When I began this blog I’d had every intention of updating every few days with new and exciting projects. Well, new anyway. It’s really hard to get terribly excited about potholders or dishcloths, no matter how colorful or hip they may be. At any rate, clearly I have been lacking in the update department. It was never my intention to disappoint my readers, so I’d like to apologize. Sorry Mom.
But, dear reader (Mom), I have not been idly passing my time. Not a day has gone by without a hook in my hand, a dream in my heart, and a skip in my step. Now, those three things may or may not be related but we’ll get into that another day. The reason I have not been updating is BECAUSE I have been crocheting, voraciously, with an enthusiasm I will only describe as rabid.
While driving to and from Mike’s family’s house in Pennsylvania (side note–they liked their coasters) I had lots of time and an insane amount of anti nausea medication. I packed lots of different yarns and threads for the drive. I figured I could finish at least one small project on the drive and during my “I don’t know what to do/this isn’t my house/I’m just going to sit here and not touch any of their stuff because I’ll totally break it” period of time. I had just made those decorative coasters for Mike’s family and quickly became enamored with how cool simple chains and slip stitches look when done up in a circle. I also, for whatever reason, owned my weight in crochet thread (I swear to god, I shouldn’t be allowed into a craft store alone because I buy stupid things like three pounds of crochet thread). It only seemed logical that I make what is probably the most recognizable of crocheted goods, the doily.
Here’s what your Gramma never told you about doilies–they’re completely evil. Since I am not quite in the 65 and over demographic I didn’t know this. No, I had no idea that something so small would be so time consuming, exhausting, and literally painful to make. Filet crochet is a huge pain!
The way a doily tricks you is in it’s size. They’re small, they look like small projects. An afghan (another pain in the ass to make) is huge, so it’s easy to see how much time goes into something like that. Doilies aren’t nearly so big and they’re full of open spaces. How could something so harmless looking eat up a good month of my life?
Simple. It’s thread, and I’m an idiot. Worsted weight yarn is thick. It’s the average yarn used to make pretty much everything and it’s thick enough to get a sturdy hold of and grows fairly quickly. Chain five, you’ve gained an inch; it’s wonderful. I have been taking it for granted. Worsted weight yarn, I’m sorry baby. I never should have left you.
Thread however, is Satan’s personalized plan for ruining my life. It is just as thin as something you would sew a button to a dress shirt with, but instead of attaching it to a needle and sewing you are taking the tiniest hook in existence and trying to make a series of intricate knots that are supposed to magically make a pretty pattern. It slips off the hook, it’s so thin that it literally cut into my hand (which had to hold it really tight so those intricate knots could come out properly), and it takes FOREVER to reach an appropriate size. I did some math, had this doily been made with worsted weight yarn it would have been a throw blanket. Instead, it might be about a foot across.
Then, as I was finishing it during my break at work, my boss comes back and helpfully chirps, “You know you have to starch and pull it right?” I have to do WHAT??? After all that??? And it’s still not DONE??? DAMN YOU INVENTOR OF THE DOILY!!!!
Olive apparently found my freak out hilarious.
You’re looking at what is called a pineapple stitch doily and the pattern was free on the internet. If you want to make one I’d be more than happy to send it but I’m going to tell you right now, it is a freaking time suck.
And sadly, I am going to make many, many more so that I can have one in every funky colored yarn I have. Doilies aren’t just for old ladies anymore.
Edit: I talked to my Gramma about my doily, which she was incredibly proud of. She taught me how to crochet and was delighted to see that out of her two daughters and three grand daughters ONE of us had taken interest in learning it. I asked if she had ever completed one herself, and I got this answer, “Oh god no, only old ladies made those.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure Olive and Mike are dressed in layers in case it gets drafty.