Once? At knitting camp?

In which the author interrupts her pre-20th reunion sit-ups marathon to address her failures as a blogger/reporter of news:

I have tried and failed over the past few days to come up with the words to describe last weekend. Well, actually, by now it was last, last weekend. Because this most recent last one has plenty of words, but mostly variants of four-letter ones, all judiciously applied as adjectives to describe plenty of other even nastier words, such as lacrosse, baseball, speech competitions, laundry, grocery shopping, and the mall on a rainy weekend day. (Notice how "fun" has only three letters, and thus was rendered unsuitable as a descriptor for any of the activities.)

Anyway, if you're still there (and I do thank you for your patience...) I was saying I had a great, great weekend, some two-ish weekends ago, during which I dumped everyone and everything and headed off for a weekend of knitting- and blogging-related experiences in Northampton, Mass.

Whoo-hoo, half of you are saying. And I know, I know. I do live dangerously, don't I?

(One of my neighbors joked to Man that at least he wouldn't have to worry about my taking off with some guy. Tell me: what is it with the menfolk? Is this what they really think is top on our list? Finding another man's toilet to clean? Come on. Seriously, people. Get ahold of yourselves.)

I went for several, much more important, reasons: Me, Me and some more Me.

Me was up to her ears taking care of other people, and always putting their interests and desires first. Me was tired of having to "hurry" in the yarn store because other people were waiting for her in the car. To go somewhere really exciting instead, like lacrosse.

Me wanted to be left in peace, with people of like mind. And so when she heard that the much beloved The Yarn Harlot was going to be speaking and signing copies of her latest book at the great knitter Mecca that is the WEBS yarn store in Northampton, Mass., she hopped into her convertible (OK, OK. It was an SUV, but she opened the windows to let the wind blow through her hair for effect), picked up Persnickety Knitter at the half-way point, and they drove off into the sunset, cackling madly.

(On re-reading this, I'm thinking suddenly I sound like such a simple person, with such simple needs. But there you go. If only they served wine among all those skeins of yarn, I would just move in, plain and simple. It was that good.)

(On re-reading that, I'm thinking this is probably exactly why people think knitters are weirdos and we are always forced to "sell" knitting by linking knitting to things that are supposedly "cooler," like football players or Russell Crowe or Julia Roberts. They knit, the comparison goes, so it can't be all bad, this knitting thing.)

But anyway, let me tell you that 1,000 knitters who did not need to be compared to anyone other than themselves were expected to descend upon the town, and I could not imagine a better place to be than among them.

Making it even better still was the fact I'd coordinated to meet all these fellow bloggers with whom I've become friends in the past year. And for not one minute did I think I'd be found stabbed to death with a No. 9 needle, buried in wool in the back of someone's trunk. They might be internet-peoples, but how scary a fellow knitter be, right?

I was finally going to see what the hysterically funny people I "talk" to almost every day looked like: Kim, Tracy, Jess, Jen, Amy, and Suburban Correspondent were all going to come. And I was going to meet Melissa for dinner. And of course, I'd finally see The Harlot herself, in person. It was like one big knitting, blogging party thingy.

And so. much. fun.

All were way cuter than I ever imagined, based on their own self-descriptions. We women are awfully hard on ourselves, aren't we?

The Harlot was everything everyone ever said she'd be: funny, smart, yada yada. But how come no one ever told me about that cool voice? As a person with a very nasally, high, awful squeaky embarrassment of a voice, I often wish I had someone else's - but this one? Amazing. She should be a singer, or something. (Though I suppose that might be a little tough to fit in, what with all the writing and the knitting. )

But it was all just so much fun. There is something so awesome about being with people who share a common love. Who you don't have to explain everything to. Or shove yourself in front of so they notice your sweater.

Ahem.

No. There, everyone knew the sweater: "I have that in my cue!" strangers would come up to tell me. And "Was it hard to make?" or "It came out great!" A beautiful woman wearing a pink version tapped my shoulder on the way out of the auditorium and we spent a few hasty moments comparing notes on it, shouting over heads when the crowds got in the way.

But even though my sweater was recognized and I did not have to embarrass myself by shoving my body in front of complete strangers whose knitwear I'd been stalking, I did get to update my stalking skills a bit:

Persnickety and I were headed back to our hotel rooms, but forced to meander through a wedding party blasting "Sweet Caroline" in the hotel lobby when I spotted it. Just a glimpse of gray cables out of the corner of my eye, but unmistakable: you'll have to scroll down, some. OK. Way down: January 17.

I had a hunch.

"Run!" I grabbed her arm. Poor Persnickety had no idea why we were running for an elevator in a five-story hotel as if there would never be an elevator again, and certainly not just two minutes later, what with there only being five floors, but good girl that she is, she ran. And we made it! Right smack into the Harlot's elevator.

She was on her cell phone.

Not that I was actually going to say anything or anything. It was enough for me to just bask. (Like I said above, I'm a simple person, simple pleasures.) Plus? What was I going to say: "Hey, Harlot, how 'bout those floor numbers flashing up there above us? You think green was a good choice, or should they have gone red?"

Persnickety was less paralyzed in fear, and opted to go with being fun, which she is, and sang a couple bars along with Neil Diamond, which got the Harlot going, too.

So they just sang.

And I just basked.

And life was pretty darn good.

See, Man?

I am not hard to please. At all. Even if I complain about spending the whole of MY Mother's Day in YOUR mom's kitchen. She's a retired mom, frankly - she doesn't need a whole day.

Also? How come the Harlot's phone works on elevators? Every time I call you, you're all, "Oh, I'm about to get into an elevator, gotta go." Does The Harlot have special phone powers or something? I don't think so.

So listen, it's fine. I'm alright with it.

But I don't want to hear anything at all about the yarn bill for that weekend.