Yarn Harlot (22 page)

“Steph, in twenty minutes they are going to charge us fifty dollars.”

I pretended that I couldn’t hear him because my head was under the backseat of the car.

“Steph?” For the love of wool. He wasn’t going to give up.

“Joe, it’s one of my favorite needles. I want it, I know it is here and I’m having it. There’s just no stinking way that I’m leaving it behind.”

“I thought the green ones were your favorites? Just last week you said that the green ones were the best you ever had. You’re just saying that the blue ones are your favorites because that’s the one that’s missing.” He was practically gritting his teeth while he looked through the luggage again. I resisted the urge to sigh. I am
so
misunderstood as an artist.

“The green ones were good last week, then they got old. Now the blue ones are my favorites. For crying out loud, Joe, if something of yours was lost we wouldn’t even be talking about it.” This was a stupid thing to say. If I have learned one thing about marital discord it is that one must never, ever attempt to make equivalent arguments. I know (and you know) that if Joe had lost his favorite whatchamacallit in the car, he would be flipping out and we would have gotten the tools out a long time ago. We would have the car up on jacks. The children would be searching with flashlights. The tooth-brushing neighbor would be out with a high-end metal detector and other neighborhood men would have stood around offering support and suggestions. Somebody would have offered to make a chart and grid system for car search effectiveness and another guy would have brought beer. If I suggested in the middle of this testosterone-driven little party that maybe, just maybe, we should stop looking for his beloved possession because the car had to be returned, thus ensuring that Joe would never, ever be able to recover his thingie, he would have gone absolutely berserk about my lack of support and understanding. This, however, is not what Joe believes. Joe believes—I can tell by the way the tops of his ears were getting really, really red—that he would walk away, calmly saying things like “never mind” or “what’s done is done” or that
incredibly annoying “easy come, easy go,” and then return the rental with an air of serenity, coolly kissing off whatever it was that the car had sucked into the seventh dimension.

Joe glowered at me with pent-up wrath while I ripped the floor mats out of the car for the forty-third time. I admit it: I was none too calm myself. With the simmering rage of a normally kind and decent man who had been pushed to the edge of sanity by his unreasonable obsessive wife, he made a last desperate (if hostile) plea.

“Stephanie” (note the strategic use of my full name), “in approximately thirteen minutes your one-dollar needle is going to cost us FIFTY DOLLARS. It is time to go. Ask yourself: Should your priority be a silly one-dollar knitting needle or a FIFTY-DOLLAR rental car! You cannot be this crazy!”

That did it. I’d had it. Crazy? Didn’t he know that I could already feel the craziness? I hurled the mat back into the car and whipped around to tell him that this was not about priorities or logic. Not one little bit. I had a hundred double-pointed needles in the house not more than forty feet from us, and he shouldn’t call my sock needles “silly” because they kept churning out his precious hand-knit socks. It had nothing to do with the arbitrary dollar value he’d assigned to the missing needle or his precious stinking rental car. This, this was about the principle of the thing. Knitting needles do not disappear. I know for a fact, a
fact,
that the needle had to be here somewhere and moreover, dammit, this was about decency, perseverance, taking a stand and not giving up. There was no way I was giving the car the satisfaction of stealing my stuff. I wanted my needle back, and I’d
pay the fifty dollars or however much it was. This was my special, blue, 2-millimeter sock needle, and I was, I swear it, going to get the thing back from this godforsaken thieving car.

This was what I intended to say to Joe as I whipped around sharply in the war zone that was once our driveway. But even as I opened my mouth to let go of all the pent-up stupid-and-crazy, a small, blue, 2-millimeter, double-pointed knitting needle, which had apparently been tucked behind my ear, disentangled itself from my voluminous curls, flew through the air, glinted in the sunshine, and then tinkled audibly onto the sidewalk between us.

I took a deep breath and looked at it. Joe exhaled and looked at it. Then I bent over, picked it up as humbly as I could, and reseated myself in the car.

“Let’s go.”

I would forever regret it if I did not extend my deepest thanks to:

Andrews McMeel Publishing in general, and specifically my editor, Katherine Anderson.

Linda Roghaar, because I know there is no better literary agent alive.

Molly Wolf, for her brilliant help, insight, and time.

Frederick W. Shuler, Ph.D., who took an hour of his life to discuss deranged squirrels with me. (Really.)

Knitwear designers everywhere, for being the inspiration for my “Dear Designer.” You know I love you anyway.

My patient spouse, Joe Dunphy, and our three daughters, Amanda, Megan, and Samantha Pearl. (Sorry for everything.)

Ken Allen, Lene Andersen, Emma Hogbin, Bonnie McPhee, and anyone else who endured this book’s neurotic, mercurial, high-strung birth on the other end of a phone line. (Sorry for that, too.)

Finally, I have to thank the many knitters who have shared their time, stories, and comments. I couldn’t do it without you.

Stephanie Pearl-McPhee lives with her very patient husband and three charming daughters in an untidy, wool-filled house in Toronto, Canada, where she avoids doing the laundry and knits whenever she gets a minute. She is the author of the popular daily blog
www.yarnharlot.ca.