Campy

I'm sitting here drinking my coffee from my new Starbucks Seattle mug, getting all moony for the Pacific Northwest. (I love the Starbucks city mugs, by the way. They are the perfectly sized cup of coffee for me. I prefer my Jennie the Potter mugs for tea, however. Don't know why I make this distinction.) It's cool and rainy outside, very Seattle-like, though the weather we experienced there last week was unusually spectacular up until departure day.


Of all the things I am missing (the bacon, the bacon, and the bacon), I am missing my camp friends most of all. I have been extremely fortunate to attend lots of fiber events all over the country during the past several years, and I have made friends at all of them. At Sock Camp this year, I saw previous years' camp friends, friends from other events, and new friends who I look forward to seeing again. It was great. (I just found out yesterday that I will likely be travelling to San Francisco in August, so I hope to see some of the SF girls then--what a treat!)

The husband is returning from a business trip this evening. I came home late Tuesday, and he left really early Wednesday morning, so I hadn't even unpacked before he left. There's a little bit of new yarn to put away before I pick him up at the airport tonight ;) We haven't seen each other very much lately, but he did the funniest, sweetest thing while I was in Port Ludlow: he wrote me a camp-themed poem. Camp had a Seussian bent this year (along with the b00bies), and the poem was in reference to a series of really silly Seuss-themed skits produced by the four "tribes" at camp. Enjoy, especially the knitting curse at the end (not that ANY OF US would EVER wish evil on another knitter. Not EVER. No, NEVER!) Anyway, it was a cute and campy thing for him to do, and he clearly has the lingo down.


I hope the knitters liked your skit;
(I hope the skitters like your knit.)
Did it go well, was it a hit?
Did they stand and clap and clap, or sit?
Did people gush, and, then, get lit?
(Was the liquor bill a massive chit?)
Did the sketchers 'gainst whom you were pit
Match up, and give as good as git,
See you pun for pun, and tat for tit?
Did all lap up the crafty wit --
Like cream is lapped up by a kit --
or did some sneeralate and crit,
And pick a nit with ev'ry bit,
And snarkelfize, and give you shit,
Like some insipid royal twit,
whose festering gob just will not quit?

Upon those churls, I lay this curse:

May Quiviut cause you a rash;
May moths invade your treasured stash;

May all your patterns each omit
Important rows you should have knit;

May airlines ban the knitting needle,
No matter how you beg and wheedle;

May yarn crawls all be heavy slogging,
And ev'ry sock require frogging.

No, no, I do not doubt a bit
That all the knitters liked your skit.


PS The Yarn Harlot proclaimed him "sexy" for writing a sock camp-themed poem. Perhaps he should add that honor to his resume.