by Jillian Butler, Ampersandology
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| The yarn room--or, where I slept. Or, heaven. |
This past Christmas, the Mister and I headed up North to spend the holidays with his (adorable) family. A lot was crammed into seven days--lots of baking, lots of egg-nogging, and plenty of Nick and Nora Charles-ing (all in the the yuletide spirit, of course). Also--and this is the key to our little story here--his mother taught me how to knit. And with that, set off a chain reaction which vibrates still.
Of course, it doesn't help that the Mister is an artist who comes from a family of the most prolific crafters I've ever met--I get lots of encouragement in that arena. And don't be fooled, I'm no stranger to a crafty urge or two. My natural thriftiness combined with hoarder-like qualities towards certain goods (check: interesting bits of paper, weird buttons, all string) meant that I kept a well-stocked sewing kit and a modest collection of knick-knacks and stamps.
But cross-stitch my heart and hope to die, that was all child's play compared to now. My little apartment looks like the frentic daydreams of Zooey Deschanel were woven into the vestiges of a Martha Stewart catalogue. My de-stressing routine most commonly involves a glass of red wine and a craft or two--it seems the busier I get, the more delight I take in homemaking. I made all my wrapping paper and gift tags for the year, using recycled cardboard and tissue paper. For my birthday this year, I got no fewer than four kitchen appliances as gifts. If you've reached the stage in your domesticated life where people think "cookie cutter" when your name comes up, you're doing something right. Or wrong, I guess, if you really hate cookies. This is but the tip of the iceberg; I have many projects ongoing.
And oh yeah: I have a yarn basket now. I keep it next to my knitting chair, which is across from my sewing nook. In other words, it's getting worse.
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