Laurie Crazy Aunt Purl Perry - Drunk, divorced & covered in cat hair: the true-Life misadventures of a 30-something & ; who learned to knit after he split

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Table of Contents

Praise for

Drunk, Divorced & Covered in Cat Hair

Shes absolutely, phenomenally hysterical!

Modeknit.com

I just have to say I love Crazy Aunt Purl (aka Laurie, lover of knitting, wine, and kitties). I am hardly the only one, though. Everyone seems to love her.

Divaknitting.com

Drunk, Divorced & Covered in Cat Hairissurprisenot just for women. A heart-wrenching mix of sadness and humor, any man who has experienced a broken heart will relate to the story of Lauries divorce, the death of a marriage, and the reentry into single life. As men, we will not fully understand the humor of hair removal, perhaps, but her themes are resonant for all people, men and women, whove had love and loss and laughed in between.

Drew Emborsky, author of
Men Who Knit & the Dogs Who Love Them

Poignant, funny, and something every woman will relate to, whether or not shes been divorced, whether or not she knits, whether or not she finds herself covered in cat hair from the knees down. My only criticismI didnt want it to end!

Annie Modesitt, author of
Twist and Loop and Romantic Hand Knits

Disclaimer: The events described in this book are true as I remember them, best as I could what with being covered in cat hair and three minutes from directing traffic in my nightgown. Some names and details have been changed, including the cats, even though they are always looking for their fifteen minutes of fame.

This book is dedicated to my dad,
Larry Beasley, who is the glue holding
together my whole nutty Southern family.
Thanks for teaching me how to laugh,
Daddy, and sorry for all
the swear words.
I love you.

And to every single woman
who has ever been three minutes from crazy,
this book is for you. Ive been there
pass the wine.

Introduction

A few months after my husband moved out, one of my best friends dragged me off to a knitting class. Frankly, I had no interest in knitting, and besides, I didnt want to leave the house. It was a Saturday, after all, and it was about to be five oclock somewhere. But I went to this knitting class because my friend was concerned for my sanity and probably needed to see proof of life. That day, I learned the basics: how to cast on and how to make the knit stitch. And it took. Before long I was completely obsessed, knitting through sleepless nights and hours alone. I didnt knit because I needed a wool scarf for the coming Los Angeles winter or because I wanted to become a great knitter.

No.

I knitted because it kept my hands busy so I wouldnt drunk-dial my soon-to-be-ex-husband in an embarrassing and humiliating moment of weakness. I knitted through sixteen scarves, two hats, and one gigantic cat toy before the urge to pick up the phone had fully passed and by then... well, frankly, I was quite hooked on it.

Besides, as a knitter, you are armed at all times with two very sharp sticks, some sturdy string, and well-concealed scissors.

And thats a very comforting thing.

Part 1

Tightly Wound

Chapter 1

There are three rules every Southern girl has hammered into her consciousness, and they shape you and haunt you until the day you die.

Cardinal Rule Number One: Mind your manners.

This is of course the most important rule, especially early on in your upbringing, as it applies to everything from watch your mouth to mind your elders, and encompasses all forms of behavior from elbows off that table rightnow to do not look at me in that tone of voice. As you get on up in years you learn to mind your manners by not pitching a hissy fit when a smile and firm but pleasant tone will do, and by always being strong and kind, and of course you never smoke standing upright or while wearing your sorority pin. Because that is just tacky.

Cardinal Rule Number Two: Make the best of a situation.

When delivered by your Uncle Truman or a male teacher or your softball coach, this rule can sound like Keep your chin up or Put your game face on. Sometimes theres a bait-and-switch approach, where you may have (in a moment of weakness) confessed some sad or upsetting thing to a willing human listener, and they reply back with a long, often horribly detailed story of the so-and-so girl who faces a far worse and more disastrous situation than you yourself could even imagine, which I suppose is meant to make you feel better about your own pathetic sob story but on me has the opposite effect.

Cardinal Rule Number Three: Always wear clean panties.

This particular gem was amended by my mother when I was sixteen, as she warned me in no uncertain terms to always wear clean panties and keep them on.

These rules presented for me a dilemma of decorum at the best of times and a true test of character at the worst of times. My comportment was once again in the crosshairs on the day this story begins, a day like any other, really, a completely normal day.

Although I was a married woman of thirty-three years of age living in cosmopolitan Los Angeles, California, and working in a downtown skyscraper (I work at a bank, but it sounds more glamorous to say downtown skyscraper), quite a remarkable departure from my small-town roots, I was now facing the trifecta of Southern Cardinal Rules, brought on by a rather strange and airy sensation in the back regions of my gray pinstripe skirt.

I felt a draft. Back there.

Today, the day of my inconvenient new rear-facing air-conditioning system, was a day of precarious underwear selection. While I had every intention of going home that very evening and facing Mount Washmore, the laundry pile in my bedroom closet, I was currently Making The Best Of Things. The wash-day panties I was wearing were nothing more than a string holding together some cotton, and not only was it an unfortunate thong-style contraption, it had the novelty of being green and red because I was on my Christmas undies. I had not embarked upon any lunchtime calisthenics, or lobbed kung fu kicks on my coffee break, or done anything, really, aside from sit on my ass in an air-conditioned office and Look Busy. Graphic designers at financial institutions do not have physically vexing jobs. But as soon as I stood up to stretch, I felt ityesa definite draft.

First I performed the not-so-subtle maneuver of slightly pulling my skirt to the left and craning my head back to see if I could spot the damage. Nothing.

A quick recon mission with my hands told me all I needed to know: my skirt had distinctly more air-conditioning in the backyard than it had this morning when I pulled it on. Sans panty hose. Meaning, at any moment my Christmas-themed under-things could be exposed to the cruel office air, in August, and also, this was maybe not the sort of impression I wanted my coworkers to have of me.

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