Not the Hybrid

The plan was to fill you in on the Hybrid Sweater. It's too painful. Think me, Elizabeth Zimmermann and decreases. If you need to refresh your memory, you can go here. Or here. Or, for that matter, here. Not that I managed to repeat any of those. No. In my own inimitable fashion, I have found a whole new way to screw up the decreases - a combination of over-confidence, over-think and whatever the opposite of over-think is. Add in that it's not unlike knitting a mutant cephalopod, all floppy body and unwieldy appendages, and I need time to recover. Instead, let me dwell on the cleverness of my family knitters.

Himself and I went on our belated anniversary date. (Which reminds me, I didn't write about Hephaestus at Lookingglass Theater. Think the offspring of a marriage between Ringling Brothers and Cirque de Soleil meets Homer. Seventy-five minutes of aerial derring-do -- taking place at roughly the height of your ceiling -- and astonishing acrobatic exploits couched in epic narrative. Amazing. See? It's made me go all alliterative. And it's been extended through March 9.) Cate came down to keep the boys company. She brought an additional Christmas present.

My favorite size needles (US 8) by Crystal Palace, only better. Rather than contemplate the single-digit temperatures we're experiencing instead of the thaw we are due (at least the sun's out), or, worse, the reclamation of the Hybrid Sweater, I'll enjoy my knitting flowers.

Can you still be phobic when there's reason for your fear?