New York Minknit

It all began a couple months ago, when Adam asked me if I had heard of some sort of yarn festival upstate. One of his friends had gone a few years ago, and he thought I might be interested. I was like, “Yeah, I think it’s in Rhinebeck. I think it’s popular.” As of yesterday, I think Adam might have regretted suggesting going, since he probably saw enough yarn to last a lifetime, but I, at least, was happy. (Adam, as usual, took all the nice photos.)

Anyway. I was a little scared of being surrounded by fiber-loving fools, or “yarnies,” as I started calling them. (Who, as someone pointed out later, were like “carnies, but less evil.”) But I decided to try and be social and joined Rhinebeck Blogger Bingo, where you got a bingo card and marked off other knit bloggers that you saw (players were supposed to wear a badge or something that said “I’m a square,” to help you identify them). Adam was quite good at spotting fellow bingo players, but despite normally being a nosy and chatty person, both by personality and profession, I was kind of uncomfortable approaching people.  It felt weird to say, “Hey! Are you a square?” I did find several other players, and though I did not get a BINGO, I was glad I played. But even though the game made it okay to approach strangers and introduce myself, I hung back. Soon, though, my creepy side would emerge.

It all began when I walked by the Ravelry founders, Jess and Casey. (Also, it turned out to be a blogger bingo meetup, which I accidentally stumbled onto, and yet, I was STILL anxious about approaching other players.) I kind of shoved Adam and Casey together, and was all “Adam, this is the guy who made Ravelry.” “Hey Casey [Clearly, Casey had no idea who I was, yet I decided that Casey and I were on a first-name buddy-buddy level. Such is the madness of the Internet], this is my boyfriend, he works at an Internet start-up too.” Casey was very nice, though I’m sure a little weirded out by my forwardness.

Then, while we were wandering around the sheep barns, I spotted Yarn Harlot. Instead of politely saying something normal, (like “Oh, hello. You do look familar, are you the woman who writes Yarn Harlot,” or something) I said, “Hey, it’s the Yarn Harlot.” This is kind of like the time my uncle opened his car door and stood face to face with Norman Fell, and said, “Oh! Mr. Roper!” The Yarn Harlot looked decidedly uncomfortable, and said hello. Then like a hick, I yelled, “Hey Adam, look! It’s the Yarn Harlot!” Because nothing makes a person feel more comfortable then being referred to in the third person in front of their face. Anyway, she was also very polite, though I think she wandered away quickly to avoid being confronted by me.

Here’s a blurry photo of the back of Yarn Harlot, and I’m guessing from reading her blog, her escort, Juno.

Then, as the festival wound down, I saved my creepy speciality–conning strangers into spending time with me*–for last. I didn’t want to wait for a taxi to take us into the town, since they were being really slow, so I approached a hipster couple who seemed to be about my age and was like “Hey! Do you have a car? Are you going into Rhinebeck?” and after they said yes to both, said, “Can you give us a ride?” (Adam pointed out that by having assented to my first two questions, they were almost obligated to say yes to the third question.) They were so nice and gave us some good tips about places to dine in town (and made the funny yarnie=less evil carnie comment), but I did realize that I had potentially become some kind of horror-story stranger (“Please give us a ride…before we kill you.”)

* I have many stories, mainly from a few years ago where I did a lot of traveling by myself.

Anyway, click after the jump if you want to see more sheep photos. (And one very very cute little goat.)

Is this not the cutest goat you’ve ever seen? He/she was a contestant in the angora goat competition, which was judged by a drawly Texan in a Stetson hat.

A sheep being groomed for show.

And lest the cuteness overwhelm you, a reminder of the real reason people own sheep: meat.

…and fleece. Here’s a sheep getting shorn.

A sheep that looked like a privet hedge.

And finally, some souvenir yarn for me!