Why SOs should not be left untended with sharp objects, pets, pets that can act as sharp objects, fiber or any combination of the above
having come back from great learning and cavorting at Madrona - well, maybe not cavorting since i was in the full throes of the Knoxville plague - i owe a post about my amazing classes, amazing friends, amazing yarn and fiber and amazing crafting progress.
this is not that post.
this is the story of how one girl's passionate affair with a precious token of friendship came to a crushing and violent end.
as with cats and mice, while the girl was away, the SO did play. and play. and really really play. he totally rocked out even. so fabulously rockilicious was he, he did not note the profound and fearful effects on his high-strung and pathetically cowardly companion.
until he turned round to find that said companion, afeard as only a big dog can be, had mustered his courage by marshalling round him the totems of his new mistress: two felted clogs, a teddy bear, an hypnotically soothing hank of handspun Merino, and a lustrous and soft hank of Grey Romney to which he had heard his mistress whisper sweet nothings.
the SO whose name shall not be spoken to protect his identity TRAVIS LAVERNE, being a Muggle, was dismayed to note that the hanks were no longer self-entwined but instead were all floppy and disorderly. the yarn had not transmuted into another inert substance though, so he shoved it onto a shelf and limited his retelling of the tale to the endearing dishevelment of two hanks, sharing nothing of the loud rockin' out or interesting spaghetti like nature of one of the hanks.
narrowly surviving the plague, our heroine returned home from Madrona to settle back into to her daily life. after wholesale cleaning restoring order unpacking, she set to return her beloved handspun to tidy rightness.
Wolf's Eyes in Snow was easily sorted out and replace, but GAK! the horror, the insanity, the tragedy - her Romney love lay in ruins. so many sorrowful pieces she never had seen in one place. she recalled with hollow heart her care in loading the bobbin, her attention to the yarn's first bath, her joy at seeing the loft. now she would be lucky to have shoelaces!
after firming tamping down the instinctual desires to kill the dog, yell at the dog, be mad at the dog, kill the SO for misleading her so, be mad at said SO, cry, throw things or check into the nearest hotel, our heroine gently carried her fallen love upstairs to place on the funeral pyre her swift.
there it has waited these last 9+ days. tonight, emboldened by wine and her desperate need for an US 6 circular, our heroine re-entered the craft room mourning chamber. determined to make for a new tomorrow, she set about untangling the jillion remnant ends to salvage what she might from this once glorious hank. when she was finished, this was the scene:
and this was what remained:
sob! only these tiny balls were left of a once glorious hank of yarn. the unruly mess on the right is pieces so short i can think of no use for them besides tying hanks on the swift.
there are those who might say that the moral of the story is that one should not hoard handspun for tomorrow anything may happen.
i would caution those types to hold their peace. the fact i didn't kill the dog or boyfriend does not mean an exception cannot be made now.
