Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The tale of the gold yard man-thong.
And now I present: the tale of the gold yarn man-thong.
I was 12, and therefore generally angsty, constantly bored and angry for no reason. And stuck at my grandparents` house in some Midwestern town with more cornfields than radio stations.
Not that I didn`t adore my grandparents and the copious amounts of bacon and chocolate malts that they showered upon me. But the energy level of their house was comparable to watching the public access channel at 3 a.m. when it features the month`s senior lunch calendar on repeat. Mashed potatoes, beef stroganoff, peach cobbler -- again? Gosh darn it to heck!
It was in the 12th "Wheel of Fortune" rerun that I picked up crocheting.
My grandma had pyramids of yarn, and that mini sickle that looks like a dental tool, and endless patience for my teenage moaning. She taught me rows and corners. Rows and corners. Suddenly, I had brilliantly engineered a baby blue potholder. Wow. Probably this was my calling.
Fueled by my new purpose in life, as well as the lack of knowledge of how to stop the rows and corners, my potholder grew into a bib. Then a tablecloth. Then a blanket. I couldn`t stop. Holy stroganoff, I was going to crochet a floor rug for my school gymnasium.
That`s when my brother and his friends caught me.
Compelled by unstoppable instinct to mock everything I did (even if I was totally going to land in the "Guinness Book of World Records" and they weren`t, so there), they laughed. And pointed. And taunted, "What are you trying to crochet? A floor rug for the school gymnasium or something?" (As if it wasn`t obvious.)
But I wasn`t going to be the victim. No. I would overcome their insulting rhetorical questions that were adding to my general angst. So I stretched my skills and twisted my abilities, toiling for at least eight minutes, until I created it.
"I crocheted you a special gift," I said sweetly, tossing my creation toward the gaggle of 10-year-olds.
No, a gold man-thong. The boys screamed and ran away, yanking out their hair and punching themselves in the face in horror. Because nothing -- nothing -- is worse than underwear. From. Your. Sister.
No one has ever jacked with my crocheting again.
Although I`m still not done with that 2,000-by-2,000 rug. Or the biggest man-thong in the world. Maybe I should ask my grandma how to tie off a loop.
Or maybe I should pick up a new hobby.