Working It (17 page)

“Swan Lake, also known as Sitka’s Central Park, was created by Russian immigrants in 1851,” I read aloud, trying not to scoff at the idea of comparing a pond and a few metal benches to a grand urban park designed by a world-famous landscape architect. “Originally, Swan Lake was designed as a commercial venture. Ice harvested from the lake was sent to California. Today, the lake is a habitat for waterfowl and a destination for recreational enthusiasts.”

We each drop a dollar in the Swan Lake Restoration Project charity box and continue down the road, meandering our way through a Russian Cemetery, until we come to a large gray building with a domed copper roof.

“What an interesting building.”

“I think it is Saint Michael’s Cathedral, an old Orthodox church,” Laney says. “I read about it on
Accidental Adventures
.”

“What’s
Accidental Adventures
?”

“This cool travel blog,” Laney explains. “It’s actually called
On Life, Love and Accidental Adventures
. The writer has the most amazing, serendipitous encounters—she crashed Colin Farrell’s movie set in Ireland and took part in a séance in Marie Antoinette’s private apartment at Versailles.”

“Interesting.”

“Right?” Laney grins. “Anyway, she came to Alaska to stay in some abandoned Cold War bunker town not too far from Sitka. She wrote a whole piece about the cathedral. Apparently, it was founded two hundred years ago by some Siberian monk.”

I step back and crane my neck to look up at the Greek cross atop the bell tower. “It doesn’t look that old.”

“Well,” Laney says, tipping her head back and squinting up at the copper dome. “There was a hellacious fire in the sixties, and the cathedral had to be entirely rebuilt.”

“Ah.”

We keep walking.

“This all must be so…pedestrian for you.”

“Pedestrian?” I step over a patch of ice. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? What do I mean?” she cries. “Paris, France, baby! Anyone raised in the shadow of Notre Dame and Sacré-Cœur surely must find a church covered in vinyl siding hopelessly pedestrian. Sitka is so not exotic.”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking at the twinkling icicle lights dangling from the store fronts. “Sitka is exotic-ish. After all, we do have Alexi the taxi driver and—”

“—and Calder MacFabuleux, the Scottish lumbersexual.”

“Ha-ha!” I laugh. “Very funny.”

“Who’s joking?” Laney says. “Have you looked at the man? Calder is one tall, gorgeous glass of sex juice. You better pay the bartender before someone else orders him.”

I snort.

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a search and rescue helicopter pilot for the Coast Guard.”

“Mayday!” Laney presses her hand to her forehead and pretends to swoon. “Quick! Put in an S.O.S. call. I think I am going down!”

I laugh and swat her on the shoulder. “You’re such a dork!”

“You laugh, but I would literally rent a leaky old fishing trawler, sail twenty miles out to sea, and scuttle it, if I thought it would net me a catch as sexilicious as Calder.”

“Shut up!”

“I’m serious,” she says, sticking her hand in her bag. She pulls out a moose ball and pops it into her mouth. “Coast Guard guys are totes hot.”

“Are they?” I play it cool.

“Are they?” Laney tilts her head, opens her eyes wide, and stares blankly. “Gee, Laney. You mean the tall, ripped Scotsman who maneuvers a helicopter over a violent sea to rescue souls in distress is hot? I never noticed.”

“Okay, okay!” I laugh and hold up my hands in defeat. “So Calder is a little hot. Can we move on now?”

“Calder is more than a little hot. On the Scoville Scale for rating hot guys, Calder is the ghost pepper. He’s, like, Adam Levine hot. Orlando Bloom hot. Aidan Turner hot.”

“Who’s Aidan Turner?”

Laney stops walking and stares at me with her mouth hanging open. She closes her mouth for a second before letting it hang back open. It’s clear I have made a faux pas in showing my ignorance of hipster hotties. I am assuming Aidan Turner is a hipster—or some obscure indie singer—because I haven’t ever heard of him.

“Who is Aidan Turner?” Laney gulps. “Kíli, of the House of Durin?”

I shrug.

Laney slaps her hands on her cheeks and shakes her head back and forth like an aghast bobble head dog. “For the love of Thorin!”

We start walking again.

“Is it a band?”

“No, the House of Durin is not a band! Seriously? The House of Durin is a line of dwarves descended from Durin the Deathless from Tolkien’s
The Hobbit
.”

Now, it’s my turn to stare aghast.

“Anyway,” she says, flushing, “Aidan Turner is the Scoville-hot Irish actor who plays Kíli in the Hobbit movies.”

“What is it with you and short hairy mythical creatures?”

“Aidan is not short, hairy, or mythical!”

We arrive at Make Knit Work, and I am so happy to have an excuse to end our conversation about Calder MacFarlane and Aidan the Hairy Hobbit that I open the door with more strength than necessary, causing a cascade of tiny bells affixed to the doorknob to tinkle madly.

I am not ready to think about Hottie McScottie, our fondue non-date, and what the future holds for us. Thankfully, there are plenty of things inside Make Knit Work to divert us. I am stunned, and immensely relieved, to discover Apple-Bottom Betty’s sister’s store doesn’t contain a single cheesy tea cozy or Christmas sweater. In fact, the store is kinda…swank. There are artfully-battered armoires filled with delicate cashmere cardigans and patterned fisherman sweaters, cool slouchy berets, on-trend infinity scarves, and cowls in chunky, nubby yarn.

“This place is pretty fab,” I whisper, grabbing a pair of fuchsia fingerless gloves that would make my pink-obsessed BFF lose her mind.

“Thank you.”

I spin around and find Apple-Bottomed Betty’s clone, minus the ruffled apron and silver tray laden with moose balls, standing behind me.

“You’re welcome. Did you make all of these garments?”

“Good heavens, no!” She clasps her hands and rests her arms on her ample belly. “I employ several freelance knitters.”

“You must be Betty’s sister?”

“Yes, I am.” She smiles and her blue eyes twinkle. “Did my sister send you this way, then?”

“She did.”

“I am Netty, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Netty. I am Stéphanie and this is my friend Laney.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, both. I see you come bearing bags with the Moose Balls logo on them,” Netty says. “I hope Betty gave you Blue Balls.”

“I beg your pardon?” I sputter.

“Betty’s Blue Balls, white chocolate blueberry cheesecake balls. They’re my favorite.” She pats her stomach. “Obviously.”

I never know what to say when an obese person makes a self-deprecating joke about her fat, so I hold the fingerless gloves up and compliment the knit work. “These are such a pretty shade of pink. Do you dye the yarn yourself?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Huh.” I rub the yarn between my fingers. “Betty said the hills around Sitka are covered with different types of berries. Have you ever thought of picking them and making your own dye?”

“Why, no,” Netty murmurs, narrowing her eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

“Fanny is a designer,” Laney says.

“Is that so?”

“Well, not—”

“She worked for L’Heure,” Laney interrupts.

“That’s impressive.”

“Hey!” Laney cries. “I have a fantastic idea! Why don’t you and Fanny work together to create unique dyes made from local berries? You could call it Dyed in the Woods…or something like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“My heavens! That is a fantastic idea.” Netty reaches in to her pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here’s my card with my personal contact information. When you get back to the lower forty-eight, send me an email and we can talk about it a little more.”

I take the card and slip it into my pocket.

“Oh, we won’t be going back to the lower forty-eight for at least a year,” Laney interjects. “We’re teachers with an international charity committed to offering post-secondary study to people living in remote locations.”

“You’re with Each One, Teach One, then?”

“Yes!”

“How lovely,” Netty says. “What do you teach?”

“I am an artist.” Laney’s voice wavers, as if she’s not yet convinced of her own value. “I will offer mixed-media art lessons with an emphasis on utilizing recycled, reclaimed, and environmentally friendly materials.”

“I would be happy to donate yarn clippings, buttons, and spools to your cause.”

“Seriously?”

Netty nods.

“That would be totes fab! Thanks!”

“Of course.” Netty turns her gaze on me. “And what about you? Will you be teaching Sitka’s budding Christian Sirianos how to make it work?”

The door bells tinkle, and a brown-clad UPS guy carrying half a dozen boxes walks into the store.

“Excuse me.” Netty hurries over to the delivery man, taking two of his boxes and leading him to a storeroom.

“Saved by the bell,” I say, smiling at Laney.

“Saved from what?” Laney asks. “You are going to share your mad skills with young Sitkians who might grow up to be the next big name in fashion.”

I can only snort. I grab the pink gloves, walk over to the counter, and hand them to a bubble-gum chomping teen with a blue fishtail braid and terminally bored expression.

“Pink?” she asks, one side of her mouth pulled up in a semi-sneer.

“Yeah, so?”

“Never mind.” She taps the cash register keys with her black-to-blue ombré painted fingernails. “It’s cool. I mean, if you like being one of, like, a billion mindless minions dancing to a misogynistic tune meant to brainwash women into believing they must remain girlishly ridiculous.”

Wait! What the…

“I am sorry.” I frown and look around the store as if I am lost. “I thought I was in a knit shop in Sitka. I didn’t realize I had stumbled into a NOW rally. Have I missed
The Feminine Mystique
readings? Am I too late to shave my head and stick pins in tiny man dolls?”

I can’t believe I am getting into a disagreement with someone over the color pink. I respect Christian’s mantra—“The tones of gray, pale pink, and turquoise will always prevail”—even if I personally loathe the color. Vivian likes pink, so I feel I must represent.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

Ohnoshedidn’t! Did she really just “whatever” me? In France, we say “pffft” when we are dismissing someone from a conversation. I should know. I am the Queen of Pfffts. I have given my share of pfffts, but getting one really pisses me off…especially by some immature, self-impressed, affected teen in a tattered flannel shirt and Timberland boots. Timberland! Seriously? Only crap rappers like Kanye West and overweight construction workers wear Tims.

“Every woman should have something pink in her wardrobe. It is color of happiness.”

“Who said that, Clueless Barbie?”

“Clueless Barbie!” I laugh. “That’s funny. It’s actually a Christian quote…Christian Dior. World famous couturier. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” I flick my gaze from her muddy boots to her frizzy fishtail. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

“Fanny!” Laney gasps.

“You’re such a bitch.”

“And you’re such a c—”

“Oh, good!” Netty ambles up to the counter. “I see you’ve met Nolee. She’s one of those Sirianos I was talking about.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nolee wants to be a fashion designer,” Netty says, smiling and nodding her head at the fishtail feminist. “She applied to Parsons, but—”

—but her application was rejected because the market for acid-washed jeans died along with Loverboy albums and hair scrunchies?

“But I decided to pursue a more worthwhile vocation,” Nolee says, flushing a little.

I want to ask her if making minimum wage selling knit infinity scarves and insulting customers was her more worthwhile vocation, but Laney is shooting me a death glare, so I settle on a patronizing simper.

Nolee hands me my receipt and a gift bag with Vivian’s gloves. I take it and spin around, marching toward the door without so much as a
merci beaucoup
. Laney says goodbye to Netty and the less funny Sandra Bernhard and follows close on my heels.

I am reaching for the doorknob when I notice a life-sized cardboard cutout of Tim Gunn standing just inside the door, a thought bubble taped above his head with the words “Make Knit Work, People,” and a scarf tied around his neck.

Am I wrong to feel the Universe is mocking me?

Vivian’s Box

By the time we trudge up the hill—our bellies filled with chocolate, our cheeks slapped pink by the cruel Alaskan air—I feel better. I am pretty sure my aura has changed. I wouldn’t say I am rocking a Pucci pantsuit riot of bold, happy colors, but I am fairly positive I am working a mellow Tiffany blue aura. I might have been able to project a Pucci kaleidoscope of joyful colors if I hadn’t encountered Nolee, the bra-burning, pink-hating buzz killer. I just left Make Knit Work irritated.

I don’t know why I let Sitka’s own Gloria Steinem-wannabe get under my skin, but she did. Maybe because she brought out my ugly. It’s true, her snotty attitude irked me so much I pulled my most hideous self out of the closet and slipped it on. What right did I have to imply the girl wasn’t good enough for Parsons or that she was too uncouth, too ignorant to be familiar with Christian Dior? It was haughty.
You owe her an apology. She might have fired the first shot in the battle of the bitches, but you are the adult.
I make a mental note to apologize to Nolee the next time I am near Make Knit Work.

“What’s that?” Laney hands me her bag and takes the stairs two at a time. She squats down near the door and lifts a large brown box covered in foreign postal stamps. “It’s for you, Fanny!”

I know it is from Vivian without looking at the return address. Who else would send me a package plastered with headlines clipped from magazines? I take the box from Laney, laughing as I notice a few of the titles:
Sex Again? What Are You An Alley Cat?
and
Brady Says, My Balls Are Perfect
. There’s a picture of a fat toddler sticking her tongue out and the headline,
21 Reasons to Hate Kids
.