the yarn harlot and me

For my readers not in the knitting world: there's this famous knitting author named Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, a.k.a. the Yarn Harlot. Isn't her nom de plume awesome in a knitterly kind of way?

That's her: totally awesome. Her blog is awesome, her books are awesome, her knitting is awesome (except when it's not, and the fact that she can admit it publicly makes her even more awesome because it gives all of us less-experienced knitters heart).

I even got to meet her once, at a book signing. She used to have this thing going where you bring along your sock, and she takes a picture of you holding your sock (and this time, you held the sock she was working on as well). It is a long blog post, but if you scroll down to item number 5 and click on the first little picture, you will see me, giggling insanely at the thrill of getting to meet her and hold her sock (the green one in the front).

And therein lies the problem.

It turns out that I am the worst sort of fan. I didn't really do the fan thing when I was a teenager -- no posters of sullen teenage boys on my walls, no fan clubs, nothing. So now that I have actually found someone to be a fan of, my behavior comes off as that of a complete and total boob. I would like to chalk it up to my lack of fandom experience in a younger age. I hope it is not indicative of my overall effect on people, but it does have me worried.

For example: just after she took my picture in the blog post linked above, she mentioned that my sock wasn't finished yet, and I noted it was just waiting for someone to show me how to graft the toe shut. She kind of looked to the person at her side, and muttered something about the directions being in one of her books, and I was so overcome with the stars in my eyes that I didn't realize:

She thought I was asking her to show me how to do it at a book signing. The thought still makes my face burn in shame.

This year at Rhinebeck, I saw her near the book signing table with her new book (I am such a fan that I have all her previous ones). Not wanting to bother her mid-conversation, I took a signed book off the stack and crept away to the register. Later, while waiting in an ATM line, I saw her just outside the building.

I decided I had to kinnear her. (Read the link to understand. She even made up a new word.)

That's her on the right.

Of course, I am a complete and total boob at that too, and she catches me at it, looking straight at me right before she decided to ignore my pathetic attempt.

Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, I apologize. I really enjoy your work. If only I was able to actually handle the experience of coming face to face with someone I admire so much, and expressing that thought in a coherent fashion, I might actually be able to tell you that myself.