the new South Beach book. I had planned to get it earlier in the day at Barnes & Noble, but when I arrived at that store it was much too busy for the time I had available before class, so I decided to hold off. 

So now I was walking past Borders and had a thought to go in, but said to myself, "No, let's go pick up this mysterious thing from Ann first."

I walked in the store and told the people behind the counter what I was there for, and they handed me a beautifully wrapped package that looked suspiciously like a book. "Hm," I said to them, "I guess I'd better open this before I go to the bookstore, eh?"

Ayup.

Ann and I had been in touch over the past few days when she read in Facebook that I was doing the South Beach diet. She has had wonderful success with it, and was able to direct me to some recipes and helpful tips online. 

THANK YOU, ANN! I wish I'd tried this diet two years ago. I have been struggling to lose 10-15 pounds and nothing else has budged it, in spite of my most sincere efforts. I've tried calorie-counting, I've tried increasing protein and reducing carbs (but clearly not enough), I've tried The Zone. I thought I was doomed to accept this new, heavier version of me.

Now, as of yesterday morning I had lost six pounds in four days. SIX POUNDS IN FOUR DAYS!!!! Some people will undoubtedly get all up in arms about "crash dieting," etc., but I gotta tell you, if you don't see some real results, it is damn hard to stay focused. These quick results, all while I'm feeling full and satisfied, (albeit wishing I could have some dried fruit or a big fat chocolate cake -- I AM human, ya know!) give me the boost I need to keep it up hopefully till I meet my goal, and sooner rather than later. 

Anyway.... 'nuff said. Thank you again for the book and the encouragement, Ann!

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As I was writing this post and looking at these photos, I remembered a gift that I received -- OMG -- 15 years ago. (How can that be?) 

I went down to my kitchen to pull it out:

I'm laughing myself silly at the similarities (and yet stark differences) in the inscription, and even the handwriting. This was a Christmas gift from my dear friend Andrew in London. I was 20 pounds lighter in those days, and the word "diet" was not really in my lexicon -- however, I was always concerned about healthy habits -- eating and exercise -- which the British thought made me slightly wacky. All except Andrew. He and I were gym buddies, but at the same time, also pudding buddies. We'd get together on a Friday evening after we had gone to the gym and make rich steamed English puddings together, then sit on the couch with two spoons and eat the entire thing while watching the telly. I've made many a Delia Smith Christmas pudding from this book in the intervening years, too. 

But I won't be doing that for a while now. I've got a date with a camera coming up soon, and I'd just as soon not share it with this extra tonnage, thank you very much. 

350. Are You Ready For This? A Special Stupid Tuesday Edition of Now Norma Knits, With A Little Book Review Added For Extra Fun

How to take part in the world's most stupid exercise:

Step 1.  Buy rather expensive laundry appliances from a reputable and trusted dealer. 

Step 2.  Pay money for them to be delivered and installed. 

Step 3.  Pay money to simultaneously have a licensed plumber available at the time of delivery because he has to unhook the gas from the old gas dryer and hook it up to the new one. (No one can touch gas hookups except the gas company or a licensed plumber. Preferably one with an IQ higher than 12.)

Step 4.  Discover, after the installers leave, that neither appliance works. 

Step 5.  Listen to the stupid Typepad-esque answer of "It's probably your fault."  Argue the point.  Demand that someone come make them work. 

Step 6.  Have them come, purportedly fix them, then leave, when you're gone. 

Step 7.  Return home to find them NOT fixed in the least.

Step 8.  Rinse and repeat (Not the laundry.  The appliances don't work, remember?  The process. It's a figure of speech.)

Step 9.  Return home after a stay away because of bad weather to find that one of the two now works (the water pipe threads were stripped by the first installers), but the other doesn't. 

Step 10.  Throw a tantrum and insist that the other one get fixed or they can come pick up their hunks of steel and "gimme my money back."

Step 11.  Wash tons of laundry that has been building up and hang it to dry on racks (At least it's economical, green, and probably the Right Thing To Do.  Except when one has just bought a $1,000+ appliance to do the same.)

Step 12.  Call the plumber and ask, "John, um...is it, um, possible you, um, did not turn on the gas?"  (You can see what's coming, can't you?)

Step 13.  Listen to the plumber reassure you, "Oh, yes.  I came back a second time to be SURE it was on. Your dryer is going to work, don't you worry.  All you have to do is turn it on and off manually four or five times.  Well, you might have to do it 12 times, because there is air in the gas hose.  And then it will work."

Step 14.  Stand there stupidly turning the dryer on and off for the next 2.5 hours, at least 1,009 times.  Still cold. 

Step 15.  Scream bloody murder to the sales place.  Get a call from the repairman, who says, "It must be that the igniter got cracked during delivery."

Step 16.  Go to work before the repairman arrives Monday morning.

Step 17.  Arrive home after work to get the message from spouse that......

have you guessed it yet?  Of course you have:

Step 18. The *&^%$# gas had not been turned on.

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It was only the extremely timely arrival of my copy of Franklin's book

that saved me from doing something drastic. I turned to page 1 and started laughing.  It was one and three-quarters hours later when I stopped to catch my breath, only to realize that I had completely lost the urge to disconnect the gas dryer hose and duct tape it to my mouth. 

Oh Franklin, you are a sweet, funny dear, and now you may add Suicide Interventionist to your already impressive resume.

If I had gone to Harvard, do you think we would have ended up married? 

Oh. 

Well, yes, there is that. 

Never mind, then.

This book is a delightful and refreshing little gumdrop.  Franklin's humor is smart and fresh and genuine, and you don't have to be a knitter to get it.  When I put it down briefly to stir the pasta sauce, I had to wrest it from my non-knitting husband's hands so I could keep reading it.  That, my friends, is an endorsement. 

If you don't already have the book, ask Santa to put a copy in your stocking -- it will fit in there so nicely.  Make sure you take a pee before you open it, though.  Honestly. 

281. Are Ya Woman Enough to Handle It?

I read that someone said it's too big.  Well, don't that beat all.  I guess some women can be satisfied with iddly-piddly, but, hm.  I kinda like big.  And hard[covered].  I was once told by some of my British friends, "Everything is bigger in America."  Who knew?  Perhaps it's true.  Well, and then there's the what you do with it, too, that matters.  I mean, it can't be big and just sit there, resting on its...you know...laurels. It's gotta have some substance to it.

Anyhoo. 

I got my copy of Mason-Dixon Knitting Outside The Lines the other day. It wasn't sent to me to review -- I ordered it -- and I wasn't asked or even authorized to write this review, but this blog is a monarchy and I'm a Vermontah.  I do as I wantah.

After reading that curious "too big" review and before the book arrived, I thought, "My GOD, what have I DONE?! Are we going to need a truck to deliver this thing up the driveway? A winch to pull it into the house?  Am I going to need to do more pushups with the mixed martial arts guys in order to lift this sucker? Get a back brace?  And most importantly, will I be woman enough to handle it?!" 

I got all goose-bumpy, wondering.

 

Huh. 

Nope.  Just a regular old knitting-book size, something like, I don't know, most of the other knitting books on my bookshelf.

But it doesn't just sit there! No, it doesn't!  It's chock full of the wonderful smart writing style and humor of Ann and Kay, and designs by them and by other wonderful designers like Bonne Marie and Anna Bell and others of that highly talented ilk.  It's overflowing with creative and sophisticated and timeless knitting designs like this stunner by Bonne Marie:

and soft-and-pretty and just-plain-adorable and rough-and-tumble little family-pleasers like these:

 

and Mason-Dixon signature-type home decor designs, too.  There are the beautiful, artistic, and practical things like, for example, these:

And what Mason-Dixon book would be complete without the whimsical?

(A felted advent forest. Martha would be so proud.  And couldn't you envision these with little googly-eyes, as ghosts, or with antennae, as Martians, for Halloween? Or garden gnomes? Or elves or as Harry Potter sorting hats at a HP-themed birthday party?  .... Well, apparently I have gotten entranced by these little buggers and I'm getting carried away.)

...and what Mason-Dixon book would be complete especially without the warshcloth? (...by any other name...)

(Careful, Mr. Jefferies -- you could become a mop if you don't behave!)

We got yer Stephen Colbert socks, too.

Can we tawk?  These might even make me a sock knitter, just because I think Stephen Colbert is sexy in an odd sort of "you are cute -- even with the weird ears -- and brilliant and hilarious" way.  Plus, Ben & Jerry's made a flavor for him, and Ben & Jerry's is made in my home town, so, you know, it's almost like we're buddies. And I imagine he has big *ahem* feet.  [Stephen: Call me! I like 'em big! Word!] 

Now, I am not the most prolific or talented knitter on the planet, but I have always had a thing for knitted coats. One day I'm gonna make one (or two).

  Maybe just like this one.  It'll either be the coat or the size (I can only hope!) that'll be the death of me.  But what a way to go. 

Nice.  I'm satisfied.

Hey...... you got a truffle?  (It's the new cigarette.)

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P.S.  The Red Scarf Fund total stands at $2,450 from 74 donors.  Is that another big milestone I feel coming up?  Or are you just happy to see me?