Music, Knits And Cookies

In which I make myself crosseyed.

2012-01-25T00:40:00.003-06:00

Those of us who craft usually get wild hairs in various places when somebody annouces an imminent baby. When that person is a very close friend expecting a first grandchild, the crafter goes momentarily insane.

"Oh! I'll knit a christening gown!"

Guess what I've been doing the past few months? I'll give you a hint: it involves yarn with the diameter of hair and needles the size of pencil leads.

Like it? The pattern is called Ribbons and Lace, and I stumbled across it here.

Great pictures, eh? You can probably guess that I didn't take them. This guy did. Totally off the cuff in our living room, and they turned out like magic.

And so that's what I've been doing lately. Now I'm going to rest my eyes...

Cheesecake and reality...

2011-12-28T13:07:00.001-06:00

While I am the first to admit that I am far from being a "domestic goddess", there are times when I do something so awesome, I almost feel worthy of the title.

Today was not one of those days.

Being in the mood to bake something for an upcoming jam session, I decided that a blueberry cheesecake would be just the thing. After all, I'd made a dozen cheesecakes in the past month. They'd turned out great, and I was confident in my abilities. I was also about to get up close and personal with reality, which scoffs at the confidence of mortals.

Reality decided to strike by stealing all of the aluminum foil and cookies. Without foil, I can't wrap my Springform pan. Without cookies, I can't make a crust. Reality eats worms.

Junior watched with interest as I pulled the foil box from the drawer and removed the empty cardboard roll.

"It's all gone, Mama."

"That's right, kiddo. Looks like we'll have to improvise."

My eye landed on a small pan of pound cake, a gluten-free (and very tasty) gift from friends. It was covered in foil! Woo-hoo! Since most of the cake had been eaten, the last chunk could be consumed for breakfast and the foil used for the cheesecake. Genius. Reality retreated to a corner, sulking. Now for the cookies.

Half a box of ginger snaps surfaced, but they would be a little overpowering for a cheesecake. They were pretty high-octane in the ginger department. Cereal? No. Blueberry cheesecake and Admiral Crispies or whatever they were did not sound like a match made in culinary heaven. Wait! Here, in the back of the cupboard. An unopened package of graham crackers from Junior's cracker kick last month. Score!

Reality took revenge as I crunched up crackers. With nearly a full cup of crumbs at my disposal, I decided to get creative and add some ginger snap crumbs to the mix. Mind you, these cookies are hard as granite, so I was prepared to use force. I put the cookies in a bag and hefted the rolling pin. WHACK! Down came the rolling pin.

Right onto the handle of the cup of graham cracker crumbs.

They made a beautiful display, sailing in a graceful arc across the kitchen and forming a monotone mosaic on the floor. I stared in horror, then gave a demonstration of why I should never be allowed to have a cooking show on live television.

Having completed my recitation of the ancestry and personal habits of cookies, rolling pins, and the universe in general, I cleaned up the mess and crushed another batch of graham crackers. With my fists. Reality had apparently decided that I'd suffered enough, and the rest of the preparations went smoothly.

So, I am no domestic goddess. I am pretty tough, though. Those cookies won't be messing with me again.

Winter sucks.

2011-12-07T12:36:00.001-06:00

Why do married couples tend to suffer from highly disparate body temperatures? It seems to be a common complaint; she's cold, he's ready to pass out from heat exhaustion. Things are no different for Clan Silfert. Take a ride in the car, for example.

"Hey, my ears just snapped off. Can we roll up the windows?"

"Why, are you cold?"

"Nah, I always turn blue like this. I just don't wanna mess up my hair."

The thermostat is another central issue in the War of the Warm-Blooded. In order to spare ourselves the monthly heart attack from Gas Bill Outrage, we keep the thermostat set to 68 degrees. Himself thinks this is just fine. I was apparently a lizard in a past life, because 68 degrees often feels like one step up from cryogenic storage.

"WHERE are all of my wool socks?!"

"Why, are you cold?"

"No, it's just that wearing five pairs of socks is the new thing, and I wanna be in on the trend."

It goes on like this. I'm married to a man who thinks nothing of going out in freezing weather with his shirt unbuttoned, while I'm contemplating drinking my coffee straight out of the pot.

"My God, I'm ready to set something on fire!"

"Why, are you cold?"

"Nah. I'm just sick of all this crummy old furniture."

Bedtime is the real kicker. Himself is content to sleep under a sheet in January, preferably with the windows open. I'm content to sleep under a sheet, a thermal blanket, a comforter, and a double-layer crocheted afghan. My side of the bed sags an extra three inches, thanks to the weight of the blankets.

"AUGH! Gimme the covers!"

"Why, are you cold?"

"No, I'm shaking like this because I accidentally spilled water on the electric blanket."

I don't think there will ever be a winner in the Cold Clash. There can only be compromise. Himself will continue to drive with the windows down, and I will content myself with spending lots of time and money at the yarn store. Scarves are in this year!

A note from Junior.

2011-11-30T14:31:00.000-06:00

It seems my life has evolved into large stretches of various kinds of work broken up by brief stretches of sleep. Since this kind of thing is totally boring, I'm gonna let Junior fill you in on the details of his morning.

"Hi. I am three, and Mama says I can write to you because she is tired. I am going to tell you about things to do when you wake up.

First, you get your blocks. I have lots of blocks with numbers and letters on them. I like to spell things. After you spell some things with blocks, you can go to the cold box and get some string cheese. Cheese is good, but it's hard to open, so you go to Mama's room and put the cheese on her face. Then she wakes up and opens it for you.

After you eat the string cheese, you can play document. Turn on the computer and make a document. This is fun, because you can make big letters and numbers in lots of colors. I like to spell 'xylophone' and 'ice cream' and 'elephant'. Playing document is a good game, but it makes you hungry, so you need cereal. Go to Mama's room and ask. She will say, "Zzzzzzzzzz", and that means okay. Get a bowl and the cereal and put them on Mama's head, and she will pour some for you. You don't need any milk, because you can have some in a sippy later.

After you play document and eat cereal, it's eight o'clock and time to help Mama get up. Eight o'clock is a good time for Mama to get up, because she goes to bed at four, and four plus four is eight. Four plus five is nine, but that's later. Go to Mama's room and tell her what time it is. She will look funny, because her hair wakes up first and stands up everywhere. You have to pull on her hand to help her up, then she will make coffee and sit at the table and you can sit on her lap. After Mama has coffee, she will sing and play games with you. I like the math game. Mama tells me two numbers, and I tell her what they make. Then she takes away some numbers, and I tell her what's left. Then she tickles me and makes more coffee.

After coffee, you can have breakfast. I help Mama make egg and cheese and toast and prunes. You can play some more after you finish your egg and cheese, but you don't have to eat all of your toast right away.

Mama says I am a very, very good little boy, and that she loves me more than everything. I love Mama, too, and Daddy."

The light at the end of the tunnel.

2011-11-08T10:50:00.001-06:00

I was inspired to start a certain knitting project a few months ago; a present for a friend. I found the perfect pattern, dug the appropriate needles out of my tool drawer, and selected some really nice wool.

My enchantment lasted almost an hour.

For starters, the needles are small. Picture the clicky-top of a ballpoint pen. Yeah, smaller than that. Now picture how happy my hands are to be cramped around those for a few hours every day. I look like a fuzzy T-Rex.

And the yarn! Super skinny stuff, usually referred to as "baby" or "fingering" weight yarn. At least it's a pale color. I made socks for an uncle once. Knee-high, black dress socks. Trying to knit hundreds of tiny black stitches when you're married to a guy who thinks forty-watt bulbs are "light enough" makes for some serious eyestrain. The socks were finished and greatly appreciated, and we now have seventy-five-watt bulbs in several of the fixtures.

The pattern on which I am currently working is interesting enough to keep me going, but not so complex as to require monastic silence and pages of charts. That said, let me give you an idea of the scale. I have just finished the main part of the pattern, a large swath of lace. Each row has 285 stitches. Each pattern row repeat calls for 4 rows. All told, there are 24 pattern row repeats, making a grand total of...

Good grief.

Twenty-seven thousand, three hundred sixty stitches.

Excuse me. I need a drink. Jeez.

Okay, so, coffee in hand and more figuring. I still have a big chunk of knitting ahead of me, but it feels like an easy downhill slide now. The rest of the pattern calls for picking up here, decreasing there, and then some very careful sewing. By the time I'm done, there may be close to 50,000 stitches in this thing.

This is the part where Himself scratches his head and says, "Why don't you just go BUY one?" and I smack him on the arm.

For one thing, there is no store that sells this particular item. For another, it's for a very special occasion and some very special people. And mostly, I just like knitting. Ten rows of ten stitches or one row of one hundred stitches; I still get to enjoy one of my favorite hobbies.

But my next project is probably going to be a hammock.

A look at "progress".

2011-10-18T11:13:00.001-05:00

I was recently confronted with a question on Facebook. A yarn company was asking folks, "How many 'works-in-progress' do you have going right now?" I wondered if they meant that there was actual progress being made, or if the multitude of half-finished pieces counted as stuff on which theoretical progress was being made. I wandered the house with a clipboard. Finished items net one point, languishing pieces get a negative, and works in progress count as neutral.

Okay, front room. There IS a sweater hanging on the door, but it's a WWII Red Cross vest. Done and on display, therefore not a work in progress. Score one for me and an anonymous knitter from decades ago. On to Junior's room.

Hmm... Two sweaters, six pairs of socks, three hats. Finished, so no longer 'projects'. More points for me. Wait, what's this? Half a sock in a drawer! They're either intended for somebody else, or I was asleep when I chose the color. I suppose that when you can no longer remember who it's for, a project no longer counts as "in progress". Minus one point, and moving on.

Here we are in the living room, studiously avoiding looking in the corner. What, you looked? Rats. Okay, so that bag has about five things in it, but they're going to get done as soon as I find A) the charts for the next section or B) more yarn. They may not be progressing, but I have big plans. I just... need a little more time to sort everything out. And stuff.

Kitchen! Now, there is nothing in here that could... Oh. Heh, heh. Come on, it's just one lousy half-knitted dish cloth. It's something to work on when the microwave is running slowly. That means it's kind of "in progress".

I'll spare you the shock of seeing the mudroom and announce that I get a minus three for that room. Scarves. They got boring.

Let's see what's in the birds' room. One neutral for yet another scarf, and two negatives for the pair of unfinished shawls. I'm not even going to pretend that I'm going to have a chance to work on them in the next month or so. Complex lace patterns require quiet and concentration. I have a three-year-old and a night job. Do the math.

The bathroom has no knitting in it because that would be weird and I finished that piece already, anyway.

This brings us to the bedroom, which Himself likes to call "Where'd You Put the Bed?!" I may have one or two knitted items in here, waiting to be progressed upon. Fourteen, tops. Unless you count the boxes in the closet and the attic, in which case the number becomes meaningless and requires an astrophysics degree to calculate.

What can I say? I like knitting. And in my defense, it IS called "knitting" and not "finishing that baby blanket before the kid goes off to college". So there. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sweater to finish. All it needs is the collar, which I will make as soon as I can dig up the right needles. I think they're in this drawer...

Ooo, look at this cool yarn I found!

2011-10-03T10:22:00.002-05:00

There are many kinds of injuries, and many ways to get them. Some of the injuries are extensive, some are minor. Some of the methods of injury can be dull, while others are as exciting as a pirate adventure. My injury... was really lame.

A few months ago, I tore my left rotator cuff. Your rotator cuff is the thing that makes it possible for you to do just about everything with your arm. Things like reaching for your wallet, or lifting your coffee cup, or knitting. Hugs are delivered gingerly, and jumping rope is right out.

If you are lucky enough to have health insurance, you can go to a doctor and get lots of good advice about keeping the injured arm mobile while not moving it past the point of pain. If you do not have health insurance, you will do one of two things. You can say, "Holy fire-breathing agony, Batman! That hurts!" and tie your wrist to your thigh in order to prevent any motion whatsoever. If you have a life, though, you'll have to suck it up and move that arm.

Turns out that motion (gently done and with frequents rests) is sometimes good for such injuries. During the first week of my injury, I could lift a coffee cup only if I was facing it dead-on. Knitting was reduced to about six stitches at a time. As weeks went by and I continued to manhandle boxes at work, I noticed that there was a definite improvement. I could reach for things that were a few degrees to one side. I could knit an entire row before taking a break. Most importantly (in Himself's eyes), I could hoist Junior onto the changing table again.

So in conclusion, let me just say that it isn't only major-league athletes that sustain injuries. Even those of us who... eh? My arm? You wanna know how I tore it up? Oh, that's such a boring story, I'm sure you'd rather... Huh? You want to hear the story.

Sigh.

Okay. I'm telling you, though. It's not exciting. It's actually pretty stupid. Did I injure myself when I pulled the Bingo Club from their burning hall? No. Fighting off a pack of wild dogs bent on destruction? No. No, the truth of the matter is... I sneezed.

Yeah, you heard me. I tore my rotator cuff by sneezing.

See, I was at work. Feeling the need to sneeze, and not wanting to bash my face against the surface of my work station, I braced both hands against the edge and turned my face into my sleeve. You know, like the health professionals say to do in order to avoid spreading germs? Yeah, well, the act of sneezing whiplashed my shoulder and tore my rotator cuff, which left me standing like a pained statue for several seconds as my brain registered the fact that all was suddenly horrible in my little world.

There you go. A stupid injury, and proof that germs should go wherever they like. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go do some rehab exercises in the form of lifting a coffee cup. Maybe some cake, too.

In which I get glasses.

2011-09-06T10:31:00.001-05:00

As a lifelong bookworm, it came as a total shock a few months ago when I lost the desire to read. Well, that's not entirely accurate. It was no longer fun to read, and by that I mean a few pages were enough to make my head throb and my eyes want to leap from their sockets and roll away.
I thought back over the last week. Hm. Constant headache. To be totally honest, I'd had a headache for a few months. You know how things look when you watch through a very old window? Kinda wavy and just a touch fuzzy? That's how everything looked when I read or did needlework. In case you're wondering, it's totally Not Fun. I waited for the next paycheck and got an eye exam.

Now, I've always aced eye exams. When asked to read the bottom line, smart-butt me would read the copyright information. I settled into the chair with some confidence.

"Okay, read the lowest line that you can see clearly."

Holy... Wow. It was apparent that my confidence was misplaced. "Um, P... S... D? C... Uh, Q. I think."

The rest of the exam went in a similar vein, and it became obvious that 20/10 vision was a thing of the past. I waited for the results.

"Well, your eyes are in good shape. No macular degeneration, no high blood pressure or glaucoma or diabetes. BUT! You have some astigmatism, which is why you've been having headaches."

Huh. So, instead of being shaped like ping-pong balls, my eyes look more like eggs. Great. "So I need glasses?"

"Yes. But you won't have to wear them all the time. Just for driving, and for reading and other close work."

I almost collapsed my sinuses by snorting. My entire LIFE involves close work. Knitting, reading, writing... Heck, even playing with Junior involves close work. His favorite toy is the calculator, and we play letter and number games all day long. "In other words, I won't need them in the shower or when I'm sleeping, eh?"

The thought of glasses was not distressing. Lots of my favorite people wear glasses, so I'd be in good company. And anything that got rid of the headaches would be a Good Thing. I picked out a pair of frames, listed my preferences, and handed over a large chunk of change. A week later, the office called to let me know that the specs had arrived. I rushed right over and was handed my first pair of glasses. I put them on.

Woooooooowwwww! "Everything has edges! This is so cool!"

While I haven't gotten that multi-million dollar publishing contract or anything like that, I can say that my life has been improved by getting glasses. I haven't had a headache since I started wearing them, and I can read and knit for hours without wanting to bury my face in a bucket of ice. Also, Junior likes to try them on now and then, and he looks cute as a bug in them.

There's only one problem. Now that I can see everything, what should I do first?

Heat sucks.

2011-08-08T10:40:00.002-05:00

Before I begin my tale of woe, let me just say that I know all of the stories that start with, "When I was a kid..." Soup from rocks, walking to school in six feet of snow (uphill both ways and nekkid), and the extreme weather without benefit of creature comforts. None of these hardship harangues can alter the fact that trying to sleep while it is ninety degrees IN YOUR HOUSE is an absolutely miserable experience.

Ninety-two, to be exact, but why quibble over a couple of degrees?

I came home from work early Friday morning to see that the thermostat read "81". Oh, crud. Bad sign. We keep it set to "78", and the AC kicks on when the in-house temperature gets to "79". The elevated reading meant that the AC compressor had died again, and the only thing that would be kicking was me. On the floor. In a tantrum.

Rather than pay killer overtime charges (nobody's open on the weekends anyway; it's not like we could get new parts until Monday), we opted to be tough and wait for a new work week. We spent most of the weekend sitting around in our underwear punctuated by trips to the store on the flimsiest possible pretexts.

"Gasp! Good grief! Do you realize we're almost out of... uh... gummed reinforcements?"

"Heavens! What if somebody wants to write a report? To the air condi... I mean, to the store at once!"

And so, with the help of several fans and some creative shopping, we made it to Monday. The repair dude arrived and was greeted by sweaty me and some fresh coffee. And the freakin' rain. Augh! Yeah, see, I'm all thrilled and stuff about the rain. It is now a mere seventy-odd degrees outside, allowing the indoor temps to drop to mid-eighties thanks to open windows. The yard foliage will now be substantially less crispy, and hairy pets can resume outdoor activities.

Rain also means no AC repair. Repair work is not like delivering the mail. Temperature extremes are one thing, but ain't nobody in their right mind gonna do electrical work outside under a big tree in a thunderstorm. Not even my awesome coffee is enough of an incentive to be stupid. So, we wait. I can pass the time pawning internal organs to raise the necessary funds, I guess. Or I could sit on the porch, enjoy the refreshing rain, and be glad that the repair dude won't be bringing a new unit through six feet of snow.

Uphill both ways and nekkid...

Shawl, revisited

2011-06-28T10:54:00.001-05:00

Having finished the first shawl, the second should have been a piece of cake. Thicker yarn means faster knitting, and fewer color changes make for the kind of mindless knitting that equates a speedy project. In truth, the actual spinning and knitting went fairly quickly.

It was the delivery that took forever.

I made this shawl after a visit with a basket weaver friend at the Battle of Black Jack re-enactment last year. I had my drop spindle and some soft white wool, she had a table full of reeds and baskets. Curious glances turned into covetous thoughts, and we worked out a trade. A handspun shawl for a hand woven basket. Since I was already working on the yarn, and had everything I needed for the pattern, it seemed like a great plan.

The shawl worked up just the way I'd pictured it. The main body was an off-white, tweedy wool yarn with little nubs of raw silk and a fuzzy halo of angora. Imagine a hairy marshmallow, and you'll have a general idea. I added broad stripes of blue, green, and cranberry red near the bottom, and finished the piece with fringe. Now that the work was done, it was time to take the shawl to its new owner.

Easier said than done.

Having lost my friend's phone number, I had to wait until we were at an event together. After several near misses, I called up the folks at Constitution Hall in Lecompton. At the end of June, they host a big shindig called Territorial Days. It includes a street carnival, turtle races, and lots of historical-type demonstrators. We've been going for several years to play music and give spinning demos, and it's where I met my friend in the first place. Yes, they said. She'll be here.

Excellent.
The morning of the big day, we packed the car with our stuff and headed to my folks' place. Junior was spending the day with Grandma and Grandpa and his cousins while Mama and Daddy hung out with John Brown and Abe Lincoln. Mom admired the shawl, Dad poured the coffee, and the kids dug out every toy they could find. After a round of kisses and "bye-bye's", we were on the road. Halfway to Lecompton, I had a sudden thought.

"@#$%!!"

"What? Whatsa matter?"

"I left the shawl at Mom and Dad's."

A quick phone call confirmed that yes, the shawl was still in its bag, still on the table, and still not delivered to its intended recipient. Alternately sulking and shouting, I almost didn't hear Himself's suggestion. We could just get the address and take the shawl to my friend the next day. This plan won out over my idea of violence and mayhem. The address was procured, the shawl was delivered, and the trade was made. Two happy crafters went their merry ways.

Oh, and my new basket is totally awesome.

Heat stroke, here I come!

2011-06-07T09:11:00.001-05:00

When you are a cheerful and enthusiastic volunteer, word gets around. Note: I am not now, nor have I ever been, cheerful or enthusiastic about cleaning up nasty things like fifty-year-old cow sheds. Just sayin'.

I do enjoy fibery things like spinning yarn, though, and this past weekend was a double day of just that. I got to sit on my duff, play with my spinning wheel, and talk to hordes of people. Okay, maybe 'hordes' is a little strong. There were lots of people; many of them were sipping lemonade. The sitting, spinning, and talking parts are all accurate.

I do these demonstrations on a fairly regular basis at places like the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, schools, and zoos. It's one of my very favorite things to do. I'm also available for parties, if there happens to be cake. While there wasn't any cake to be had this weekend, it was still a great time, except for one little thing. Would you like a hint? I'll give you a hint.

We're in Kansas, Toto. In June.

If you suggested that it may have been a little hot, you may go to the fridge and take your pick between the leftover enchilada or the half-can of whipped cream.

It was HOT. Beastly hot. The kind of hot where you keep feeling your face to see if your eyeballs have melted. If you are a clever tourist, you will face a hot day such as that with a hat and some loose-fitting cotton clothes. If you are somewhat more inventive, you will spend the day in your underwear, sitting in a full horse trough with six fans pointed at you. I had neither of those options. I spent Saturday in Baldwin City at the Black Jack re-enactment, chasing shade and eating fabulous oatmeal raisin cookies, dressed in... a dress. With boots, petticoat, corset, under-type things, and an apron.

Sunday was spent in the same getup (laundered), in similar heat, but at our beloved Prairie with a nice barn for shade. I essentially melted into an animated puddle.

This is the point where the guy with the cool drink and the sun hat asks me why I do this to myself. What kind of nut job would sit in the sun and talk to strangers?

Me.

It's not the fried skin and sweaty clothes that bring me back every year. It's those aforementioned strangers. The adults who come by with stories of their grandmother and her spinning wheel. The kids who want to know how fast my wheel can spin. The very little kids who give me excellent advice on the proper color for a knitted doggie sweater. And my personal favorite, the awestruck lady who asked, "And you can use it just like REAL yarn?"

Yes, Ma'am. Provided you don't pass out first.

One down, three to go...

2011-05-16T17:56:00.001-05:00

Okay, so the big project that has been in the works for a whole stinkin' YEAR is done. It's a shawl, and a very special one at that. You may recall that we go out to the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve every summer to do living history stuff. Well, Chief of Interpretation Heather and I cooked up a scheme to make a knitted recreation of a Civil War-era shawl.

Me being me, I took it to the extreme.

That year it took me to do the shawl? Most of that was research. I combed the Internet, wrote to experts, and pestered yarn companies to gather every scrap of available information on hundred-year-old (and then some) yarns. It was my intention to reproduce this shawl as accurately as possible.

Mostly, I drove myself nuts.

After hours of reading, scribbling, and swearing, I finally came up with the information I needed. I even made sure to choose wool from breeds of sheep that were available at the time in question. Time to spin.

First came the two-ply black and violet yarn. Each strand had to be super skinny, which meant that A) it took forever, and B) I had to ignore everybody that tried to talk to me.

Yeah, I was popular for a while there.

More of the same ensued with the plain black yarn, ditto the gold yarn. Finally it was done. NOW all that remained was to knit something like five hundred miles of little-bitty stitches. Of dark yarn. On dark needles. I managed a mile per so per day before my eyes threatened to cross.

All good things come to an end, and just last week I finished the Grand Project: the 1864 shawl. It is beautiful. It is awe-inspiring. It is sitting in a bag on my nightstand.

Heather wasn't on duty when I showed up to deliver the shawl, and I have no intention of handing it off to anybody but her.

Hey, after a year of work, I deserve to see the look on her face, don't you think?

Hair what?

2011-05-10T18:00:00.000-05:00

When Himself needs a haircut, he lets me know. Sometimes the request seems to come about every five days or so, but I could be exaggerating. Junior is far less concerned with the state of his hair. The wind generated by three-year-old energy usually keeps his bangs out of his eyes, but when he starts walking with his head tilted back or bumps into walls, I know it's time to break out the scissors.

One evening, in that magical span of time after bath but before bed, I decided to trim Junior's 60's rock star 'do.

"C'mon, Monkey Boy! Hop up in the chair and I'll give you a haircut."

With a look of dismay, Junior came on the run -- right past me and into his room. He leaped on his bed and reached for the covers.

"All done haircut! Go night-night!"

"Whaddaya mean, all done? Come and sit in the chair. You can even have a cookie if you sit nice and still."

"All done cookie. All done haircut."

Bribery wasn't working, and Junior was making it plain that he'd rather have an early bedtime than submit to the scissors. I finally convinced him to come out by explaining that with his hair shorter, he'd have a much easier time of reading his beloved numbers and letters.

"Numboos and yeddoos?"

"That's right, kiddo. You can see every last one of 'em."

He climbed into the chair with a look of resignation. I set to work, figuring on giving him a good trim all the way around. Have you ever cut a little kid's hair? It's like trying to paint a propeller while it's moving.

"Okay, look up. No, not that high. Over here. Wait. No, now... Honey, can you... Okay, look up again. No, not that high."

I settled for getting his bangs out of his eyes. Brushing away a few zillion teeny-tiny stray clippings, I told Junior that he was free to go back to playing. He studied himself in the hand mirror and patted his hair.

"Now I have a cookie!"

He may not remember where he hid all of the puzzle pieces, but he never forgets a cookie.

What have I done?

2011-05-03T20:23:00.001-05:00

I may have gotten myself in over my head. It seemed like a good idea at the time, though.

See, a bunch of friends and I decided to do a "KAL", also known as a Knit-A-Long. That's where a bunch of knitters get together in person or online and all make the same project. The object is to work on it together and finish at a specified time. Sometimes it's a sock KAL, other times it may be a blanket KAL. In this case, it's a lace shawl.

Yeah.

I agreed to make a lace shawl. In three months.

I have until the end of August, so I don't feel too pressured at the moment. I bought my yarn and found the right needles, and got the lace charts all written out. So far, so good. I made it through the beginning rows without any problems.

Ah, but then came the charts! Intense patterns and ultra-skinny yarn do not make a good combo with a three-year-old boy who's so much fun to play with. No problem; I'll just wait until Junior goes to bed and pick up where I left off. A quiet evening is the perfect time to work on a complex pattern.

Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on Himself.

Needing a bit of entertainment, he decided to put on a movie. Something contemplative? On old classic film, perhaps? No. He chose a movie about explorers in Africa during the Victorian era.

Head bent over my stitches, I was deep in counting when the T.V. erupted.

"...six, seven, eight..."

"*stab* AUGH!! BANGBANGBANG!! Ew, gross! *Chop, stab, slice* AUGH!! BANG!!"

"...fourteen, fifteen, sixteen..."

"Ew, right in his ear! BANG!! *stickety stab, poke* AUUUGH!!"

I struggled to the end of the row and put the shawl-to-be away in disgust. Sigh. Okay, so I'll wait until Junior AND Himself go to bed before I knit.

Too bad I have to get up at 4:30...

Has it been that long?

2011-04-26T08:47:00.002-05:00

Wow, I've been slacking.

Not really, though. I've been working, just not on blogging and fun stuff. I've been doing actual work off and on at my temporary job. Ten- and twelve-hour shifts can really take it out of you!

I did do something fun this past weekend, though. Nope, not Easter stuff, although that was enjoyable. It wasn't a road trip, and it wasn't dinner and a movie.

Need a hint?

Truth in advertising.

2011-04-10T22:27:00.004-05:00

The season is off to an early start this year, it seems. We visited schools for Kansas Day, organized an event for May, and took part in Agricultural Day out at the Visitor's Center.

The season? Living history season, of course. The time when Himself and I hang out in our old-timey garb and chat with tourists in places with names like the Tallgrass Prairie and Constitution Hall. They say that those who do not learn from the past are condemned to repeat it. Well, I guess we're not learning much, because we repeat the past every summer. We have a great time, though.

One part of re-enactments and history "festivals" that I always enjoy is checking out the goods for sale. Moccasins and bead work, aged farm equipment, books; there's all kinds of stuff to be seen. Every now and then, we find a keeper that absolutely HAS to come home with us. Mind you, it must be cool and groovy enough to please my spouse's particular tastes. It has to look natural, or at least authentic. It can't be something that "everybody" already has six of.

Plastic Abraham Lincoln bobble-head doll with kung fu grip? Not a chance. Five hundred pound chunk of limestone that looks like the skull of Godzilla? Heck, yeah! Haul that sucker to the house.

On one memorable day in June, we were doing our thing at Territorial Days in Lecompton. Himself took a break from playing music and roasting in the sun to check out the vendors. He tracked me down a while later, bearing his latest prize. It was cool and groovy and it looked authentic. As a bonus, it was funny.

He proudly displayed a weatherbeaten metal sign and announced, "This is going on the front of the house!" I read the sign and agreed that here was something that fit right in with the rest of our eclectic collections.

Starving rats and Bundt cake.

2011-04-06T12:59:00.001-05:00

As the mother of an only child, I tend to be a bit on the over-protective side. No peanut butter until he turned two, no playing near the street, no leaning to look in the pond unless Mama has a grip on his waistband. Running with scissors and stage-diving off the couch are right out.

Since the kitchen is full of dangerous and fascinating things, we keep a baby gate latched across the doorway. It actually used to work, but that was before Junior discovered that one good yank opened the path to the fridge. It is not uncommon to be awakened at seven in the morning by the sound of little feet headed for the cheese supply. Ever the thoughtful boy, he will come in and announce his activities.

"Oh! Iss seven twenny-two! I ea-tin cheese!"

The gate usually works well enough, as long as there are no temptations within view. Crackers, candy, and prunes must all be stored in cabinets. Unfortunately, the double whammy of a selectively deaf spouse and a determined little boy recently made a joke of the gate. After making the cake to be served at our weekly jam session, I set the cake on a rack to finish cooling.

"Okay, Babe! The cake is ready, and the coffeepot is set up. Make sure to leave the gate up so Junior doesn't get into the kitchen!"

Take careful note of that last sentence. You will note that I specifically asked for the gate to stay up, and for a stated reason. Feeling confident that all bases were covered, I headed off to work. Thanks to a low backlog, I returned home by just a little after eight that evening.

"Hi, Honey! I'm ho-o-o-ly CRAP WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CAKE?!?!"

My lovely Bundt cake was sitting on a plate on the washing machine in the mudroom. Once an elegant creation full of fruit and sugar, it now looked as though it had been attacked by starving rats. It took exactly three seconds to decipher the damage. I stuck the plate under Himself's nose and scowled.

"Well, the thing is... um... See, there was this... We were..."

After much hemming and hawing, a confession. He'd taken the gate down (!!!) and turned his back for "just a second". The rest was messy history. When the cake was served, I gave Himself a slice with a handprint on it.

The detour.

2011-03-22T23:06:00.003-05:00

It's always a treat to hang out with my knitter friends, and that's exactly what I got to do this past Sunday. Five of us got together to shop, visit, and eat exotic food in North Kansas City before dropping by the Russell Stover outlet. Before we left, though, I had to get to the meeting point in Shawnee.

The plan was to meet up at a friend's house at 11:15. Mind you, I've been there a zillion times, but always in the passenger seat with my nose in my knitting. I needed some help with directions. Himself scribbled a few lines on a sheet of notepaper.

"Okay, you go here, then turn left, take this exit, turn right, take that exit, turn right, and follow this road to their house."

Piece of cake.

After a round of smooches, I headed for I-35. All went well until I was ready to look for the Johnson Drive exit. Where did all of these orange signs come from?

Turns out, there's a wee bit of construction going on up there. By "wee bit", I mean that the entire landscape has changed. Now there's a big uphill and a slope and a cliff sort of thing with on ramps and off ramps to spare. Oh, and someone stole the road signs. The big Johnson Drive exit sign was flat gone. In its place, about a tenth of a mile past the exit, was a three-inch orange rectangle with tiny black print that said, "Johnson Drive this way".

Well, that was helpful. At least I knew where I should have turned. With visions of unplanned trips to Nebraska flashing before my eyes, I muttered under my breath and looked for the next exit. Lo and behold, three was another three-inch rectangle with tiny print. "Johnson Drive detour this way." I took the turn like Mario Andretti and scowled at the road.

Four lights, six stop signs, and one roundabout with only one outlet later, I made it to my destination only a few minutes late. We had a great time, ate way too much, and fondled every skein of yarn in the store. I had absolutely no trouble finding my way through the construction on the way home.

I took a back road.

I got yer money, right here!

2011-02-28T20:41:00.001-06:00

Several weeks ago, I made the mistake of answering the phone. What can I say; the number looked familiar. When I said, "Hello?", I was sucked into a vortex of fast-talking political doublespeak. It was a majority campaign, and the dude on the other end of the line was doing his darnedest to convince me that with my help, we could stave off the destruction of all life as we know it.

While he didn't quite come out and SAY that the other party wants to eat your children and desecrate the corpses of loved ones, you could hear it in his voice. My contribution, he assured me, would not only save children and corpses, it would save the starving and turn deserts into lush oases.

Or something to that effect. The rhetoric was making my head hurt.

Since I didn't have a ten billion-volt power source with which to zap this bozo into silence, I did the next best thing. I offered to send him a donation for his cause.

With a condition.

I would send him ten dollars IF, and only if, I was still employed by the time his letter arrived. He immediately began singing praises to my ancestors and promised to send an addressed return envelope very soon. I hung up and massaged my ear.

A week later, my seasonal job ended. Bummer. Two days after that, the "give us the cash" letter arrived. Bummer for you, pal. No job, no money. Just like I said. I snickered at the claims made in said letter ("We made commitments based on your $10.00 pledge!") and tossed it. Somebody ought to be committed, all right. Sheesh.

Another letter arrived two weeks later, and another one showed up today. Apparently, my generous commitment will have immediate impact on the fight to save puppies and butterflies from the ravages of the other party. Or something to that effect. I no longer care; I've had enough of these letters. I whipped out a pen and wrote a reply on the back of the latest "If you don't send money, it means you hate kittens" letter.

"Dear Sir--
as I stated to your EXTREMELY enthusiastic assistant, my contribution hinged on the likelihood of me retaining my job. As my husband and I have both since joined the ranks of the unemployed, that ten dollar pledge has been spent on luxury items like food and diapers. Please dun me no more, and rest assured that if the country goes up in flames, I will shoulder my part of the blame."

I love kittens, but my letter's going in the mail tomorrow.

Things to do when you're snowed in.

2011-02-02T17:16:00.002-06:00

When you know that a blizzard is about to attack, hurry to the store. Buy important supplies such as food, coffee, and toilet paper.

An amusing story about toilet paper...

Some folks we know were doing the stockup routine before a major snowstorm. While standing in the aisle, deciding what to get next, a man went by with a cart. In the cart was a BALE of toilet paper. Like, five hundred rolls or so. I may be exaggerating.

Our friends stared in awe as the giant bale of TP trundled past. A helpful fellow (I believe they said he was of Asian descent) decided to put their confused minds at ease by confiding some words of wisdom.

"Big storm make people go more."

Anyway, while you are buying your bale of toilet paper, get a few craft supplies. With the help of some beads, yarn, and scissors, I made a groovy new curtain for Junior's room.

What do you want to make today?

Entertainment.

2011-01-25T10:27:00.000-06:00

Thanks to generous friends and a well-stocked "dollar" aisle, Junior has lots of toys. There's the teddy bear that sings and tells stories. There's the musical top that lights up and does animal impressions. A deep-sea themed "fishing" puzzle? Got it. Enough alphabet blocks to spell out the Gettysburg Address? Got them, too.

At the moment, he's playing with... a cardboard box.

No, it's not a washing machine box done up like a little playhouse. It's just a box. A diaper box. Junior is seated on the floor, and is ever so carefully peeling of layer after layer of paper and depositing each scrap into a green plastic tote.

Like most toddlers, Junior is fascinated by the idea of destruction. Well, maybe not destruction. Perhaps he's just so into the idea of how things work that he feels driven to dismantle them to see what's inside.

Oh, wait. That IS destruction.

So he pulls out shoelaces and drawers, peels his crayons, and stomps on toast. He also likes to tear paper. It started with a small cardboard book, denuded and alone on the couch. Another followed, along with several puzzle pieces. There were paper bits everywhere. It was like living with a giant mouse.

Distraction efforts failed. When offered a newspaper to rip, Junior tossed it aside with a disdainful sniff. No challenge there. Napkin? Boring. Paper plate? Puh-leeze. In a last-ditch effort to save the Junior Library, Himself brought in a diaper box.

"Here! Tear this up all you want, but leave the books alone!"

Junior looked at the box. He picked at a corner. R-i-i-i-i-p. He smiled. The box came apart in thirty-seven minutes and five hundred eighty-two layers.

As of today, Junior is "excavating" his seventh cardboard box. Maybe he'll be an archaeologist.

Nothing to see here...

2011-01-18T20:45:00.002-06:00

...and nothing to do. My temp job is over, which means that the snow outside has all three of us sitting at home, feeling like the typewriter scene from 'The Shining'.

Sigh.

Not to be discouraged, however! There is still yarn. And coffee. As of right now, I've finished two hats, a sweater for Junior, and a chemo cap class proposal for the local cancer foundation. Another sweater is on the needles, along with a half-done blankie for Project Linus, and there are two scarves being planned for the loom.

Right after Junior and I read another story...

Five thousand knitting needles...

2011-01-10T11:50:00.002-06:00

...and not one is a size 8 circular. Sigh.

I started a sweater for Junior a few months ago. Having been sidetracked by various and sundry Terribly Important Things, said sweater has been languishing on an end table for some time.

Actually, it's not an end table. It's a between table. It sits between the couch and the catch-all shelf. How much "all" can a catch-all shelf catch? A lot.

Anyway...

With the Terribly Important Things out of the way, including Himself's watch cap, I turned my attention back to the sweater. Junior, quite thoughtfully, has not yet grown out of his unfinished sweater. This gives me at least a couple of weeks to finish.

Let's see, where was I on this sweater? Front and back panels, check. Right side and sleeve, check. Okay, then. I picked up the stitches for the left side and knit away. Nice yarn, this. 50% organic cotton and 50% organic wool in a sort of peachy-orangey-sunsetty color, somewhere between school bus yellow and safety orange.

A cheerful color.

I knocked out side two and the second sleeve in record time, then sewed up the seams. A quick read of the instructions...

Rats. The bottom ribbing requires a size 8 circular needle. Pretty much the only needle I don't have. Great. Snow is falling like the European scenes from a war movie, and I haven't got the needle needed to finish the sweater.

Hmm...

I suppose I could start a second sweater. Maybe by the time I get to the bottom ribbing of a new sweater, the roads will be plowed and I can buy a size 8 circular needle.

Of course, it'll probably be July and I won't need the needle OR the sweater...

On the subject of fiddliness.

2011-01-03T12:23:00.001-06:00

There's a small gang of us at work who like to sit in the main hallway during breaks. I'm not sure why. Freedom to sprawl, relief from the TV set, the potential to trip unwary passers-by...

Anyway, we hang out there and drink coffee and talk. I bring my knitting bag, a red-striped cotton affair that takes no offense at being shoved into a tiny locker. Inside the bag is a stocking cap, very close to being finished. Did I tell you about the hat I was making for Himsef? For Christmas?

Same hat.

It should have been done long ago, as has been pointed out repeatedly by my hall mates and the co-workers we trip. This is the point where I have to explain the concept of "fiddly" knitting. In the world of knitting, "fiddly" refers to any project with tiny needles, lots of charts and colorwork, weird stitches, or a combination of all three. Fiddly means pain in the butt, basically.

A stocking cap is one of the least fiddly projects to be found, which is why it comes to work with me. Even if the power goes out and we're stuck in the dark clutching lukewarm cups of coffee while the emergency sirens blare in the distance, I can still knit a stocking cap. Piece of cake.

Of course, being so fiddly-free is why the stocking cap is NOT done yet. It only gets worked on at work, five or ten minutes at a stretch during breaks. I save my home knitting time for things like patterned Norwegian mittens and cabled sweaters.

These are near the apex of fiddliness, and would therefore cause a fit of temper if I were in the middle of a row and the back-to-work alarm sounded, causing me to juggle chart, needles, skeins, bag, and pencil all the way back to my locker after trying to find a suitable stopping point and trying to place everything in a neat stack that actually stays in place without losing my spot on the chart or dunking one of six skeins of yarn in the coffee that I accidentally kicked over.

Fiddly stays at home, even if it means Himself gets his hat on the fourth of July.

A tiny road trip.

2010-12-15T13:21:00.005-06:00

This past weekend, we decided to take a short vacation before the cold weather set in. It was a blistering twenty degrees when we set out. Our timing is awesome.

Driving south, we entered Oklahoma and saw some of the many charming little towns. I had to take a picture of this sign in Disney, Oklahoma:

"M-I-C... See you in hell!!"

Okay, so that's totally wrong and twisted, but I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't the first thing that popped into my head. Disney is a lovely place, and there wasn't a mouse to be seen.

Moving on, we toured the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve, counterpart to our own Prairie here in Kansas. After snickering at the signs advertising "loose bison" (Go on, keep a straight face. I dare you.), we had to stop for a parade.

A big group of bison crossed in front of our vehicle, then posed for a few pictures. Bison can run 35 miles per hour, and they can jump six feet, horizontally and vertically. We did not pet them.

I REALLY wanted to pet these guys:

Gorgeous, aren't they? The original "fastback" mustangs. We also took time to visit an amazing place called Lendonwood Gardens. Junior and I said "hello" to the Angel of Hope while Himself attempted photography. The angel is dedicated to families who have lost loved ones, especially children.

We had a great time.

A visit to the attic.

2010-11-22T13:50:00.001-06:00

When Junior was born, he received three handmade quilts and a number of afghans. There's the Soft Blankie, the Music Blankie, and the Tractor Blankie among others. Now that the cold weather is here, he asks for at least one every evening. I'm right behind him.

Having lost twenty pounds, I find myself in greater need of insulation as winter approaches. More than once, I've considered climbing into one of the many boxes of wool stashed about the house. Since I don't own stock in a lint brush company, I've refrained. I can, however, increase the family blankie supply. The question is, "How?"

With barely enough time during a typical day to get the laundry through a complete dryer cycle (pity me in my pantsicles this December), it's highly unlikely that I'll knock out a knitted or crocheted afghan before swimsuit season returns. I thought about quilting. A "cheater" quilt perhaps, using a printed fabric that looks like squares that doesn't actually have to be cut up... HEY!

I actually HAVE a quilt top, just waiting to be put together with a backing and some batting. It's like, ten zillion little squares that I cut out and sewed together all by myself! Let's see, where did I put that thing?

Oh.

It's in the attic.

Here's the thing about the attic. It's kinda cobwebby, no big deal. An assortment of spiders, not a problem. Not on the main floor of the house, saints preserve us. I have to climb the ladder.

I'm afraid of heights.

Being the supportive spouse that he is, Himself came to my rescue. He offered to hold the ladder. He would have gone into the attic himself, but he had no idea what I was looking for, and he didn't want to make an unnecessary mess by digging through a bunch of unknown boxes, and... Yeah. Thanks, dear. Just hold the ladder and I'll go.

I got about halfway up the ladder before hyperventilating; a personal record. Okay, Old Yeller, get a grip. It's a ladder to the attic, not the horseshoe observation deck at the Grand Canyon. I bullied myself into taking another step and opening the trapdoor.

Well, this isn't so bad. Lights, familiar boxes, the friendly furnace looming in the corner. I turned to the first pile of boxes and started to dig. Spider, yarn, yarn, yarn, spider, knitting needles. The next two piles were the same, as was the fourth pile. I was covered with dust, itchy with stray wool fibers, and being sworn at by disgruntled spiders. No quilt top. I re-stacked the boxes, thoroughly dejected, but laden with yarn I'd forgotten about until this moment and now desperately needed.

"Hey, Honey! I'm ready to come down now!"

I tossed him skein after skein of rediscovered yarn that I'd stacked on... another box? Was this here when I came up? I don't remember this box, what's in...

Seriously? This big, inviting box standing in the middle of the attic is THE ONE WITH MY QUILT TOP?! Right on top, no less. If the spiders were watching, they'd no doubt take to swimming in my coffee for revenge. I dropped the quilt top down to Larry and (eventually) made a successful descent to the floor.

As I admired my handiwork over coffee (See the fine stitches! The beautiful colors! A quilt for the ages!), I thought about the old saw that says, "It's always in the last place you look". Well, yeah. I suppose that's true. After all, once you find it, why would you keep looking?

Desperately seeking sweater.

2010-11-15T13:39:00.001-06:00

If you make things, you know the moment you find the right materials. Maybe it's a chunk of purple heartwood that begs to be carved. Maybe it's an amazing length of batik fabric that wants to be a quilt. In my case, it's an armload of brown wool. Not just any brown, mind you. This is that not-quite-chocolate-but almost-coffee shade that just screams of rustic-y goodness.

It's laughing at me.

I know this yarn is destined to be a sweater. I know it, the yarn knows it; the guy down the block who's never even seen a knitting needle would recognize that this is its fate. The yarn still refuses to cooperate.

After repeated hints from my dad that he would really like to have a warm vest for the winter, I picked up this brown yarn. Ooo, soft. And cheap! It came home with me, and I engaged in subtle trickery to learn Dad's chest measurement.

"Hey, Dad. Hold up your arms."

I found a simple but attractive pattern and cast on for a gauge swatch. Hmm? What is a gauge swatch? It's the knitter's equivalent of "Measure twice, cut once." You cast on X number of stitches, knit in pattern for X number of rows, and you should have a four-inch square. This tells you that you will most likely get a garment that fits the intended wearer, rather than one that will only work for a hippopotamus with six-foot arms.

After the casting on and knitting, I wound up with a two-inch square. Hmm. Okay, I obviously need to go up a needle size. I dug through the needle stash and came up with a larger set. Cast on, knit, and... Wowee. A THREE-inch square. Several attempts later, I finally hit upon the correct size needles. I made two swatches, just in case. Armed with all necessary materials, I consulted the pattern. Cast on 98 stitches. Really? Only 98? Going on the assumption that the designer has a pretty good idea of how this is supposed to turn out, I cast on the 98 stitches.

Two inches of ribbing later, I was feeling pretty good about the future vest. The wool was nice and soft, and it looked good. Time to start the pattern stitches. This is where I learned that "easy" doesn't always mean "fast". While the pattern itself was a snap to master, it basically takes two rows of knitting to equal one row of pattern. My simple vest was going to take twice as long as I'd planned. Not good news for The Procraftinator. I soldiered on.

After what surely amounted to five hundred rows (give or take) of knitting, I held up the vest back to check my progress. Okay, something's wrong here. This thing is not only still really short, it looks about as wide as Junior. I pulled the piece off of the needles and spread it on the table for a measurement.

It was five inches too narrow. I boggled. I swore. I headed to the kitchen to consult the emergency chocolate can.

Rather than take a chance that Dad might suddenly lose forty pounds by Christmas, I unraveled the vest. I never liked that pattern, anyway. The collar looks funny. Too bulky, too. I'll just fire up the computer and see what kind of patterns I can find online.

"Search returned 152,978 matches for men's knit vest."

Yeesh. I'm gonna need more chocolate.

Attack of the three-foot pirate!

2010-11-01T12:30:00.003-05:00

My new favorite comic book hero: Candybeard!

We had a fine time this weekend, with music, cake, and Trick or Treat fun. When you're two, it's hard to say some things. Neighbors were greeted with, "Tickle Tweet! Tenk you fo' candy!"

He was a big hit.

How was your weekend?

Pumpkin Kitty Hat.

2010-10-22T18:22:00.004-05:00

What do you do when you have a cute kid, cool weather, and some spare time? You make a hat, of course!

Molly, you'll have to let me know your sock size. Junior only needs so many hats...

Woo-hoo!!

2010-10-19T14:15:00.002-05:00

I got coffee,
I got cookies.
I got transferred;
who could ask for anything more?

After one final miserable evening in the world of packing, I finally snapped. With all of the calm and dignity I could muster, and with the most rational explanation I could devise, I went to the King of Temps and promptly burst into tears.

He freaked.

I am now back at my original job in the number two building, compiling orders for the Direct-To-Consumer side of the business. As with the other job, the people are great, the company is great, the food in the cafeteria is great. This time, however, the job sucketh not.

And my hands are ready to knit again! Who wants socks?!

My hands hurt.

2010-10-04T13:44:00.002-05:00

I've decided that I like everything about my new job except the job itself. The people are nice, the creepy stalker-ish dude is leaving me alone, the company is a good one, and the pay is really handy.

The job itself kinda... sucks.

I'm the number thirty-two box jockey, which means I grab the totes as they come down the line and throw the clothes into boxes and push the buttons so the lights go out before I tape the boxes shut and push them off to be shipped but I have to run back and pull down more totes or the line gets backed up and the big overhead light goes on to let the boss know that I'm really terrible at a job I don't like anyway.

The worst part? My hands are killing me! If it wasn't for the fact that I like being able to feed my kid and help keep a roof over our heads, I'd say that a job that keeps me from knitting is a bad thing.

Sigh.

Sniff, sniff...

Hey, the brownies are almost done!

Mmm, caramel pecan brownies! What was I complaining about, again? Never mind. Must not have been that important...

A visit to the farm.

2010-09-29T13:22:00.002-05:00

This past weekend was the date of the National Alpaca Farm Tour. Being the patriotic sort, I felt it was my duty to visit at least one such farm and stimulate the economy by buying yarn. Actually, I sat on my duff for four hours and chatted with visitors while demonstrating the art of spinning, but it sounds better the other way.

Located outside of Tonganoxie, Kansas, Kaw Valley Alpacas is pleasant place full of critters and good humor. I sat under a shady pavilion (within arm's reach of the Rice Krispy treats) with my wheel and a bucket o' coffee while visitors admired the various knitted and woven alpaca products available.

It's funny, the different responses you get while spinning yarn. There's everything from the "polite smile, nod and move on" maneuver to the "plop down and fire off a thousand questions" reaction. The most common response, it seems, is the hypnotized stare.

Spinning turns people into cats.

There's something about that wheel going around and around that makes folks just kind of... stand there. It's like the time my dad made a giant mobile out of old CD's and fishing line and hung it up in the bay window. We went in to see what he was looking at, and all of us ended up staring at this thing with our eyes glazed over. "Seeee... Deeeeessss!"

Aesthetics for zombies.

It's pretty much the same thing with the spinning wheel. It's not unusual for me to look up from my task to see a ring of people with their heads on one side, just watching. I keep telling myself that one of these days, I'm gonna find a way to plant subliminal suggestions in the wheel. "Give me your money... Go and get me a cheeseburger..." It could work.

As a new group headed off to the barn to see the alpacas, I asked if they were humming today.

"Sometimes!" replied tour guide/proprietor Macel Koerth with a chuckle.

A little boy in the group was impressed. "Do they really hum? Why do they do that?"

Macel grinned, having answered this question a thousand times. "Because they don't know the words!"

Return from Winfield.

2010-09-20T12:51:00.002-05:00

Due to financial circumstances beyond our control, we missed a large chunk of the Walnut Valley Festival this year. We also missed the tornado that sent most of the campground scurrying for cover, so I guess it's a fair trade.

The remarkable thing about this festival is the fact that there's something for just about everybody. Love music? You're covered. Into camping? No sweat. Do you like hard-core festival foods like fried pickles and cheesecake on a stick? Welcome to paradise. Are you financially irresponsible? There are three barns' worth of craft vendors waiting for you.

Himself describes the craft barns thusly: "It's a whole bunch of stuff that makes you think, 'I gotta have that', and then you get home and wonder why you bought it." Walking sticks. Tie-dyed everything. Stained glass. Wooden bowls. Painted saws. Wind chimes made of forks. Mailboxes made of old license plates.

STUFF.

Being a fan of handmade things, I always enjoy looking through the craft barns. For the most part, it's a surface enjoyment. Not being well-versed in quilting or stained glass, I can enjoy the beauty of the finished product, but I don't have the background to carry on a knowledgeable conversation with the artist. Things were a little different this year. I walked into the barn and saw no less than FOUR people spinning yarn. This, for me, is like walking into a fast food joint and finding eclairs.

In Himself's words, "She was like a bird dog on point."

Being a sensible man, he promptly wandered off with Junior to seek out cherry limeades and Frito pies. I spent the next two hours talking sheep breeds, staple length, and acid versus cold dye processes. Colorways, drafting techniques, favorite uses of various fibers. Every now and then, I would see a blond head peek around the corner, shake, and withdraw. I finally cut the poor guy some slack. Gathering several business cards, I joined my family and headed for the roasted corn stand. The whole adventure struck me as a reasonable exchange.

If he can take off on a four-hour search for the lost chord in a camp on the other side of the festival, a two-hour chat about sheep can't be that ba-a-ad.

Soapmaking.

2010-09-13T13:52:00.001-05:00

Soap is nice to have around. It cleans skin and dishes and clothes, and leaves all three with a pleasant scent. Pleasant in mild doses, at least. If you stand in the soap aisle too long, it can knock you out with a powerful blast of olfactory overload.

Have you ever taken a good look at the soap aisle?

Cold water this, unscented that, color coordinated other. For something with such a basic purpose, soap is a pretty impressive industry. For women, at any rate. A woman doesn't just choose a soap; she does a background check. "Does it contain moisturizers? I can't touch shea butter. Aloe is fine, but lanolin leaves me greasy. Hmm... No, I don't think I like that scent. I take my showers in the evening, and grapefruit is too invigorating. Isn't there any lavender? Oh, I like this kind, but it doesn't go with my bathroom wallpaper."

And so on. Guys have a much more practical approach to buying soap. "It was at the end of the aisle when I was going by. Whaddaya mean, what's in it? It's soap! There's soap in it."

I decided to give soapmaking a try. Not having the cash or kitchen space to do the real thing with lye and lard, I settled for a nice melt-and-pour glycerin soap base. A few essential oils to make it smell nice, a little cornmeal to give it scrub power, and a brief wait. Soon there were six shiny white bars lined up on the counter. I gloated over my newfound do-it-yourself prowess. Think of the money we'd save! Think of the nifty Christmas gifts these could be!

Think of the fact that my husband was on his way home, filthy from a day of hard work. I put a fresh bar of my homemade soap in the shower.

Greetings and kisses exchanged, the man of the house headed to the bathroom to scrape off the day. I had told him that very morning that I would be making soap, and I waited to hear the exclamation of surprise and delight that was sure to be forthcoming.

Shower running... Sounds of sputtering as he rinses his hair... More shower sounds...

By the time he was re-dressed and rubbing his hair with a towel, I realized that he must be too impressed to say anything. I decided to be subtle.

"Whadja think of the soap I made?!

He paused. "Oh! Well, it's... really soapy. It made bubbles and everything!" Noticing my level gaze, he continued his praise. "It, uh... made me feel really clean. My skin is very happy." We stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Can't complain about happy skin, I guess. I'm glad he's not allergic to shea butter...

Heredity.

2010-09-10T13:37:00.001-05:00

There are things that can be changed, and there are things that will always be the same. I probably won't have eggs and toast every morning. Running out of bread makes that a given. I won't be wearing the same shirt tomorrow. This is mostly due to the fact that today was apparently Slob Day, and I celebrated (?!) with a generous splat of Alfredo sauce down my front.

Sigh.

You get the idea, though. Some stuff changes.

There is, however, an astonishing amount of stuff that will never vary from one day to the next. The sun always comes up in the east. Probably doesn't want to stop and ask for directions. Junior will always be my baby, even when he's six-three and weighs one-eighty and is dragging home three Hefty bags full of last semester's laundry. It's a mom thing. The most notorious unchanging thing is a trait of mine that drives my neat-freak (but beloved) husband right straight up the wall.

I am The Procraftinator.

I don't do it on purpose; it's just the way I am. Yes, I'm supposed to be working on a pair of socks right now, but I had to put them aside to make a blanket for the neighbor's new baby-to-be. It would have been a cute blanket, too. Unfortunately, it had to wait for the commissioned shawl to be finished. Whoops! Shawl's gotta go "on hold". There's a fundraiser to knit for. I'll get right on that as soon as I get done with the knitting class project sample.

And so forth. At least I come by my affliction honestly. It's genetic and I have proof. See, my mom gave me a little package a while back. Inside was a small stack of folded fabric pieces.
"What's this?"

"Shirt pieces. You can sew them together for Junior."

"Neat. Where'd you get the material?"

"They were supposed to be for your dad."

"You need a new pattern. These are toddler size."

"Not my fault. These were cut out by his grandmother. She got a little sidetracked."

That's right. A little sidetracked. It could happen to anyone. Just do me a favor and don't tell my husband. If he thinks he's gotta wait sixty years for me to finish even one sweater, he's gonna hide all of my yarn.

A new spin on fundraising.

2010-09-06T23:46:00.003-05:00

Actually, it's not that new; someone's done it before. But it's new to me, so there you are.

Over on my Facebook page, I've posted that I'm looking for organizations that might like to be on the receiving end of a fundraiser. I've gotten some good suggestions so far.

The deal is, I'll draw a name out of a hat, then invite people to make pledges to a spinathon.

A what?

A spinathon! See, I'm gonna set up in a certain location on a specific date and spin yarn for "X" amount of time. An independent judge will measure off however much I spin. I figure pledges of a penny per yard ought to be reasonable, right? Four hundred yards means four bucks per person, as an example. I post the totals, the pledgers send their money to the pledgee, and everybody's happy.

The best part is, nobody has to leave their nice, warm houses in the middle of December. You can be generous from the comfort of your easy chair!

Now to find my trusty name-drawing hat...

In which I attempt to be sneaky.

2010-08-29T11:20:00.003-05:00

Okay, so the last time we had formal portraits taken of Junior, he was... ten days old. Yeesh. Of course, the last time we could afford to get pictures done was around the same time.

Now that there is a bit of steady fundage happening, I decided that picutres were in order. Besides, I had a coupon!

I decided against telling Himself. It's a surprise of the first order. As long as I can keep my mouth shut for a week or so (oh, crap), I'll be able to just sort of casually leave the envelope on the table for him to find.

But first we had to take the pictures! Once we figured out the proper sequence of events, it was a snap. Step one was to demolish the studio:

Step one went on for some time, but was eventually followed by Step two: actual sitting.

This did not mean sitting still for more than a nano second, and did not include any smiling at the camera. There was plenty of giggling while his head was turned, though. Step three: cooperation eventually came into play, and we got this:

Do you think Daddy will enjoy his surprise?

Reading on the run!

2010-08-23T15:26:00.002-05:00

Okay, so I've got, like, five minutes before I leave for work. I've had all of three or four hours to do whatever needs to be done, but such is the way of night shift. Anyhow, I have a question for all of you.

Have you heard of "yarn bombing"?

I'd heard about the whole concept, but didn't think much about it. It was just kind of 'there'. Yesterday, though, I bought a book that talks about all aspects of the knit graffiti movement, and I'm totally intrigued. These people put there work out there to brighten up the world, knowing that someone will come along and pocket their stuff.

What a concept.

SO.

Have you ever seen a yarn bombing installation? Would you take it?

Would you try it?

A fundraiser.

2010-08-16T12:05:00.002-05:00

Not a fundraiser for me, mind you, although the thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion.

No, this is for somebody else. I got a phone call a few days ago from the local animal shelter. Every year, they have a dinner and auction to raise money for their operating expenses. Nearly everything is donated, and some of the auction items are really cool. The first year I was involved, I donated a pair of handknit socks. Last year, I made a hat and scarf set and a felted bag.

The shelter wants to know if I'd like to be involved this year, and I said "yes". The question is, what should it be?

The fundraiser takes place at the end of October, which gives me a reasonable amount of time to get something done. I'm not talking lace tablecloth amounts of time, but maybe a back-to-school thing like a kid's sweater? Another pair of socks? A dog sweater? A felted cat bed?

What would you make?

Pamindo socks.

2010-08-09T14:53:00.002-05:00

Well might you scratch your head, wondering what a "pamindo" might be. It's a gawky pink bird with long legs, as named by a two-year-old boy. We saw several pamindos at the zoo last week, and Junior was quite impressed when one marched right up to him.

I recently started spinning the Fruit Salad roving, and our Parrothead friend flipped over the results.

"That looks like flamingo yarn! Can you make socks out of that?"

Oh, boy. Well. Yes. Yes, I can. I don't have a flamingo sock pattern, but I'm sure I can come up with something cool.

So. Picture a self-striping yarn in flamingo pink and red and cream. Picture a guy who's a respectable businessman during the day, and total beach bum by night. He wants to wear these flamingo socks with his business suits.

Suggestions? How should a pamindo sock look?

The Procraftinator.

2010-08-06T12:29:00.002-05:00

A knitter understands. A fellow knitter doesn’t even blink at the crazy lady in the craft aisle, snarling and muttering to herself over the complete lack of red-and-green yarn with sparklies. Nope. A fellow knitter would nod sympathetically and relate a similar tale of woe.

Whoa. What woe?

Well, it’s this way. When you have a serious knit addiction, you develop this need to drape everyone and everything in wool. With the thought of Christmas, this need ramps up into full-scale obsession.

It starts out as The Grand Scheme. Everyone on the list will get a knitted gift this year, the Procraftinator declares. A sweater for Dad, a shawl for Mom. A barn coat for Uncle Frank, a cute tote bag for Aunt Rose, mittens for all the kids. Heck, it’s January! A baby only takes nine months; think of what can be done in twelve!

Make that eleven. I sort of, ah, let January slip past. All that party aftermath, you know. No problem. Eleven months is plenty of time. Whaddaya mean, ten? It’s only… March? Where’d February go? Oh, right. Too much time spent staring at possible patterns. Fine. So the barn coat will be cast on with bigger needles and thicker yarn; it’ll go faster and be warmer. That still leaves…

Okay, why does the calendar say “April”? Well, because it turns out that I don’t like working with heavy yarns. When something isn’t fun, it gets put off. It’s a perfectly normal response. Uncle Frank would probably prefer a hat and scarf set, anyway. That’ll be a snap, because it’s still only…

That can’t be right. When did it get to be May? Never mind, let’s focus. Uncle Frank doesn’t wear scarves, and the kids ALWAYS lose their mittens. Okay, matching hats! Yes, matching hats will be great. Aunt Rose is always griping about her ears getting cold, anyway. Hmm, better get cracking on that shawl ; it’s almost…

JUNE?! Who’s been messing with the calendar? There is a lot of knitting to be done, people. You can’t go tearing off calendar pages and expect lace shawls. Skip it. Mom likes scarves better, anyway. Time to see about Dad’s sweater, because it’s…

There is no way it’s July already. It can’t be July, because there are still five hundred and eighty-two people to knit for. Five hundred and eighty-three? Cousin Sally’s having a baby? For crying out loud, doesn’t she know what causes that? Sigh. Fine. Baby blankets are easy enough.

Ugh, but not in August! Wool and August do not go together. How about some nice socks? All babies need socks. And Dad would like socks better than a sweater, and socks will knit up fast. That’s a good thing, because now it’s…

September? Well, this is just unfair. No reasonable person can expect so much from one lone knitter. What fool came up with this plan, anyhow?

And now it’s October, which is totally ridiculous. Forget the socks. Everybody outside of the immediate family is getting a hat. Hats are easy, and everybody needs a hat in winter, which is almost here if the stupid calendar can be believed. Which it can’t, because they apparently left out most of the November page.

What? I don’t care if it’s Thanksgiving, I have to finish at least one thing on the list. Eat without me. Yes, I know that Great-Aunt Maudie made her famous Gelatin Surprise. Been there, ate that, bought the antacid. Lemme just finish this row, because it’s…

Oh, crud. December is here. Okay, Plan R. We skip the individual gifts and every FAMILY gets… uh… Stockings! Yes, a family Christmas stocking is just the thing. Things. Nine of them. Let’s see, three weeks to Christmas, and three stockings per week. Perfect. If I don’t sleep more than five hours a night, it won’t be long until…

Until I’m standing in the yarn aisle in August, snarling and muttering to myself about the complete lack of red-and-green yarn with sparklies. I have to do better this year. I know everyone SAID that they were thrilled with their individual handknit coasters, but I’m pretty sure they were just trying to make me feel better.

Fun with mail.

2010-07-27T10:31:00.002-05:00

It wasn't quite a sink-into-the-floor moment, but it came close. Having finally gotten together the fiber swap box that was supposed to go out on Thursday, I headed to the Post Office yesterday with Junior in tow.

"Ready to go bye-bye?"

"Go bye-bye! Bye-bye, Mama!"

"Right. We're going to the Post Office."

"Po Tapa. Go bye-bye Po Tapa."

Kid, sippy, Mama, box, keys. No sweat. There was even a parking space close to the door. I jumped out, ran around to unbuckle Junior's seat, and reached to check how much cash I had on hand.

I ended up groping myself in a futile dance, spinning around to look at my back pocket.

"Hang on, kiddo. Mama forgot her wallet."

"More bye-bye?"

"Yup. Back to the house."

We returned to the Post Office in less than fifteen minutes: kid, sippy, Mama, box, keys, wallet. Inside we found two clerks, no waiting. I approached one and handed her my diaper box full of wool. She inspected it from all sides, and I helpfully supplied, "There's no label."

"Well, yes. A label would be nice."

"Right. I'd like to Junior leave that alone get a label and mail this to Junior don't touch that my friend."

"Zip code?"

"Hang on." I pulled out my phone and consulted the address "book". Click, click, click. "Okay, here it is Junior stop playing with the door or they're gonna think there's a horde out here and yes that's the town so how much to Junior come back here or I'm gonna bite your nose send it?"

A crowd was forming as I addressed the label. Junior inspected his audience, shaking hands with one or two folks.

"If you'd just go ahead and pay me, I can clear the transaction."

"Yes. Sure. Junior let that be."

In my attempt to do everything at once, I had wallet, phone, phone case, cash, pen, and label in hand when the clerk handed me my change. I held on to the wallet, phone case, change, pen, label, and receipt.

CLUNK.

My phone took a dive. Not to the floor, thankfully, but neither did it clatter politely to the counter. Nope. MY phone decided to seek out new life and new civilizations, and boldly went where no phone had gone before.

It bounced off the counter, flipped onto the cash register, slid down the back, and dropped into the half-inch space between the counter back and the wall. There was a moment of silence as a collective mental, "Oh, @#$%!!" went up from every person in the room except Junior.

After an amazing display of contortion techniques and the moving of every piece of equipment at the clerk's station, the phone was retrieved and scolded. The box was posted, Junior said "Tenk oo" and blew kisses, and we fled.

I wonder if we can bring back the Pony Express?

It's here!

2010-07-20T14:31:00.002-05:00

Remember that TV show, "Absolutely Fabulous"? Well, the swap box arrived today, and it's stuffed with all manner of fuzzy fabulous!

I love me some blue, and there's lots of it. The cool part is, it goes together! Not like picking up random bits here and there, which is my usual habit. There're also some touches of fire, just to keep everything bright and cheery.

Let's see...

Ah, here's a bag of wool/mohair/silk/angelina "poofs". For those of you unfamiliar with such things, it means the bag is full of richly colored fuzz enhanced with fine threads of sparkle. What's not to love about fuzzy sparkle, I ask you?

Ooo, here's some merino blended with recycled silk. This bag has a "mystery batt" in a wonderful heathery moss color. I see there's another shawl in my future... Hee! An angel food box, stuffed with a cake-colored wool/angelina blend. Mmm!

What else is in here? Ah the ever-popular "wool oddments". Love these. Great for blending with other stuff. Greens and a hint of peach. Oh, drool! Washed and dyed mohair locks! Jewel tones of sapphire and amethyst; what will they be? Why, a scarf! Can you imagine a woven scarf of black, with individual unspun mohair locks placed at random intervals?

Gasp! She sent the yak! Not the whole yak, just some of his hair. Oh, wow. I may never spin this; just sit around and pet it all day. Soooooooft!

A bonus! A ball of sparkly and two balls of a sock yarn that I've used before and really like. I've got to take pictures of all this groovy stuff so you can see and appreciate just how much fun a fiber swap can be. I'm ready to dive in right now and...

Hang on, the phone's ringing.

...

...

Well, no diving in for me. That was Staff Management.

I START WORK TOMORROW!!!

Fiber overdose.

2010-07-15T16:36:00.003-05:00

My friend Naomi contacted me recently to see if I was interested in a fiber swap. I immediately said yes, for several reasons.

First off, she always sends really cool stuff. Interesting blends, fun colorways, fluffy batts; there's never a dull moment in going through a swap box.

For another thing, there's the fun of getting a package in the mail. I also like the fact that it freaks out the mail carrier to see a big ol' box to deliver that weighs next to nothing. Huzzah for low wool-shipping charges!

Most importantly, there's the whole "use it or lose it" concept. As I mentioned in my return e-mail, I have a lot of fiber. A lot. As in, I should get the Golden Colon award. You've been through a scenario like this: buy something that appeals to you, decide later that it's not quite what you had in mind even though you do love it, then never use it.

I can only use so many two-ounce strips of roving in not-quite-matched shades of blue, you know?

So we do a fiber swap every few months. It's like Sheep Christmas, but without the stress and crowds. Or the musical light-up rotating Chia pet with the tag still attached...

In which I get artsy-fartsy and display the mess.

2010-07-11T19:20:00.003-05:00

I found some yummy fiber

that was fine and white and soft.

I spun it into two-ply;

it has quite a bit of loft.

It's squishy, warm, and wonderful,

with hints of pearly glow.

It's intended for a present,

but I'll hate to see it go!

Cheating ocolates and magging readazines.

2010-07-07T11:59:00.002-05:00

I have Cadbury. The real deal, straight from Europe, courtesy of friends who apparently love me very much. The feeling is entirely mutual.

In addition to awesome chocolate, I have some reading material. It's a business card from MarLen, a sewing/notions/yarn shop in Prague. This bit of international advertising is attached to...

YARN!

Super-groovy yarn. Two huge hanks of a wonderful silk multi-strand yarn that just screams "shawl". Fine threads of pale blue, green and yellow lie alongside warm beige, cream, and coffee brown. It's shiny and lively and I can't wait to devote time to finding (and knitting) just the right pattern with it.

But wait, there's more!

There's also a ball of mystery yarn. It also ranks high on the grooviness scale. Think smooth, dense mohair, with just a hint of halo. It looks like the yarn was surface-painted navy over white, giving it kind of a denim effect. I'm thinking of finding some copper yarn to go with it; sort of a blue jeans Fair Isle effect.

Right after I finish the watch cap. And the Civil War shawl.

And the chocolate...

Cold macaroni.

2010-07-04T13:08:00.002-05:00

I'm eyeballing leftovers in the fridge. Some macaroni, a little tub of baby-style lasagne, half a bottle of orange juice. There's something green in a bowl way at the back, but I don't eat anything that blinks first.

There's a stereotype about leftovers that's probably older than the dinner table. Remember the Far Side comic that showed two cavemen? One of them was complaining to his wife, "Primordial soup again?"

*snicker*

Personally, I kinda like leftovers. They let me enjoy my favorite dishes a second time; maybe a third, if I make a really big batch. Leftovers can be dressed up in something new, too. Cut up the last chunk of ham steak, toss it in with the leftover potatoes, and bake it up with that half block of Velveeta. Everything old is new again!

There's not a lot in the fridge today, but I do have a lot of leftover yarn. Twenty yards of this, half a ball of that, a partial skein of the other. Nothing really goes together. Different weights, clashing colors; a wide variety of fibers. How do I combine these leftovers into a coherent "dish"?

The key is portions. Instead of lamenting that there isn't enough for a whole sweater, I feel pleased that there's enough of this yarn to make a pair of mittens. I've got just enough of that yarn to make some baby socks. If I get creative with stripes, I can get at least two hats from this over here. These skeins are sort of close in color; I can whip up a few pet blankets for the animal shelter. Maybe a stack of plain squares for an afghan.

Yep. Leftovers can be a great thing. It all depends on how you serve them.

They never take me seriously...

2010-06-29T12:14:00.002-05:00

...when I ask for dog hair.

I've come across quite a few people with very hairy dogs. The kind with the nice, fuzzy undercoat that combs out in copious amounts. When I say, "Wow, you'd make a great sweater!", the pet parents usually laugh and go on their way.

Sometimes they move to the other side of the street.

Two of our friends have such a dog. They also know when to take me seriously. A few weeks ago, B and T gave me a garbage bag FULL of dog undercoat. "We've been saving this for you!" It's soft and fuzzy, and ranges in shade from bright white to a peachy-reddish color. Amazingly enough, it does not smell like your stereotypical sack of dog hair.

Intrigued with the possibilities of a bag of dog, and armed with a drum carder, I decided to give the hair a test spin. I carded a blend of 60% alpaca and 40% dog hair and tried it out on the drop spindle.

Note #1: Dog hair and alpaca make a nice blend. It's almost a little too light and airy, though. Instead of spinning from the carded batt, I had to pull off small clumps in order to avoid the "drifting down the side of my arm and OH MY GOD IT'S GETTING CAUGHT IN THE SPINDLE" syndrome.

Note #2: By using the drop spindle, I was able to spin a VERY fine yarn. The single mini-batt that I carded, which weighed about the same as a gnat fart, yielded twenty-eight yards of two-ply laceweight yarn.

Note #3: In less than twenty-four hours, I was able to crank out my fastest-ever "fleece-to-finished" project:

My photography skills are still nonexistant, but trust me. This is one awesome lace bookmark. I found the pattern here, with a much better picture. It took maybe twenty yards and a bit on US2 needles.

The dogpaca yarn has a really pretty halo effect. It obscures the stitches just a tiny bit, but not enough to get in the way. It has good drape and an even hand, and it takes blocking well. I might have to see how it works up as a scarf or something.

Just don't wear it in the rain...

A little progress.

2010-06-25T14:15:00.004-05:00

See that? No, it's not the little girl next door. This is two of five skeins of yarn that I've spun for the big shawl project.

Remember Old Gold from the exciting colorbomb story? This is how it looks after carding and spinning. I love it when I manage to do what I'm trying to do, and this color is just what I wanted. I'm pretty pleased with the black and violet, too. The pattern for the shawl can be found here (if I did the link thing correctly), for those who want to play along at home.

As you can see, these little bits of yarn aren't even close to how much I'm going to need. It's a start, anyhow. I've got the rest of the gold to spin, and I've already done up three skeins of the violet/black. I've got to do at least one more, then make some plain black for the border. Then it's miles and miles of garter stitch.

Endless garter stitch. For days. Weeks, maybe. Nothing but garter stitch.

Hm.

Hey, this sock yarn sure is pretty! Everybody needs socks. Maybe I can...

Party time!

2010-06-17T12:42:00.002-05:00

Shhh...

It's a surprise.

He probably doesn't even remember that tomorrow is his birthday.

But we're ready.

There will be cake, and a build-your-own-burrito bar, and music. No Kool-Aid. Lots of friends, and one very embarrassed birthday boy.

He'll grumble about putting on pants, no doubt. He'll likely express amazement that people would want to come to a party for him. He'll eat too much cake, and too many burritos. He'll want to play "just one more tune". He'll crack yet another joke about being the "oldest Daddy in town".

He'll have a wonderful time.

Happy birthday, dear Himself.

After the colorbomb...

2010-06-13T14:52:00.003-05:00

Some of you have asked for pictures of the Kool-Aid aftermath. Fortunately for the floor, I didn't stop to take any. However, I have a not-too-crappy shot of the finished roving. From the left:

we have Electric Popsicle, made from the leftover Kool-Aid dye all mixed together. I spiraled the roving into a bowl, poured on the dye, then mixed up some neon purple and poured it all around the edges. It did not explode in the microwave.

In the center is Old Gold. I mixed up two batches of dye for this. Two parts Wilton's Daffodil Yellow with one part Ivory for each batch. I poured one on the roving, squished it in, then flipped the whole mess over and poured on the second batch. It also failed to explode in the microwave. I'm in the process of carding this one to make a more uniform color, but I think it looks pretty cool.

On the right is Fruit Salad. This photo (naturally) fails to show the grooviness of this roving. It goes from a sort of red grape color to cantaloupe to peach to watermelon and back. It's summery and cheerful and exactly what I was going for when I decided to play with color the other day.

This is the one that exploded.

I've decided to do two things next time. First, use a little less of the black cherry Kool-Aid next time. Second, put the plastic wrap package in a casserole dish next time. I went with the whole package idea because I wanted to keep the colors separate.

Hopefully a dish will keep the colors separate from the floor...

Murders in the Rue Microwave.

2010-06-11T19:47:00.003-05:00

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a big deal. As far as entertainment goes, it probably wasn't exactly what the neighbors were expecting to hear.

"AUGH! MY KOOL-AID EXPLODED!!"

Let's backtrack a bit.

All I wanted to do was dye some wool. Something fun and summery. So, I bought a bunch of Kool-Aid packets and prepared to experiment. Some cups, some vinegar, a little mixing; I laid out the wet wool on some plastic wrap and proceeded to dribble and squish my fruity-fresh (yet sugar-free) dye to my heart's content.

Okay so far.

Some tucking, some folding, and I had a neat little package to pop in the microwave. Four minutes on the timer, and I walk out of the room. This is where the Slaughterhouse Decor comes in.

See, when you are fairly broke, you buy cheap stuff. Generic macaroni, store brand shampoo, and... discount plastic wrap. You know the kind. It sticks to everything but the bowl. It gets all caught up in itself unless you happen to WANT it to stick to itself, such as when you make a nice, neat little package of wool to be dyed.

Doom was approaching in five... four... three...

"OH MY GOD WHAT THE @#$%!!!"

I wanted to dye wool. My kitchen looked like something had died, all right. I came back in to find drips, splashes, and puddles of dark red all over the floor. All down the front of the cabinet. A bloody red waterfall leaking from the @#$% MICROWAVE?!.

Dear God, the Kool-Aid exploded.

HOW does one cup of black cherry Kool-Aid become a gallon of gore all over my kitchen? WHY did only the cherry flavor erupt while the pink lemonade was perfectly content to be nuked in one place?

I may never drink Kool-Aid again. Can you imagine?

"Hey, lookin' puffy today. What's up?"

"Oh, I drank a bunch of Kool-Aid and now I'm all bloated. I think I might..."

BANG!!

"Ewwwww! And I just washed this shirt!"

On the plus side, the wool is really pretty...

Drum roll, please!

2010-06-02T18:44:00.002-05:00

And the winner of the totally awesome 168 yards of handspun fabulousness is...

Dianne!

Friend of furry creatures and rescuer of Brittanys (excluding Spears, even though it's spelled funny), Dianne will be the proud owner of the Bunny Slippers yarn. As soon as she sends me a mailing address by way of gardenherald@hotmail.com...

A big round of applause for Dianne, if you please, and a big thank you to all who left a comment on the "Good versus Evil" post. There will be other contests in the future, so keep reading!

Making do.

2010-05-30T21:12:00.002-05:00

Don't forget to enter the contest! Check the "Good vs. Evil" post for details, and sign up before midnight tomorrow! And now, on to our story...

Eighty-three degrees is not very hot in the grand scheme of things. It's downright pleasant, in fact.

Unless you're trying to sleep and the humidity's at ninety percent with a breeze that wouldn't stir a gnat's eyelash. That's when eighty-three degress becomes slightly less pleasant.

We've gotten friendly with the fan.

The only bummer is the fact that humidity and heat clash mightily with my fiber fetish. Silk and wool exhibit "failure to draft" at times like this, and my knitting felts magically in my fingers. The good news is, I have an active imagination.

First, we'll visualise the perfect perch. Not a fish, but a seat. The back is tilted just so, the seat has just the right amount of incline, and my legs stretch out before me with my preferred amount of support. It is also padded. Cotton, not vinyl. With stripes.

Next to this chair is a small table. It's made of wood, to match the frame of the chair, and has a circular inset of stone. Probably slate or something like that. I can set my drink there, a tall glass of real lemonade, without leaving those nasty white rings on the surface. There's also a bowl of fruit. Not just apples, but a whole array of tasty things, cut into chunks and skewered on little sticks. I'd like chocolate, but it's hot, remember? The skewered fruit provides mess-free dining. Strawberry juice on the hands does not go well with light-colored knitting of any sort.

Oh, and there's a vase of flowers, too. Lilacs, privet, and peonies. These are framed nicely by the picture window, which is the backdrop of this whole shebang.

Now, the purpose of the setup: the knitting. It's too warm for wool, and cotton is too stiff for my taste. No, today I have a silk/linen blend. It's been washed, so the linen fibers have softened up. There's just enough silk to keep everything cool and drapey, but not enough to let the yarn snag on my hands.

Everything is almost perfect. What's missing? Ah, here he comes with a book in his little hands.

"Wead, Mama?"

Why sure, kiddo. I'll wead to you. I can knit tomorrow.

Survival of the frosted.

2010-05-25T14:53:00.002-05:00

Success is sweet. I managed all of this weekend's caking without losing my mind OR my spouse. Do not ask about the losing of tempers. We won't go there.

I'm getting back into the fiber swing of things. Two skeins done in three days. That sounds super awesome until you realize that a) they're two-ply, and b) there's only about 70-odd yards per. But still! I made two skeins of yarn in a matter of days. This is good.

If you're a fellow fiber freak, you'll want to know that the yarn in question is a blend of... where's the little paper cuff? Ah. Yeah, it's carded batts of 80% Shetland (sheep fuzz), 10% Angora (bunny fuzz), and 10% Tussah silk noil (worm fuzz).

Some of you are scratching your heads. It's the worm fuzz concept, isn't it? Well, Tussah silk is from wild silkworms, rather than cultivated silkworms. God, I just had a visual of worms in tiny top hats... Anyway, the noil description refers to what you get when you let the silkworm moth eat its way out of the cocoon instead of boiling it to unreel an intact length of silk thread.

Yeah, gross.

So, with the combo of these three fibers, you (or at least I) get a really nifty two-ply tweedy yarn with little fuzzy places and little slubby bits sticking out here and there. Trust me, it's cool.

Now I just have to figure out what to do with it...

For cake's sake.

2010-05-23T15:59:00.002-05:00

I think I have a third-degree sugar buzz.

What's the most cake for which you personally have been responsible? Have you made a cake for a party? How about a graduation? How about a wedding?

How about a 50th anniversary, four graduations, a dinner, and a "have a nice trip" party?

In two days?

Five hundred servings is a lot of cake. I'm really glad I'm only doing the baking and decorating. If I had to eat that much cake, seriously horrible things would happen. I mean, it's bad enough when you laugh and milk comes out of your nose.

What if it was frosting?

Good versus evil.

2010-05-16T14:37:00.002-05:00

The good news is, they've offered severance pay. Supposedly. The bad news? I'm about to be out of a job.

In the apt words of my friend T, a member of our workplace is quitting, and poisoning the well on his way out by eliminating our entire department. The job I do is going to be outsourced to a town in another county, which will put nine people out of work. There are lots of fun and exciting details, but it all just drives me up the wall and I don't want to think about it because we're here to think about happy stuff.

So here's the deal.

Since good triumphs over evil, we have to have a good deed done. YOU can help by entering my contest!

I haven't got a picture handy, but there's some yarn on the table in front of me. The color is, to quote another friend of mine, "pale red". Think Strawberry Quik. Maybe bunny slippers. It's made of merino wool, alpaca, and some locally grown angora bunny fuzz. Come to think of it, the alpaca is local, too.

Anyway, this yarn is soft and fuzzy and pink, handspun by moi on my favorite drop spindle. What I want to do is send it to one of you as a prize. There are two rules in this contest, and they're pretty simple.

Rule 1: To enter, leave a comment telling me about your favorite charitable organization. It can be your local animal shelter, UNICEF, whatever. Tell me about it.

Rule 2: If you win, your task is to send an amount equal to the postage paid on the package to your chosen charity.

The way I see it, this is a triple win. I get to share some fuzzy love, a worthy cause gets a donation, and somebody gets a treat! It may not be poker, but three smiles beats one mean deed in my book any day of the week.

The contest will be open until midnight on the 31st, so choose your cause and help good triumph over evil!

You can never have too many friends.

2010-04-30T14:59:00.003-05:00

And lucky me, I like all the ones I do have.

Friends bring stuff into our lives. Maybe it's a small treat, like introducing you to a song you've never heard before and immediately love. Maybe it's the smile that brightens your day. Sometimes it's badly needed support during rough times.

And every now and then, friends bring something tangible. A three-dimensional expression of the heart. Three such expressions came in the mail this week. One was a lovely card and enclosure from db in New York. A package from Pennsylvania contained a wonderful "knitted" card and a treasure bag for Junior. A box from Canada included another sweet card and some spinning fiber (merino/silk blend in a colorway called "She-Oak", drool), sandalwood shower gel, and two fruit jackets.

See, if you have fruit in your lunchbox, it won't get banged around and bruised up if it's wearing a jacket. And yeah. Himself has already made THAT comment about the banana jacket. No need to go there.

*snicker*

Although Junior looks half-asleep, having just awakened from his nap, he was pleased to receive his awesome new treasure bag and promptly filled it with his favorite blocks. Now I just have to make about five hundred more to hold all of his other stuff...

Yep, you can never have too many friends. One of my friends is calling right now, as a matter of fact. Just a minute, coffee pot!

Has it been that long?

2010-04-26T14:29:00.003-05:00

Apparently it has. Junior celebrated his second birthday this past Saturday. I am pleased and appalled by such a realization. My sweet little baby is now in full-on Man Mode, putting on his own shoes (almost) and feeling entitled to his own portion of All Things Frosted.

He enjoyed every bite.

In true "free spirit" fashion, we decided to forgo the traditional birthday party in favor of an open house-style event. No invitations were sent. I just mentioned that there would be cake on such-and-such day. Kind of like Field of Dreams.

"If you bake it, they will come."

I baked six cakes. They are all gone. Here's the party rundown:

3:00 (am) -- I am done with work and baking, time for bed.

7:30 -- Junior wakes up.

7:35 -- Himself gets up.

8:03 -- Junior discovers his present, a shiny new tricycle!

8:27 -- I get up.

8:45 -- Junior plays while Himself makes a breakfast run and I put cakes together.

10:00(ish) -- The first guests arrive. Junior is highly impressed by his present, a storytelling teddy bear.

10:30 -- More guests, more presents, and cake is served.

12:30 (pm) -- The family is present. The candle is lit and "Happy Birthday" is played. Junior enjoys his cake.

2:15 -- The musicians begin arriving. Folks have been coming and going all day. Junior is still going strong.

4:00 -- Hot dogs and beans are made available, and the sixth pot of coffee is made. I am on my second cup and starting to drag.

8:00 -- The crowd is starting to thin out, although a few people are still dropping by. Junior thinks he is a rock star and plans to party all night.

8:30 -- Most of the guests are preparing to leave. Junior is blowing kisses left and right. I'm still waiting for the expected nuclear meltdown.

8:45 -- Junior is done. He staggers up to me, signs 'bed' and announces, "Night... night" with half-closed eyes.

8:47 -- Junior is in his pj's.

8:49 -- Junior is in his crib.

8:50 -- Junior is asleep.

11:30 -- The last guest leaves.

And how was YOUR weekend?

Stick me with a fork, I'm done!

2010-04-19T20:00:00.002-05:00

Hm. I appear to have a smudge on my lens, too.

This is a shot of my big project from a few... let's just say that it's something I'd hoped to have done quite a while before this, but thanks to Knitter's ADD, a toddler and my own general laziness, it's taken... er, longer than that.

Here you see ten skeins of yarn. From the top and left to right, they are O'Hara, Snow on the Grapes, Kingsford, Tye Dye, Smoke and Lilacs, Bomb Pop, Editor, Ribbon Candy, Waves, and Sunshine. The reason they're all so wildly different is because they're going to ten different people.

The original plan was to hold a contest for the fine folks at Socknitters. You know how it is. You get to be friends with people you've never met. They send you little handknits when your baby is born, you all send messages of support when somebody is down; all the stuff that makes a community. I wanted to give away a skein of handspun to one of my distant and unmet friends.

Leave a post telling me your favorite color, I said. I'll choose one at random. I got ten responses and ten stories to go with them. So I decided to make ten yarns. Probably a residual effect of the really neat painkillers from my C-section...

Now the skeins are done. I dyed all but three myself. One was done by a friend, one was commercial, one is natural. One yarn was spun entirely on a drop spindle. Some are Navajo plied, some are double-back plied. All are as unique and special to me as their intended recipients.

Who are extremely patient people...

Exercise sucks.

2010-04-14T14:24:00.002-05:00

Yeah, I know all about the health benefits and about how my clothes will fit better and my skin will look better and I'll be able to step up on the curb without getting winded.

Exercise still sucks.

The cable has been shut off, right? Dandy. Although I didn't much care for the cable dude sneaking out to my house and cutting the cable during a snowstorm while we were out to breakfast, and the girl who answered the phone number scrawled on a "sorry we missed you" note was COMPLETELY useless as far as help goes, I am pleased to be out from under a monthly payment of thirty bucks that averages out to fifteeen dollars per channel that we actually watch.

"Hi, my cable was cut off. What's my back payment?"

"Gee, I don't know. We don't have access to that information."

A pause while I pondered this.

"Okay. How much will it cost to get it turned back on?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that. You'd have to call the office."

"I thought this was the office. This is the number on the card that was stuck in my door."

"No, this is the help center."

Another pause while I considered the effectiveness of sarcasm as a weapon.

"Ooookay. So, what's the number to the office?"

"Well, I'll tell you, but it doesn't matter because they're not open today."

The odd crackling on the line was not static, but my teeth grinding together. I nearly shouted at the poor girl who was, I guess, only doing her job. I settled for a vaguely polite mumble and hung up, convinced that we didn't really need cable anyway. Food is a much bigger priority. I can also buy a lot of diapers for thirty bucks a month.

Himself took the news that we would now be TV-free in stride, but pointed out that we still needed to pay the back bill. No problem. As soon as I got paid, I would pop Junior into his stroller and head over.

Hm? Well, I would walk because Himself would be using the functional vehicle. He is one of the four people back at the quarry, but we are not celebrating until we know that it's really-really open. Shhhhhh...

The appointed day arrived and we set out. Birds were singing and squirrels were squirrelling. Junior and I enjoyed a running commentary on All Things Interesting, all the way to the...

FORMER cable office.

"We have moved!"

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding.

I muttered something foul and turned the stroller around. A twelve-block trip with thirty pounds of kid and a bad knee for el zilcho. Okay, so I got a good dose of Vitamin D and some togetherness with Junior, but JEEZ! I wanted to accomplish a specific errand, not get in some crappy good-for-me exercise. Stupid cable place.

The next day, I was prepared. I had the new address and TWO potential errands to run in addition to the cable fiasco. It was to be an eighteen-block hike and I was ready. Crunchy bites and sippies at hand, Junior and I set out at just past nine.

We made it to the doctor's office, where I explained that I was suffering from Mom-worry and would there be an opening in the next few years for someone to look at Junior's ears because he kept pulling on them?

We were ushered into an exam room fifteen minutes later. Our doctor is awesome, and Junior's ears are fine. It's his two new incoming molars that are causing him grief. Across the hall at the County Clinic, the nurse practitioner and I discussed Juniors immunization needs while he gave the bead roller-coaster a workout. Gotta make one of those; they're awesome.

Back on the street, we darted across to the new cable office and walked all the way around the building as directed by the "please use other door" sign. I grasped the handle, pleased that my quest was nearly at an end.

Rattle. Rattle, rattle. Locked. The letters "WTH" crawled across my face. I peeked at the hours notice. Closed from noon to one. Consulting my phone clock, I could see that it was only 11:03. I peered through the door. Where was everybody?

I tilted my head back in preparation for a good scream and saw a piece of paper. Placed well above the line-of-sight for Your Average Short Person, it announced that the office was closed for a week. Sorry for the inconvenience. Phbbt.

I'm pretty sure I lost my mind at that point. I vaguely remember spinning around and yelling to the random stranger crossing the nearby parking lot that I was going to burn down the cable office and they could come to my house to collect their stupid check because I was NOT doing this again. He replied with some words to the effect of, "I'll bring the matches".

I muttered more foul words. Junior giggled and offered me one of his crunchies. We negotiated the crossing and headed for home. The bill and the checkbook are on the table, just waiting.

Exercise sucks.

Thoughts from a small boy.

2010-04-06T14:41:00.004-05:00

It is hard to go night-night when you are just little like me. There are lots of things in my head and they make me be awake. So Mama sits by me and knits a hat in the dark.

Maybe there are monsters, so Mama turns on the light in the potty and I can see that it is only my bear.

Maybe I am thirsty, so Mama gives me my water sippy.

Maybe my legs hurt, so Mama rubs my back.

Maybe I am sad because now I know that people sometimes go away. What if I am all alone? So Mama picks me up and sings to me and we rock in the chair.

Maybe I am excited because I can do lots of things now since I am almost big. So Mama pats my hair and runs her fingers on my eyebrows very soft so I can close my eyes and be excited in my head.

Maybe I am bored because it is night and no one will play with me. So Mama sits by me and knits a hat in the dark. I lay down and watch how Mama can make a hat and not look. I watch and my eyes get tired. My eyes want to go night-night, even when the rest of me wants to play. I close my eyes and listen to Mama go click, click, click. It sounds like my clock. It makes me sleepy.

Maybe I can go night-night now, because Mama sits by me and knits a hat in the dark.

Well... crap.

2010-03-31T15:52:00.003-05:00

Vindication is a nice feeling, but there are reasonable limits to everything. At least I made him laugh.

Himself came home early today. It's a beautiful day, so weather is not a factor. He's in fine health, so it's not a sick day. All of the work vehicles are in good working order, so equipment malfunction is not an issue.

The boss called up everyone down in the pit and told them to park their vehicles. No, don't finish the task at hand. Park them now.

In work circles, this is known as A Bad Sign. The signs got worse when it was revealed that M had gone to cash her check and was told in straightforward but kindly fashion that the account on which the check was drawn was empty.

In work circles, this is known as Wow, That Sucks. It began sucking further when the boss gathered everyone together and announced regretfully that he had enjoyed working with them.

In work circles, this is known as The Shaft. Himself lost his job.

The details are sketchy at best. All that is known is that the State swooped in and seized all company funds. It may have something to do with the fact that the owner of the quarry's parent company declared bankruptcy right aroud the time that Himself originally lost his job.

This strikes me as an amazingly stupid and shortsighted action, if it's the case. By keeping people employed in a sales environment, the State will be able to collect sales and income tax. By throwing everybody out of work, you have folks lining up for unemployment while the State enjoys owning a large chunk of hole in the ground. This is, of course, only my two cents. The full scope of the backstory probably costs much more.

Himself and I sat at the table in fairly stunned silence. We looked at each other. This news is a hard blow, especially in light of the fact that his unemployment benefits ran out just as he went back to work. He shifted uncomfortably and hung his head.

I considered the situation and spoke.

"See? This is why knitters have stash."

Capping things off...

2010-03-25T10:50:00.004-05:00

Okay, so I mentioned my friend with the alpaca yarn, right? And I told you about how he sent me "Baby's First Yarn" and how I wanted to make something cool and groovy with it? Well, I wove in the ends this morning on...

Baby's Progress Hat!

Here is the lovely Glenda modeling the hat. Isn't she great, folks? Glenda poses for pictures like this because I am spectacularly uncoordinated when it comes to taking snapshots of myself. As you can see, I'm lousy at photography in general, but Glenda does not complain.

The really wonderful chocolate brown shade doesn NOT come through, but you can pretend. This is a nice, basic sort of hat. It has a garter stitch band and a star top, and covers my eyebrows and ears. This is a plus when you have really stupid weather that decides to dump half a foot of snow on you the first day of spring.

Are you ready for the cool part? My favorite detail of this hat is in the back.

See that split? It's not entirely due to the fact that I'm lazy about finishing details. Since I have mass quantities of hair living in a braid on the back of my head, I have hat fit issues. Stocking caps that have to stretch over the bump at the top of my braid give me a bizarre sort of stretched-out shark head look. Unflattering, and frightening to small children. I usually try to find (or receive) hats that are slightly larger than my cranium would lead you to expect.

The split negates the shark head look and saves me from the tedious task of sewing up eight whole stitches.

Do you have a bunch of handspun? You know I always tell novice spinners to USE the yarn they make. Would you like to try making this hat? You WOULD?! Well, I'll tell you how it's done! As far as I know, this is my very own pattern that I designed on the needles, so all of the "thou shalt not stiff thy fellow knitter" rules apply. Failure to comply with the rules will result in the unleashing of the stash weasels.

With some bulky-weight handspun and size US10 1/2 dpns, cast on 8 stitches.

Work in garter stitch for 120 rows, slipping the first stitch of every row as if to purl. Bind off.

With worsted handspun and US6 straights, pick up stitches along one long side of the garter stitch band as follows: pick up one stitch in the front loop and one in the back loop of the first selvedge stitch. In the next, pick up one stitch in the front loop. Continue to pick up stitches along the selvedge, alternating in the described manner. You will end up on a "front and back" loop and have a total of 92 stitches.

Knit back across the 92 stitches.

Distribute the stitches on four US6 dpns (Yeah, you'll want a set of five for this!). Join and knit, decreasing two stitches in the forst round. Work in stockinette on 90 stitches for 27 rounds.

Decrease for the top as follows:

Round 1: *Knit 8, K2tog, repeat from * around.

Round 2: *Knit 7, K2tog, repeat from * around.

Continue in this fashion, knitting one less stitch between decreases each round until 9 stitches remain. Cut yarn and draw through remaining stitches.

Weave in ends. Wear hat. Impress friends. Accept invitations to A-List parties.

Procrastination.

2010-03-19T13:28:00.002-05:00

If I actually make a list of the things I should be doing, does that give me any "non-slacking" points?

I should be working on the handspun alpaca thingy.

I probably ought to do the dishes.

There's laundry to be washed.

I was just presented with about fifty pounds of plastic storage, which needs to be washed up.

I really need to sort through the cardboard boxes and transfer a bunch of that stuff into the soon-to-be-washed plastic storage.

There are toys everywhere.

I need to fill my quota of spam deletion.

Getting dressed is always a good idea.

I have ten packages to prepare for mailing.

I'd like to make a watchcap for my visiting uncle who was in the Navy and would probably like a cool and groovy WWII Red Cross reproduction.

I need to do some baking tomorrow; I ought to make a list of ingredients to buy.

Yep, that's quite a list. Lots of interesting and important stuff to do. Most of it can probably be handled pretty quickly. Throw the plastic storage into the tub, start the laundry, shove the toys into the large cardboard box, er, playhouse... Yeah, I'll bet I could manage to get most of it done in just a couple of hours.

Too bad we're going to the park instead.

No longer feeling hateful toward the Post Office...

2010-03-15T17:10:00.003-05:00

I got my pakcage mailed! Not only that, but there was no waiting. El zilcho. I walked up to the counter and told the clerk, "Hi! I'd like to mail this large box of cash to my offshore holdings, please."

She laughed (bonus points for her) and I told her what was really in the package.

"Oh, do you spin?"

Yup.

"Well, I should give you some of my alpaca fleeces when I shear this spring."

WHAAAA--?!

So, the Post Office clerk has a sense of humor AND alpacas? And is willing to share? SCORE!

Of course, this means that I will probably never see the sun again. I will also have permanently rounded shoulders and a groove worn into my right index finger from spinning alpaca plus my stash of angora plus the cool stuff I got in my fiber swap box plus the big shawl project PLUS the other fibery stuff that jumps out at me every time I open a closet door.

I'm being stalked by roving.

I'm going to take a day off from spinning to work out a pattern for a... Hm. I shouldn't tell you yet, because it's sort of a surprise. See, I have this friend who just recently learned to spin, and he sent me some of the yarn he made. A ball of his "better" stuff, and what he calls "Baby's first yarn". It's thick and squishy and beautiful. I have an idea of what it should be, but I have to work out the pattern and knit it up and post the results.

What would YOU do with two hanks of bulky, super-soft, fudgy brown alpaca yarn?

Besides roll in it...

Rude thoughts about the Post Orifice.

2010-03-13T14:28:00.002-06:00

That's what I'm having today, because they had the NERVE to close at 11:00 this morning, which is a really stupid time to close a major center of activity.

Especially when I needed a stamp.

Actually, I needed to mail a great big box full of cool and groovy stuff which was already properly labelled and taped and would have taken maybe two whole minutes out of their day if they could have found it in their hearts to take pity on a poor deprived night shift worker who did her very best to wake up early enough to get to the Post Orifice at a reasonable time and open the freaking DOOR, but no.

They close at eleven instead of noon on Saturday. Stupid Post Orifice.

AND!

Thanks to the horribly cold and nasty drizzly weather, I was unable to walk with Junior to the Post Orifice YESTERDAY, which would have solved all of the world's problems and made me cheerful and productive today.

Fortunately, not everything sucks. I have coffee and chocolate, plus the wheel bearings on the Big Red Beast have been replaced and we will not go skidding off into a ditch when the wheel bearings in question decide to seize up and ruin our day.

This is high on the list of Good Stuff.

The Post Orifice still sucks.

In other news, Junior has decided to learn to speak German. This is an interesting choice, because his daddy is of Austrian descent, while Mama is an eclectic sort of Lithuanian/Irish blend.

Junior has been learning quite a few spoken words lately, and the most recent is "yeah". Except it comes out as "yah". Intrigued, I asked him to try and say "nein". He complied, and spent the rest of the day responding to every question with "yah" or "nen".

"Want a cookie?"

"Yah!"

"Can I share it with you?"

"Yah!"

"Can I have the whole thing?"

"Nen!"

Either he's just enjoying these new sounds, or the kid's REALLY sharp. Maybe I'll sic him on the Post Orifice...

Why knitting is better than a spa.

2010-03-09T14:32:00.002-06:00

Hello again. Things have been... okay, they've been flat-out nuts here. Himself went back to work, the spare car blew a head gasket, and Junior's trying to do everything at once. Between staying up all day with the little man and staying up all night with the little job, I'm looking in the mirror at a total stranger.

"You need to relax!"

Well, duh. And how do you propose I do that?

"You should go to one of those day spas."

First off, everybody at the bank knows me, so stealing enough money to afford a day of slacking isn't high on my list of Likely Events. Secondly, I've read about those places. They do weird stuff there. Don't believe me? Read some of the stuff I've discovered whilst researching:

Picture if you will a spa. The lights are dim, soft music is playing, and scented candles perfume the air. You lie facedown on a padded table, secure in the knowledge that money can occasionally buy happiness.

Then somebody dumps a box of snakes on you.

The latest health and beauty craze to hit northern Israel is snake massage, a deep-tissue massage technique designed to, er, tip the scales in favor of relaxation. Spa owner Ada Barak has been offering snake massages since 2006, and says that once her clients got past their fears, they "said that holding the snakes made them feel better, relaxed."

I'm sorry, but if somebody drops a box of snakes on me, the only thing that's gonna be relaxed is my colon.

Snake massage is not the only beauty treatment from the Land of Weird. Take fish, for example. Now in my book, fish are relaxing. Downright hypnotic, at times. Did you know that fish are good for your feet?

Apparently, the Garra Rufa fish, also referred to as the "Doctor Fish", is used in a spa version of footsie. You stick your feet in a pool of water, and these fish come along and nibble the calluses off your toes. Your toes, not mine.

But wait, there's more! Want a glowing complexion? Want to treat your face to vital enzymes and other cool stuff to make you look good? Give yourself the bird with the "Geisha Facial". Sterilized nightingale droppings, smeared on your face. For $180 a pop. I've been scraping a fortune off the windshield all this time.

Okay, stop the beauty bus and let me off. I'm drawing the line at this one. Leech detoxification? Now, I'm all for natural. Give me organic over chemical any day. But there is no way I'm letting anybody stick leeches on my spine to "draw out impurities".

It seems that the FDA disagrees with me, as they have actually regulated and approved leech treatment for such problems as osteoarthritis, swelling and detoxification.

Well, if you've got plenty of cash and a sense of adventure, you might be willing to give snake massage and some of the other weird treatments out there a try. Lemme know how it goes for you. I'm going to stick to knitting. Sure, I might get frustrated with a hideous design, a poorly written pattern, or The World's Ugliest Color Combo, but it's soooooooo stress-relieving to fling stuff against the wall.

To have, and to have not.

2010-02-26T11:34:00.002-06:00

I have no groovy insights,
I've no witty things to say.
I have no pretty pictures;
I've done nothing cool today.

But do not pity me this morn,
and do not wail or sob.
Because I DO have awesome news...

MY HUSBAND HAS A JOB!!!

A publice service announcement.

2010-02-19T12:35:00.003-06:00

Well, I've been diagnosed with HUA Syndrome. It's a self diagnosis, but the symptoms are classic and unmistakable. It can't be anything else but... Head Up Arse Syndrome.

Oh, it's been coming on for some time. I just failed to see it, or maybe I didn't want to. It started with little things, like blanking out on the lyrics to my favorite songs. But that can happen to anyone.

Okay, so I spaced on my niece's name for a second. Everybody does that, right? No biggie.

It started to become obvious after I spent ten minutes staring at the wall while writing a check because I couldn't remember the date. It became glaringly obvious after I realized that the patch of wall at which I was staring contained... the calendar.

I have HUA.

I had a full-blown attack this morning. Gotta run to the library, gotta type my column. I waded through the swamp that is our rain-and-snow-soaked yard to get to the car before I realized that my phone was not in my pocket. Not a big deal, but I like to have it handy in case Himself needs to ask if Junior should have the peas or a handful of cookies for lunch.

I slogged back to the house, where my phone was not waiting for me.

It was in my other pocket.

Back to the car.

This time, I made it all the way across Main Street before I realized that I had forgotten my bag. You know, the place where I keep my WALLET and DRIVER'S LICENSE?! Driving around without your license is a bad thing. Leaving the house without my knitting, which is also in the bag, is a horror not to be borne.

I turned around.

I parked out front this time.

I made it to the library and settled into my usual seat without further mishap. I opened the computer, plugged it in, and pulled out my knitting while waiting for the home page to load. Those of you who are very sharp already know what comes next.

Yes.

I forgot to hit the 'power' button.

Thinking many words that should not be uttered in a library setting, I gave the 'power' button a vicious poke and did a few rows of "angry knitting". The home page loaded, and I'm all set.

Now, why am I here?

Betcha they don't listen...

2010-02-10T13:18:00.002-06:00

Dear Spammer,

Thank you for your continued and persistent interest in my electronic life. Though we've never met, it warms my heart to know that there's someone out there with my best interests at heart; someone who will NEVER let a day go by without checking in.

However...

the time has come for us to part. This decision is in no way a reflection on you, your products, your ingenuity, or your ancestry and personal habits. It's simply for the best.

Due to lack of personal funds, I will be unable to send money via Western Union to claim my share of &800,000 usd. Neither can I afford to claim the 1 milon dalors waiting in your Hang Kong Bonk. The funds in Zimbabwe, left in your care by a desist busnissmen, will have to go to someone else.

I must also turn down your thoughtful offers of social networking. Since you are utterly unknown to me, it is unlikely that we have a single thing in common. Even "being human" must be discounted, as you are likely a software-based entity. I therefore will not be joining anyone's space, and I certainly do not wish to be a part of fu##book.

Thanks to my good health, I will not need to accept your gracious offers of CH3AP CANAD1AN M3DZ. I will not be buying bulk Ritolin, Percosot, or V1AGRA.

I do not need anything enlarged.

If I could afford to send the money to collect the AUSTRALY LOTTO PRISE!! waiting for me, I might consider taking you up on your repeated offers to refinish my cabinets. Until I take enough CH3AP M3DZ, however, I will not be persuing that particular shortcut to cash.

I am also not interested in your Invest Bank scheme. Yes, I'd love to be makeing thousand of dollar mothly, but the stat-up fund of $500 is unavailable.

Since you are so very well-off, perhaps you might invest your funds in a literacy program. Some spell-check software would also come in handy. Perhaps you could buy yourself a clue?

Farewell, dear Spammer. If ever you have MAGOR DISCOUNT ON CASHMEAR, drop me a line. Until then, "stupra fascino volante torum pistrinum provolventum".

How rude!

2010-02-04T15:05:00.002-06:00

There is, unfortunately, all kinds of rudeness in the world.

There's blunt rudeness, like the guy who cuts you off in traffic while simultaneously eating a breakfast burrito, texting a friend, yakking on the phone, and changing the radio station. This is also known as stupid, but we're dealing with rudeness today.

This kind of rudeness usually prompts "in kind" rudeness, such as denouncing the driver's ancestry and personal habits, or demonstrating the California State Bird.

There's unintentional rudeness, like, say, having to blow off your knitting friends even though you've been looking forward to seeing them for weeks but your spouse and child have to come along because you only have one car and you're going to go do stuff afterward and your spouse seems to think that you are multitasking goddess who doesn't mind trying to visit, knit, eat cold soup, AND chase the baby even though he's right there not doing anything and could surely take thirty seconds out of his day to make sure the kid doesn't do a faceplant off of the table.

Hypothetically.

There's also "left field" rudeness, the kind that comes out of nowhere and leaves you wondering if the rude person in question forgot to take their morning meds. Case in point, a former co-worker.

I arrived at work to find a newbie in our midst. The usual procedure in these cases is an exchange of names and a pleasantry or two, plus directions to the coffeepot and cookie jar. Instead, I was treated to left field rudeness.

My introduction was met right out of the gate with, "Oh, you should cut your hair!"

Um, no?

"Oh, but you could get it cut like mine, and give it to Locks of Love!"

Um, hell no?

See, I have hair. Lots of hair. It goes past my knees. I chop off five or six inches every few months to keep the ends healthy, but I don't get "real" haircuts. Ever. It's just this thing I have about it.

When normal people ask about my hair and the potential for cutting it, I usually give my version of a witty reply. We laugh and the matter is dropped.

1. If I cut my hair, my eyebrows will sag to my knees.

2. If I cut my hair, I'll lose my counterbalance and fall on my face.

3. I know what I look like with short hair.

4. I once won a $30 bet involving the pizza guy, April Fool's Day, and my hair. I might need another $30 someday, so I can't cut it.

5. It keeps me warm in the winter.

6. I'm auditioning for the part of Cousin It in the upcoming Addams Family revival.

7. I'm a spinner, and someday sheep may go bald.

I have never, EVER had another person suggest, without even telling me their name, what I should do with parts of my body. Well, I take that back. I've never had a complete stranger tell me what I should do with my hair. I gave her my best, "Okay, now eat the nice Valium" smile and told her I'd think about it.

Right after I take my pet pig for his pilot's license exam...

Dogfights and swordplay.

2010-01-28T15:11:00.002-06:00

We had a bit of excitement this week. Much barking and screaming as a lady and her dog were attacked by two other dogs, right across the street from our house. Figuring the sword by the door was a bit over the top, I yelled to Himself.

"Dogfight! Get the broom!"

Mind you, this is no cute little Swiffer. This is the Broom Of Doom, with a handle big enough to dent drywall, fenders, and skulls. I sallied (silferted) forth to join the half-dozen or so neighbors armed with sticks.

Dog #2 was the backup, yapping from a short distance and making quick dashes at ankles. I let the stick-wielding neighbors handle him and focused on Dog #1. Big and mean, he was foaming at the face from excitement and he meant business. I played fence and kept a gap between biter and bitee.

This dog was aggressive, but not stupid. He stayed well out of swing range and we stood there, staring at each other, until he decided to try going around. Hey, I can dance AND hold a broom.

Between the Broom Of Doom and another neighbor armed with pepper spray, both dogs were chased off and reported. The vicitms were unharmed, but shaken. Back to the house for some coffee.

Hm? I see a hand at the back of the room. Your question? Oh. Well, yes, I really do keep a sword by the door. You in the red, your question? Ah. Because it's cool, and it goes well with the other sharp things I've collected. Uh, man in pajamas with bed hair. You have a question? Oh, that's actually an interesting story. Yes, I have pulled the sword on someone.

Once.

See, I used to have a paper route. Not the nice and tidy kind that involves a bicycle and a few city blocks. No, this was a hundred and twenty miles a day, six days a week, on gravel roads. When the weather was good, my job was very, very good. When the weather was bad, it sucked.

I inherited the job from a lady who quit without notice. I got a list of names and addresses, plus a lovely BLANK county map. Here, blank means "without any kind of house markings", but it might also mean a swear.

Yeah, actually. It made me swear a lot.

My first day on the job took nine hours. Nine stinking hours of gravel and dust and driving and heat and mailboxes without numbers and invisible road signs. I included a photocopied note with every paper, introducing myself and explaining the circumstances.

The second day was much better, only lasting seven hours. By the third day, I felt like I was getting the hang of things. Pull up to a box, double-check the map and list, drop off a paper, and on to the next stop. It was during one of the stops that I ran into Angry Farmer.

A little back story here. Pretty much the same day if got the paper job, I bought a sword. Spanish steel, nicely balanced for my size, not too ornate. Why? Because. I like swords. They help me defend my yarn stash. And possibly my life, as you will soon see. I had the sword in the car with me, in case I ran into a friend. Then I could brag.

Angry Farmer was not my friend, and probably would continue to fail to be my friend for some time. He was angry and large, and at this point in the story, he was barreling across his lawn, straight toward my car.

Putting both hands on my windowsill (I felt the car sag), he stuck his head in the window and yelled, "Are you the new paperboy?"

Not wanting to irk Angry Farmer any further, I declined to correct his gender misidentification. I opted to answer in the affirmative for simplicity's sake. It failed to soothe him.

"Git outta the car!"

Excuse me?!

"You heard me, git outta the car!!"

Now, I have NO idea what this dude had in mind. I expect he was at least planning to be intimidating. Unfortunately, he picked the wrong day. And the wrong person. I smiled beatifically.

Okay. Just a moment, please.

In an amazingly athletic move that would probably land me in traction today, I opened the door while reaching into the backseat. I stepped out with sword in hand and went into full en garde mode.

How may I help you?

He stared. He blinked. He stared some more. He finally muttered something about making sure he was getting his paper.

Do you see the paper in the box? Nod.

Did you get your paper yesterday? Nod.

And the day before? Nod.

Did you get my note? Nod.

Do we have a problem? A vigorous headshake.

Thank you, sir. Have a lovely day.

I got into the car and drove on to my next stop, shaking and cackling madly for the rest of the trip. It wasn't until I got home that I realized the funniest part of the whole experience: it was a freaking SWORD. See, if I'd pulled a gun on the guy, he could have called the cops and I'd have gone to jail. Imagine this conversation, though:

"Police Department."

"My paper carrier pulled a sword on me!"

"Yeah, right, Pops! Lay off the Old Crow!" *click*

I never saw Angry Farmer again, except for one time when he peeked through the blinds. I wonder if he still remembers me? I wonder if he was nicer to the carrier that took over a few years later?

The weather report.

2010-01-22T11:37:00.003-06:00

Rejoice! The fog is gone and we can see across the street!

Mourn! The guy across the street is doing naked Jazzercise and left his shades up!

Rejoice! Our curtains close!

Mourn! The brain bleach bottle is empty!

Rejoice! There's still a bottle of homemade Kahlua!

Mourn! Drinking an entire bottle of Homemade Kahlua makes you barf!

Rejoice! We have indoor plumbing!

Mourn! We run too slowly!

Rejoice! We have fresh towels!

Mourn! The towels are now disgusting!

Rejoice! The washing machine works!

Mourn! The washer is off-balance and dancing into the kitchen!

Rejoice! We can escape out the front door!

Mourn! The guy across the street is still going strong!

The slacker returns.

2010-01-14T14:17:00.004-06:00

Well.

Here I am.

See, I would have been here sooner, but I have this thing about going outside when the windchill is forty below. Also, given the choice between goofing off and helping Himself find a job, I just knew you'd all be extra patient about getting a new and exciting post.

No luck on the job front so far, but I do have knitting to show you. I finished a pair of socks, a couple of dishcloths, and this scarf:

Nice, eh? For my sister's birthday. For those who want to know, I used Rowan's Tapestry, which is a wool and soy blend and VERY easy on the hands. Here is a closeup of the pattern, which is the column stitch from the book, "Knit One Below":

Don't you love it? Don't you want to pet it? Just don't wear it!

Yeah, my sister was all excited about her fabulous birthday scarf in Raider colors. We're from California; what can I say? Not gonna cheer for the Eagles, THAT'S for sure! True to my standard knitting style, the scarf was still pinned to the bed on Party Day with the hair dryer blasting and me swearing.

"Dry, damn you! DRY!"

I am nothing if not subtle.

Anyway, the scarf dried and I wove in the ends. A stellar wrapping job with the best plastic bag that the Evil Empire can provide, and the present was presented. And there was much rejoicing!

Much rejoicing, that is, until Sis got to work and was confronted by a co-worker.

"What's wrong with your neck?"

Hm. Redness. Blotchiness. Itchiness.

Crap.

It's bad enough that she got the short end of the stick by being a Christmas baby. "Here's a present for your birthday AND Christmas!" Total ripoff. Now she's allergic to her present! This is suckage of a high magnitude, especially given my track record with timely delivery of knitted birthday presents which we will not discuss because I'm by-golly going to finish them all even if most of the intended recipients have probably forgotten what I promised them by now.

I should've gotten her a book...

Duuuuuude.

2009-12-30T13:50:00.002-06:00

New year, new location. Since our local coffeeshop is closed, I'm in the library to do my busywork. There are pros and cons to this arrangement.

1. No coffee. This is a definite con, because I like coffee. I like it with cream or milk or even the powdery fake stuff that supposedly tastes just like milk but makes your cat hiss at you and give you the claw if you try to fob it off on him. I like coffee with chocolate or hazelnut or caramel. Or all three. I like strong coffee. Coffee is my friend. There is no coffee at the library.

2. Many books. This is a pro AND a con, because I like books. I like almost all books, except romance "novels". And F. Scott Fitzgerald. F. Scott Fitzgerald is most assuredly not my friend, but most other books are. This is a pro because I am always happy when surrounded by books. It is a con, because I will probably see a title that will make me get up and ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ahem. Sorry. They have the new Paul McCartney biography. Just had to take a quick peek.

3. Quiet. This is a definite pro, because I can sit and think and stare and type and fix and think some more without weird music or weird questions. There are still weird people, though. It is, after all, a public place and I am in it. It stands to reason. Come to think of it, quiet is also a con. It means I am my only company, which gets dull after a while, believe it or not.

4. Okay, I found another pro. The table is level. Of course, it makes no difference here if the table is level, because I have no coffee, but hey. I'm looking on the bright side.

Well, then. We'll see how this whole library thing works out. It'll cost less money, because I won't be buying any coffee, so maybe I can do this a bit more often.

Woo-hoo! Silver lining! Happy New Year, folks.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-23T17:42:00.004-06:00

May all be right with the whirled.

Bethlehem Project, 2009

This is why nothing gets done...

2009-12-18T11:52:00.005-06:00

I'm too busy watching scenes like this. I should be knitting. I should be doing laundry. I should be working on set lists for upcoming gigs. Instead, I'm doing a Gregor Mendel study on my kid. He's a perfect blend of his parents. For the first ten seconds of the clip, he's all deer-in-the-headlights, exactly like Daddy when confronted by a camera.

Then he turns into me...

Yo and stuff.

2009-12-11T12:39:00.002-06:00

I yelled today. It was loud yelling with sarcasm. My hair was defying gravity while the bags under my eyes were headed to Mexico.

I was probably a terrifying sight.

Remember the whole night shaft thing? Where I go to work at an unholy hour and return at a demonic one? Yeah. And remember how I have a small boy and a deaf spouse? Yeah.

You can probably see where this is going.

At nine this morning, after roughly five hours of sleep, I hear feet. They sound like small feet, and they are moving very quickly. They come close to where I am drooling into my pillow, with one eye glaring blurrily at the clock, which is quietly mocking me.

"BAH! MAMA! UP!"

More feet, large and somewhat slower this time.

"JUNIOR, NO! MAMA'S TRYING TO SLEEP! WE HAVE TO BE QUIET!"

All of the feet retreat. They seem to be having a clog dancing contest on the way. They get as far as the boxes of toys stacked in the next room. All of the toys have off switches, but none of these switches is in use. The on buttons, however, are in fine form.

"PUSH A BUTTON! I'M THE ELEPHANT! INSERT A CARD! TWO APPLES!"

I chastise myself for having hostile thoughts about my family and burrow further under the covers. The large feet stomp over to the pile of toys.

"MAMA'S TRYING TO SLEEP! LET'S GO INTO THE OTHER ROOM!"

A complicated tap-dance routine ensues as the feet make their escape into the kitchen, a whole two rooms away. I hear pans clanging in the sink as Himself washes dishes. Junior contents himself with simply slinging concrete blocks against the walls. It sounds that way, anyhow.

After several minutes of crashing and banging, the clog dancers return for a command performance. Throwing their all into the routine, they attempt to crack the very foundations of the house while overthrowing every box within reach. The chorus is in full voice.

"NAH NAH NAH! DADA! AH HAH HAH!"

"JUNIOR, STOP! MAMA IS STILL TRYING TO SLEEP!"

No, she's not. Mama slings back the covers and appears in the doorway in full-on Moses On the Mount mode. Hair weaves into the air like wrathful snakes. Eyes blaze, shooting fire at the noisemaking heathens. The heathens freeze.

"Mama's mad."

"WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT?! I'M NOT MAD AT ALL! I ALWAYS LOOK LIKE THIS AFTER A PEACEFUL NIGHT'S SLEEP!"

I dress and gather my column-writing supplies, casting dirty looks over my shoulder. After kisses, I take my leave.

"OKAY, I'M GOING TO THE COFFEESHOP NOW! I'LL BE BACK SOON!"

Just wait until tomorrow morning, when I return from work. I have a brand-new CD of John Phillip Sousa marches, and a high-tech PA system...

A new craft store!

2009-12-01T14:24:00.006-06:00

Good Lord, it's December? See, I told you night shift was a bad idea. "Oh, it'll be great! You'll have all day to do stuff!" My butt, I do. When you get home at three in the morning, you don't exactly leap out of bed at nine a.m. My "day" starts around noon, which means I have substantially fewer hours to get things done before leaving for work.

Sigh. I know, I'll cheer myself up with a picture of The Pirate and the Prairie Hen. The hen is me. The pirate is not as fierce as he looks.

Hallowe'en was fun. There was a haunted house nearby, so Himself took Junior up the walk to see what was going on. Kids were screaming and running away; one lady burst into tears when a monster jumped out at her. Junior gave the monster his best pirate stare, signed 'please' and pointed to the candy. *snicker*

Next year, he may not be so laid-back, but it was pretty funny.

This past weekend, we went back to the Prairie for a Christmas party. I wore my "good" Prairie outfit, and Junior and Daddy wore vests. And pants, of course.

Tons of great scenery out there, so we thought we'd try to get a snap or two for the Christmas cards this year. What is easy with a baby is not so simple with a toddler. We got some fine shots of Junior running away and throwing rocks into a trash can before handing him some gravel and showing him the hole in the anvil.

Other than that, the big news is the new craft store in town. I finally got a chance to go inside, rather than just drooling on the windows. I introduced myself as the "yarn lady", and was greeted with, "Are you... you are! Wow! I've been wanting to meet you!"

This is either very good for my ego, or a sign that I spend way to much time frequenting craft shops. Anyway, I had a look around. Lots of sewing and quilting stuff, baskets and ecorating supplies. No yarn.

GASP!

I have promised to make up a list of "the good stuff", yarns and notions that will likely always be in demand. I figure Cascade 220 for a good all-purpose worsted, and maybe Lamb's Pride for felting projects. What say you knitters about sock yarn? What's a good mid-range brand and price? How about favorite needles? Leave me your input and I'll pass it on to the lady across the street.

Of course, you can always leave your input anyway. I like hearing from you, even when I don;t get a chance to say so.

I heard it through the... grapevine?

2009-11-16T13:12:00.003-06:00

There is one thing that will dc the complaints from our backseat driver, and that's his nursery rhyme CD. Within two notes from the opening xylophone track, there is silence and contentment from Captain Crabby.

The senior passengers are another story...

With the car tunes and the music class and the at-home singing, I hear a lot of nursery rhymes. A lot lot. Since one can only listen to so many repeats of "Pop Goes the Weasel" before "Mom Goes Berserk", we have come up with ways to combat the potential for insanity.

As an example, we sing a blues version of "Itsy-Bitsy Spider". It's very cool, and Junior grins and dances every time he hears it. Seeking another such blend of kid and contemporary, I produced the following arrangement of a well-known song covered by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

The management takes no responsibilities for injuries sustained while grooving. Get down at your own risk.

Oo, oo, the spider, he went up the spout.
Down came the rain and it washed him out.
Out came the sun and it dried the rain.
So that spider climbed back up again.
He could have saved himself some time;
watched the forecast on Channel 9.

(chorus)
Oo, yeah, I heard it in a nursery rhyme.
Got those songs playing all the time.
Whoo, yes, I heard it in a nursery rhyme.
And I'm just about to lose my mind.

Make a ring around a rosy now,
fill your pockets with some posies now.
Ashes, ashes, sneeze all over town.
Join your hands and we all fall down.
Though the words are kind of vague,
listen close: it's about the Plague!

(chorus)

Willie Winkie, he runs everywhere.
Down the stairs in his underwear.
Banging on windows, he yells through locks,
"Go to bed, 'cause it's eight o'clock!"
Do you plan to sleep yourself,
or just holler at everyone else?

(chorus)

What idiot designed this program?!

2009-11-03T14:15:00.002-06:00

I have to go back to another program on another computer to edit the pictures I was planning to show you because this thing blows them up to billboard size. Since I'm sure you're not interested in a two-foot nostril, I'll save the pitures for another day.

Okay, so yesterday was my birthday. I got tons of good wishes and blessings from almost everyone I know.

Almost everyone...

Himself forgot.

When a spouse forgets your birthday, there are a number of ways to deal with it. There's the "You-miserable-jerk-I-bore-your-children!" approach, which leaves all parties unhappy. There's the "I'll-just-drop-ten-billion-subtle-hints" approach, which usually doesn't work and ends up leading to Option A anyway.

I chose Option C, and said nothing. The guy's been out of work for over a year, and freaks out every month when the bills come due. If I were to mention the word "birthday", he'd be miserable over the fact that he couldn't make a big deal over it. I chose to shut up and let Nature take its course.

Nature arrived at nine in the evening. His phone beeped.

"I didn't hear your phone ring. Who sends you a text besides me?"

We were both stumped, so Himself looked at the phone.

"Hey, it's from S.!"

Unusual, but S. had called earlier about a handyman job, so maybe this was an update. S. and L. are two of our favorite people, so maybe they wanted to make plans.

Himself read the message.

He turned gray.

"What? What did he say?"

Silence. Himself was shading from gray to green.

"What?! Is it something bad?"

"It's not good!" His eyes were attempting to dislodge themselves.

After a few more fruitless attempts to get in on the big shock, I said to hell with the whole mess and went for more coffee. This was when Himself crept slooooowly into the kitchen and slooooowly put his arms around me.

"I forgot your birthday."

After about five thousand apologies, Himself showed me the text. Probably unwilling to stand by while his friend was likely to be killed, S. had sent the innocent phrase, "Tell her happy birthday from us!" Himself promptly hustled off to the Evil Empire, calling himself everything but a gentleman. He returned with roses (red, to match his face) and a card, which were received with smiles and kisses. We were still laughing about it this afternoon.

Not the most romantic of birthday events, but we've got a great anecdote to share at future parties.

Hint, hint...

Gray and nasty, but there's coffee...

2009-10-29T15:58:00.002-05:00

Yay, fall. My back walk is turning into tea from all the leaves and rain. Yick.

Oh, well. I have coffee to drink, books to read, and lots of yarn for knitting. It LOOKS like lots of yarn, anyway. I'm sure if I really thought about it, I could probably come up with all kinds of reasons to buy more.

"I don't have this color."

"I need that weight."

"This isn't the right kind of fiber for the project I have in mind."

"I want a contrast color for the cuff."

"Someone at work is having a baby and I need to make something."

"My nephew has a birthday coming up and he's been hinting for socks."

"I've been invited to a function and I need a dressy accessory."

See? Rationalizing is easy. Pick almost any vice, er, hobby, and try it yourself. Now if you'll excuse me, I need a cookie. This cup of coffee looks lonely...

Music to our ears.

2009-10-19T14:01:00.003-05:00

I am firmly convinced that "tough love" is tougher on the parents than on the child. Case in point: Junior's bedtime.

When I worked day shift (Ah, the sun! That golden orb that warmed my days; how I remember you!), Himself was home to oversee the care and feeding of our boy. This was good, because it helped form the strong Daddy/Baby bond that exists today. There was one small hitch, however.

Junior was getting no naps. I would come home to find the little man running around the house, or jumping up and down in his crib. Himself would hasten to explain.

"He doesn't want to take a nap."

Well, duh, dear! You have the radio blaring and you run into his room at the drop of a dust bunny. Of course he doesn't want to take a nap. Being awake is far more interesting. You have to insist.

Alas for Himself and for Junior, insisting is not in Daddy's nature. He tried, though, however half-hearted his efforts may have been. He tried. Usually it fell to Mama to play the heavy upon her return from work.

"Junior! Kisses! Bed! Now!" A nap would usually follow, with grumbling from all parties. It wasn't long before The Change came. The Change was bad. The Change was noisy.

Junior decided that sleep was not for him and began screaming whenever he was placed in that horrible torture device called "the crib". The crib was evil and was to be avoided at all costs. He would simply scream until we picked him up. This pleased him somewhat, and we would be allowed to rock him until one in the morning. He would then consent to lie in the torture device, but only as long as we remained in the room and stared at him. Eventually Junior would give in to sleep and Himself and I would collapse in our own bed, there to sleep until the ungodly hour of six a.m. when Junior would announce his desire to eat crackers and pound on things. He was becoming surly and tantrum-prone.

This could not continue for long. Books were consulted for a remedy. Did you know that sleep is important? Wow. I should write a book, too. I can also state that sleep is important. This makes me an expert? Sheesh.

The book went on to say that we should a) Put Junior to bed early, and b) Let him skriek to his heart's content.

WTF?!

Put him to bed early so he can get UP even earlier? Let him scream and have the neighbors call the cops? This expert was obviously insane. Sure he had kids, but he didn't have OUR kid.

We reread the book and gauged the depth of our eye bags. What the hell. Let's try it.

7:00 p.m. Junior gets a bath, a story, and a cuddle.

7:30 p.m. Junior is put into the torture device and the door is closed.

7:30:01 p.m. Shrieks of outrage fill the house.

8:00 p.m. The screaming continues.

We notice the quality of the screams. It is not a "Why hast thou forsaken me?" kind of scream. It's more in the nature of, "Hey, you jerks! Get in here and pick me up!"

9:30 p.m. I leave for work. The screaming, while still going strong, now has lengthy pauses between blasts.

10:30 p.m. Report from Himself: "He passed out on the crib rail! I laid him down and he popped back up and started yelling again."

11:30 p.m. Junior sleeps.

Four hours of screaming, one exhausted baby, and two parents who feel like absolute dirt. We are obviously horrible parents. We vow to burn the awful book that made us do such a thing.

9:30 a.m. Junior awakes, giggling and cooing; all smiles for his parents who come creeping cautiously into his room. Whoa, dude!

From that moment on, sleep has been easy. We have never again had to let him "cry it out". We ask if he's sleepy and get the "sleep" sign in return as Junior heads for his room. Change into jammies, rock and cuddle in Mama's big chair, then up go the arms as Junior asks to go to bed. A few minutes of quiet play and he's out.

Bliss.

After several days of the new sleep regimen, our little boy was back to his rested, cheerful self. He was on his best behavior when we saw "Unlce Tommy" in concert last weekend, laughing and babbling...

Two kinds of music to our ears that night...

Here I sit, full of coffee...

2009-10-08T17:04:00.002-05:00

Tried to... uh... bought a... erm...

Never mind. I've contracted Failure To Be Inspired, I guess. On the plus side, creativity isn't the only thing I seem to have lost. A total of ten pounds down the drain, woo-hoo! If only it were possible to select the bits to be carved away...

Big news here in Tiny town. We're getting... a yarn shop. An actual Home Of Knitting, a Center Of String. A real, live yarn shop, mere blocks from our house and conveniently located on the home-bound path from work.

I'm doomed.

The portion of my pittance that does NOT currently go to home/health/baby necessities like food, electricity, hospital bills, and exciting new bath toys is already earmarked for my favorite book and yarn stores. If a new yarn shop does indeed make an appearance, I will be forced to rob a bank to keep up with the supply that I will no doubt demand.

We must support local business, after all.

There is a chance, however. This new store will need a gimmick. Something cool and groovy that cannot be found anywhere else. Perhaps... a line of locally dyed and spun yarn?

Hmmmm...

It's October?!

2009-10-05T14:24:00.003-05:00

Whoa, dude!

Let's see... well, I am now a little more technnologically advanced. I joined Facebook (snicker), and I'm posting via a new-to-me laptop, courtesy of J. Very cool, eh? Yes, indeed. Let's cover the basics regarding music, knits, and cookies.

Music: we're rehearsing for a show this weekend. It's a fundraiser for a local historic schoolhouse. For ten bucks, you get chili and soup and pie, plus the acoustic extravaganza that is us. We're so big-time now, we have an opening act! Bluegrass, old-time country, Irish fiddle tunes, and almost certainly at least one Beatles song.

We're also going to see Tommy Emmanuel the night before we play, so we ought to be good and inspired!

Knits: not much. The Zauberball socks, the felted pillows, the hat and scarf set; they're all still in the works, along with some yarn that needs to be spun and mailed. It's just a matter of time. I'm not sure how much I'll have now, because this is the day I go on night shaft.

Read that again. Night shaft. It's not a typo. I'll be working nights Monday through Friday from now until the paper finally folds, or they change their minds. Sigh. On the plus side, I get to spend the day with my boys. Himself can go and putter in the garage or whatever, and I can keep up with my new exercise regimen by taking Junior out in the stroller. On the downside, I'll probably get even less sleep than before. We shall see.

Cookies: chocolate chip tonight, to go with the Macaroni In HD that will be tonight's dinner.

And now, whaat you've all been waiting for: the latest on Little Himself! Junior is teaching himself new signs almost daily. Just this week he picked up "bath", "juice", and "hot". He's a sharp little dude, picking up on things I say and putting them together with actions. He tossed a book on the table and it knocked against my coffee cup.

"Careful, Honey. Don't hit the coffee or it will spill."

A raised little eyebrow, followed by the sign for "bath".

"That's right. You'll get it all over you and need a bath."

The sign for "all done" and off he goes.

I'm telling you, he's a genius. I'll have him knitting by Kindergarten.

An experiment.

2009-09-24T16:16:00.003-05:00

Unlike my generally lazy self, technology is mobile. I had therefore intended to put the wonderful world of "apps" to use by literally phoning it in. Yes, this post would be neither live nor Memorex; it would come to you via BlackBerry. You are impressed, no?

No. You shouldn't be. It didn't work. Okay, we'll move on.

With the help of quite a few cool and groovy people, including Amy Clarke Moore of Spin-off Magazine (who's probably not reading this, but hey, it was an e-mail from someone on my "personal celebrity list", so it was extra-cool and gets a plug), I have a game plan in place for the Walk Through Bethlehem Spindle Quest. The spindle will have a wooden shaft and a low-mounted, stone whorl.

I should clarify. It will have a stoneLIKE whorl. Not being a gifted mason, or even your average Joe Rockbanger, I will be fashioning the whorl from, er... Sculpey. That clay stuff. Yeah.

Well, they DO have some that LOOKS like stone. It even goes by the imagination-stirring name of Sculpey Stone. If that doesn't crank your Inventive Dial to "high", I don't know what will. So there you have it. We've reached the Castle Augh, our coconuts are at the ready, and our quest is at an end. For today, anyway. Tomorrow's a whole 'nother ball of string!

In the meantime, I have news. See, my mom has this phrase she uses for those who think they are cooler and groovier than we mere peons. "She thinks she's hot @#$% on a stick, but she ain't nothin' but a cold fart on a splinter!"

If this is the comparison for greatness, our friend S is a flaming colon on a tree branch. The coolest of the cool, and the grooviest of the groovy. Why? Because she stopped by last night with a present. An amazing present. A present that, in her words, she "thought we needed".

Tickets to see Tommy Emmanuel on October ninth.

SHRIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We are pleased about this. Having been forced by economic circumstances to skip Winfield (a crushing, soul-sucking blow), we were figuring that any chance to see Tommy was as "out there" as Neptune. Remote. Unlikely.

Screwed.

However, all is now rainbows and kittens as we stare at and drool over the tickets and plan to have S canonized.

CRAP! I gotta make more socks by October ninth!

Assorted crap in a blender.

2009-09-15T17:54:00.003-05:00

I have issues with sugar. I'm not diabetic, and I don't beat people up and steal their candy bars, but I am hypoglycemic. I have to eat breakfast to get "up" to sixty-five on the meter. I also have a serious fondness for chocolate.

A month or so ago, I had some moments when my blood sugar bottomed out. Fun times. Figuring that I must have been overindulging in my favorite food group, I dropped the sugar. Don't worry, I compensated with protein and healthy things. I just stopped eating cookies, cake, candy and such.

I also lost five pounds. Yay, me!

I'm going to do other "good for me" things like walking and drinking water, but that's a long and boring story that is nowhere near as much fun as yarn and music and food. Suffice to say, I'm going to take care of myself.

Part of this care involves a weekly treat. Ice cream, maybe waffles and syrup for breakfast; something gooey and wonderful. On the non-Sunday days, I get the occasional craving for SWEET.

Enter the fruit reaper.

I went through a bag of cherries a day when they were in season and on sale. Last week it was watermelon. Grapes, strawberries, apples; all of these are my friends. Now that the produce selection is winding down into Dreg City, I'm rediscovering the blender.

Blenders are awesome. So is Dannon, because they make a yogurt that doesn't contain Spelnda or Aspartame (they key to the taste is in the first syllable) or high fructose corn syrup. My freezer is also awesome, because it is now stocked with frozen fruit.

Into the blender goes a banana, a cup of No-Crud-Added vanilla yogurt, a handful of wheat germ, and various frozen goodies like cherries, peaches, and pineapple. Hit the button and watch it dance across the counter.

REHHHHHHHHHH!!

The result goes into a bowl, because even though I'm being very good and eating healthy stuff, I still imagine ice cream and the bowl lets me pretend.

Slurrrrrrrp. Mmm...

Junior arrives on the scene, tapping his mouth and banging his fists together. Bite. More bite. Okay, little man. Have some.

Junior decides that this cold stuff is pretty good, and parks himself in my lap. There is a wrestling match for control of the spoon. It takes a while, but I win and we share. It may not be a hot chocolate chip cookie, or even a tepid snickerdoodle, but there's a lot to be said for a cold bowl, a warm baby, and assorted crap in a blender.

Grumble, grumble...

2009-09-12T17:07:00.002-05:00

WHY do I ALWAYS forget the camera?

I even reminded myself. Self, don't forget to take the camera so you can take a picture of the cake once it's set up.

Forgot the camera.

It was a nice cake, too. Two tiers, pearl-colored dots around the sides, a bottom border of flowers in two shades of blue, little green leaves... and no pictures. Oh, well. Maybe the mom of the bride will e-mail me some. We work together, after all. A picture isn't too much to ask.

Let's see, what else did I fail to photograph?

Well, we played for a tractor show yesterday, that was fun. By the end of our hour set, we'd gone from an audience of four to full bleachers. Not bad for the ego, that. They paid us in gift certificates to the show "store" and we picked up a T-shirt and a cookbook.

Hmm, Dorito Casserole...

Junior the Great displayed his knowledge this morning while being dressed. "Here's your shoe, where's your right foot?" Up popped said foot, waiting to be shod. "Good job, kid! Now gimme your left foot." A pause, then the left foot was offered. Smart boy. Now I have to teach him to work the ball winder.

Speaking of ball winder, I'm getting crazy with the spinning. If my fabulous wool from fabulous J ever dries out (thank you, stupid weather), I can begin spinning for her stockings in between bouts of Eternal Garter Stitch. In the meantime, I'm playing with colorways and plying techniques.

Hey! Any of you spinners or religious scholars out there wanna help answer a question? A local couple hosts a sort of "Walk Through Bethlehem" every December. They have a marketplace and such, people in costume, and lots of things for folks to see, hear, and touch. Gives them an idea of what life was like around the year Zip. I asked if they'd want a spinner and boy, talk about lighting up! Whoo! Dynamite eyes. They allowed that it would probably be the coolest thing since sliced bread, so I'll go and hang out for a few days and spin.

Here's my dilemma: I'm reasonably sure that Jacob or Karakul would be suitable breeds from which to take fleece. They're unimproved breeds, and would almost certainly have been around during that time. No problem there. But what about the spindle? High or low whorl? Wood or stone? Tapered shaft? Whorl shape? What would be authentic? Yeah, most of the folks going probably won't know any more than I currently do about what's realistic and what's a crock, but I surely can't show up with a CD on a stick and call it historic.

Ideas?

With coffee...

2009-09-08T10:18:00.002-05:00

...I can do anything! Except remember stuff, that is.

It's been a full, rich weekend. Home from work at three a.m.Saturday morning (after much coffee), up at six-thirty to go to the Prairie (with much coffee). There was a lot going on for the Labor Day weekend, including a quilt show and various demonstrations by yours truly. Weaving, spinning, and dyeing. And much coffee. I taught a big, burly dude to use a drop spindle (he did a fine job), and a whole slew of folks (most of them adults, amazingly enough) learned to weave bookmarks.

I found it rather endearing that the adults were just as serious in color selection as the little kids.

My dad's sister is in town, so we had visiting. This is where the whopping brain cramp comes in. When family is in town, you go to see them, right? Not so simple for musicians. Behold:

Me: "Okay, are we ready to go to Mom and Dad's?"

Himself: "Well, I guess so. But we've got people coming over tonight."

Me: "Huh?"

Himself: "It's Monday. We're supposed to rehearse."

Me: "OH! Crap. I forgot. The schoolhouse thing."

With leaving-the-house-plans scrapped, Himself headed for Taco Bell to retrieve dinner. I left a voicemail with the fiddle player and started a pot of coffee. Himself returned and we dined in takeout splendor. Moments later, we heard footsteps on the porch. A knock on the door. Three seconds later, a horrible realization manifested.

"OH, @#$%&!!! I WAS SUPPOSED TO COOK DINNER!!!"

A very sheepish me faced Himself and our bass player, both leaning against various parts of the house, laughing until they nearly cried. Mustering what little dignity I had left, I held out a plastic bag.

"Would you like a burrito?"

The bass player accepted the burrito with grace and humor while Himself offered to get him "one of the really GOOD plastic forks we save for company occasions". I countered with the idea that our friend was now a family member, as we sure as hell weren't treating him like a guest.

The rehearsal was a success, including the new intro and outro for "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and a number of other cool and groovy tunes. A few more squares on the calendar have been filled in with bold print, and all is well with the world.

Dear God, please don't let me forget that I have to make a wedding cake this Saturday...

Some days, I just can't knit.

2009-09-02T18:30:00.003-05:00

As odd as that sounds, it's true.

Picture if you will, me ten years ago in a little beige Buick, heading home from my folks' place. Less than a mile from the family homestead, I am blindsided by a headache. It's one of those nasty ones that come on suddenly, go away quickly, and occasionally cause brief blackouts.

I woke up in the ditch.

I walked the near-mile back to the house to let Dad know that I'd had "a bit of trouble". He loaded up the tow chain and we drove back to the site of the adventure. While I was Out with a capital O, I'd run right over a road sign mounted on a T-post.

If you are not familiar with these, it was one of those big metal jobs that require a great deal of force to bend. Like a car. The post was bent, right at the ground, almost perfectly parallel with the ground.

Dad towed my car out of the ditch, then walked over to the traumatized road sign. Planting one foot against the bend, he wrapped both hands around the post and PULLED THAT SUCKER STRAIGHT UP. Unbent. Except for the flaked paint, it looked fine.

I was impressed.

Having witnessed such a feat, I was hard-pressed to reconcile the image of the man in the hospital bed with my dad. Eyes closed, pale and quiet, fresh from surgery to correct a thirty-year-old injury. That's not really him, is it?

My dad is big and strong. His voice is big and strong. Who is this pale stranger with his face?

Before we were allowed in to see him, I reached into my knitting bag. And stopped. I ran a hand over the richly colored wool, the cool and bright needles, the red plastic bag from a well-known local shop. But I didn't knit. I didn't knit the night before, and I didn't knit all that morning. My hands were reaching for something else, too anxious to deal with the in-around-over-off of stitches. I carried my knitting with me anyway.

I watched the pale stranger in the hospital bed take a deep breath... and open his eyes. He saw me. He smiled. He squeezed my hand. It WAS my dad. Everything was going to be fine.

That night, I went home and kissed my sleeping little boy. I added several inches to a hat before going to bed.

Sin and silliness.

2009-08-24T18:51:00.002-05:00

I did a bad thing today. I wasted coffee. Not only that, it was someone else's coffee. Worse than that, it was at work. Bad enough that my knitting time at work has gone bye-bye, now I have to tortue my co-worker by spilling his coffee.

I sat in it.

Who puts coffee on a low table in a room with no chairs?!

Rather than die of embarassment (and a rather painful burn), I turned to humor. A great defense mechanism, especially when you beat others to the punch.

Me: "Hey, I don't think you want your coffee anymore!"

Him: "Why?"

Me: "Cause you'll have to wring it out of my pants!"

Our boss: "Oh, that sounded just terrible!"

Having entered by bloodstream in a roundabout fashion (yes, there's a potential insult there; leave it be), the coffee revved up my brain and made it conclude that rapid-fire weirdness was in order.

"The best part of waking up is Folger's in your butt! We know it wasn't Taster's Choice; that's a flavor we can live without. So, what kind was it? N'assCafe? No. Eight O'Crotch? Nuh-uh. It was Cheek Full O' Nuts!"

I retreated to the corner with a fresh cup of coffee and a fan. Tomorrow I will remember to seek before I sit. Behold before I burn. Most importantly...

I must not waste coffee.
I must not waste coffee.
I must not waste coffee.
I must not waste coffee.
I must not waste coffee...

Men and cats.

2009-08-22T11:44:00.003-05:00

I've heard several women/girls/ladies/females make the statement, "I hate men!" I'm always surprised by this, because I think Men are one of God's great creations. It's guys that suck. I dated several guys, but I married a Man.

A Man understands your need to have things your way, but will put his foot down when it's important to him. A Man may not always be able to show his feelings, but you can count on the fact that they're in there somewhere. I have a great many theories on what consititues a Man, but it can be boiled down to this:

Men are like cats.

Strong, independent natures hide a loving, playful interior. Also, if you dangle yarn in front of them, they usually get that same glazed expression. Sometimes they swat at it, too. Probably to get it out of their faces.

I'm working on a pair of man-socks this week, along with the Eternal Felted Pillows worked in Terminal Garter Stitch. The pillows are for a birthday present. The birthday was last year. I need to knit faster...

So, the man-socks. Tracy, over at Knit One, Prrl Two (Yeah, you! You need to update so we know you're feeling better!) mentioned a yarn called Zauberball. Ooo, says silfert. New sock yarn? Must go see! And off to the yarn shop. I looked and I liked. I especially liked the "Crazy" colorway in slate, navy, brown, and burgundy. Very awesome, and surely manly colors. I bought a ball and cast on for man-socks in the Ace In the Hole pattern.

Now, I may have mentioned this before. I carry my knitting with me. Everywhere. Line at the store? Knitting. Waiting at the bank? Knitting. Going to the Post Office for stamps? Project in the bag, plus an extra, just in case. My knitting is my shadow.

Anyhow, I have these slowly growing man-socks with me, and I show them to men with whom I interact. They all react in the same way. Their eyes widen and glaze over, they lean in, and they say, "That's CO-O-O-O-OL!!"

Men are cats, I'm telling you.

So this is Tuesday, huh?

2009-08-18T18:07:00.003-05:00

It's been an interesting day for a Tuesday. To quote Navin R. Johnson, "Things are going to start happening to me now!" For starters, there was actually a rubber band available after plaiting the Braid of Doom this morning.

That was the highlight of my workday.

In the mailroom, we had Mr. Creepy staring down the backs of our necks for a large part of the day. He was warming us up for his big announcement. We're going to start printing another paper! Joy. This is going to cut into my Wednesday morning coffee time in a serious way. I need my Wednesday morning coffee time. It is when I knit and discuss books with my lawyer friend.

I got home and was greeted by Himself, which was nice. The perk of an unemployed spouse is that they're always around to pick you up after a crummy day. Unfortunately, he was on his way out the door.

Sigh. No problem; I'll just wait for Junior to wake up. We'll have lunch together. While I wait, I'll do a few rows on the felted pillow. Needles -- so. Yarn -- tensioned. Kni--

"WAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!"

A teary Junior greeted me from his crib, wanting hugs and milk, which I supplied. Fresh diaper, kisses, and toys. A big bowl of rice and egg to share. String cheese for me, a slice of American for him. A quick step onto the porch to get the mail. Back into the house.

Junior is waxing the floor with cheese.

"No, Monkey Boy. Cheese is to eat. Now it's all gone."

Eyebrows raised, he signs "all done" and wanders off in search of something loud. I wipe up the cheese and return to the knitting. I try to, anyway. The phone rings. It's a friend, who will never die, because she will never come up with any last words. There is always something else to say.

"Hey, listen. I'm glad you called, but I..."

"Gotcha! NO problem! Oh, wait! Yak, yak, yak..."

"That's great. Hey, the baby's crying and I..."

"Oh, okay! I guess I oughta let you go. But first..."

"Y'know, I'm bleeding from both ears and I might be losing consciousness."

"Wow, that sounds terrible! Hey, did I tell you..."

I manage to escape the phone and am confronted by Junior, who requires a Command Performance of Itsy-Bitsy Spider, complete with gestures and keyboard accompaniment. I comply, only to have him wander off midway through the show. Critics.

Himself returns and is greeted by a chorus of "DADA!! DADA!!" I regale him with the activities of the afternoon, then head for the coffeeshop to write this week's column. At this moment, my coffee is stone cold, my job is a big ball of irritation, and I have accomplished no knitting.

On the plus side, I have a kid who is impressed by my ability to juggle one beanbag, never tires of my jokes, and lights up when I walk into the room. Memories to enjoy when he's a teenager...

In praise of food.

2009-08-12T18:25:00.003-05:00

I was starving the other day. Not real starving, mind you. I've always been lucky in that regard. I'm talking about sudden, ravenous, "Gimme that cracker or I'll throttle you with my yarn" kind of starving. The kind of hunger that drops on you like a bomb, driving away all coherent thought and reducing sentience to a single, driving impulse to find FOOD.

I was that kind of starving.

We were about ten miles from home, on that stretch of Interstate that has nothing but offramps to small towns with no food, when The Hungries hit. That weird buzzing blankness settled in my forehead and my hands started to shake.

"I'm hungry. I'm hungry right now."

Himself knows that tone. He also knows those words and what will happen if he fails to heed them. If The Hungries are allowed to continue their rampage, I will begin sweating and swearing as my blood sugar drops into the basement, and life will be made miserable for all concerned. He stepped on the gas.

We arrived in the driveway not a moment too soon. Himself urged me into the house. "I'll get Baby, you go eat!" Staring vacantly at my shoes, I trotted up to the porch and through the door. With swift, practiced movements, I yanked open the fridge door and grabbed the first things to hand: a bag of radishes and a sack of cherries.

I ate everything but stems, seeds, and plastic before preparing and consuming two burritos and a pot of coffee. Himself settled Junior in his crib with some pear juice, then leaned against the dining room doorway to watch the consumption of mass quantities.

"You got that look on your face."

"Mrgph?"

"Like you should be wandering through the mall with a chainsaw!"

A large mouthful of burrito prevented me from offering my opinion of his observation. Having satisfied The Hungries, I leaned back in my chair and waited for the shakes to subside.

"Whew!"

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you knit something? Baby's almost asleep."

A capital idea! I reached for the pink yarn and tiny needles, determined to finish the baby socks. Half an hour later, the last end was woven and the last yarn snippet was stowed. I am proud to say that the baby socks were delivered this morning and were received with many thanks and a big smile.

Now, if only I had remembered to take a picture...

Perception of normal.

2009-08-05T18:14:00.003-05:00

A strange word, 'normal'. It implies that things are as they should be, that the universe is in working order. But what is truly normal?

Is it staying up until one in the morning to finish a book you've read before, even though you know perfectly well that you have to get up at seven to go to work?

Is it normal to have bags of fleece lining your garage walls, instead of tools?

Does 'normal' consist of an entire shelf devoted to Latin translations of literary works such as "Winnie the Pooh" and "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone", while the casual observer would be hard-pressed to find even one book covering helpful household hints?

In my house, yes.

Normal means going to bed when you're tired, and eating when you're hungry. Landscaping with huge chunks of native stone to cut down on mowing time. Teaching a baby ASL so you can have a conversation with him. Reading fairy tales in Latin to fifth graders. Having thirty-two projects on the needles at one time, just so there's always something to work on that goes with whatever mood happens to strike you. Putting someone's name in the freezer when they cross the last line. Singing 'Amazing Grace' as a blues number, or to the tune of the Gilligan's Island theme, or to the tune of 'House of the Rising Sun'.

Normal is agreeing to make a wedding cake on a day's notice. Surreptitiously eyeball-measuring a friend's feet when you hear they have a birthday approaching, and wondering if you have enough sock yarn in their favorite color. Listening to a co-worker berate their spouse for the thousandth time before you head home and tell your husband that you are grateful every day that you married him.

Normal is cake frosting purchased in five-gallon buckets. A house with over two dozen musical instruments, bags and totes full of fleece, yarn, and knitting utensils, and a thousand-plus books, but only one decent pair of pliers.

Normal is carrying a picture of yourself in a silly hat and wearing a stupid expression, just to remind youself that it's okay to laugh. It's also carrying an obituary clipping of an old friend, just to remind yourself that it's okay to cry, too.

Normal is as normal does.

What's in your wallet?

Killing my alarm clock.

2009-07-31T08:22:00.002-05:00

I have this weird habit of thinking that inanimate objects have feelings.

"Stupid light!"

"Don't say that! It's a perfectly good light!" As if the light in question might be insulted and refuse to work. Hey, I once apologised to a table leg for kicking it. In my defense, I was distracted at the time. Having confessed this strange consideration for my stuff, I must confess something else: I am going to kill the alarm clock.

It's been mocking me.

See, I'm busy most of the time, and time is something that the clock is supposed to track for me. What it's REALLY doing is stealing it. I look at the calendar to plan the upcoming week and think, "Oh, there will be plenty of time to do thus-and-so, and such-and-such. Hooray!"

This is where the alarm clock, also called Mr. Overkill, ruins my life.

It starts in the wee hours of the morning. There I am, cozy and asleep. The clock starts laughing at me. Oh sure, it sounds like it's just doing the "beepbeepbeep" thing, but I can pick up the subliminal message.

"HAH HAH! Sucker! Thought you could get some sleep, eh? Loser! You have to go to work early today! Hah hah! Upupup!"

So I get up and start my day. While I am going about my daily duties, the clock keeps changing the displayed time.

"Ah, it's ten o'clock! I can do this task, and there will be plenty of time to get that paperwork done."

"HAH HAH! It's really eleven fifteen! You're gonna be late! Sucker! Hah hah! You'll never get done in time!"

It goes like that all day. Running errands, baby time, spouse time, ME time; it's all interrrupted by the clock. Whenever I think that I can have a few minutes to do something, that "beepbeepbeep" starts up again.

"HAH HAH! You forgot about this! Now you'll have to stay up until midnight! Dork! You'll never sleep again! Hah hah!

What the clock doesn't know is, I went shopping. I bought a NEW clock. And a hammer. Remember the joke about the parrot, asking what the chicken did? Yeah. The new clock will watch as the old clock gets its comeuppance, and I will never have to listen to "beepbeepbeep" again.

"Ah, Junior is taking a nap. I will get my knitting!"

"Why, certainly! And lookee here! You have plenty of time for another cup of coffee. You work too hard, you should rest. I'll tell the oven to make some cookies."

On THAT day, ladies and gentlemen, I will finally finish that @#$%& baby sock.

Shoes, socks, and sweets.

2009-07-23T15:41:00.003-05:00

A certain little man has gotten his first pair of shoes! He is quite proud of himself. He is also pleased with the noise generated by stomping with shod feet in a large, echo-ey hallway.

STOMPSTOMPSTOMP. *giggle* STOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMP. STOMP!! *giggle*

Having shoes has brought a whole new dimension to his idea of the uses of feet. Stomping, dancing, freaking Mama out by deciding that the bookshelf would be just dandy for climbing and being amazed that she knows what we're planning to do just by watching our face, shoes as snacks...

Feet are fun when you're little. Until you forget that you're not wearing shoes and then stub your toe.

*thunk* "EH! Babu AH-bah neema!" This is apparently baby-ese for, "HEY! Watch where I'm going, you hunk of junk!"

From shoes, we progress to socks. This progress is slow because Junior is fast. However, there has been some progress on the baby socks. With any luck, they will be delivered before the intended recipient heads for Kindergarten.

And now, sweets! Brought to you by an overwhelming vote of one, here is a picture of the wedding cake. As the picture was taken by cell phone, it is a total Hoover shot, but hey.

Enjoy.

A series of fortnate events.

2009-07-17T14:48:00.003-05:00

If you've ever spent time in the basement of Life's Outhouse, and were then handed not only a stepladder, but also a clean towel, you have an idea of how I'm feeling today.

Groovy Thing Number One: I'm here in the coffeeshop, enjoying a dish of Rocky Road and strawberry ice cream. This is after Himself brought home one of my favorite sandwiches for lunch.

Groovy Thing Number Two: The weather today is staggeringly gorgeous. Mid-seventies, minimal humidity, and a pleasant breeze. The sun is out, and there are a few poofy clouds here and there. Quite a pleasant change from the "fry and drown" sort of weather we've had lately.

Groovy Thing number Three: another successful wedding cake. The bride and groom were nothing short of adorable. They both looked about twelve and very nervous. While they enjoyed their carriage ride around town, I dashed back into the reception site to make sure the cake hadn't decided to spontaneously combust, or collapse, or some even more horrible catastrophic thing that I probably don't want to contemplate. There it stood on its silver drum plates, three tiers of homemade sponge cake (two dozen eggs, thank you very much) with white chocolate cream, red icing ribbons, and lilac-dusted roses swirling up the sides. I kick wedding cake butt.

Groovy Thing Number Four: good news at the County Fair. One of my knitting students took Grand Reserve Champion for Small Knitted Item!! A felted bag from our Intermediate class. I'm so proud.

Groovy Thing Number Five requires a bit of background and some advice. Let's say that you have a rather paltry job and paycheck. Throw in a minor detail like, oh, a spouse that has been unemployed since October because the quarry shut down and employers laugh at him when he comes in to ask about a job. Just for the fun of it, let's throw in a baby that needs food and diapers because even though Mama and Daddy love him more than life itself, the kid's still gotta eat. Now let's imagine that one of your wonderful, amazing, thoughtful, beautiful, generous relatives sends you a windfall even though you are a terrible person who never writes.

After picking yourself up off the floor, and after a trip to the florist's shop to wire a tangible thank-you, you have to think about this windfall. One chunk will go to the DMV so they will let you continue to drive your car. Another chunk will go to the hospital to pay the "baby bill".

"Look, Honey! Six more payments and he's all ours!"

After putting a third chunk in savings, you decide that it would be okay to take a small bit and buy a little extravagance. We're talking some kind of wow yarn here, not a Louet spinning wheel or a floor loom. We want to save more than we spend.

SO,

tell me of your awesome patterns and fabulous yarns. Something for a nice, out-of-the-ordinary project that doesn't jump right into the stupidly extravagant, "what the hell am I doing" catagory. Is there a sock yarn out there that I must try? An amazing shawl pattern that can be worked on after Baby goes to bed? Ideas, people. Lemme hear 'em.

Tagged, eh?

2009-07-02T17:34:00.004-05:00

Well, the weather is back to normal for this time of year. A comfortable 90 degrees with average humidity. Having heard the weather reports from other parts of the country, I think I'm pretty glad to live here.

Speaking of "here", here is a picture. My very dear friend who blogs under the name of CA Girl (over there on the list) tagged me. I'm supposed to go into the first folder and post the tenth picture, with details. I hope I got that right, anyway!

This is me with my young man, all of two hours old. I'm singing to him, which is probably why he's yawning. That tiny bundle of big eyes is now a walking, talking fourteen-month-old ball of fire who charms everyone in his path. Especially his parents.

I shall wait for the appropriate "awwwwwwww" sounds...

Right. Now, there's a second part to this picturing thing. I have to tag FIVE people to do the same! Well, you don't have to post of picture of sweaty and exhausted me with my tiny darling, but you DO have to go into your first folder and post the tenth picture.

Sooooooooooooo...

Lisa (of course), Dee and Lora (two at once, I'm lazy and they share a blog), Molly (because I'm nosy), and Mags (because she makes awesome socks).

You may, of course feel free to tell me what I can do with my folders and pictures, but it would be more fun to share. Drop me a line when you've posted, so I can make more than my usual slacker effort to get online and peek.