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Last night when I was falling asleep, this thought occurred to me about LB: At the center of our marriage is the tail-chasing serpent of a fallacy that I am the smarter one, while he is the morally superior one.
Unlike most things that occur to me as I'm falling asleep, this still felt significant the next morning--so much so that I emailed it to LB at work.
His reply was Bite me.
I've discovered that by aggressively hammering a nail into the bottom end of my drop spindle, I can turn it into a top-whorl instead of a bottom whorl. For some reason, this works more easily for me--much less leaping and skittering on the part of the spindle, and each twist of the wrist seems to last longer.
This is, I think, my fifth attempt at producing yarn. I'm not sure the end result looks any better than tries 1-4, but the process is coming a little more naturally, and I feel like I have a clearer understanding of everything I'm doing wrong. For instance, as you can see from that stray loop near the top, I've over-spun in many places.
Olive was downright reverent while walking through the hallways, holding hands and smiling the whole time. We had taken Olive to the school a few times since moving here to play in the playground, but she had no interest in the jungle gym and would hurl herself at the door of the school, wailing piteously to be let in.
She seems to know it is to be her school.
Tamara was kind enough to ask after Clover, Spaniel of Joy, and how she's adjusting to the move. I'd say she enjoys her new digs overall, but is suffering from that metaphysical crisis of wherever she goes, there she is. It is Clover's greatest wish to scare someone, anyone. She didn't scare the two elderly dogs down the block when we lived in Milwaukee (in fact, when they walked past our house and heard her bark, they'd roll their eyes in doggie derision). She couldn't scare the Indian food delivery guy in Chicago, or any member of the cleaning staff, and when she tried to frighten the gardener, he actually scooped her up and tucked her under his arm like a parcel. For hours afterward she hid in her puppy house, ears hanging low in shame. This new house has a big back yard with rabbits--lots of them. At first Clover was very excited by this and did her special pointing at one (very cute--using her little elbow), but the most she could inspire from the bunny was a casual backward glance. Our next door neighbor was enthused to see we had a dog, and asked us to walk Clover into her yard sporadically to deter rabbits from eating her plants. We perform this task dutifully, but with little hope.
Clover does bark and jump, and although small is at least 14 pounds--hardly a chihuahua. And yet, no one cowers in her presence. It's a mystery.
This weekend was largely spent trying to become accustomed to our new home. We're at that point where you're pretty much all unpacked, but you still feel like you're cooking in someone else's kitchen, using someone else's toilet, and waiting, on some semi-conscious level, to go back home where everything feels right. I've compiled a small list of the items I can't find, the items I'm sure are keeping me from feeling like the true denizen of Northbrook that my credit card statements say I am.
1. Navy blue capri sweatpants. Extremely unattractive and baggy-kneed, but comfy and sorely missed.
2. Small net used for catching aquatic frogs (and transferring them to a large pot while their tanks are being cleaned).
3. Clover's heartworm medication.
4. Morse Code clicker.
5. Interior tier to Sabina's bookshelf.
There was more, but like my pair of NODJ pants, things have been turning up little by little.
The weekend began with Olive waiting patiently for her turn at LB's coffee (hot milk, cocoa powder, and sugar. He claims there's coffee in it, too, but this will never be proven without assistance from NASA).
Aunt Marilyn and Olive peruse the Wall Street Journal.
Despite my horrific, thick-and-thin results, I decided to take my little finished product very seriously, and did the whole back of the chair skeining thing,
...the hot water soak, and laying out to dry.
This is Steiner for, "Hopefully of deep spiritual value to you, because it would not survive in any competitive arena." I'm going to hang onto it as a point of reference for measuring what will hopefully be progress. Also, it'll come in handy if I ever want to knit myself one of these:
Last night I cast on a sweater for Daisy: an Elizabeth Zimmermann yoke sweater (pattern can be found in Knitting Around and at Schoolhouse Press) using Dale of Norway, Heilo. The cream color may seem an unusual choice for a 12 year old, but Daisy is one of those unusual children who never gets dirty or even sloppy, never trips or falls down, and has an air of composure about her at all times.
Here's a little dress she made for dolly--early work, as you can tell by the stitching.
One of the ways I sold this move to LB was with the premise, "If I have to drive less, I'll have more time and energy for cooking." There is indeed more time and more energy, but no one was as surprised as I to discover that making dinner is something I find just as tedious in Northbrook as I did in Chicago. Fortunately, that extra time and energy thing has enabled me to find ways around coking. Specifically, I have "discovered" a little shop called Elegance in Meats.
Elegance in Meats sells not only raw meat for those who, inexplicably, like to cook it themselves, but pre-cooked meats and pre-cooked just about everything else. Here we have ribs, lovingly prepared by a person who is not me.
...if for no other reason than the packaging. It comes in those cute little containers, in just about every flavor: not just fruit, but also dulce de leche and chocolate. Sometimes it comes with attachments: a separate compartment containing granola, or whole chunks of fruit. There's non-fat yogurt, custard style, full-fat, fruit at the bottom, fruit pureed throughout, yogurt made from goat milk or even soy. And yet, in that sea of flavors and styles, I find nothing I like. The only thing more distasteful to me than a container of yogurt would be one with granola mixed in.
I want to like yogurt because everyone else seems to enjoy it...or do they? If people really liked it, would it need to come in so many varieties? Would we need to have it sold to us with a promise that it'll increase our longevity and cure, as Jamie Lee Curtis informs us (sternly, and with a hint of secrecy) whatever it is that we women all suffer from?
My children (except for Daisy--Daisy is the exception to all Sullivan eating preferences) eat it every day without question. But do they like it? I've never asked them for fear it would awaken a mass rebellion, like at the end of Tommy when the mob of campers realize they don't have to wear those blinders and ear plugs.
If so many people like yogurt, then why is it that at Trader Joe's this morning, less than an hour after opening, there was more yogurt up for grabs than you could shake a box of granola at, but the 5-layer taco dip was all gone? When I asked a clerk about it, he assured me they still carried the taco dip but that, "We got shorted this morning." He looked a little nervous, like I might say, "Really? Just how shorted were you?"
I have a hard time believing anyone got there before me to buy taco dip this morning, let alone 4 or 5 people. If I had more nerve, I would have asked, "Are you sure there's not more in the back? You know, the back, where all the Trader Joe employees are noshing on 5 delicious layers of guacamole, sour cream, black bean dip, diced tomatoes and grated cheese while the rest of us are stuck out here with the yogurt?"
There are plenty of things that I'm perfectly happy not liking, such as mayonnaise, Kate Hudson movies, sleeping outdoors, televised women's nine-ball, and the sound of Rachel Ray's voice.
There are things I like that no one else seems to enjoy: those violet pastilles that taste faintly of soap. Kathy Griffin. And apparently, The Smiths.
But I wish I liked low-rise jeans, whole wheat pasta, Andrew Lloyd Webber, mornings, cooking dinner, and the feel of alpaca. I really, really wish I liked knitting with alpaca.
The ribbing just sighs with sloth and makes no pretense of grip. The sleeves are a bit short on Olive now, but will grow four inches after the first wearing. The colors may be bright, but they misrepresent the yarn's true sluggardly nature. If I could knit a nap, this is what it would look like:
Today we went back to the old house to check on the paint job, throw out some trash from the garage, and put some pots of flowers on the front porch. In general, I don't like going back to the old house, regardless of where that old house may be and what exactly happened there.
I could write a song about just how much I don't like to go back, but it's been done, and quite handily at that:
My children adore Going Back, and love nothing better than what I consider the world's most painful activity: looking through old photographs. Invariably, we end up in a conversation like this:
Me: That's my friend, Rich.
Girls: Where is he now?
Me: Well, he died.
Girls: How?
Me: He had an aneurism. This is technically true. The fact that the aneurism was caused by a blunt instrument driven into his skull by his own hand following a bad mescaline trip is more than they need to know. He wasn't the same after that, and died several years later.
Girls: how old was he?
Me: Desperate, by this point in the conversation. English majors don't tend to live that long...
Girls: Becoming alarmed...but weren't you and Daddy both...
Me: BATH TIME! Hair day for everyone!
...in the form of special arm movements and graceful neck bends....
