••• Friday, February 27, 2004

Thank Goodness it's Fried, eh?
I've been a bad blog momma, I know. I can't promise it will get any better, either. I have good intentions and even some clever thoughts, but when I sit down to write, nothing comes out of my fingertips. I guess I got the bloggin' dry humps.

At least I have some knitting to show. Here's the back of my "Must Have. "

I'm making this in a size large, for width, but am using the small length. I felt the length for large would not be flattering on me. Before I decided that I Must Have this sweater, I was going to finish my Smocking on the Move.

After deciding on a new Cardie-o program, I figured I would alternate between the two projects. I've since decided against that plan because it's almost time for spring and come the end of March, I don't wanna be lusting after luscious linens while stuck between a Smock and Cardie place. And knowing myself as I do, if I work on both sweaters, I'll finish neither by April.

Soooo....since the Must Have is so much fun and, as a cardigan, a bit more practical for seasonal "transition" garb, the Must Have Must Go on. Gawd, I love making a decision.

Today I was gonna add some blog filler with the Friday Five. Seems like whenever I look there for a convenient Friday rescue, they're closed. So I made up my own.

Marcy's Fried, eh? Five:
1) What do know now, that you wish you knew then?
Never marry into a family with members nicknamed after psychotropic medications.

2) Have you ever turned down a date because the man's name was "Butch" and you just couldn't imagine yourself yelling out "Ohhh Butch...baby?" in a moment of rapture? (at least a couple dates down the road, of course...)

3) When 12 years old, did you ever take a jump on your stingray while wearing a bathing suit and wiped out and your bathing suit top popped off and the boys not only saw your naughty bits but also saw that you stuffed?

4) Did you ever bite into a gel bath bead because Scooter Gladstone told you it would taste like Jello?

5) Does the smell or taste of peach jello give you a case of nausarreah? ?

Oh Yeah...
I almost forgot.
I'm giving up checking my bellybutton for lint.

••• Monday, February 23, 2004

Family Stuff
I've been neglecting this place and I apologize. I seem to be in a writing slump and have developed an avoidance reaction to all things knitbloggy.

Truthfully, I feel like I've developed an avoidance reaction to all things requiring thinking.
So I bring a Caker's tale.

Friday I'm on the couch knitting and The Cakers is next to me, looking over the side crying "My bayybeee! Momma, howp! (help)" I peer over the side of the couch (under end table) and see no baby.

"Honey, there's no baby."
"No momma, right dare!" I look again and see only this.

"Ana, there's no baby..."

"Ana get it," she says with confidence, as she crawls under the table. While reverse crawling from the apparent rescue mission, she's talking to something in a sweet motherly voice. "Awwww, you okay?"

In her hand, she's cradling the waft of pillow innards. "Ana's baby!" she says as she toddles to her toy Volkswagen. Opening the back hatch, She gently puts the fluff in the middle of the back seat and instructs the baby to "get in car seat."

I walk over for a closer look (it all looked kinda fuzzy from my perch) and see that there are actually three fluffy stuffs in the car. Two in the front and one in the back. What are you doing? I ask. "..Mommy....Daddy and Baby in the back. Bye-bye," she says.

Cute stuff, I know. I must admit to being a bit surprised (and relieved)that she didn't have the baby in the driver's seat.

::We've already done real battle over that issue. After she was allowed to "drive" a sled (i.e. sit in front of daddy), she thought the driving privilege should extend to the drive home. She didn't take it well...::

Back on the Knitting Front
I'm a mere two inches from completing the back of the Must Have cardigan. And it's looking mighty fine, if I must say myself.

I did notice that one side of one moss stitch panel is looking kind of gnarly, where I shaped for the armhole. I seem to recall reading something about this problem at the "Must Have" message board.

At this point the messy moss makes no never mind to me, as I'm surely not puttin' the frog to it now.

Have a Monday, all.

••• Thursday, February 19, 2004

Pianist Envy
I'd hoped to have a "legitimate" new post written by now, but life is happening faster than my current ability to marvel at, record and regurgitate the details.

On that note, I bring to you the weekly quizzical post filler, courtesy of Sandy.

You are Schroeder!

Which Peanuts Character are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

I was initially disappointed at the results of this Peanuts-onality profile, because I was hoping to be Marcie. Now that I've settled a bit into the angstful artsy persona, it's ticklin' my ivories just fine.

I'm not a musician, but all my life I've wanted to play piano. In fact, whenever I sit at a piano, my soul whispers "You're supposed to know how to do this." Maybe someday...

Things have been nutsy on both home and work fronts. So there's been no knitting.

From the "I can't believe I'm actually paid to do this" File
Aside from the tedious paperwork, I really love my job. If there is such a thing as "true vocation," I have found it.

I almost always leave work for the day feeling like I made an impact, on something. Every once in a while, however, there occurs a special, momentarily electric connection between me and a student. When this happens, I experience a physical sensation I can only describe as "humming."

Humming accompanies a sudden blast of intuition or insight and feels like a low-grade bumble. It's like a furnace blowing little truths right through me, from sources unknown. I notice this phenonmenon maybe 1 or 2 times a month, but I've had three hummings this week already. Must be the boogs.

I guess I had a post in me today after all. For what it's worth.

Edit note 7:00 pm, 2-19: I made some changes. I almost deleted entirely....but didn't.

••• Monday, February 16, 2004

Still not to snuff.
Nose filled with stuff.
Brain action today
On five second delay.

This crappy crud has developed some fascinating symptoms. I'm calling it the Migrating Mucoid Malaise (3M). It started in my chest (classic case of conchestion). Then it moved to and out of my eye. Just one eye. As in Excuse me while I go blow my eye. I've never experienced such a thing. It was grossly curious and curiously gross and it kind of tickled. I admit to staring at the bathroom mirror a while, for the ooze and "ahhs."

Today it's just a dull and dulling, fluffy, stuffy head cold.

I am getting some action on my Must Have cardie. I'm about ready to decrease for the pits. I'm making this sweater in a size large, because the sizes (width wise) run small. However, I'm not technically a size large, so I'm going with my usual sized length.

I had to frog again, about an inch, but I'm getting used to it now. Kind of like getting dumped that third or fourth time in high school. With each dumping, the sting lessens and the recovery is that much swifter.

Man, I'm rambling again. Between coffee and cold meds and other meds and a head cold, I'm operating in hyper fog.

Sorry about the gross content above. But I think we can blame it on Sandy, who left a comment a few days ago (re: Cakers booger reshuffle) about adults being so "non-ick" and wondering when and how that happens.

I took it as a challenge, Sandy. I refuse to be defined by developmental norms. It's my sinus, I'll be ick if I want to.

I hope I'm better tomorrow. I have two big meetings, one with the Special Ed. Director and the other with the superintendent. I worry about keeping all my holes covered in the event of a sneeze. Is there such thing as a Sani-Burqa?

••• Sunday, February 15, 2004

Four Day Weakened
Extended weekends always feel so resplendent from the various points of anticipation. In the week prior to such a treat, I typically envision lazy days and cozy nights. I imagine time and freedom to do things I normally can't accomplish during the crazy paced work week.

But I really oughta know better, by now. I really oughta know that the dream of a long weekend is never the reality, regardless of the simplicity and apparent "doability" of the fantasy. And I think I've figured out why that is. The answer lies in two simple words: Pee Pull.

My long weekend fantasies never contain anybody but me. Not that I'm wishing or pretending I am in this world all alone. I just never consider that four days of anticipated lounging and slacking and blogging and knitting will also include tending to people who get hungry, dirty dishes, poop their pants and require clean underwear.

My weekend fantasy didn't contain someone waking up 30 minutes before basketball practice with an impatient proclamation that there is nothing to eat. Needless to say, the ensuing argument wasn't in the dream either. Neither did it anticipate a late night counseling session on teen relationship anomalies (redundant, I know). And it didn't figure in the sweet guy who wants to work from home to "be near my favorite girls." This sweet, loving gesture also requires that said person uses the computer, eats food and dirtys dishes (but at least he's potty trained).

The weekend fantasy neither included my catching a cold that is just nasty enough to make me feel cruddy, but not quite nasty enough to allow me to take to the bed and demand room service.

I'm not saying it's been a bad weekend. It's just been a typically busy weekend, only longer.

On Friday, my sweetie and I did steal off for a Valentine's dinner. And I must say, both the food and company lived up to their ends of the fantasy.

Must Have Been Dreamin'
I have about 11 inches done on my Must Have Cardigan. My weekend fantasy included finishing the back of this piece. That part Must Have been a dream. I made another mistake which I didn't catch for a couple of inches. If not for this blog (dag nab all y'all), I probably would've let it be. But for some reason, keeping a knit blog makes me feel a bit more accountable to higher craft standards. The frogging this time wasn't so bad. I frogged to the row before, then unknit to the error.

I'd hoped to have an updated photo of the Must Have, but My photo service appears to be unavailable to me right now. I've been working on a Gum in Her Hair story, but Blogger ate it. Maybe that's for the best, as I was having a hard time finding a context for the story. I fear that raw exposure to random cross sections of my brain may be alarming. Although it's possible that some of my childhood memories may never have a proper context to call home.

I'm just ramblin' now. Must be the fog of the cold combined with the pressure to relinquish the computer to the weekend breadwinner.

Hopefully I'll have pictures tomorrow.

I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to respond individually to comments (as I love to do!). I have not had computer access (outside of a few minutes here and there) all weekend until now. In fact, the keyboard is being wrenched from myeoho99g8f


••• Wednesday, February 11, 2004

Some Days....
...I feel like there ain't quite enuf of me to go around. Thank goodness it's mid-winter break (and a four day Whee-kend!)

I'm still loving the "Must Have." Really, I am. But I must say that I'm finding it's not the most frog* friendly pattern. Those tiny purly cables can be confusing from a frog's standpoint, er, hoppoint. *"Frog" = rip out rows of knitting.

Things that Frost My Cakers
I've met many a folk in my day and I'm here to tell you I've never seen the likes of the creature of my most recent birthing.

Last night The Cakers had a huge boog hanging out her nose and asked for a tissue. After I capture the slimy mass, she screams "My booo-gy! My booo-gy!" She then grabs the wadded tissue from my hand, opens it, recaptures what appears to be a booger particle and makes the gesture of putting it (the booger) back in her nose.

There's nothing wrong with your monitor. You read it right. She took the booger out of the tissue and put it back in her nose.

She then asks for a clean tissue, which she uses to wipe her nose.

I am suddenly an old, frightened woman.

••• Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Odd Times at Marcy High
I've had a day.
A stressful day.
A peculiar day

A day so frickin'ly, stricken-ly odd, that I'm actually sorry it's over. I only wish for more time to marvel and revel and roll around all in it. I want more time to taste its stank. And smell its rank. I want to breathe it. Drink it. Urp it.

Gawd, I love this job.

Gawd, I love this "Must Have" Cardie pattern too.

Crazy days are here ::No shit Sherlock::, so there may not be much more posting until the weekend.

Be safe.
Be odd.

••• Sunday, February 08, 2004

Sunday Sundries
Thanks for all the kind words and compliments on Thursday's post. I'm sorry for blindsiding some of you (as mentioned in comments). Truthfully, the post started out with just a mention of the anniversary and one little memory of the day. Somehow it sort of took on a life of its own. Evidently some stories just have their own ideas about the whens ways and means of getting themselves told.

I've been engaging in quite a bit of domesticology this weekend. My son and I had been battling over the filth in his room (I don't have high standards, but I have some standards). Although he finally surrendered, I'm not sure I'll be counting coup on the victory any time soon.

In the process of cleaning his room, he managed to fill my laundry room with dirty clothes, some of which I haven't seen him wearing since about October (and he even washed two loads himself before leaving for his dad's for the week). Add that to the leftover loads from last weekend and, well, let's just say the domestic joys of fluff-n-fold are getting mighty old.

And about last weekend's laundry: What happened to "Honey, I'm gonna do all the laundry before I leave for the Superbowl Party, so you won't have to worry about it...?" Evidently I missed the ..."until next weekend" ending.

Amy has some things she wants to ask God. Me too. I wanna know why it is that when a woman performs a household task, it mostly goes without notice (unless said task involves tossing out a cache of Mustang 5.0 magazines) but when a guy helps out around the house he expects a planet to be named after him? ::I love you honey!:: ::I edited previous post. The original thoughts came across much more harsh than I was thinking them::

I've also been doing some cooking. Yesterday I tried a new recipe from Martha Stewart's Everyday Food. It was a pork stew with redskins, cabbage, onions and apples. The only seasonings were salt and pepper and dijon mustard. It was incredibly delicious in a simple, earthy kind of way. All of the recipes I've tried from this series have been excellent. I think this was the best one, to date.

An Effin' FO!

Apologies for the sloppy shot. I was in a hurry

Sweater's done except for a few strands to be tucked and few loose ends need to be glued down to keep then from poking out. Then a final blocking is in order. It turned out pretty good, but I'm feeling more critical of it since it's going to my mother-in-law. The arms seem really skinny, for the body, but they are the correct measurement, per the pattern. .

I cast on last night for the "Must Have" Cardigan. I'm definitely going to need my stitch markers before I can proceed past the ribbing. Unfortunately, The Cakers toddled off with my little box of markers and they are no where to be found.

I'm finding that it is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain full accessibility to my knitting tools with a curious toddler in the wings. You wouldn't believe how many of those retractible measuring tapes I've purchased in the past year. Every time I pull out a new one, she claims it's hers. Then I pull out a "back up" and she tries claiming that one is hers as well. She calls them yo-yo's.

Last night I asked her to find the "circles in a box" (stitch markers). She brought me a square, wooden beverage coaster, with a cut-out circle for a glass bottom. Well, it was a box with a circle,after all. She was pleased as punch. No sign of my stitch markers.

Last week, I forgot to give mention I received a little something from The Thready Bears:

It's Kureyon 90 and 92. These skeins are destined to become two Booga Bags. That 92 (to the right) is so delicious up close, I thinking I might have to have a matching sweater...someday. Someday.

Gotta run. It's time for Sunday Morning Services. I want to make sure I get a good seat, with a view of the cute guy.

For the record, the plastic wrap on the lampshade is coming off. I was trying the new purchase to see how it looked and got distracted.

••• Thursday, February 05, 2004

February 5, 1970. A Thursday.

The Girl With Gum In Her Hair was in a hurry to get home from school, for a change. Typically, she trudged home alone, after the other kids were long gone. She always felt bad to see Mrs. Swigert standing alone at the corner, waiting for her. Mrs. Swigert was the crossing guard. She was very nice, in a gruff, raspy, Pall Malls unfiltered kind of way. She knew to wait for The Girl before retiring her post for the day. She'd been doing it for years.

The Girl was eager to get home early today, because she had a present for her mother. It was a wooden cutting board, shaped like a pig. She had made it herself. With a saw.

The cutting board hadn't always been a pig. A week earlier it had been a house, with a chimney. A couple days later, however, one side of the house splintered off. Disappointed and heartbroken, The Girl planned to throw it away.

But wait! From a different angle, the broken house looked like a pig. With the chimney for a snout and the remaining roof ledge as an ear, the only thing this pig needed was a rounding of the rump.

The Girl with Gum in Her Hair hoped this gift would make her mother smile. Who knows, maybe the story of The House That Broke into a Pig might even make her mother laugh, a little. There hadn't been much laughing in the house, seemingly for months and months. And even though The Girl never saw her mother cry, she heard the muffled sobs in the middle of the night, and tried not to see her puffy eyes in the morning.

Just a few days before, her mother told The Girl, "Daddy doesn't have much time." The Girl nodded. While deep down she knew the exact meaning of her mother's words, The Girl was just young enough to successfully clutch at simpler, more literal interpretations. In fact, The Girl could easily finish her mother's thought with a variety of much happier endings. Daddy doesn't have much time left in the hospital... Daddy doesn't have much time to get tickets to the Shrine Circus... Daddy doesn't have much time before he leaves for his annual fishing trip to Canada....to finalize plans for our summer vacation...To shop for an anniversary present... It was so easy.

Her mother had never told The Girl that her father was dying. Never. If a girl's father was really dying, wouldn't someone sit down and tell her? Of course they would. The Girl secretly took this omission as a good sign. In fact, her mother never told The Girl that her daddy had cancer. First he was "sick," then he was "very sick." And finally, he didn't have much time. Shoot, I was "sick" at Christmas for two days. I'm fine now. "Sick" is doable. And who has enough time, these days?

The Girl was finally told about the cancer by neighborhood nemesis NeeNee Tunning, who blurted it out during an insult exchange. NeeNee obviously won that round.

After crossing with Mrs. Swigert, The Girl was two shortcuts from home. From the last shortcut, she had a generous view of her front yard. Every day, she peeked at the familiar view before stepping over the rickety wire fencing. When she peeked on this day, however, she found the view disturbing. There were too many cars parked out front. Too many Buicks, to be precise. That many Buicks meant uncles. Daddy's brothers. ::Oh, how those Hollanders loved their Buicks, back in the day::

When she first saw the cars, The Girl felt kind of sick, even clammy. As she clutched the wooden pig, snuggled safe in her parka, she tried to come up with a painless, logical explanation for the bevy of Buicks. But she came up with nothing. By the time she reached her driveway, however, The Girl was feeling better. She had refocused on the gift and her plan to make momma smile. Maybe even laugh, a little.

When The Girl came in the back door, her mother was waiting for her. She looked a wreck. Behind her stood the three Dutch uncles. Silent and strong and maybe just a little ragged, like soldiers behaving bravely, in the face of a hopeless cause.

As her mother's eyes cried the truth, The Girl's brain screamed "No!No!No!" Not yet. The Girl was supposed to make momma smile. Maybe even laugh, a little. As her mother gestured to speak, The Girl shoved her the pig and blurted "Look what I made you!" This sudden behavior, without apparent context, caught her mother off-guard. As her mother reeled, The Girl pounced on the opportunity to keep her world as it was, for even a few more seconds. In pre-adolescent, hyperspeedbreathlessjabber, The Girl rat-tat-tatted the amazing story of The House That Broke into a Pig. "First, I cried...But then I saw the nose....and I just sanded here.....there....and here...and, no here too....and the ear there...And isn't it funny?....And wasn't I clever?.... And don't you just love it...........? It's a pig!"

The soldiers were crying.
The Girl's mother knelt down.
Daddy's gone, she said.
The Girl, she nodded.

Another House Broken.
This one beyond repair.


••• Monday, February 02, 2004

I put myself on blog posting restriction until I was done with the Berrocan Turtle. Blog restriction would be a moderately effective motivator if not for my oppositional streak, which caused me to thumb myself a nose and fly off to play World Class Solitaire at AOL Games for awhile.

I'm not done yet. But I am back on task and have been sewing and unsewing and sewing some more. In fact, I'm currently up to my armpits in Berrocan Turtle. With only one armpit to go, I'm so close I can almost smell it.

After that, I just have to weave in the thousands of yarn ends. And you know how that kind of work can just fly. Once I get to strand 500, I always think to self, "I can't believe I wove in 500 already. It seemed like only about 378."

With nothing else to say, I hereby present another quizzical blog space filler. This one is courtesy of a link I found over at Alison's (it was at same site as "What Movie Are You?" quiz).

I've been doing some research and hope to have an update later this week on Adventures with Miss Pronunciation: A Yarn's Tale.

Until then, Kureyon, my wayward sons.

What, No Title? I Always Have a Title
Ooh, there it is, at the end. Bold move, Font Face.