Dancing


Running



Duckling



::You gotta click for closeup, for full impact.::

Fuzzy Faith Leaping



::Click to check out the bitch on that mother's face. I think these babies will go far.::

Shimmering



::Shimmery water is my new photo obsession. You've been warned. You really got click on this one. Too. Sorry. Okay, not that sorry.::

Knitting and Fuzzy Faith Leaping of Sorts



::Please do not click. Begging. Thank you. It's small in the boobease, but not as small as I feared. I'll know more after a good blocking. Except I'm not sure if I should try blocking the boobs first, or the sweater. I stuck the landing on the last buttonhole, therefore I have been allowed to live to knit another day. But what day will it be??? Hmmmm.::

Labels: Cottage, Pho-Ho'

Spray it. Don't say it.

Labels: eye candy Friday

All expenses paid.
Four day weekend.
At the cottage.



Thank you Baby Trees's.

Ediot's Note 1: Try saying "Thank you, Baby Trees's" out loud.

Ediot's Note 2:Or how 'bout "Baby Tresus?"

Ediot's Note 3: "Baby Treeses?"

Ediot's Note 4:And look. There are babies's in the trees's.

Okay. Maybe I need a little.
More.
Therapy.

Andy, Did You Hear About This One?
March, 2001. We were driving home from a family gathering, listening to an R.E.M. CD, while four-month old Cakers slept in the back seat. When Man on the Moon came on, Cakers immediately woke up and started crooning, like only a four-month-old can do, with lips formed in a perfect O, and that delightful scowl of concentration. She sang through the entire song, and when it was over, fell right back to sleep.

And then, from no where, I had a vision of my daughter, several years down the road. And it went something like this:



In my vision, the skirt was culottes, the Crocs were pointy-toed granny boots and The Cakers' hair was painted several shades of Seared Retina. But I swear, those were the tights. Striped, and just barely matching anything else in the ensemble, minus the hair.

After receiving the visual anointing, I had a strong sense of rightness about this child, followed by a brief wave of nausea, then goose bumps. I loved Andy Kaufman, although I can't claim to have ever understood his genius. I have a feeling my own Miss Thang will be leading me down similar paths of enlightenment, whilst performing high wire feats on the last of my aging, decrepit nerves.

And for the record, I didn't buy her the tights. They were a gift from a relative who never heard about my vision of Cakers while goofing with Andy and Elvis.

Why yes, those are moose on the t-shirt. And she did wear the outfit to school. We are pretty much hands-off when it comes to letting the girl pick her outfits, as long as bits and pieces aren't showing anywhere.

A little while later she was running around the neighborhood with this addition:



I'm thinking maybe I'm the one who should be wearing the life jacket. For the next 13 years.

If You Believe, There's Nothing up my Sleeve
Then nothing is cool.



Parts are joined.
Let no woman rip asunder.

This sweater is one p.b. hair from being an unhappy memory.

In relation to the above statement, following are sub topics on the matter, too sore to be discussed at this time:

1) One sweater. Three buttonholes. By three different fathers. Baby Daddy number three had a genetic predisposition for being inoperably useless.

::Have you ever tried unknitting an improperly created button hole? I have. The buttonhole in question will join Twinkies, cockroaches and stories about Anna Nicole Smith, in post-apocalypse infamy.::

2) I think Ariann is going to be too small. I admit to shooting for a closer fitting size, because the last two sweaters I knit for myself ended up being a little big through the chest and therefore kinda frumpy. For Ariann, my stitches were a little bigger than the required gauge, which I hoped would give my posse and me some psychological jiggle room.

3) I'm going to proceed with the sweater as though none of these words were ever written and read or uttered and responded to at the salad bar. ::Did you know that the voice of tapioca sounds just like Kyra Sedgwick?:: Besides, this sweater cannot be ripped. ::See item 1) regarding buttonholes and cockroaches.::

Hearts and Crafts

My current struggles with Ariann have commandeered all creative energies. The Travails of the Tell Tale Heart will be continued at a later date. Okay, I've been spending a little too much time at the Heart Candy site.

I'm knitting a doomed sweater. Have some heart.

Labels: Deep Shit, My Daughter Scares Me, The Heart of Man, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Tuesday, Cabana had his appointment with The Doctor Electric, who agreed with The Doctor Aortal's appraisal, and is 95% sure that Cabana’s visit to Camp Cardio last month, was cognitively induced.

But just to be sure, The Doctor Electric has put Cabana on an Event Monitor for 30 days. An Event Monitor is a little black box which, at the push of a button, records a specific period of heart activity, via wires that are hooked up to freshly plunged nipple rings...Oops. Wrong website.

You can read more about the real thing here.

I'll be back in later in the weekend with a spousal perspective on the keeping score of the heart and related rhythms of love and fidelity.

In the meantime, there's an already opene bottle of Chianti in the kitchen, with my name on it and some real Freye Canday for your perusing pleasure.

Labels: eye candy Friday, The Heart of Man

Okay. So I’ve been cranking out these behemoth-o-mongo evaluation reports, one after the other, day after day, week after week, with no respite in sight.

Today, while taking a break from the write/print/proof/rinse/repeat cycle, I decided that I needed a little somethin’ somethin’ of the sweet variety. The only thing available within grunting distance, however, was a Jelly Smelly from my little candy-assed friend

Except the pig had other ideas.
An exception to which I took exception.
And a jumbo paper clip.



So there I am, sitting in my office, in all my dignified, professional glory, digging a jelly bean out of a pig’s ass, with a paper clip.

So I could eat it. ::The jelly bean, not the ass. Ass.::
Which I did. But only after a careful balance of probing, manipulation and gentle shredding.

For different reasons, perhaps, I think we both found the experience rather gratifying.

Have you made an impact, today?

I Needed Therapy Wednesday, Too
Last night I was on my own for dinner, so decided to visit the local grocery store salad bar. While working my way through the accrouements, I heard myself say, out loud and very, “What the hell are you talking about?”

To no one.

It just goes to show how people deal with stress in different ways. Some get their freak on. Others get their crouton.

Lettuce pray.

Labels: I Need Therapy Thursday, I Work Too, Pig Booty

1) Had a great Mother's Day. Cabana pulled together a fine spread of t-bones on the grill and aspergrass and I hardly had to do a thing but sit and grin. Okay, I helped a little by soaking the asparagus real good, because I happent to think that sand belongs between butt cheeks and 'ginas, and not the in the folds of a favorite veggie.

2) Got lots done on my second Ariann sleeve, which started out looking good but is now a perfectly puckered twin to the first sleeve. This sleeve in the round stuff is kind of painful. It's like singing the camp song Found a Peanut. It starts out fun and energetic, but by the time you "died anyway" you're ready to grab the bottle opener and head for the 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.

3) Cakers scored three goals at the soccer game on Saturday. She was thrilled on the inside, of course, but acted all shy and stuff on the outside. While she definitely got her game on, she also benefited from a little help from the opposing team's goalie, who managed to tie himself to the goal net with the string of his shorts, then couldn't get it undone. It was only after our team scored another goal and the poor kid brought the net down on himself while defending his post, he was set free by his father. Who was not happy.

Tie game?

4) At home, after the game, Cakers did what any 5 year-old would do on a beautiful Saturday afternoon: Sit atop a pile of wood chips, on a Talbots dress bag.



5) I bought some yarn. It's Lavold's Cotton Patine in a purply color. I bought it online, on sale, but can't remember where and for now, I don't care. It's headed to the Sahara. That is, if I can remember the password to open the pdf file.

I tried to get a clear shot in the outdoor light, but the Ched was having none of it.



6) Speaking of Cheddar, we had a health scare with him last week. It started out as a little limp but when he started walking like a drunken Cheesehead ::Is that redundant?:: we took him to the vet. My first and most serious fear was that he had cancer, which the vet was worried about herself, until the x-rays came back. Seems our boy has really bad arthritis, which is better than cancer, but can be debilitating.

The vet put him on a medication that seems to be helping, but there are some health risks with it, which I should NOT have looked up on the internet. But I did. Ahem. To me, the risk is worth it because if we didn't treat this as aggressively as possible, we'd be facing a quality of life decision about now. Labs gotta walk.

He definitely is feeling better, even though first thing in the morning he's still gimpy and his back legs tend to wind around each other, like a twist tie. The weird thing is, aside from the limping he showed no other signs of being uncomfortable or otherwise "pouty" as labs are wont, when feeling wonky.

7) Gotta go.
Have a Monday, everyone.

Labels: Fur, My Daughter Scares Me, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Haloscan has been operating under The No Lo Commento Edict of Non-Manifestational Feasibility of Two Aught Aught Four all day today, and maybe yesterday.

While I may not offer comment-worthy blogging, I do offer Blogger-worthy commenting. So, in the absence of a viable commentable alternative, you can access Blogger commenting by clicking on the # sign next to my name, at the bottom of any post.

Labels: What the Hell and Oh Yea

I have a cousin, several years my elder, who was twice widowed by the time she was 30. Both deaths were accidents and occurred on the job. Husband number one drowned while working on a bridge and number two was electrocuted.

I was still in college when the second tragedy struck. At the risk of sounding cold-hearted, I was largely unaffected by these family tragedies, in that my cousin and I were not close. In fact, I think the longest conversation we ever had was at Uncle P00t’s pre-mortum funeral, a couple years back, ::Uncle P is still kicking, btw:: when I said to her “I hear you’re a soshul werker.” And she said “Yep.” And I said “Me too”. And she said “That’s great!” and then there was an awkward silence and averted eye contact and then I walked away.

Anyway.

Like most of the kin on that side of the family, Cousin Annabelle has blackish-brown hair, and like many girls in the 70's, she wore it long and straight. The day after her second husband died, she went to the beauty salon and had her long, straight blackish-brown hair cut short, permed into tiny curls and dyed platinum. Just in time for the first night's viewing at the funeral home.

When I find myself rolling around in fields of woe and self-pity, I sometimes think of Cousin Annabelle, showing up at the funeral home in her freshly-cropped, frizzy, platinum ‘do; her scalp still burning from the process.

And then I think of her friends and family members, struggling to come up with the exactly right thing to say to this beautiful young bride, with the mind-boggling bad luck. I imagine these people rehearsing aloud, their selected lines of condolence, on the ride to the funeral home. And I can’t help but smile, when I picture them stricken speechless, at the sight of her.

I don’t know exactly why Annabelle did what she did. But I do know that shock and grief are notorious logic benders. I also know that the brain, in its most primitive mode, is a wickedly genius survivalist.

Maybe she was psychotic with grief, when she made the hair appointment.

Or maybe she was crazy like a fox.

Maybe she refused to take this battery of hell, lying down. Or at least lying down as a brunette.

Maybe she thought blondes have less pain.

Maybe she wasn’t ready to share her despair.

Maybe she wanted people to wonder about her hair, instead of the horror.

Or maybe she just wanted people to look at her hair. Period.

Because how could the first thing out of anybody’s mouth be anything but: “Your hair...you've changed your hair.”

Wherein She Tried Her Hand as a Quick Change Artist
An hour before we left for the cardiologist appointment last Monday, I was scared. While a part of me knew we were riding a wave of internet-induced, psychological hysteria, another part of me that knew full well that bad shit happens as easily as the good. And the bad shit is just a phone call away. Or an appointment away. Or a police-officer-ringing-the-doorbell-at-2-a.m. away.

In the event it would be a long wait for any good/bad news at the doctor's office, I packed up a knitting package for butt-ugly Ariann sleeve #1. Then, about 15 minutes before we were supposed to leave, in a flurry of non-knitting-related panic, I determined that the nearly done sleeve was too ugly to live, and ripped it back to within two inches of its life. And instead of worrying about what could lie ahead, I spent the ride to the appointment picking up live, lacy stitches on the freshly ripped sleeve.

I have mentioned this before, that I hadn't been happy with that sleeve for a long time. Therefore, from a logical standpoint, the decision to rip was a sound one, if not a tad impulsive. Subconsciously, I was probably thinking that if later in the day, some cardiologist hands me my heart on a platter, I will not receive this platter with a less than perfect piece of knittery in my lap.

Doctor: I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news….”

Me: I just ripped this sleeve out this morning. Look how far I’ve gotten already. I’m still having problems with that SSK stitch, though. Does this look wonky to you?

As you now know, the news on my husband was good.

Unfortunately, not so much for the second first sleeve.



It looks like it has a knit-in elbow bend. Maybe I'm a genius after all.
But ya know, bad knitting is kind of like a bad hair cut.
You can always grow it back.

Thursday's Sky. Friday's Eye
Candy

Labels: Deep Shit, The Heart of Man, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

It was a week ago Thursday night, late. I'd just popped a tiny Tylenol P.M. and was heading off to bed, when my husband comes into the room and asks me if his aortal aneurism ::I cannot spell that word.:: was ascending or descending?

What are you talking about?

My anyerism. You know. Is it descending or ascending?

How'd you get an anuerysm?

Didn't you hear the doctor? ::He's referring to the rent-a-cardiologist at the hospital, a month ago.:: He said my aorta is enlarged.

I never heard the word anyerism.

Well, that's what an enlarged aorta is.

What are you talking about? We don't know if your aorta is enlarged. You haven't even seen the real cardiologist yet. Your own doctor told you that you're a big boy, with a big heart and sometimes a big heart brings a big aorta. And if that's what you really have, wouldn't the rental cardiologist unit have told you? They didn't even have your baseline measurement at the time. And I just took a Tylenol P.M. ferfucklesakes.

I know my baseline, now. It was 4 cm. It's up to 4.6. That's huge. That's an aynyerism. Just forget I said anything. I thought I could talk to you...my wife. I thought you might be interested to know that when they perform the surgery to fix it, I'll be buried in ice and put on artificial life support, so as to minimize the brain damage, which is almost certain with this particular kind of surgery.

Brain damage? Where the hell is this coming from? And way to ruin a good Tylenol P.M. fuzz, by the way.

I got it from the internet. I've been reading up on this shit every day. I have...as he reads from the back of a tattered grocery list...a Thoracic Aortic Aneryism. And that's really bad.

I'll spare you the details of rest of the dialogue, but I will share that it included screaming and swearing and crying and then laughing. You see, a couple months ago, Cakers was diagnosed, by a real doctor, with bronchitis. The day after the appointment, our very own Doctor Cabana calls me at work to tell me that Cakers has Asthma.

Did the doctor call? I asked, with alarm.

No. I got it from the internet. She has asthma. I just know it. ::I have no idea. Maybe there is a diagnostic website where you breathe into the mouse and right click at the same time?::

Oddly enough, at her follow-up appointment, the doctor gave Cakers'lungs and overall respiratory functioning, a clean bill. And we didn't speak of it again. Until last Thursday.

And even though we agreed to hold off on looking for a nursing home until after getting a second opinion from the Real Cardiologist, the following Monday, I couldn't stop rethinking the possibility of me and The Cakers living a life without this man. This internet diagnostic idiot, who just happens to be my everything. My happiness. A man I would gladly share a life with in a van, down by the river. Okay, make that a used R.V.

I need him. He changes light bulbs and fills my gas tank and fetches me wine. He loves to grocery shop with me. He has a healthy respect for ADHD. He can do a buttload of dishes in about 10 minutes, the same amount of time it takes me to circle the kitchen six times, move 3 plates from one counter to the other, before deciding to do it later. And every night he tells me to quit plucking my eyebrows and come to bed. ::I don't even know how he knows that's what I'm doing, because I'm very quiet with the tweezers. It's like he's psychic. Practically.::

Needless to say, I spent last weekend fighting the intrusive images of limping through the rest of my life, fielding the misguided hatred of the half-orphaned Cakers, while growing fat and wrinkly and bald of brow. All alone.

Long story almost over: Per the Real Cardiologist, The fucking rental from the hospital misquoted the echocardiogram findings to us. His Aorta was not 4.6 cm, but only 4.2. Which, with margin of error, is basically a non issue at this time. His aorta hasn't grown. There are no structural issues with his heart. And while his cholesterol was normal, it was a bad normal, and the Real Cardiologist is also a lipids specialist, so put E. on medication for that, which is unrelated to any of the issues that put him in the hospital.

E. still has to see another Cardiologist who specializes in the electrical stuff, but this guy we saw Monday is pretty certain the episode last month is not a heart issue but a brain issue and described it as the opposite of the "fight or flight" response, which we now affectionately refer to as the "I think I'm going to lay down and take a nap. Right now." response. Okay, I guess you had to be there for that one. But my husband loves him some nap, any time of the day.

We should know more after the next appointment.

In the meantime, it's all systems go, with no restricted activity.
Well, except for access to the internet.

Post Post Note 1: Work is going to be crazy up to the end. I feel like I'm in a batting cage with three pitching machines, and no bat. Or armor. I'm working late every night and when I get home I have nothing left to think or say. It's going to be a more-than-usual sketchy blog schedule 'til June. And I've not been getting around to read blogs and am behind in correspondence and I really wanted to respond to comments on last few posts, but I just...can't. Right now. Much. But I do appreciate the good thoughts and encouragements.

Post Post Note 2: The Rent a Cardiologist Fuck-pas was the second in a series of two significant miscommunications at the hospital, which caused me undue emotional duress, of the life-threatening variety.

Labels: Deep Shit, I Need Therapy Thursday, Manpie, Scary Shit