The Magical Mystery Yarn!

Because I apparently don't have enough to do (insert eye roll here), I have taken on the challenge of knitting a Fair Isle sweater.  This is one of those impressive garments with lots of colors and little bitty patterns all over it.  You have to follow charts and do a lot of counting, and at some point, you cut holes in it so that you can make sleeves.  Oh, and it's made of wool.

Perfect choice for those balmy, 105-degree summer days when you really want to drive yourself nuts.

So anyway, I'm making this sweater.  I picked out four colors that harmonize, got the needles and pattern, and set to work.  Let me tell you about these colors.  A straightforward sort of person would call them red, blue, green, and yellow.  Someone with a touch of creativity would call them rust, slate, olive, and gold.

On a whim, I turned over each ball of yarn to read what the designers thought the colors should be called.  The blue one is Blue Fog.  Okay, I can go with that.  The red one is Burnt Sienna.  I think I remember that from the ol' crayon box; works for me.  Oo, the yellow one is called Sunburst Gold.  Fancy stuff, eh?  Now for the green.

What?

Okay, what have these people been smoking?  There is no way that this green can be called anything remotely resembling Butterscotch.  But there it is, in bold letters on the label.  Butterscotch.  I snort and turn to Himself.

"What color wold you call this?"

He squinted and thought before announcing, "It's sort of . . . brownish?"

I stared at the yarn.  Brown?  This stuff was almost Army green in the store.  But sonofagun, it DID look sort of brown.  I blamed it on the dim bulb (the lamp, not Himself) and went back to my knitting.  It was almost like some weird, fibery existential argument.  What if green really is brown? What if C-A-T really spells dog?  Stop lights would mock us.  Schools of interior design would collapse.  Skittles would weep in their bags.

Now that the sun is up, the yarn looks green again.  As I suspected, it was a trick of the light.  I'll continue on my merry way with the sweater, ignoring the Butterscotch label.  There's nothing wrong with my eyes.  Obviously, some designer got into a bad batch of candy and took it out on my yarn.