••• Sunday, May 20, 2007

Her Sundry Best 

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.

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Doom has a lovely face, non?

But the kid's even prettier. Did she wear the lifejacket to school, too? I'm going to show the pic to my kid and tell her that children younger than her do not rely on their mothers to pick their clothes out every morning. I may regret ever steering her in that direction (she wants blue hair), but I'm getting sick of the "but Mamaaaaaan, you always do it for me..."
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