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Him
& Her:
Yarning for
Perfection Amid High Fiber Frustration
by Nancy and Dan Sapir
HE
SAYS: She’s really pretty low
maintenance. Give her a cup of coffee, a soft couch, 40 skeins of Red
Heart yarn and a favorite charity and she’s as happy as a clam. Making
granny squares is a source of release for her. I don’t have any patience
when it comes to anything with the repetition that crocheting involves. I
cannot imagine how someone can sit there for hours at a time repeating the
same moves; it would drive me nuts. She, on the other hand, thrives on the
task.
We have skeins and
partial skeins of yarn in every nook and cranny of the house. Every
closet, every drawer, utility cabinets, pantry attic and basement. With so
much inventory I can’t believe it when she comes home with more yarn. I
hate it when she sends me out for yarn. I walk in the store with wrappers
clenched in my fist so I can not only get the right brand and color, but
the right dye lot. I just don’t get it with the dye lot thing. Who’s
going to be able to tell that we may be using two different dye lots. I
mean, who really inspects things that closely? When was the last time
somebody complained about the dye lot difference on an afghan? I feel like
a fool when I go through the checkout counter with a basket full of yarn.
But I do it, that’s the kind of standup guy I am. After all, wasn’t it
Roosevelt Grier that used to crochet or knit to ease the tension he faced
on the football field?
The last time I felt so
inclined, I counted the number of skeins we have around the house. I came
up with 278 new ones and 317 partials. That was the same day she sent me
out for 17 skeins of black because she was finishing up an afghan that
required black.
You’d think I like the fact that she has her own little hobby, but it
has downsides. The skeins have taken over my bureau drawers and her side
of the couch is piled with more skeins. When I walk near the inventory I
get tangled up in them and I drag the yarn around the room. When this
happens she has me stand there with the stuff and help her roll it back
up. I hate standing there participating in such a maddening task. And
another thing, she seems to have to make a million scissors cuts resulting
in hundreds of little yarn pieces all over the place. When I check out my
socks, these little pieces are all over the bottom and I have to pick them
off. Same thing when I sit down anywhere near where she’s been
crocheting. I end up with small yarn pieces on my pants and shirt. I never
walk barefoot anymore because the pieces end up between my toes. If I walk
around enough I can create my own socks. Those little pieces always seem
to find their way into the washing machine and they end up sticking onto
everything, it’s like they have a life of their own. Static electricity
on one inch yarn pieces is one of the more unfair things in life, I mean,
what do other people do? Can’t she just keep some kind of a bag and
dispose of these pieces as she creates them?
I always know when a new afghan is almost completed. She asks me to lay
down on the bed and covers me with it. I become the guinea pig to see if
it’s going to be big enough for a blanket. If she’s sending it out to
some charity, she wraps it up in plastic and inserts something in the bag
that makes the afghan smell nice. What is that all about? Who spends time
smelling an afghan? You think somebody will get mad if the afghan
doesn’t smell nice? This has got to be a woman thing because it lacks
any practical explanation.
If somebody gave me an afghan I wouldn’t be examining it for smell or
checking out dye lot differences or complain because it needed one more
row of squares. She sends these afghans to her favorite charities, many
involving the homeless or those in need. I know this because she makes me
find boxes to put them in and makes me UPS them to their destinations from
my shop. This ends up costing me quite a bit of money, packing tape and
time. But I do it anyway. Why? Because, and I hate to admit it, and I
don’t want to sound mushy, but I like doing it. It makes her happy, and
that makes me happy, and if that’s all it takes, I’m a lucky guy.
 SHE
SAYS: When he says "It makes
her happy" what he really means is "It shuts her up," and
this is what is called quid pro quo.
Crocheting is my art, like painting was Picasso’s, and I doubt that any
of the Mrs. Picassos complained about dripping paint.
Women don’t do much needlework anymore. They’re busy with important
professions and saving lives, and I applaud them. They can buy nice
blankets. The only life I’m saving is his because I have allowed him to
live for the past 36 years.
The reason I buy so much yarn is that it’s not so easy to get. Wal-Mart
carries it but in limited quantities and colors. I require 14 jumbo skeins
for each afghan, so if I happen upon 14 suitable skeins I buy them just in
case they don’t have them again. I do this every chance I get. I’ve
been lucky. Every time I’ve gone to Wal-Mart they’ve had 14 good
skeins.
Like any artist, I need a palette from which to work. I choose colors
based on how I’m feeling when I begin a project. Colors mean different
things to each of us at different times. For example, black can be Holly
Go lightly in Tiffany’s window ...or death. Yellow can be daises or the
sun, but let’s not forget hepatitis. Green might be rolling lawns of
fresh mown grass... or mold. Shades of purple can mean dainty violets,
royal cloaks...or deep mourning for my lost muscle tone and original hair
color. Blue is the sky...or "I am blue." And then there’s
brown, the color of meatloaf and gravy. There is no upside to this color.
When I think brown, I think peat moss mixed with egg and bits of onion. Oh
God, I hate brown.
But brown makes him happy and that makes me happy. Translation: you gotta
do what you gotta do.
by Nancy and Dan Sapir
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