Patterns and etsy!

I am working on putting together some PDF patterns to put up on etsy! I am a full time college student, and need to make some money for the holidays! Keep an eye out!
 

Every knitter has a story

I started reading a book today, called The Knitting Circle,  by Ann Hood. I like a book that makes me think, and within the first 3 chapters (that's as far as I have gotten) I was asking myself a wonderful, deep thinking question.

What is it that makes each knitter, or crocheter, pick up the needles, or hooks, and yarn?

Every fiber worker has her, or his, story.

A grandmother spends lazy afternoons teaching a young child to knit, and they lost that Grandmother was laid to rest a few year later, they remember their Gran by knitting.

A mother of two picked up the craft when she was pregnant as a way to unwind, or a woman picks it up as a distraction, while trying to quit drinking, smoking or drugs... it busies their hands.

I picked it up because my sister had brain cancer. I learned to loom knit, and I told my sister that I would knit her a "real knit" hat, "like in the movies"...I promised to teach myself after Thanksgiving 2009. She passed away October 23, 2009. I kept my promise, and taught myself to knit that fall. I made hats and donated them to the children's ward at the local hospital, knitting until my fingers blistered and callused.

I picked up crochet because my Grandmother did it. I always loved the blankets and pillows in awful 70's colors with cheap acrylic yarn that she used to snuggle me up in. After Grandpa passed, she moved in with her daughter, and I never heard or saw her again.

She passed away a week ago. And while she didn't get to see me grow up, and I hadn't talk to her in years, I found myself picking up the hook, and just working each stitch and thinking of her voice as she taught me the stitches.

"Like building blocks in your life, the chain you create here will be the foundation of your project!"

What's your story?
 

Don't Panic: It's Midterms Week!

While I have been working my but off to get a few posts done.. I have not gotten very far!

I am busy studying for midterms! But, that doesnt mean my crafting is ont he back burner, I gotta give myself a break every once-in-a-while... So I have designed a pattern for some ear-warmers head bands and some wrist warmers... look for those in the next few days... in the meantime.. back to business seminar and accounting!
 

Mascot

As this blog is called Gnomes at my homework, I think it's high time to get myself a GNOME! Now, I know that to most people, gnomes are a thing of fairyland, and imagination... and while that might be true for you, must it be true for all people? I think gnomes deserve to go on adventures with people, big people adventures!

He or she could have gone on a wonderful 5.5 mile bike ride today with me, and sat in an outdoor shopping mall for a while!

I will be making a gnome army! I will gift one whenever I can, and I will travel with the 1st one, as leader of my gnome army! I do not have him home yet, but I will post pics when i finish him, or her!

I am doing the leader in a great and fashionable outfit of green and brown! Using Impeccable yarn, by Loops and Threads!

The colorway looks like this:

 

My (Not So) Storybook Life: A Tale of Friendship and Faith by Elizabeth Owen

***

Once one has breathed in the deep pungent aroma of sewage, you never again forget the nose-hair singeing, eye clawing, throat gagging experience. It comes over you slowly. You begin to feel like a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as your muscles involuntarily jerk and you run screaming and blowing raspberries. Anything to get away from the mind-numbing stench.

But let me explain.

It was 6:30 a.m. I was standing in my retro pink tiled bathroom trying to open my bleary eyes and ready myself for work. As I stood there, peering into the mirror and wondering what demented nighttime fairy had planted four new wrinkles on my face, I paused and sniffed.

“Matt… what’s that smell?”

Matt staggered from the bedroom in his underwear, eyes half shut. “I don’t smell anything.”

I pointed my nose into the air like a hunting dog. “Seriously? You can’t smell that? Did you go to the bathroom in here earlier? I told you to use the room spray when you do things like that.”

Matt puffed out his bare chest and gathered his pride as best a man can with sleep in his eyes and a small hole in the side of his underwear. “I just woke up!”

I frowned, catching a glimpse of my makeup-less hot-rollers-in-hair state and tried not to think about the fact that I looked fifty instead of twenty-nine. “Well, help me figure this out. Because something smells ripe.”

We sniffed the sink drain and ruled it out as a suspect.

“Is it coming from the toilet?” Matt asked, examining it from top to bottom.

“No, that’s not it,” I snapped. I’m not known for my milk of human kindness in a disaster. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a survivor. I plan on eating my radish like Scarlet and clawing my way out of the nuclear dust while dragging my loved ones with me. But I won’t be doing it with positive phrases and a smile.

“Hon, I just don’t know. We’ll call a plumber after work, maybe it’s coming from under the house.” Matt staggered a little, trying to get past me and out of our tiny bathroom.

“Well, that’s just great,” I moved aside and pulled the shower curtain back so I could perch on the side of the tub and give Matt room to move out the door.

That’s when the full brunt of nastiness filled the air around us, a swirling mix of excrement and acrid stench that would have brought the sewer dwelling Ninja Turtles to their knees. Where the normally slightly-clean-with-a-hint-of-soap-scum bottom of the tub should have been, there sloshed gallons and gallons of brown sewage.

I clutched the front of my sweatshirt and held my breath. Matt began to dry heave.

“Get out and shut the door!” I screamed as we bumbled into the hallway.

“I’ll deal with this,” Matt grabbed my shoulders, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.

I could feel my eyes glaze over, the horrors of typhoid and hepatitis in our bathtub filling my mind. But more importantly, I could envision our evaporated savings account. In my mind’s eye I could see the long, gray hallway at the bank. A worker shrouded in a black suit pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlatched a small locker labeled “Owen Bank Account.” Inside were two small stacks of quarters and a few crumpled dollar bills. It was bleak, not only because the banker with an unimaginative wardrobe gazed at me with an expression that could only be interpreted as “You’re a Big Fat Loser,” but also there was a very definite possibility we wouldn’t be able to pay for a plumber.

I wasn’t necessarily a spend thrift. In fact, I was downright frugal when it came to decorating with thrift store furniture and rewired vintage lamps. But the fact was, we were poor. We were starting out at starter jobs with starter salaries. We were starter adults with a starter bank account.

“Okay,” I nodded numbly, thankful that Matt was taking the lead on such a disastrous biohazard. “But make sure the plumber is super cheap. We don’t have much money!”

I left for work like a wino stumbling through a fog, not really remembering my commute, not really doing any work as I sipped my coffee and stared blankly at the computer screen. A disaster of such gargantuan proportions had previously been unthinkable in my life, and now I found myself attempting to push the image of a vast sea of bathtub poop from my mind. But I was sure of one thing: Anne Shirley never had to get ready for work while breathing raw sewage. 

This book comes out October 18th, but Liz, being the gracious and loving person she is, decided to give her readers over at Mable's House the chance to get pre-release, signed copies!

Go check her out!