I’m not spending a two minute minor cooling my skates in the penalty box. It feels like a two game suspension.
For those of you so underprivileged, so culturally bereft as to not know hockey, check out this dead-serious sweetly dull explanation of the hooking penalty, here: http://www.ehow.com/video_2347658_hockey-penalties_-hooking.html
If I had a pair of skates here in Ottawa I’d lace ’em up and hit the Rideau Canal, two long blocks away and hit the World’s Longest Skating Rink, channeling Hans Brinker and avoiding all the crazed kids playing hockey and hooking like mad. But I’m just fooling around with a pun here, and not a clever one.
This morning I found that doing anything — reaching for The Ottawa Gazette, lifting a coffee mug, brushing my teeth, brought tears to my eyes faster than watching Dumbo. I have a searing, brutal flame running along the top of my right forearm that makes picking up anything heavier than a cocktail coaster freaking agony. I tried to pour myself a glass of wine thirty seconds ago and squealed like a little girl. What the hell?
Friends, I’m off the ice for two games because of a crochet injury. (Hooking, get it? Lame.) I’ve been crocheting like a fallen woman in an eighteenth century convent. (Yes, there’s bilingual pun there: crochet is the French word for hook, and the good sisters made those French hookers crochet lace to earn their keep. ) I’ve been crocheting like a woman trying to save her immortal soul, but not to make lace to trim the trousseaus of Ottawa aristocrats .
I want some Vicodan to combat my injury making tea towel toppers. You know them, a staple of any good Crafts Table at the Church Ladies’ Christmas Bazaar. Take half a tea towel, then crochet a doohicky so that you can hook it (sorry) from the handle of a stove, handy for hand drying during messy kitchen tasks. I love mine, a birthday gift from family friend Betty who’s the boss of the Crafts Table at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian’s Xmas wingding. I blame blameless Betty for dumping me on injured reserve because she said “I wish I could crochet. Those tea towels sell like mad.”
I do crochet, and here in Ottawa I can walk a mere ten minutes to Yarn Forward, a classic yarn store owned by a stereotype: an English lady sporting a salt-and pepper crop, sensible shoes and a hand knit Fair Isle sweater. (Er, jumper.) Bliss!
I cranked out four of these beauties in four days — it was crazed crochet because it was so much fun. I tell you, I cranked!
(I gave the fourth to Betty.) For those, like me, who are Needlework Engineers, the task, the personal improvements to the pattern, the ornament, the sourcing of vintage buttons (thank you, Sassy Bead Company) the snowy strolls to Yarn Forward — well, let’s say, I overextended myself.
So totally worth it.
But would you mind plumping my cushions? My cup of tisane is over there on the sideboard — thanks! Oh, and would you mind calling my tennis coach and tell him I can’t make it tomorrow? You’re the best!