Why does it seem that this stuff always happens to me?
Last week, April 1, was the official “Flash your stash” day. I did not flash my stash this day. I did try, but I ran into a small difficulty—about six inches high to be exact. As I went to dig through my stash last weekend, I learned I had an infestation. Not the kind you’re thinking, either. Mine was worse.
See those wavy lines up there? That means we’re going into the past. Oh, but not now. Now is now. Okay, now, after this next wavy line, is one week ago. Ready? Now!
I live in a really small house. Like 900 square feet small. As such, I store my stash in plastic bins that I slide under/behind furniture to keep it out of the way. So, on this merry Sunday morn, I dragged out one of the two underbed boxes out from under the futon in the back room. As I went to flip the cover off, something stopped me—a brightly colored short something. That short something had a minute foot on my hand, a tiny scowl upon its face.
Yup, it had a face. It also had eyes, ears, hair, legs, and papery thin wings attached to its little back. It looked like…a pixie.
“EEaugh!” I cried, flinging the thing off of me in disgust and leaping backwards.
“Oof!” the thing cried, landing on its back on the hard wood floor. As I stared, goggle eyed with awe, it picked itself up, glared at me again, and ceremoniously dusted itself off, beginning with its petite bare feet and ending with the iridescent wings.
I got a better look at it then. Yes, definitely a pixie. Its hair was tangled and matted, resembling tiny dreadlocks. It appeared that it had pulled it back into a makeshift ponytail with one of my rubber stitch markers. Its clothing looked….familiar. The pixie had apparently found the bag that contains my old gauge swatches and appropriated them for clothing. The tiny tube that I knitted while planning my Friday Harbor socks it had fashioned as a tube top. I recognized Lorna’s Laces, Regia silk, and Dale of Norway Baby Ull in the tubes it had stitched together to make a pair of shorts. It has also attached two Cash Iroha swatches together to make a poncho, complete with holes for its wings.
“What are you staring at?” it interjected then.
“Wha…wha…what the bloody hell are you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” it said with disdain, “I’m a Stash Pixie!”
I buried my face in my hands, then, and rubbed vigorously. I had not been drinking that morning, nor consuming any other controlled substances.
I peered through my hands again. It was still there. Damn!
“Okay,” I said resignedly, “what exactly is a ‘Stash Pixie?’”
“I’m a guardian of your stash,” the pixie replied, “My name is Trixie.”
“Trixie…Pixie,” I repeated in disbelief.
“What’s wrong with Trixie Pixie?” Trixie ejaculated, bristling again.
“Nothing,” I sighed. “Nothing whatsoever. So what do you want, Trixie?”
“Well,” she began, all haughty and business-like, “you’re not allowed to go into your stash.”
I stared at her blankly.
“What?” I finally said.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t touch any of this yarn. You have too many unfinished projects.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she repeated, putting her hands on her yarn ensconced hips and leaning forward. “That’s got everything to do with everything! You can’t just go around starting projects when you feel like it! It’s unfair to the yarn!”
Her wings began to flitter in her outrage.
“Unfair…to the yarn,” I said flatly.
“That’s right,” she said. “Just think about all of those abandoned projects that you have right now. That hat for Hanna. The purple beret…”
“I’m going to frog that,” I interrupted.
She simply raised her voice and talked over me.
“The September socks! The purple cashmere wrap!” Trixie shrilled.
“Those are fall things!” I whined.
“Yeah? Yeah? What about that sweater for Nels? You were supposed to finish that last year!”
“I’m working on it,” I said sheepishly.
Trixie made a noise like a bantam pony. “Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Anyway, who cares? I don’t have to defend myself to you. Besides, I knit for fun. I don’t necessarily knit to accomplish things. It’s supposed to be relaxing! And as you might notice right now, I don’t seem very relaxed, do I?!”
The pixie stared at me for a beat, then clucked her tongue.
“Sorry,” she said loftily, “You’re not going in there.”
“Oh yeah? Or what? You’re going to sick your little pixie army on me?”
Trixie’s eyes narrowed, and her wee features took on a dangerous look.
“You’re afraid that the Ariann sweater won’t fit aren’t you?” she hissed, her voice low, “It seemed a little small when you held it up the other day didn’t it?”
My breath, suddenly icy, caught in my chest. There was truth in that statement.
“What are you talking about?” I said slowly.
“Nothing much,” answered the pixie, tossing her wild hair from her face. “It’s just that it took you two years to knit your hourglass sweater, didn’t it? And your gauge was a little off from the swatch you made, wasn’t it?”
“YOU were responsible for that?!” I roared, “Why, you…”
“I didn’t say I was, and I didn’t say I wasn’t,” Trixie declared, “But I’d watch my back if I were you…”
At this point I had had enough. I called the cats. With the light galloping of kitty feet, Buster the dog-cat came on the scene, but Trixie had wisely disappeared.
The next time we met, it was yesterday. I slouched sneakily into the back room, and quietly slid one of the plastic bins out from under the futon.
“Just WHAT do you think you’re doing?” came the familiar tiny voice beside my ear.
“I’m going to photograph my stash!” I yelled, “I’m not going to start anything new. Besides, I can’t do whatever I want with it! It’s my bloody yarn!”
“Is that so?” said the pixie, a dangerously calm look gracing her minute face.
“Yes, that’s so!” I cried. I was getting really pissed now.
“Hmm,” she said, “remember that Yarntini yarn you bought awhile ago? The one you’ve carefully hidden away in that special yarn box?”
“What about it?” I said warily.
“Well, IF you decide to touch your stash, I just MIGHT send it into another dimension.” As she said this, she snapped her teeny fingers and tiny sparkles appeared.
“But it’s my yarn!” I whined. “I NEED to touch it.”
“Well, I guess you’d better just work a little harder on finishing up those UFO’s. THEN you can touch it,” she answered.
“What did you say? I asked.”
“I SAID,” the pixie repeated, her little face turning a bit redder, “that you need to TRY harder!”
Try harder? TRY harder? That sounds a lot like TROD harder, doesn’t it?
Okay, so here’s my stash!
And the highlights…
As I gleefully touched and fondled and caressed each skein, I did make sure to check for eggs. Oh, I looked for signs of moths, too. Everything looks clean–hooray!
So what’s the moral of our story? I think that’s very obvious.
I need more yarn!