Gauge and other lies of society

Well, I finished the peapod sweater minus the buttons and the blocking and it has turned out extraordinarily adorable. I have pictures (whether or not they actually make it to the internet is a whole different matter) and I love making clothing for small people.

Since I finshed the little sweater and didn't want to read my book, I, like any rational knitter with 16 in process projects, cast on something new. I've been wanting to make this dressy jacket from Vogue Knitting (winter '05) and I had this epiphany (these come in wonderous moments of glorious light, but are easily confused with sheer idiocy.) that the yarn I had purchased off of ebay (a 3000 yard hank of brown not quite finger weight chenile so big that I wind it in hour sessions and it still is being held by two yard sticks.) would make a lovely substitute. Recognizing that almost fingering weight is not a 4 in the vogue knitting standards of yarn measurement, I held 2 strands of it together and made a swatch, counted rows and stiches (very tedious with yarn that turns into one giant brown mass) and the gauges miraculously matched. So I cast on the left front of the jacket (because screwing up on a smaller panel is better than the huge back panel. 150 st my eye.) knit 6 rows and measures. It was 2 inches bigger than the pattern called for. That's 8 inches in the whole project and enough room for a second person. Not okay. I mean, I never ever check gauge and the one time that I knit a swatch, things go south in a matter of moments (the knitting gods have decided smiting me with the inabillity to complete projects the normal knitter way is fun...) I AM ANGRY. My baby sweater was a guessing game and it turned out exactly right. GAUGE IS ALL LIES!!! gah...

Crime and Punishment may kill me. If Raskalnikov had a sudden urge to commit suicide and end the psychological trauma 300 pages early, I would have narry a problem. I wouldn't shed a tear over his murderous, psychopathic soul. I might even do a little dance (I'm a wee bit morbid) I can't do Russian. It's to depressing. And twisted. It's like people wrote out of the gulags (spelling)...gah...again

Much Love.