First of all, take one luscious skein of Italian merino, 2 ply. Envision your gorgeous future shawl. Ooh yeah. Letís do it.
Follow the instructions for the dye and cook it in your microwave. Steamy hot wool smells really odd. The Bald Man came home one day after Iíd been cooking handspun merino, and nearly died when he walked in the the door and took his first breath. Imagine the smell of dog. Now imagine the smell of sheep. Okay, try thinking about the smell of wet dog. Wet sheep really ainít that different. And hot, wet sheepÖ well letís say only the Kiwis are getting excited over that one, but the Bald Man on the other hand was singularly unimpressed. HeheheÖ
After youíve cooked it, and itís cooled down, baptise it. Thoroughly. I name theeÖ black wool? Huh? Believe me, your slight surprise at black wool when I was aiming for green, is nothing compared to the rising panic I was feeling. Noooo! How will I survive??? Wah! Oh, hang on a minute, itís going to be a lot darker when wet. Oh yeah, thatís right. Just like hair. (remembers hair-dying experiences from younger days with fondnessÖ and thanks the gods it was always someone elseís head. Mwahahaha!)
Then, get the skein in between two towels and stomp on it. This is my self-designed agitation-free, felting-risk-free spin dry cycle. Cute Italian boots and swishy skirt optional. Sings *la cucera-CHA! La cucera-CHA! LALALALALALAÖ* and clatters imaginary spanish clickety things whose proper name escapes meÖ
Finally, shake it a bit to separate all the wet strands, hold at arms length and proudly photograph. Whee! Actually, it's not quite as dark as the photo makes it out to be, it's a nice deep bottle green which should be a bit paler when dry. Yuuuuum.
Inner Monologue Transcript, as I stand admiring my handiwork:
So. Next time Iím sitting there with a slight frown on my face, working on deepening my a-la-Alan Rickman forehead crease, staring off into space and completely ignoring any conversation I may have previously been quite actively involved in, you know Iím just smacking the negative bitch down and will be with you very shortly.
Now, Iím off to dinner with Eva and her gorgeous family to gobble a deliciously fattening Portugese feast. Right after I do about a weekís worth of dishes here at home. Yeeah. Housework is so a priority in my heart. A low priority, that is.
Idiotic joke of the day, thanks to Triple J: Where do paw-paws come from? Dog-dog trees.
Todayís card was King of Cups. Like anyone who isn't into tarot gives a flying fart. Heh.
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