If I had a time machine…and peaches grew on trees...

I would make thousands of jars of peach butter and hand them out on street corners all over America.



This was my breakfast this morning: A toasted bagel with cream cheese and peach butter. It tasted like bright sunshine and happiness.

Which was good, because this is what I was working on during the commute in this morning.



And it was more like "well, what the @*&^@...why is this…wait, isn't this supposed to be the…knit four, ssk, yo…no, wait, I've got knit six here…but…no, no that's…huh-uh, that's completely…wait…is that a dropped stitch? OH. YOU. ARE. @*^&@ING. KIDDING. ME…"

Among other things (primary amongst those other things being the fact that I am an idiot who never, ever, EVER learns from experience, no matter how painful it may be), I had taken the excellent advice given, made a copy of my destructions instructions, and was using a highlighter as I went to keep myself 'on track.'

Except that I apparently got excited and highlighted two rows I had not actually done.

Which rather throws a wrench into the whole system.

This is the project I took on our camping trip. (Please see "idiot, can't learn" comment, above.) 99.5% of this progress was made during the van ride there and back again, .45% of it was made in spurts and stops while we were camping (most of that in the wee little sliver of morning between when I hauled myself out of the tent and when Captain Adventure would emerge from his cocoon ready to begin another day of terrorist activities fun and excitement), and -.05% was made this morning as I tinked back, re-knit what I thought I'd done wrong, stared at it, counted and counted and counted again, and only toward the very end of the journey realized that I was trying to do row 107 when, in fact, I was supposed to be on row 103.

But at least I was wrong about the dropped stitch. It wasn't a dropped stitch. It was just a pulled out stitch – where somewhere along the line something (probably my knitting needle) had gotten hooked under the yarn and yanked it out so that it formed a big old loop where no big old loop was supposed to be, and naturally since matter can be neither created nor destroyed, a puckered-up section of stitches resembling a cement block that used to be an airy little bit of lace.

Sigh.

So I engaged in underwater stitch-un-pull-out-ing, laboriously teasing the big old dangling loop back into the shawl and convincing the cement block to return to lace-shawl form and biting my lip the whole time to keep myself from muttering out loud while I did it – because that alarms people on BART.

Although I'm not sure why, now that I stop to think about it. I mean, it's not like there isn't somebody on practically every single train who is talking to themselves, or an invisible friend, or singing, or dancing in their chair, or otherwise behaving oddly…which makes those "security advisory announcements" kind of silly. I mean, really: If I see someone 'behaving oddly,' I'm supposed to report it? What constitutes "odd" when you're on BART, for Pete's sake?!

So why someone who is muttering vulgarities at their lace while wielding two pointy sticks, a crochet hook, clenching a bent-tipped tapestry needle between their teeth and balancing a pattern on their knee and a highlighter behind their ear should alarm anybody on BART is beyond me.

But I guess I'll keep on at least trying not to mutter obscenities at my lace.

If nothing else, it rather spoils that whole "knitting is the new yoga" and "gentle little flower of domesticality" and "oh, my knitting is just so relaxing" image.

...@*&^@ing lace...