Monday, May 26, 2008


The Needle and The Damage Done

I went to see my pusher today. Sure, there was plenty of "stuff" in the house, but last time I was there I scored a couple of ounces of jet black combed alpaca top and I couldn't get it out of my mind.

Nothing else would do -- not the tussah, not the bunny, not the cheviot. Not even the llama.

It was hopeless -- I had to have me some more of that. It was like a fire in my veins. Just the thought of it was an itch, a disease. I was helpless in the face of such need. It was like being in love -- if I had been capable of such an emotion since I felted the alpaca/silk/bunny roving.

I'll never get over that. Not if I live another three years.

We pulled the jalopy up outside the front door and, as always, Pearl was there waiting. I don't even know her real name -- I've just always called her Pearl*. It suits her. Small, mysterious, enticing ... she's always got the goods.

Today she disappointed me for the first time. No corriedale, no alpaca. I was stunned -- stopped in my tracks -- but she distracted me with packages of seawool. She's dealt with harder cases than me and knows just what to do.

I've been told to watch out for women like her, but I'm a fool for a broad with a package of cleaner-than-clean pencil roving. It's my only weakness**.

I fondled the seawool, a package of "young mohair", some combed Colonial top, and maybe a little tussah. I sniffed a batt of lambswool. For the first time that day I let my guard down. My attention slipped, and now I've paid the price.

By the time I overcame the dizziness of the wool fumes and turned around the woman had hooked my daughter as well and had taught her how to needle felt.

I blame myself; I shoulda been paying attention.

Poor kid, she didn't stand a chance. She'd already felted a fried egg and was looking around for more fibre to abuse.

She was a goner.

I bought two felting needles (plus all of the fibre I'd been sniffing -- there was no point in trying to resist.)

We got back home and I got the kid fed, washed and settled into bed, but I had to know for myself. What was it that had hooked her so hard?

I got out one of the needles, some roving and a block of foam and poked a few holes -- just a little taste, that's all it was. Just a taste. Then I poked a few more, turned it over, continued poking.

I was a poking machine. I couldn't stop myself.

Eventually I managed to pull away. The tiny red blob that I'd created just lay there, taunting me. It was like it was trying to tell me something, but my radio wasn't receiving that channel.

I turned my back and went into my studio where no such madness had ever occurred. Oh, sure, I'd enjoyed it, but I could leave it behind. It had no hold on me. I was strong.

I crept back to the dining room and reached out a trembling hand to pick up the needle once more.

Just a taste.

I can quit any time.

*yes, it's her real name.
**apart from the likker, and such.

I bought a little kit a while ago... haven't gotten around to starting poking, though. Perhaps I'll hold off, I'm addicted to enough stuff already. Come to think of it, my daughter might enjoy that...
Yeah, any time you WANT there's the rub!
You are freakin' hilarious!

Next thing we know you'll be cuttinz your knittinz (if you ever do any) just liek me.
That certainly sounds like a monkey on your back to me; you are just going to have to admit that you are powerless over your fiber addiction ;) Speaking of which, Linguistic is spun up and sitting in my basket for all and sundry to admire. It's gawjus!
Srsly, you're too good for this world. I choked on my margarita.
I was hooked on the needle felting for a while there. It is just like getting all stabbity. I liked it. I liked it a lot...
So sad, two young lives, snuffed out in the prime of life. We look forward to the carnage.
Don't sweat it, my easily-swayed happens to the best of us!!!
Nooooo! Not you too!

We must stage an intervention. Now. Before it's too late and the house is covered in a needle felted cozy.
I once had a girlfriend that I called Pearl, but that was because she smelled like oysters.
Yeah, me too. I just couldn't stop making Xmas ornaments ...

And I even sucked my husband into it. Sorry, honey!
Yep, needle felting is how they hook the young ones! They got my 12 year old when I took her to a sale at my LYS. "Just let her come over here with us!" they said! "We'll teach her a 'little' needle-felting", they said! Now, six months (and about $60 later), I have to lock up the roving that I spin to keep it from winding up as some felt-assed monster! I'm thinking about sending her to fiber-rehab boot camp!
You sound exactly like one of those black and white movies where a hardened detective is hired by some beautiful blond dame to catch her cheatin' husband, leading to murder and mayhem with the detective as the fall guy.

And just as hilarious as this post was, are the comments left here. I think I'm drawing rude glances from coworkers who think I'm laughing at them.
You totally crack me up. Well before "broad" it was clear what your were doing. You are so very good at the writing thing and the funny thing. I think you could totally write a book that sells very well.

charlizeen on yahoooooo
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