I've been keeping a dead woman's sweater in our freezer for over a week now, and my husband has barely said a word. I really need to remember that the next time I'm tempted to complain that he's not an enabler.



I picked up the half-finished sweater at the same estate sale where I found the old quilt. It was so wonderfully soft and pretty that I had to bring it home and make it a shawl. But it's mohair, and it's fairly determined to stay a sweater, so I keep it in the freezer and struggle with it a few rows at a time. Doesn't help that it's crocheted and I can't figure out quite how it's supposed to unravel. Just when I got one stitch pattern deciphered and started making some fast progress, it went into an edging.

I suspected when I bought it that it would probably be difficult, but I want it. And I found the perfect pattern last night while I was flipping through Wrapped in Comfort to find the page I needed for the Stained Glass Sasquatch.

The sooner I defeat the mohair, the sooner I can cast on. And I really should get it out of the freezer before Bill gets annoyed by it.

I've been haunted by the idea of dead women's WIPs since this summer when I came across a partially knit aran sweaer at an estate sale, still on the needles and with the pattern. It was creepy. I buy yarn and needles at estate sales and thrift shops all the time and have never really thought about who didn't get to finish what they started, but the partially finished sweaters get to me.

(No, I didn't adopt the aran, which was made of Red Heat Super Saver.)