A woman calls her childhood friend: "Remember that goofy girl in the 4th grade who used to come to school with gum in her hair? I think I just saw her at the yarn shop, walking around with a skein of Baby Cashmerino stuck to the velcro on the cuff of her ski jacket."

Yeppers, that was me. No, not the imaginary person talking to her imaginary friend on the phone. I was the Girl With Gum in Her Hair. Ummmhmm. The girl who grew up to be the Woman who Walks Through Yarn Shop With Skein of Baby Cashmerino Dangling from Velcro Cuff.

Needless to say, I made no purchase today.

I Cando Friday
Oh Yes I Can





Today was supposed to be one of the coldest of the season. When I arrived home from the yarn store at 4:30, it was 38 degrees and sunny. ::Translation for those not from around here: Not that cold. Balmy. Even.::

I'd not been on a real walk outdoors in weeks, and have been missing it, sorely. And I tell ya, it was just what the doctor ordered. Okay, almost what the doctor ordered. Cabana boy just returned from the store with a tall, skinny brown bag filled with the rest of what the doctor ordered. Something red, I presume.

That there photo is a self-portrait of my shadowy self, on my Friday walk.

And I'm not really that tall. I'm wearing stretch pants.

P.S. I apologize for all the typos in yesterday's post. I initially thought to blame it on some Super Cosmic Intergalactic Blogger Word Scramble issue, but that would've been lame, even for me. Truth be, I published late last night, and was too tired for effective scrutiny. And I can't access blogger from work so I couldn't fix it.

But tonight, we drink!

Labels: eye candy Friday, Girl With Gum in Her Hair

Thunky Thursday
The other day a friend and I were talking about when we were kids and dogs were allowed to run free, even in the city. This reminiscing brought to mind a true story from the files of The Girl With Gum in Her Hair.

My elementary school was six blocks away

:: And yeah, we walked. Uphill. And yeah, it snowed. Six months out of the school year. And yeah, in the winter we wore only bread bags on our feet. Twist-tied at the ankles. And yeah, some days I got lucky and snagged a bag with a slice or two of bread still in it. For added insulation. And yeah, those bags were slippery....::

...But I digress.

Because we lived on the farthest edge of the school boundary, there was never anyone to walk with to school. I usually took shortcuts through people’s yards or along the railroad tracks. But every once in a while, I’d take the conventional way to school. The sidewalk.

One day, when I was in the 3rd grade and walking the sidewalk to school, I noticed a neighbor dog, Pudge, walking close behind me. Back in the days when the dogs ran free, it wasn’t unusual for a friendly, familiar dog to follow a kid around the neighborhood. But Pudge was not usually a friendly dog and had a reputation for playing hard to pet.

That Pudge had chosen me as his walking partner on that cold, spring morn, was quite remarkable. Flattering even. When I leaned over to pet him, he gave me a quick, friendly lick on the face and commenced to sniffing my legs with a fury. Soon after I resumed my typical, trudge-like pace, my new friend stood up on his hind legs and clasped my waist tightly in his pudgy paws. Although initially startled, I thought this was the cutest thing. He was hugging me!

Ever mindful of being tardy, again, I continued walking to school, with my new buddy hopping behind, attached at my hip. After we went another half block, however, I decided it wasn’t so cute anymore and gently tried to break his clutch. Nothing doing.

I then tried to wrench free a la frenzied wriggle. Evidently a frenzied wriggle is exactly the wrong thing to do in this situation. Pudge became increasingly excited and more freaky on my ass.

Worried about being late for school, I trudged forth. With the dog hop, hop, humping along. Saw that the crossing guard was already gone, I began to panic. Even without the drag of a dog humping my ass, I was still 10 minutes from school. At least. And already very, very late.

I finally gave up the trudge of futility and began to cry. And the Pudge, he humped with wild abandon. While I was standing at the corner crying, a police officer pulled up in his cruiser and asked if I needed help. My face was now smeared with a combo of tears and snot and I could only nod.

While the Pudge could only bang on and on.

The officer quickly wrenched the horndog off my back and offered me a ride home. Fearful of my mother’s response to being brought home in a police car, when I should have been already 10 minutes in class, I begged him no. But he insisted and I bawled all the ride home.

It's not that my mom was an unreasonable ogress or anything. She was just one of those old fashioned, crusty types, who never, ever took her child’s side in a situation. If I came home crying from a bee sting, she would say "What did I tell you about hanging out with the bees?” or “What did you do to the bee?”

I’m happy to report that my mom was surprisingly compassionate about this incident and and thanked the officer for his help. After he left, she carefully explained to me that Pudge was “hugging” me because our dog Missy was in heat and he smelled her on me.

I didn't understand a word of it. But neither did I care. After fixing us each a cup of cocoa, she walked me to school.

We never spoke of the incident again.
And that damn Pudge never gave me another glance.

P.S. Wooliemama's Back! Yay

Labels: Girl With Gum in Her Hair

Spring Broke
I am very grateful for the ice cream smackin' and caddy-shackin' weather we've enjoyed this week. Last year over Spring Break, we had a colossal ice storm that left most of our community without power for several days.

Some folks around here are now complaining about the recent downward turn of temperature and the anticipation of snow showers early next week. I don't know why Michigan natives get so upset about snow in April. It happens every year. I've seen blizzards in April and ice pellets in May. When it snows in June, maybe then I'll cry.

When the Barney is Ready...
...Sheriff Taylor will appear.
Of course, in today's dramatic presentation, Barney is being played by yours truly. The role of Sheriff is being performed by Robbyn.

Robbyn recently (April 3?) posted a stitch-by-stitch docu-drama, reenacting the apprehension, arrest and rehabilitation of one good cable, gone bad. I was faced with such a cable last night. Well, it hadn't gone bad, exactly. It had actually gone straight because I forgot to twist it during the last cable row. I didn't notice, however, until it was time to twist again.

Loathe to unknit four rows (this heavily "yarned over" pattern does not frog well), I remembered seeing Robbyn's excellent little tutorial at her blog a few days back. So I returned for a review.

I'm happy to say, the cable incarceration and rehabilitation was a success. There was one minor hitch, related to the yarn overs before and after the cable section of the pattern. This hitch resulted in one lacey hole being a bit, ummm, holier than thou others. Considering it's a holy week for many, I decided to let it be.

Thank You Robbyn!
::The Barn tips his hat to yet::

The Uncleaning Woman
I super-cleaned my bedroom yesterday. It went so well, I decided to tackle the walk-in closet. From the closet, I pulled shoes and yarn and underused clothing to sort for charity. I vacuumed nooks and crannies and dusted shelves. While I was patting myself proud for not getting distracted by the yarn bins and the jewelry box, my husband came in to invite me on a walk. On a gorgeous spring day, I couldn't refuse.

One day later, to the minute: My super-clean-for-about-seven-minutes bedroom is strewn with shoes, piles of underused, unsorted clothing and a yarn packed storage bin.

I'm the only person I know who can make a bigger mess outta cleaning.

A List Undone.
Over this break, I had hoped to do some blog-cleaning as well. I've been itching to write more from the Girl With Gum in Her Hair, but for some reason I feel uncomfortable bursting into her voice on a knit blog. It's inhibiting somehow.

Because The Girl might be more comfortable with her own bedpost to stick her gum upon, I was thinking of creating a separate blog for her, linked from here. This task was on my list for the week. This task is yet undone. And this week is no longer young.

Lately I've been in a bit of an overall funk and feeling kind of insecure about what I'm doing here. I'm sure every blogger faces that issue now and again, but still, it can be aggravating.

Just today I was over to Rachael's and reminded (once again!) of the gift she has. She doesn't just write for us to read, she takes us along. She makes it seem so effortless. I love that about her. I envy that about her.

And I know it's Thursday...but it feels more like a Maunday for some reason. Anyone else?

Apolitical Aside: It's an image of a circus parade, with the usual players. Clowns. Apes. Barkers. Elephants. And piles of shi*t. At the very end of the parade, is a lone woman pushing a broom at the giant, stankin' elephant turds. She works with duty and diligence, yet falls further and further behind. She has no idea that behind her, a parade of another sort is rapidly bearing down....

Run Condi, run.

Labels: Girl With Gum in Her Hair

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

Labels: Girl With Gum in Her Hair

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.

Labels: Girl With Gum in Her Hair

Just When I Thought it was Safe
I thought I was recovering nicely from my recent episode of Knittinsuckinola. Even though I have not picked up a needle in days, I have been dutifully scouring pattern books (per sistah Amy's advice) for some stash busting projects. I've even been thinking about thinking about finishing the Uxbridge Berrocan Turtleneck this weekend. heh. Sometimes I really crack myself up.

So, I was cruising my favorite blogs, feeling muchly on the mend, when I came upon Bron's, place. There, I was unwittingly exposed to photos and descriptions of her expansive stash. As I perused the pictures and related narrative, I experienced a sudden lurching of the heart and the urge to hide under my desk. After a few minutes of self-calming strategies (this time: sniffing the ink cartridge bay of my jet printer) I concluded that I had experienced what we in clinical knitting circles refer to as a Stashback.

A Stashback is like a flashback, only fuzzier. It is an intrusive memory of a sudden and traumatic exposure to yarn. One's own yarn. Stashbacks are the hallmark of a serious, pervasive disorder known as Post Dramatic Stash Disorder (PDSD).

A Stashback can be triggered by the viewing of someone else's stash, being in a conversation about yarn stash, overhearing a conversation about yarn stash, the swooshy sound of a Rubbermaid container being opened and, in extreme cases, the sound of an idling delivery truck. There have been reports of severe cases of PDSD where the "victim" experiences symptoms at the mere sight of any man wearing brown shorts and matching socks. Okay, I guess you don't have to have a disorder to be alarmed at that visual.

The most common cause of PDSD is the shock of reality (i.e. shattering of myths) experienced by a deluded yarn owner upon the examination and accurate asssement of all yarn holdings.

Say What? Layman's Definition: PDSD is caused by sudden realization that one is a most silly, incompetent knitcumpoop, via a seemingly well-intended count of yarn skeins.

Other symptoms of PDSD:
-Avoidance of all things knitting.
-A constant, ceaseless, redundantly repetitive preoccupation with all things knitting.
-A preoccupation with beginning new projects.
-Avoidance of beginning new projects.
-A preoccupation with finishing current projects.
-Avoidance of finishing current projects.
-Ambivalence.
-Obsession with a particular Ebay purchase that promised to be an amazing glittery vintage yarn, but turned out to be mill ends from the Brillo factory. (I'd show a picture, but I can't bring myself to reopen the bin. You might discern this crap in one of the pictures of my stash, from the bedroom closet).
-Avoidance of all things related to scrubbing pans (see previous symptom).
-Hypersensitivity to other knitters' extensive list of finished knit products, usually knit up in yarn that was actually purchased for the intended pattern, with fantastic results.
-Constant comparing of one's own yarn "crap" to other knitters' apparently "bigger" and "better" stuff.
-Dissociation from or depersonalization of knit products (ex: Finding a knit piece of Berroco Uxbridge Tweed, like a sleeve, wondering what the hell it is and how it ended up in a bag in your office, then deciding it would make an excellent dust rag).

I realize that I have been beating the stash trauma to death. But evidently I wasn't as "over it" as I believed. In grad school I learned that an issue ain't over until it is. I paid mighty big bucks for that nugget, by the way. It's yours for free.

I know I'm on my way now. Really. I guess I just needed a little more "textual healing."

That being said, while I'm not one for "resolutions" per se, I do believe that in order for one to make a real change in behavior (physical and/or cognitive) a simple plan is in order. I've made such a plan. Serious too.

My Simple Plan for a Happier Knitting Tomorrow:
1- Purchase yarn only for an intended pattern.
2- Purchase yarn on eBay only when I have true, first hand knowledge of the yarn's value (i.e., I've heard of it).
3- Finish a project before completing another. Sidenote: This one may not seem related to PDSD, but it really is. It has to do with commitment, which is related to the ease of being distracted by new projects, which is related to purchasing yarn which is related to not using the yarn I currently own.

Tell Me Something Good...(thrill me thrill me thrill me)
Thankee Buddy Don for the nice comments on my childhood stories.

Related Purly trivia: Before I came to Blogger, I had a blog (for about three days) at a different site. My first post ever was an intro to the Girl with Gum in Her Hair and the blog was also named after her. I abandoned the blog after I decided to join the Knitblog ring and I wasn't able to link outside the host site. So telling The Girl's story was the impetus for my starting a blog. Once people actually started coming here, The Girl got kind of shy. For the record, The Girl is me, of course. And the buckeye poem is based on real events.

Labels: Girl With Gum in Her Hair

I haven't been knitting.
I've nothing to say.
Been working on post
That's not ready today.

My son sits a ball game
On this Friday eve.
I'll snuggle the Cakers
Until time to leave.

My lack of knittelligence
Makes me feel like a barf.
But I'll toss you a knit bone:
A garter fur scarf.

Labels: Girl With Gum in Her Hair