Feminism is a Four Letter Word

I think about feminism a lot. Not in an abstract, high-brow way, although I suppose I could. I spent four years at University learning to speak in terms of liberal values and what is universally moral, and why you should believe what I'm saying because, clearly, I have the weight of the Western World and all it's thinkers behind me. But I never did Women's Studies, never even got close. The closest I got was admitting, in a third year tutorial, that I considered myself to be a 'feminist'. And I was shocked by people's reaction. They looked at me like I was crazy, took in my short hair and comfortable shoes and, I'm sure, decided that I was a lesbian, a man-hater, or both.

I am neither.

But I am vexed by a world in which it is hard to say that you are a feminist. This means that only the extremists, who want the Men to die, will claim the title. I grew up assuming that everyone was a feminist, in the same way that everyone is Human. At least that all women would be feminists, because, surely, it's ridiculous to suppose that anyone would want to have no choice. Because isn't that what it's about? Choice? You can be free, but if you can't choose what to do with your freedom, it's a false freedom. In name only.

I remember the furor our Women's Officer at uni created. The Women's space was being moved, since the buildings were being renovated, and some planner decided that all the offices together was a better idea. The alternate space was not inferior. But she decided that it was a conspiracy by the patriarchy to oust the Women's Room. I am generally quite suspicious of conspiracy theories in general, since they take much more effort for the conspirators than is usually feasible. But I do believe in the patriarchy. Because I'm a part of it, I know it is there, I see it all the time. But sometimes it is just. Not. About. That.

So, the Women's Room was being moved, and our Women's Officer at the time went on a huge rant against, you guessed it, men. She started out sounding sane with why we need a Women's Room and not, for example, a Men's Room. (Although, if the men felt that they needed one, they could go ahead and make one for themselves) Then it started down the slope of why we needed the women's room, really. IE, because all men are pigs and should have their testicles torn off with rusty pliers.

This is where I jump of the bandwagon. I'm sorry? you are saying that in order for me to be empowered, I need to dis-empower others? You're saying that equality isn't what we're after? That equal and just treatment is, in fact, the enemy? No thanks. Truly, I think I would rather be oppressed than the oppressor. At least there's moral superiority in that.

As I've said before, I truly believe that men and women are, essentially, different beings. I like being a woman, and not a man. I don't want to change the things about me that make me different. Partly this is because, why should 'being equal' mean 'being like men'? I'm happy with 'different but equal', despite the historical instances of that phrase actually meaning 'different, and inferior'. I think we are closer now than we ever have been. I think that's wonderful. but we're not there yet. Not by a long shot. And partly, the problem is ourselves.

Each other.

I feel a deep gratitude to the women who pushed the envelope before I was born, and while I was young, so that I could grow up taking for granted that I was as human as anyone else, and my right to an opinion was as strong.

But they missed something. Most of them. That was: We want to choose. We want to choose to work. We want to choose to raise children. We want to choose whatever gives us satisfaction, be that handstitching a quilt or writing legislation. We want to choose variations and combinations of these, and other things, and while not every choice will be the ones we wish we could make, and every choice will involve sacrifice, and unpleasantness, we want this to be only a function of living in the real world with it's real hardships and facts. Most of those feminists never had children (as I found out in this excellent book, which is gentle and thoughtful and, I've just found out by googling, extremely controversial). That's not a problem. It's just a fact. Choosing one thing rules out another choice.

That's life.

The fact that this is seen as a betrayal of feminism seems cruel to me. It means that those who choose to work feel guilt that they are not at home, on top of all the hardships that being a working mother entails. And those who choose to stay at home feel guilt that they are not working, along with all the hardships that staying at home entails.

And it means that we feel the need to paint each other's choices as 'wrong', in order to make ours 'right'. This frustrates me, badly.

I've been reading Yarnstorm, which I've had in my blogroll for about a year, but, since it starts with a 'y', haven't read in almost as long. But Jen was talking about it, and I took another look. Apparently there's been some controversy about whether the kind of life that I see us all trying for in blogland, that beautiful life full of creativity and peace and the joy of small things, is 'valid'. I don't even know how to respond to that.


Because I want that life. This morning, I cooked, I cleaned, I knit, before I went in to work. And I thought to myself that if I could do that all day, I would be happy. Not all day, every day. That's not a full, well lived life, for me. But just showing up at the office doesn't guarantee you that, either. And these days, when most people don't have 'careers', they just have life-long jobs... which will better give you satisfaction? I don't know that either is guaranteed to do so. It's about who you are, and what you can make of it.

My little nest

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy working, interacting with people, etc. but I also know that it gets in the way of the life I would like to have. Not a Martha Stewart life, but the type of life I see on blogland. Not that that is really real, any of it. But bits and pieces are. A careful, intimately beautiful life, filled with light and love and handmade things.

And I know that that is not what life is. I love the different aspects of life, and I love thinking about the way my life changes, and looking forward to all the changes to come. But whatever those changes are, if they involve a career, or a husband, or children, or a life of solitude, or any combination, I want to be free to make the choices that it presents to me without fear of being ridiculed by people who, quite frankly, should know better.

Otherwise, what is freedom for?

Dame Roma Mitchell

First woman in Australia to be Queen's Counsel

Twice Dux of my high school

Advocate of equal pay for equal work

Fighter for Social Justice

First female Commonwealth supreme Court Judge (retired from the bench the year I was born)

CBE

Lecturer

Senior Deputy Chancellor and Chancellor of Adelaide University (first woman in Australia)

(First woman) Governor of South Australia

Founding Chairperson of the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission

Conservative Feminist

Mother

General Hogger of 'Firsts'

Take a Deep Breath

Or, the continuing saga of the cursed sock.


So, I'm 3 inches in. It's looking great. Then, last night, I'm looking at it. I have 10 minutes before I have to leave to go to my grandma's for tea. And I'm thinking 'will this fit over my foot?'

The pattern says that it fits a 8-8 1/2" round foot. Mines about 9", but I like my socks real snug, so I was kind of hoping I could wing it. I pulled it over my foot - perfect. Then I'm thinking 'will this fit over my heel?'

I string the stitches onto some waste yarn. I pull it over my foot - still perfect. I pull it over my heel - well. I try to pull it over my heel. It won't go. It's will almost, nearly go. But it won't. No, sir. That yarn is stretched as far as it will stretch, and it wont fit over my heel.

I pull it off of my foot and throw it onto the table in disgust. The yarn and I glare at each other.

I cast on again, with another of the little balls of the yarn that I got when I frogged the pair it was before. The 3 inches of beautiful stitch pattern is still sitting on my table, with the waste yarn, shouting yarn swear words at me.

I'm choosing to think of it as a gauge swatch. A real cranky gauge swatch.

I said READ THEM

So, I ended up working on my sock after all, last night. I think I've got the pattern down. It only took me three hours. It's only a 6-st repeat, made up of purls and knits, but knitting has a way of reminding me of my cognitive failings. Think you'll remember where you left off? I don't think so! Think you'll remember what changes you made on the first sock? Dream on.

Think you'll apply the lessons learnt this week and READ THE INSTRUCTIONS?

Not a chance.

I am 2 inches into the hedgerow sock.

It does not have a cuff.

Why is there always that moment the next morning where you look at it and think... hang on?

I was checking the pattern to see how long it suggests you make the leg, when I realised that the pattern included a cuff section. I mean, you know. Because it's a sock. I wish I could go back in time so that I could wait until now, and then I could slap myself on the back of my head.

Actually, it's not too big a disaster, I don't think. It's basically a rib pattern anyway. It won't look the same, but I kind of like how it's looking. And I refuse to unwind it again because 1)enough already! and 2) I don't think the yarn could take it. It's holding up well for how often it's been knit, but there are limits, you know.

I think the yarn is cursed. That's it. It must be the yarn.

The moral of the story is: Read the instructions

And read them all the way through.

I made a rabbit on the weekend. See?

She's from Debbie Bliss's Special Knits, and I fell in love with the bunny's 'tude in the picture. I mean, she's a happy bunny, but at the same time she's all like 'what? i'm prosh, I'm bootiliscious,

and y'all can bite me.'

I don't know why my rabbit is Southern, but apparently it is so. She's also sleepy.

Her face actually stands out better than this. I was going to make her winking, but I thought that that might be a bit much.

I don't really know why I made her, apart from that I liked her. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with her now. This pattern was lovely, very elegant with the shaping. The only thing I didn't like about it was that it called for aran yarn, and 3.25 needles. Which gave a very tight fabric, and since it was on such small needles, I gripped it very tight and I had to put it down every now and then to give my hands a rest so that they didn't get sore.

As for the title - well, I made all her pieces, and started putting her together. I seamed up her legs. I seamed up her body. I attatched the legs to the body. I went to attatch the arms to the body - and then I realised that I'd seamed up too much of the body, and there was nowhere to put the arms, which are supposed to be inserted into the body seam, as the ears are inserted into the head seam. I fudged it, but it took a couple of goes, and I was cross with myself for having not paid attention.

I also started on the hedgerow socks last night. I was whizzing along, about a half an inch deep, when I put it down to go to bed. This mornign I thought I would manage a row or two before I had to leave in the morning. That's when I realised. It's a 2 row repeat, not an every-second row repeat.

Yeah, my eyes are getting a good workout, what with all that attention I've been paying.

So, I frogged it (again!) This yarn is getting a good work out. Here's what it looks like now.

That's not quite true, I did cast on again while I was waiting for the bus this morning, and I have the regular Tuesday knitting date with my cousins tonight, although that might be too thinking a knitting project, since I'm not quite used to the stitch pattern yet (clearly).

It's really the only one I have that I can do, though. I've got my sister's jacket, but the circular needle for that is being used as one of two circular needles to do the thumb of a mitten, but since I don't have the other circular, I can't do that. Branching out is too thinky, too. I'm working on Cobblestone for my dad, but that is on hiatus. The circ I have for it has too defined a join, making it frustrating to work on. I went to order an addi for it, and... I ordered the wrong length. It's not the end of the world - it is a length that I need, but it's not the one I need now.

Doing. So. Well.

Maybe I'll make another bunny.

Dear Ravelry

I heart you. I heart you so hard. I want to have your virtual children.

Anyway. So, I have spent most of last week on Ravelry. My username is Kaviare, if'n you are on there and you want to join me.

I have also spent some time trying to wade through the backlog in my bloglines. I was reading sooz's blog, and I was like 'wait, I don't remember this Wil kid. What the?' Turns out? Last time I read was before he was born. This makes me sad. Sooz was one of the original blogs I read, and I love reading it. If someone's blog starts later in the alphabet than, say, 'd', I probably haven't read it in about that long. This is not only a source of guilt, it is a source of sadness. These are not just blogs I read to see what people made or whatever. These are people that I feel like I have an actual connection with. People who share parts of my life in ways that other people can't.

Since I still have no internet at home there is not much I can do about this. Except work harder to get internet at home. Which is waiting on getting a computer that is worth using on the internet. Which is up to someone else who is helping me get that. Gah.

Anyway, Ravelry = awesome. If you don't know what it is, then let me explain. It's like myspace or facebook for yarn. Except, instead of people you never want to talk to in real life, let alone online, there are fibre celebs like Franklin Habit, Brenda Dayne, The Girl From Auntie, Wendy from Knit and Tonic, The Yarn Harlot.... I've run out of breath.

And instead of looking at pictures of said people staring pensively off into the distance, or hanging drunkenly off of each other's shoulders, you get to look at other people's knitted and croched items. You get to see who has knitted the same things as you, or the things you want to knit, what they said, what yarn they used, who used the same yarn as you, what they said, what they knit with it....

And, instead of spamming your email every time you get a message, they send you kittens.

OK, so I made that last one up a little.

Anyway, if you haven't joined, you should. They've currently got over 15,600 users, and there are only 17,797 people on the waiting list... Seriously, there were about as many ahead of me when i joined, and I got in real quick. They are doing an amazing job and I love them.

Also, because the only way to put your photos up there is to use your flickr account, I've been getting a lot more use out of mine.

I had something to say, but I forget. So instead, I'll give you an FO report.

1950's Jumper

I wanted to knit myself a jumper. I really liked the look of the 1950's jumper in the Jo Sharp Knit 1. Elegant. Simple. Elegant. Except I wanted to knit it in Boutique, the new wool from Bendigo Woolen Mills. Boutique is 8 ply, while the pattern called for Alpace Silk Georgette, which is not only pricey, but also 5 ply. So I swatched. I got together with my mum, who teaches maths, and did my sums.

I decided that because I go out a ways, and then in a ways, I needed more shaping than Jo had factored in. So I calculated the stitches I would need for the waist, decreased dramatically, and then just increased the amount set in the pattern. There was a week or so when the extreme decreasing edge was freaking me out, btu my fath in Mathematics, and the soothing presense of more experienced knitters in my knitting group, who had seen such things before, kept me from going over the edge.

I won't go into the gorey details, but it all turned out in the end. I am actually a bit disattisfied with the shaping. not because it goe sin to far, but because it startes too far out. I think, if I did it over, I would pick about the middle sized pattern, and just knit it as the pattern saysx, or maybe with a few extra decreases.

I always forget the negative ease. I'm sorry, negative ease. I am learning to love you.

I actually wore it to work a couple of times as a vest. It worked quite well. I'm thinking of making one apurpose to be a vest. If only it weren't so dorky!

My sister is the worst picture taker ever.

She's all like 'pull a face, laugh, pretend like you're a rock star.'

And I'm all like 'Take. A. Photo. Of. The. Jumper.'

And she's like 'pretend like you're flying!'

But here it is, finished. You can see the bottom, on the left of the photo, where it's a bit lumpy from the wierd shaping.

I love the yarn. It's 65% Wool, 25% Bluefaced Leicester Wool, 10% Mohair. It's soft and warm and fuzzy and awesome. I'm actually thinking about making another one in the scarlet colour of the same yarn. Except, of course, that that's a littel adventurous for me. Colour, you know. It has been drawn to my attention that I prefer jewel tones or desaturated colours.

Anyway, Love. I'm wearing it now. Success tastes sweet.

Resolve

I tried on the socks yesterday, to have a farewell photoshoot. And it decided me. I will not wear and love these socks. I loved the widdershins - I love toe up, I love being able to try them on, etc. But... they just look a bit... handmade. There is a big line up each section where the edge of each needle was, if that makes sense.





Although I really love the way a gusset works on toe up. It's soo much more elegant.

As for Charade, I am no less in love with this stitch pattern and with the sock in general. however, the vagueness of the pattern at some stages, along with my usual desire to get to the end, get to the end, be finished already, and of course my worry about running out of yarn, left the heel flap truncated.




And while I prefer short socks, it's too short.

This is not how these socks are meant to look. This is how they are meant to look. (From here)

So. A frogging I will go, although not today, because today I am at my parents house for the long weekend. And to all my friends in China - Happy Birthday of Communism! I hope you are enjoying your week off.

Also, we went to go see Stardust. It was excellent. I've changed my mind - I really like Claire Danes now, as opposed tot hinking she was a bit whiney and sappy, when it came down to it. But she is so lovely and bitter at first in this movie, so biting, it's fantastic! And Robert DeNiro's character is a delight. I was a bit worried that this movie would be like one of those ones that tries to be the Labirynth, or another fairy-tale-esque movie, and just feels flat and boring. But they did a lovely job of creating a real, true world, with characters that I cared about, and a lovely plot arc. Plus, the writing is excellent, witty and funny without being trivial. If you get a chance, go see it. It's definately a cinema-movie, although I fully plan on buying it when it comes out on DVD.

And finally, I just found at that the reason that we South Aussies call Fritz Fritz* is because of a butcher who settled in my home town. I love that.

*What is fritz called when it's not fritz? Is it the same as Devon? When I was in China, this one time I had to stop in the middle of a big elaborate story to ask my NSW friend what the proper word for 'stobey poles' was. Turns out it's 'telegraph poles'. You learn something every day.

Sock issues

Check out this hilarious post by the author of the socks I am almost finished - ie, charade.

They are lovely, lovely, I say. I've diddled with the pattern a bit, because I figured the easiest way to get them to fit my 9" around foot was to take the 6" around pattern and knit it on bigger needles, but then I fudged the stitchcount a little to bring it in, and then I've just noticed I made an error on the gusset - I decreased every row instead of every other row, but it worked out well and fits excellently, so now I have to rip the half gusset I've done on the other one, to make them match.


Also, I'm knitting them with what is left of the one skein of The Knittery's sock yarn. When I ordered it, they were between stock runs, and only had a couple of underweight balls left. I bought a ball in Forest Moss. It's lovely, although probably a bit bright for little old unadventurous me. I have been practicing with bright store bought socks, though. Today, I am pretty much dressed in greyscale, except that my earings and socks are both scarlet. It helps that the dress code at my workplace actively encourages 'crazy'.


Anyway, because the skein was underweight, I knit Widdershins, because it was toe-up. Because I like my socks short, I had about half a ball left (I weighed it). I haven't worn the widdershins, because the cuffs were too loose since I did the same 'needle-size to get gauge' dodgy. And I'm too lazy to fix this, even though I went out and bought shirring elastic especially.

I decided that I wanted to knit something else with this yarn. I hit on Charade. I. Love. This. Pattern. The only trouble is: well, there are two troubles. The first is a minor one - I think that this pattern would be better represented by a solid yarn. It's classic and simple and elegant, and although it still holds its own with the yarn, it doesn't shine like I know it could. The other is that I am up to the gusset on the second sock, as previously mentioned... and I am rapidly running out of yarn.

Aaargh!


I was firmly resolved to frog the unworn widdershins in favour of my more exciting socks. I was also going to use the rest of that yarn for a little heart sachet from the Christmas issue of IK, since green is a christmassy colour. Although, the green is maybe a bit acid for a heart. maybe I'll keep it as a representation of my own bitter soul....


Adding to my confusion, today I sought out the pattern for the Hedgerow socks, as I have seen on 144" of I-cord. If you go to the pattern and look at the picture - that yarn, it looks exactly like my yarn that I have! And I want a pair of hedgerow socks in green! The pattern is named after a plant-thing! Green!


I also have another ball of knittery yarn, in Moonlight, which is more true to my own personal colour-scheme, and so something that is more likely to get an airing on my feet.

So, my options are these.


1) I could frog widdershins, and finish Charade. Then I could knit Hedgerow in Moonlight, which was my original (ie, this morning's) plan, and actually sounds very picturesque, now that I type it. Hedgerow in Moonlight. I'm thinking that scene in Jane Eyre where Mr Rochester's horse throws him. How Gothic. What was I talking about? Right, socks...


2) I could frog widdershins and charade, knit Charade either in Moonlight or in something else entirely. Then I could knit Hedgerow in Forest Moss.


3) I could buy more yarn. Which will not be happening for a while because I always seem to be poor, and anyway, I just bought a jumper's worth of yarn the other day. And I'm saving for a computer and accouterments.


4)Gah.


Now that I'm thinking about it, I definitely want to knit charade again anyway. Maybe in a solid from Bendigo, which is not so expensive - I could probably do that soon. So maybe I should rip Charade (noooooo!). I really love this pattern.


The other trouble, of course, is that while socks make for great summer knitting, I only like to wear wool socks when it's actually cold, otherwise my feet get too sweaty. So, I will probably not be wearing any of these for another 6 months, minimum.


Advice is appreciated. And, for posterity, here is a pic of the beginning of Widdershins.

I'm thinking now I'll just frog the lot. That could be cathartic... or not. But then what will I knit with moonlight?! Maybe I should knit that first, to see if I like hedgerow pattern... gah. Gah, indeed.

FO report

Pattern: Mohair Coat from Jo Sharp's 'Knit 3'

Yarn: Bendigo Woolen Mills Rustic 12 ply in 'Mariner' ( I don't know how many balls, I just kept ordering them until I finished. God)

Adjustments: none, except for the yarn substitute.

Model: My sister.

Time to finish: About a month and a half. Ish.

Comments: I actually wish I'd made a smaller size. It's huge! I do this all the time - and it's not just a warped sense of how big I am, I am going on the bust measurement. But even though I go out a fair way at the bust, I then go in at the waist, and so I could probably usually get away with a smaller size. (Hello, negative ease. I love you)

Because of the yarn substitute, it's heavy. Obviously 100% regular wool in actual worsted weight is going to be heavier than 100% mohair in not really but knits up like worsted weight. And since I knitted the biggest size, it's huge and it's started to be a bit saggy. I'm currently knitting one for my sister for christmas, in red, in her size, which is the second-smallest. It makes such a difference! For one, it's so much quicker... Also, it's much less heavy and I think will stand up to the weight of itself better. I will also tell her not to hang it in the wardrobe, just fold it, because I think that's what made the front of mine so saggy.

Conclusion: I still love it, it's super snuggly and warm. I don't know if it's a wear out of the house jacket, though, which is sad. I'd like to try it in the intended yarn, except that I would never pay that much for it unless I was damned sure I would love it, and also, mohair makes me itch.

We were going for a look-alike. How do you think we did?

My sister just loves the camera a little too much. She loves to ham it up, and also to get in the way of a photo of something else. Viz:

The photo I was trying to take:

The photo I took:

It's hard to get a decent shot of her.







Also of my cousin, who modelled the coat as well, and think she's in the Funky Squad, or something.

But I like this one. It's my favourite.

PS Dear Blogger. I hate you.

Hello?

Hi, blogland. I'm here. I'm not dead, dying or injured. I just blogfaded for a while there. I've been gone so long there's icons on the task bar here that I've never seen!

See, I've moved house, and I am internet-free there, and will be for some time. I don't think I need to tell you how sad that makes me - although I'm over the worst withdrawl symptoms. The sweating has passed, and I only sweat a little now, when I think about how I could be working my way through bloglines instead of cleaning, on the weekends.

At the same time, I moved workstations, and now, every time someone walks into the general area, they can see what I'm doing. I hate blogging at work, in general. What I want from the blogging experience is a setlled-in, hunkered-down, concentrated experience. What I get at work is the opposite of that. The exact opposite.

However, I miss you all. I miss reading and I miss writing. I will not be getting internet at my place for some time - my computer could just about handle it, but a better computer is first priority, and moving was expensive. I didn't have a fridge or a waching machine, there's bond, there's other furniture. My finances have still not quite recovered - even yarn has been put off. The conclusion of this is, that until I get internet connected, I will make a vow. i will blog once a week, so that it is not so wierd to get back into it. This post does not count. This weeks post will be a retro-active FO post, since I have a few exciting things to show you. After that, where the wind blows, you know?

I'm secretly hoping that the blogging bug will bite me again, and I will be super eager to get into it. I think that will in fact be the case. I hope enough that it balances out how much I hate blogging at work.

It's good to be back, though.

I'm calling it

Spring has sprung. I'm not kidding. Yes, it was only a few months ago that I was getting excited about red leaves on trees because that officially meant that Summer was over. Yes, it was only 25 days ago that I took these photos of my rainy home. But it's indubitable. Spring is here.

Sunday night, I got home after my long, happy weekend (more later) at about 5. The air was soft and balmy, the light was gentle and warming. Spring was in the air. You could smell it.

This morning for the first time in months, I didn't wake up dreading the emergence of my warm body from it's snuggly nest of warmth into the cold air. Yes, I'm a wuss. I hate the cold, OK?

So, I was enjoying winter. I love the rain on the roof. I love sups of hot chocolate and snuggly blankets. I love the freshness you get after rain and they way it smells. I love the way you can be warm in winter - in summer, you're only hot or cool.

But I guess I had forgot. I had forgot how happy summer makes me, just by being. I winter, I have to watch and listen for the things I love. But now, as the early fingers of Spring creeping in have reminded me.

They reminded me how, in Summer, when I step out of my front door, and the balmy air of twilight hits me, or the hot air of a 35 degree midday, I am happy. My soul sing with joy every time the twilight slants golden through the trees at 7 at night. Sounds sound different through summer air - you can hear the echoes of good times and good company as you listen to kids playing and people talking. Summer is my time. I love it.

Bring it on.

And the winning theme is: Geekdom!!!

I have had 'Mad Dogs and Englishmen' stuck in my head for three days now. Why? I bought a new backpack, and it's Caribee brand. Everytime I see it, my traitorous brain goes 'hmmmm... caribee. That sounds a lot like Caribou. And what do caribou do? Why, they lay around and snooze, of course, because, you know, why not, there's nothing else to do.' Damn you, Noel Coward!! Damn you!!!!

Although, if the Church is right, I needn't worry about that.


I just talked to a woman on the phone whose name was Jayne. Spelt like that.


The other day at a party, someone asked me someone's name.

Me: Kelvin

Her: Oh. Like the temperature?

Me (without hesitation): yes

And she mocked me for the whole night for being an irretrievable geek.



I have knit the same sock 5 times now. First time, I turned the heel perfectly. Then it was too long, so I frogged it back. Then, it took me about 4 tries to get the heel done right, with the right number of stitches, etc. It was perfect. And too long. It's mate is all but finished, and perfect. Why, why, I ask!


I feel like patient zero. A while back, one of my friends to whom I often wax lyrical about knitting told me that she thought she might like to knit a scarf. She already knew how to knit, but was shy about actually making anything. I was quietly encouraging. She came over about a week later and admired my hats that I'd knit. She told me she wanted a hat, but didn't like tight beanies. A week later she messaged me to tell me that she'd bought yarn and needles. A day later she messaged me to say she was done. She'd knit a square and sewn it together, and it's the coolest beanie I've ever seen, and very Her. Now she's knit two scarves for her sisters and she's making some arm warmers.


My mother called me the other day to say that two ladies she went to church with were looking for patterns - one for knitted slippers, the other for warm socks. I found some good ones on knitty.com, and emailed her the links. They were exactly what they were looking for, and now my mother has ordered yarn to make jaywalkers. NEVER thought that that would happen.


My mother also told me that one of my aunts was talking about taking up knitting again. This aunt tried to teach me the long tail cast on when I was about 13. It didn't take, and she stopped knitting a while ago, when her kids were small. We had a family do on the weekend (hateful, is all I can say. Truly, it was hateful. Although I took some awesome pictures, some of which I have uploaded to Flickr) and I brought a bunch of knitting books. She's currently hunting out Jo Sharp pattern books, and my grandmother found it within her to tell me that she loved turning heels and that I knit wrong (I do. My grandmother can jump)

I returned home after that weekend to find my cousin hanging out at my house. She started looking through my pile of knitting books. She decided she wants to make a scarf. She asked me to give her knitting lessons - she can also knit, but hasn't for ages, and her tension is apparently too tight. So we've set up a thrusday night knitalong at my place, once she gets the yarn. While we were talking about this, her sister, who I live with, brought out a jumper she'd started knitting before she moved in. She hasn't knit a stitch since. Still no progress, but it's sitting on our coffee table, staring at her. It's only a matter of time!




Howard's Storage opened right around the corner from my house. I love storage with the same passion I used to lavish on stationery, and the same aqquisatory urges we all share towards yarn. It's a sickness. I'm in trouble.

Irony, anyone?

Anyone else think it's ironic that blogger spellcheck doesn't recognise 'internet'?

I take it back

So, I go to lunch, with my boring pasta and I'm-too-lazy-to-cook-real-food tomato sauce (not, like, ketchup. Like, canned toms, onion and olives) I'm thinking 'boring boring boring.' I open the fridge. It's filled with food. Filled. E, who I mentioned in passing in the previous post with a dash of bitterness for never giving me her movements, had catered for a seminar we held here last night. She cooks the best middle eastern food you'll ever eat, and she always over caters.

Lentil soup (which I did not partake of - I am still a bit iffy about lentils. My parent's lentil craze went so far as to include lentil pizza and I'm still not over it) meatballs, rice (stir fried then steamed, for extra fluffiness, with noodles and slivered almonds) roasted vegetables, and, to top it off, jelly and custard cake. It's like trifle, but without the space-wasting sponge cake (lowest form of desert ever) Soooooo yum.

I came back from lunch satisfied and full. More than that, though, I came back relaxed. I spent 45 minutes in a room full of warm sunlight, good food, and happy women. We chatted and laughed and ate and I feel so rested that it's like I've had a good long nap.

I love my place of work. Now, if only no one will ring it for the next three hours, it woud be perfect.

Things I am sick of

:: People asking me if the email I've just given out is all in lower case. Why yes. Yes it is. Know why? Because emails are not case sensitive

:: People asking me if their Yahoo.com.au email address will be able to send emails to someone in London. Seriously?

:: People giving me WAY too much information when I ask if I can take a message.

:: People telling me their life stories over the phone.

:: The phone.

:: People coming and talking to me when I'm blogging. How rude, I mean, don't they know I get paid to fritter away my time on the internet? Did they miss the memo?

:: People not telling me what they're doing and then getting angry when I ring and interrupt a meeting. There's a simple way to avoid this. E, I'm looking at you.

:: People asking me to fix their phones for them.

:: Being able to fix people's 'broken' phones by turning them on and then off. I will never never never work in IT.

:: People thinking out loud on the phone or in front of me, thus preventing me from looking at pretty pictures of knitting on the net. Rude. Memo.

:: People telling me about the projects that they're panicked about and that I'm going to have to help out with - right at the end of the process which they haven't yet started, and which will take at least a fortnight. There's only so much room in my head, you know.

:: People standing too close.

:: People taking things out of my hands when it's nothing to do with them and I need it. Personal bubble, people!

:: This week. I'm so cranky. All I want to do is sit somewhere quiet and possibly dark. My brain hurts.

:: John Howard and cronies. Now they're going to send the army into the Northern Territory to protect Indigenous Australians from themselves and the symptoms of a broken system. It just seems to me that the last time the Australian government took drastic measures 'for the good of' Aboriginal children, it didn't go so well.



Things I'm not sick of (for the fair and balanced crowd)

:: Working in a socially aware and caring workplace. Although this does mean we have to talk about things which make me feel sick, like Johnny's brilliant idea mentioned above, and the new IR laws, etc, it's much better than not being able to talk about them for fear someone will make me feel like a raging lefty - in a bad way.

:: Not working in a workplace with people who don't know anything. My friend told me the other day that her workmates were having a conversation about how Big Brother comes from the Truman Show. Her workmates often ask her things like 'where's Hanoi' or 'Where's St Petersburg. Oh. So... where's Stalingrad' Or saying things like 'I want to have children so that when judgement day comes they can be raised by angels' I just don't think I could cope with that. Does that make me a bad person?

:: Chocolate

:: knitting

:: Breathing out in long, slow breaths. Maybe it's because I'm a little stressed, but this feels way better right now than something like breathing should.

:: The Internets.

:: Shopping on said internets.

:: Getting my parcels ordered while doing said shopping on said internets at work and sneaking peeks at it all day long.

:: Pictures of baby animals. Especially with illiterate captions included. (Altogether now.... aaaaaaaaaw)

:: Tiki bar TV. I love Johnny Johnny. I watched Red Oktober last night and tears came out of my eyes. Is it bad that I understood most of the l33t? I think it might be.


:: Geeking out with the one woman at work who understands what I mean when I use terms like 'flamer' or 'troll' or 'n00b' or 'html' or 'blog' or 'boing boing' or 'Cory Doctorow'. It makes me feel less alone.

:: Looking at other people's knitwear. There are a couple of people at work who regularly wear impressive knitwear - machine knit, but still impressive. I think I freaked one of them out a little by asking him to stop in the middle of the corridor so I could examine how his collar was attached to the rest of the top.

:: Going to see Kaffe Fasset talk tonight about colour (Yay! Oh, yay!)

:: The fact that it's lunch time and I don't have to answer any phones for at least an hour.

OMG, OMG.

I just got into Ravelry.

I'm scared.

What if I CAN'T STOP????

Reasons my housemates think I'm crazy

1. I knit. All. The. Time.


On Saturday I knit almost the whole right front of the jacket I'm working on. At the same time, I have picked up branching out, which I started a while ago. I must rip one repeat for every two I manage to do correctly, lace is soooo not my thing. And yet. I can't stop. I can't stop! The scarf is now long enough to go around my neck one and a half times - about half the length of a short scarf. Can't Stop. Also, I bought some sock yarn, which I now have to swatch and work out if this pattern wil fit my feet or I need to do a dodgy with the needles. And I have promised to knit another nautie for a friend to give to her boyfriend. When she saw my stash of (acrylic) yarn, she told me I had a sickness. In a loving way. In my defense, I have only bought two balls of acrylic in the last ten years, both for nautie. So there. Also, I think I may have developed an allergy to acrylic yarn. Everytime I work with it or wear it, my eyes puff up and get all itchy.



But THE POINT IS that yesterday, all I wanted to do was knit. I wanted to knit so bad. I'm sitting here at reception, and I'm thinking 'if I whip my knitting out here, will anyone care?' The answer is yes, because I have work to do. Just because I am not this second doing it, doesn't mean that sublimating my knitting desires by working my way through the 'c' section of my bloglines is a work-sanctioned activity. But the moment I got out of work, I knit. I knit while I was walking to the bus stop. In peak hour traffic. On a major road. And I didn't care. As I wandered past the library (knitting) I peered through the window and mused that there were a lot of people in there. Then it hit me. They were all knitting. So I'm guessing that there is a knitting group that meets there. So tonight I am going to go in and ask about it. I already have a knitting group, but I can only go every second Wednesday, because I don't drive and every second Wednesday they meet somewhere that is hard for me to get to. What is it with knitting groups and Wednesdays?




2. I take things out into the garden in the morning and take photos of them.

















These are the cupcakes that caused all that fuss the other day

It got to Monday night (public holiday, long live the Imperial Monarch of the Moment) and as I surveyed my pile of finished pieces of Jacket, it occured to me that I had inteded to take photos of them. It was now the end of three days during which I was home in optimal photo-taking light conditions, and had I taken any photos? No. Well, I tell a lie. I took photos of this

My sister performing at Music in the Squares. Shes the first trombonist on the left.

We're very proud of her.

I also took a photo of this:

This is the pedastal on the statues of Queen Victoria in, you guessed it, Victoria square. It's just been cleaned. Can you see the red grafitti? You probably can't read it, though. It says 'Not the first Queen Victoria, not my Queen' And then, down the bottom, out of frame, it says 'free David Hicks'

Long live the Dead Monarchs

However, I did not take any photos of this until this morning


























They're on the bonnet of my cousin's Valiant. Almost the same colour, ne? His new valiant (eye roll) is that exact same colour inside. No complaints from me, since it's my favourite ever. Anyway, that's the back, two fronts, and one sleeve. So close, people. So close. Last night I pinned it together and attempted to try it on to see if I had to do any adjustments, but it was so huge and heavy that it just pulled itself apart and I couldn't really see. Anyway, I've decided that since it's supposed to be a jacket, it doesn't really need to be close-fitting or whatever. Also, I'm lazy. That's a lot of knitting, y'all. I love this yarn. I heart Bendigo Woolen mills. It used to be my Cardigan for Arwen, but that didn't turn out so well. So I frogged it. Pictures later.



We were at my grandma's on Sunday for her birthday and she'd just finished a cabled cardigan. In Bendigo Mills wool, of course. I don't think she uses anything else. Here is a photo of her in it.





As an extra bonus, you also get, from L-R, Uncle Michael, Aunty Lisa (no, no idea what's going on there), Aunty Anne (mother of my two cousins I live with) Grandma in her cabled cardi, Uncle Daniel and my dad, Tim. Missing is Aunty Jane, Michael's twin. She was working. At IKEA.


Also out for a photo shoot this morning was my no-knead bread. I was toying with making this but it just sounded like too much organisation. Then I saw it in Australian Table, published by Coles. It was credited as 'adapted from the NY Times recipe' and in essence, it made it harder. So I went and got the original recipe and gave it a crack. The first time I was too lazy by the time we got to baking to look up what 450 degrees was in celcius, so it was a bit soggy in the middle. However, this time it is perfect, despite my cousin's reservations that it didn't sound hollow when she tapped it. I told her that the same could be said about her, and she could take her long line of bakers somewhere interesting, and stop touching my bread, please. So there. Anyway, this is its morning photo shoot.

I may have gotten a little excited. Here is what it looks like inside, too.

Mmmmmmmmm. Handmadealicious.

Feminist bakery

It was someone's farewell lunch at work today. It was a bring-a-plate lunch. I made cupcakes. This was for three reasons 1) I like cupcakes 2) I rock at baking (seriously. Cooking, we need a bit more work. Baking, I am the Queen. Or, you know. Non gender specific monarch.) 3) I had previously make cupcakes for someone's birthday and brought them in to work, and this guy had flipped his lid and raved about them. So I thought it was appropriate.

But it got me thinking. Why is it that compliments on my baked goods (or knitted items) make me glow inside with warmth and happiness, yet compliments about, say, my great work ethic or my appearence or cheerful attitude (tongue only slightly in cheek) make me uncomfortable and self conscious?

Is it because I don't think I deserve to be complimented on those things, that they aren't good things or aren't good enough to be complimented? Or do I feel that they are not representative of me, of myself, or that they are not appropriate topics for compliments? If so, what does this say about me? What does it mean that I slip so easily into the 'woman's role' when it comes to real world things like these, despite being just about the biggest mouth in the city when these issues are talked about in theory.

I pride myself on my independance. And sure, I don't need any of the men in my life (well, maybe my dad). But is that just a result of circumstance, and is it even a good thing, per se?

It's not that I don't think that the things I have made with my own two hands are worth praise. I do. But I guess I just am not sure where that level is. I hesitate to bring up that I knit, bake, or sew (a little) because that is not the person I wish to describe myself as to strangers. If it's someone I already know, I guess I feel like they know enough about me to judge me fairly - even if they judge me negatively, it won't be on one single fact. They can place the fact that I can and do do these things in with a bunch of other facts and feelings and give it context. I do knit in public, but that in itself is an act almost of subversion, something out of the norm, and sort of nullifies its 'women's work' image. But knitting at home in front of the fire with your cat by your side while waiting for your baked goods to be ready to ice as I did last night? Not so cool.

I remember telling someone about how I feel like it took me a year for my self-image to recover from being in China. Partly this was because I was just so much larger than everyone else that I always felt clumsy and huge, not a part of the same whatever that everyone else was - so different as to not even be in the same category. There was the same effect when it came to gender relations. The guys loved being in China, because the girls (and guys) there treated them like Men. They were expected to behave in the way Men behaved in the West in the 50's and before - and the Chinese girls (I suppose I should be saying 'women', shouldn't I?) acted accordingly. This meant that the guys had to call their girlfirends at least once a day, were required to say 'I love you' several times a day, and generally had to act in a way that made my stomach turn. And yet, as much as they complained, they seemed to love it. I suppose that is not so surprising.

For us girls, on the other hand, it was different. We weren't guys. But we clearly weren't like the Chinese girls.* We didn't giggle. Or twitter. Or try to walk up mountains with high heels on and then complain that our feet hurt. We didn't adorn our bedrooms with pink, frilly things, or, indeed, wear pink frilly things. I myself wore exactly two skirts in China. One was a denim mini skirt. The other was a long, black skirt with heavy, minority-style embroidery all around the bottom. Neither of which was what you'd call sweetly feminine. While in China, I bought mostly men's clothes and shoes, since that was what fit me. That, and tourist stuff, so lots of out there chinese style tops with dragons on, etc. Or, you know, stuff that was a little too tight and didn't really show off my various bumps and lumps to their best advantage.

In fact, most of us gals there were fairly hard-minded and hard-nosed. It takes a certain groups of personality traits to end you up teaching English in China, especially in Guiyang,** and the ability to faint neatly is not among them. So they Chinese people couldn't treat us like they treated girls (WOMEN) there. So they treated us as Foreigners. Which meant, like men.

Even to the foreigner men, we weren't really the same as women. I mean, here, at home, you get the girls-who-are-friends and the girls-who-are-girlfriends - the old, 'Damned Whores and God's Police'*** thing I guess, but it's not such a hard distinction, and the grey area in between in pretty enormous. In China, at least with the people I was with, not so much. I was just a person, not a Woman. Which in some ways was awesome. But the thing is, I am a Woman. I don't want to not be a Woman. So it was hard to adjust back into being able to be a complex human being in public, if you know what I mean. All this was going on on a pretty subconcious level, to the extent that, although I saw what was happening and articulated much of it, I didn't realise the extent to which it was affecting me.

So you remember how three paragraphs ago I was telling someone about this. I was trying to explain everything I've just said, about how I am not now, nor have I ever been, a girly girl, while Chinese Girls (as a whole) are. So I told them that I don't 'wear skirts or scads of makeup or frilly things or dress up to look nice for a man or bake and cook or sew or..."

Then I realised I do. I do or have done all of those things, while many of the mostly hideously offensively girly girls I knew in China wouldn't know how to cook, sew or clean if their life depended on it. In fact, in almost every way I am much more of a traditional woman than any of them. I do cook, and bake - in fact, I enjoy it, as long as there's no pressure to get it on the table. I knit and I know how to sew and I have extensive knowledge about things like how to get stains out, or the many varied uses for vinegar in the house, or how to sew a button on. Does this make me a bad feminist? I would like to think not, no more than not hand-sewing her children's clothes makes this woman a bad mother. But maybe I am a traitor to my class and cause. You tell me.

And what is the difference between being a downtrodden woman who cooks and bakes for her man because she needs his approval and an empowered, emancipated woman who cooks and bakes because she likes to and finds it a relaxing creative outlet and who also finds it pleasing when people appreciate her hard work and effort. (The last one's supposed to be me, FYI.) Is it perception and intention? Because those are such fluffy things, so hard to pin down. What about the downtrodden woman who cooks and bakes because she needs her man's approval but who also happens to find it a relaxing creative outlet? Oh, if only the villains would put their black hats back on and start waxing their mustaches, life would be so much simpler.

I'm a believer in the hoary old line that Feminism is about Choice. What you choose to do. It's your right to choose to stay home with the family or to become a CEO. Both these things of course require much sacrifice and hard work, but such is life. If that's what you choose, you should have to opportunity to make those sacrafices and work hard, as long as you don't have to make more and work more than others (men) in your same situation. I believe, deeply, that women and men are equal, but not the same. I think if you try to treat people the same, you end up treating them unequelly - expecting women to fit into a man's world, usually (although not always). And to not acknowledge the biology of us as a species is just foolish. To expect women not to want to have children, or to want to spend time with them when they have them, is unfair to women because it disadvantages them by making them work against their genetic and biological make-up.

As I said, I like being a Woman, I like being who I am, and I am not going to give that up. Not even for true Equality. That is the kind of Equality that Mao^ wanted for China - bringing everyone down to the lowest common denominator, not lifting people up. But if that is the price of equality, does that mean we will never have it?

So much of who we are is tied up in our gender identities. And often these are good things, things we like. I was reading a book on the different ways Men and Women talk (it was called 'You just don't understand' and it was a fascinating read, but embarrasing on public transport) and at the end, the author was talking about assymetries in body language. When men and women hug, she puts her face against his neck - a one-down position that frames her like a child, the one to be protected. When they walk along, his arm is over her shoulders, or her arm through his. Again, framing her as one-down, inferior, in need of protection. These are things we do without thinking, that feel right to do, that we don't know how to do another way.

So what's my conclusion? Well, I'm not sure. But I do know that my cupcakes are all gone. And they were good.

This was on my friend's door.

Does anyone know who did it so I can credit it?

Can you read it?

*Note: I knew many chinese girls who weren't like this. OK. Several. But most of them did a Jeckyl-Hyde as soon as they got a boyfriend - especially a Foriegn one. Also, this refers only to Chinese girls in China, more specifically in Guiyang, where I experienced them. It should not be taken as a judgement of people of Asian descent. It is a genralisation about the Gender Culture in the city in which I lived.



** The pictures in the Wiki entry are stunningly beautiful. My overall impression of Guiyang was... grey. Bleack. Cloudy. However, the last two photos of the temple - that was right near the second branch of the school where I taught, I walked past it almost every day. It was beautiful.



*** Check out the woman in the 1975 edition's cover. She looks like she's having waaaaay too much fun... ;P



^Speaking of Mao - is this the best T-shirt ever, or what? I totally want it!

Photo-heavy

Here are some photos to accompany my updates.


Cat:

And again:

And once more:

Hair:

How it used to look

How it looks now (only, not really because it needs a cut sooo bad. Next week, I promise, hair. Omg, I'm talking to my hair - no, I'm writing blog posts to my hair. Someone help!)




And, finally, some random photos from Mother's day of my extended family walking on the beach at Largs Bay:











That's my mum with her tongue out here




And this is my dad. No, I don't know what he's doing. Inspecting, I imagine.

Is this inappropriate?

Ok. So, I want to talk about something here, because I started to write a comment in the femiknit mafia's post, and it got waaaaay too long. So I'm going to post it here are link it. I was reluctant to do this, because, as Emily said, I like to curate my world on this blog, in internet land, etc, and I don't really feel like this has a place here. It doesn't really have much of a place in my everyday world, either, just because it's faded. But I think it's important. However, I don't want this to be preachy, because, you know, I'm talking about... dum dum dum... Abuse.

Only, I want there to be no capitals, because this is not a story of Abuse and Suffering, nor is it a story of Triumph over Hardship. It was just something that happened, that's over now.

The story goes like this. I was abused when I was a kid. I must have been about 8; certainly no more than 9. Nothing major, nothing too vile. It was once off, and it wasn't a relative, which I think would be much worse - how do you tell someone about that when you're a kid and they are someone who is supposed to be protecting you? Anyway, in my case it was someone who volunteered at the place where both my parents worked, and they had him over for a day because... well, I guess they felt sorry for him. He was disabled, you see, physically and I believe a little intellectually disabled as well. For that same reason, I wasn't allowed to dislike him, even though I did. I had to be polite and all that, which of course is as it should be.

Anyway, long story short, he felt me up a little. My dad was home, but busy running around doing house stuff and looking after my sister who would have been under one then. I won't pretend it was fun. I won't pretend I coped with it exceedingly well as it was happening.

However, that night, I told my mum. And as far as I was concerned, it was over, then. It was done. It was no longer my problem. We ended up prosecuting him, (I just wrote persecuting - is that bad?) but only, really, because it turned out that he had done this before. Always to girls younger than me, none of whom had wanted to testify. So I decided that I wanted to prosecute because people who do those things ought to be prosecuted. As it turned out, he made a deal and I didn't get to testify in court. I was disappointed. Go figure.

I hesitated to bring this up, because I really don't think of myself as part of the category of people who have been abused - whatever that means. Anyhow, it certainly isn't a part of my life now, nor has it shaped anything to do with me since the court case was over. It did for other people, though. I know my mum was worried about whether I would be scarred by it. Also, the place where they worked changed almost all of their staff, and he came back to volunteer. The single staff member who remembered the incident was outraged that he was there, and spoke up. She was trounced, because, you know, he was disabled, he must be pure and good.

{This is not a denouncement of disabled people, either (wandering off topic) it's just that, you know, people in minorities can be bad too, or annoying, or incompetant. They are all just people with individual traits, and treating people like they are only what their 'group' is is as discriminatory when it's good as when it's bad. Only, you know, not as bad.}


ANYWAY.

The point was, I was not a gregarious child. In fact, when I think about what I was like the word that comes to mind is 'anxious'. I was verbal, I suppose, which helped me articulate what had happened and get it out of my head, sort of. What I think helped the most, though, was that I knew what sex was. My parents weren't afraid to talk to me about it (well, maybe they were, but they did it anyway) or answer my questions, and I had books and stuff. I think I had a fair grasp on what the story was, as far as a kid can do. I knew what it was supposed to be. I knew that touching down there was related to sex, but that this was not meant to happen, that what he did to me was wrong, and that my parents would think so to. It meant I could tell them and I knew that they knew what to do (even if they didn't)


My message to Mafia is not to forget: kids are smart. And they are strong. As long as the frameworks of support and love are there for them to lean on, kids can bounce back from a lot of things. And they pick up more than you think they do. I'm not saying that they know what to do in every situation, but if they know that you are there to talk to about it, to help them, then they can deal with a lot. I think Little Man would be fine, God forbid anything like that happened, with you and Wifey there to support him. He might not be able to articulate how he knows, but I'm sure if anyone tried to pull anything inappropriate, he'd know.

In conclusion: congratulations on your Dale!