Fuck Disneyland. The happiest place on earth is the Marketplace at Stitches West. All my Buddhist non-attachment, my quest for a simplier life, my vow to use my STASH for new projects-- all gone. I went to Stitches and took a big ol' hit off that crack pipe. I also went with two Stitches virgins and just the adrenalin in the air was enough to make them breath into a paper bag.
I was among my peeps. Middle-aged women with disposable income just dying to buy the dream of a new Irish wool sweater or a scarf made out of their old fake chignons they wore in high school There was the button people and the yarn snots and the bookish. There was an entire ballroom of possibilities. It was heady.
I did pretty good. First I didnt take my credit cards. I wrote checks and my checking account has more reality for me. I mean after all, what's another $500 worth of yarn on a Visa? Citibank already owns my soul - why not my cashmere?
My friends were completely stoned on the overwhelm. One of them came up to me about halfway through our market place trek and breathed "A woman over there just spent $280 on YARN!" I stifled my evil laugh but I thought -- yep we start you on Fun Fur and then you belong to the DEVIL. Instead I replied, "Really?"
My purchases (pictures tomorrow) included some beautiful Irish worsted in a color called "Autumn" and a pattern to knit it with. (That will be my long plane ride knitting) and two books on socks (my goal this year) and a drop spindle and some rovings from Deep Color Studio. I am going to take a class and learn how to roll my own!
When I got home, I fell into a deep sleep on my couch -- coming down from my high, I guess. The cats gathered round each picking a limb to sleep on. I woke up when one of them found the wool roving - I guess he thought it was a relative.