Knitters-Knitters

Daisy's Cake

Inappropriate Behavior

Olive's Spring Break begins today.  All Olive, All Day quickly reminded me that it's time to sign her up for summer camp.  Now that she is 7, she's too old for the camp she went to last year and will instead be going to a big kid inclusion camp that involves bus transport (she'll have an aide with her on the bus).  I now require 15 people to comment and reassure me that it's okay if I drive behind the bus every day on that first day to make sure the driver isn't hijacking the bus to an airstrip where he will then load the children onto a cargo plane  headed for a non-extradition country driving erratically.

It is March 30th, but this was what my children were doing yesterday.  Yesterday.  I am beyond disgusted by the weather.  I'm trying to ignore it, in the way one is always supposed to ignore inappropriate behavior.

In its naked state, this tree in our yard reminds me of the 6 Feet Under tree.  The snow boulders in the foreground make it even more grim.

Today is Daisy's 13th birthday.  There will be cake with light blue frosting and roses in a darker shade of blue, and there will be an i-pod.  She knows about the cake, but not the i-pod.  I'm expecting to catch a glimpse of that rare bird, the full-on Daisy Smile. 

She ignored me while I took this picture...in the way that one is always supposed to ignore inappropriate behavior.

To Be Sung to the Tune of Nanny-Nanny Boo-Boo

I got a present!

I got a present!

And this present is all kinds of spicy.  Tabasco Cheez-Its.  Texas Pete hot sauce.  Hot and spicy Heinz Ketchup.  Ginormous, fiery jelly beans.  This is really a present for LB and Olive, who love the hot stuff and down Sriracha like it's Coca Cola.

Olive was very interested in these new Cheez-its.

She especially liked them dunked in the broth of her Kimchee noodles.

I have no business eating any of these things.  Any of these things, but late last night I got curious about the jelly beans.  And I ate exactly half of one before the remaining shreds of my colon joined forces with my scraps of ileum and sent a text message to my mouth saying cut it out.  This can be taken two different ways, but the preferred interpretation was that I stop eating that hot pepper jelly bean.

And I went to bed. 

And I had a nightmare, the kind full of images but with very little tangible plot to explain to others in the morning.  First, I had agreed to have my home phone connected to a hotline for people who had gotten bad sunburns and needed moral support.  Every call began the same way: I'm a fair-haired person who freckles easily and I fell asleep on the beach.  Who are all these fair-haired people who tend to freckle, and what on earth are they doing falling asleep on the beach?  And where is this beach they speak of in Northbrook, IL, where even the very fairest can't work up a bad sunburn in March?

Suddenly I'm at Lo's house, sewing myself a many-tiered Mexican twirl skirt in shades of pink.  Of course I'm at Lo's house for this, which if you've seen it is filled with skeletons and Day of the Dead paraphernalia.  I'm in California now so bad sunburns seem more plausible, but since I'm not at home the phone isn't ringing anymore.  I find beautiful pink rickrack to add to my skirt.  Lo isn't home so I call her on her cellphone to ask if I can use this trim.  She says yes, but first I have to help my nephew find something he needs for school.

My nephew (incidentally, a fair-haired person who burns easily) is looking for something which he describes with initials. His IEP?  No, he doesn't have one of those.  His INS forms?  His I-9?  His form 990-EZ?   I don't know what the initials stand for and I can't keep them in my head, and then he tells me that my cousin has previously looked through his room to find this item and came up scratch, and she's a surgeon.

There is distracting music playing.  Where is it coming from?  It's the soundtrack of my dream.  And it is also the soundtrack from Frida.  At first I think I'm hearing "Burn it Blue," but then I correctly identify the track as, "The Floating Bed."  Except it's the same riff playing over and over again, as if you've inserted the DVD and the movie menu has appeared and you have not yet hit "play," so the soundtrack has no choice but to repeat that same loop in perpetuity.

Dang, I was glad to wake up. 

If you can guess who sent us this amazing gift box from Tejas and, by proxy, my accompanying Tex-Mex dream, then I will send you a 5x7 signed glossy of my ileo-cecal anastomosis complete with...kidding!  No guessing game, this time. And like God's rainbow, you can consider this photo of spicy treats from the lovely and thoughtful Badger my promise that I will not post pictures of my internal organs again. 

In Which I Admit I Watch The Real Housewives of NYC

Since attending that first birthday party several weeks ago, Olive has been invited -- through USPS --to two other parties and a play-date.  I'm not sure if this just happens to be the time of year when children are born in Northbrook, or if word has gotten around that Olive is fun at parties. 

Before that first party, we determined that LB would always be Olive's plus one.  I suggested this for one reason: if LB is spotted out and about with the children, women yelling Squeee! actually fall from trees like spider monkeys, picking at his fur and telling him what amazing dad he is and how he's just the most wonderful homo erectus alive for being able to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide in the presence of his own children.  If he adds something like, "and we have 5 others at home!" or, "and we home-school!" the squee-ing takes on THX proportions and the rotation of the earth on its axis starts to slow until the whole planet warbles like a spinning dime on a countertop, losing speed.  But if  I'm the Plus One and word gets out that I've got a few more children at home, I become  Marginal Mom--one step above Mom with Impetigo.  The very things that make LB squee-worthy make me suspect. 

I'm not asking a question here; I understand how and why squee-worthiness is gender-specific.  I'm just whining.

At any rate, Olive got an invitation yesterday, and when I told LB about it on the phone, he suggested we turn it down since she already has several parties coming up.  Then he said, "Wait--who's giving this one?"

"Amyloidosia (not her real name)."

"Oh--that one we have to go to."

"But it's an ice-skating party, and neither of you skate."  I'm picturing Olive on skates.  Now I'm picturing LB on skates.  If you've seen him dance, posing a danger to both himself and others, the last thing you'd want to do is add blades to the situation.

"We don't have to stay the whole time, but Olive really does need to make an appearance.  It would look bad if she didn't."

To whom, the editors of Page 6?  Suddenly, the image of  Simon picking out footwear in the Hamptons appears in my mind's eye.  Then, Simon in ice skates.  The juxtaposition of LB in ice skates and now, Simon--the undeniable embodiment of plus one-- in ice skates is almost too much for me.  I want to put out my mind's eye with a skate blade.

One thing is clear: my autistic seven year old has more of a life than I do.  Maybe there are social advantages to being non-verbal, after all.  Olive will never say the wrong thing.

Feet Found in Walking Distance

Years ago when we lived in Oakland, I bought this used cookbook...

.... and learned that the secret to preparing excellent chicken soup was using the feet in making the broth.

The book does mention that chicken feet can be hard to find, but it was much, much harder than I expected.  I asked at our local butcher shop and at several different grocery store butcher counters and was told, repeatedly, that they did not sell chicken feet.  When I pressed, one butcher told me, "They come to us with the feet already off."

That sounds suspicious, doesn't it?  But since I'm nothing if not a quitter when it comes to cooking, I put the chicken soup project on a back burner (cough).  I thought of it only when we tried out different grocery stores, making it a personal rule never to go to a new store without asking at least once if they carried chicken feet.  Then I forgot about it entirely until we moved to Up North, Wisconsin, and began buying our meat from a local farmer.  He and his wife sold us eggs, their own fresh chickens (whole) and a beef quarter.  One day when we went to the farm to pick up ten frozen chickens we had ordered, I asked the wife if I could buy some chicken feet.  After all, she couldn't claim that she didn't have any, or that the chickens came to her with their feet already off. 

She looked at me as if I had suggested something so evil, so disgusting that I wondered if perhaps "chicken feet" had some sort of slang meaning known only to other Up Northerners.  She said NO FEET.  Her expression wiped away any nerve I may have had to ask her what the big deal was with chicken feet, anyways.

I gave up.  I didn't give it another thought until today, when I was shopping at Elegance in Meat and wondering if maybe I should buy some more kreplach in case I feel like making soup this weekend. 

There it was, in its own package complete with price tag and handling instructions: a legitimate and worthy  food item holding its own right next to the kreplach.  I didn't even have to ask.

The Password is...Uterus.

And we have winners!  The fabric is going to Hilda, and the yarn to Maya.  Please send me your addresses, ladies, so I can mail out your prizes!

There are indeed scope photos of my colon, ileum, esophagus, rectum and cervix out there in the extended series of volumes known as Jen's Medical Files, but I wouldn't put them up on my blog.  Those organs are infinitely less fetching and pristine than my endometrium.  And to the smarty-pants who guessed left elbow: my brother Hen once had something removed from his left elbow that made my polyp look like a Georgia O'Keefe painting in comparison.  Then again, everyone's uterine polyps look like Georgia O'Keefe paintings.

On to current knitting projects: this little sweater came from a box of vintage patterns given to me by Miss Chesty LaRue, way back when.  Either people were smaller when this was printed or size 7US needle meant something much different, because this sweater started out for me and is going to end up fitting Agatha.

I love the top-down construction and the slim fit.   It reminds me of several of the patterns in Stefanie Japel's Fitted Knits. 

Everything old is new again.

The yarn is Rowan Magpie Tweed (surprise, surprise).

And speaking of Magpie Tweed, I received many skeins of this holy grail of yarns from Dixie the other day.  There may have been See's chocolates in the box, too.  I can remember opening the box, then blinking into consciousness amid a sea of little brown paper wrappers.  The rest is a blur of key lime and white chocolate.

This yarn is a gorgeous, unphotographable shade of burgundy with flecks of blue and russet, and it's going to become a Meg Swansen Spiral Yoke sweater for poor LB--who never did get his Christmas mittens.  Thank you, Dixie!

Completed Projected, And More Contest Details

Pattern: Duffel Coat, from Double Knits by Zoe Mellor

Yarn: Rowan Magpie (about 5 skeins total)

Needles: US size 7

I had fun making this jacket, using all the precious single skeins of Rowan Magpie I've been able to cull from the four corners of eBay.  Each piece is a different color.

The back is what I'd call deep indigo.

The left front in pale green, the right in emerald.

The sleeves are my favorite part, with racing stripes in the form of cables in contrasting colors.

The hood switches colors midstream: both the main color and the cable.

Given the masculine nature of the color-scheme, this coat is going to a little boy I know who recently turned five.  His mother doesn't read my blog nearly as often as she should.  Perhaps if I link her here, you'll all click over to see her blog.  Then, on checking her site meter and seeing a bunch of new hits routed through Knitters-Knitters, she'll head on over and see this charming coat which will be arriving in her mailbox shortly.

I don't knit for my own boys very often because what starts out as a pristine garment tends to turn into a nightmare of pulls and pills within days.  If G. is hard on this coat, wads it into a ball, throws it in the bottom of a closet, wipes his nose on the sleeve, tries the coat on as pants with his legs through the armholes or my personal favorite--decides to wash it himself using carpet cleanser--I won't be there to see it.

I'm sorry I didn't take this picture of Dana sooner, in a special vest made for his birthday by Sacramento Grandma.  As you can see, it has been very well loved.

A special note to those of you participating in yesterday's contest but may be thinking that since so many people have guessed the answer already, it's hardly worth participating: as of now (Tuesday at 2:19pm central time) NO ONE HAS GOTTEN IT RIGHT YET!

Winners Announced, and a New Contest!

Y'all are a bunch of sad-sack guessers!  Here's the back of the postcard, clearly indicating our honeymoon spot as Laredo, Texas.  We also went to Corpus Christi and San Antonio but really, it was all about Laredo.

 Since Since none of you guessed right, I just put you all in a hat and picked a wrong guesser at ransom, if you will.  The winner of the Koigu Multi is: Jen (she guessed Arizona).  And the winner of the spinning fiber is Carys (who came pretty close with San Antonio).  Please email me with your addresses, Jen and Carys! 

No one wants the Richard Gere movie.  Go figure.

Last week I had a minor medical procedure, removing a polyp which was happily benign.  I was told in advance it would almost certainly be benign, and that polyps of this nature and in this location are overwhelmingly benign.  After removal, the doctor was very confident the pathology report would contain the word "benign" ultimately confirming the polyp's suspected benevolence.   Given that there were so many predictions that this polyp had only the best of intentions, I restricted myself to just one full-scale anxiety attack and for the rest of the time surrounding the procedure and waiting for the report, I was able to sustain functional yellowish-orange alert.  Sort of a sunset coral.  I am proud of myself.

And now, I'm in such good spirits and feeling so warm and fuzzy toward this particular organ that I am sharing the pictures with you, taken both pre-and post polyp removal.  Can you guess the organ?

Since there are only so many organs in the human body and I'm giving you all the head start of knowing I don't have a prostate, I'm predicting many correct answers.  All correct guessers will be entered into a drawing to win one of the following.  PLEASE indicate which prize you're interested in when you make your guess.

Two lengths of vintage cotton, both originally purchased from Revival Fabrics.  Both pieces are 36" wide and just under 3 yards long.  Both have been washed, and will be ironed before shipping.

or

Three skeins of Colinette Cadenza in colorway "slate", 100% merino, suggested needle size 4mm (way smaller than my polyp).

After the procedure, LB took advantage of my semi-sedation to ask if there was anything I wanted to tell him before the "truth serum" wore off.  I said, You are the love of my life.  And...I spent more in the Korean gift shop than I meant to.

The First Time Never I Saw your Face

About once every two years, LB and I find ourselves without coffee.  This usually resolves quickly with me pointing out to LB that he is The Boy is this relationship and that getting the coffee without the obvious benefit of having had coffee falls to him.  This time he turned the tables on me with a preemptive accusation of my never being the one to get the coffee, along with an implication that I may actually be incapable of buying coffee in a decaffeinated state.  And like the youngest child that I am, I fell for it. 

There was a woman seated on a bench outside Starbucks, and she looked vaguely familiar.  Perky, just a touch of make-up, dark curly hair, yoga pants, and a toddler in a jogging stroller.  I was wearing my Not Your Daughter's Jeans, a Stanford sweatshirt (purchased by LB in 1988, when he was last at Stanford) worn inside out, and no bra.  Being forty-something as opposed to twenty -something and having nursed more children than I actually birthed, this look is not nearly as sexy as it sounds.  I thought, Please God, don't let her be someone I know (this Starbucks is actually in the strip mall next to church--prayer felt appropriate). 

When I passed her, she said hi and smiled at me in a way that could have meant, "We know each other and you really should stop and chat," or, "We've never met and I'm just a friendly, upbeat kind of gal."  I said hi back and kept walking, but more slowly in case she was about to say she's helped out in Olive's Sunday school class, or she's checked my bags at Dominick's, or she works with LB, or she had, in fact, gone to college with me and wasn't it amazing that we should find each other twenty years later, over eight hundred miles away from where we met?

Because I'm one of those people who doesn't recognize people, I'll never know which smile she was giving me.  The only thing worse than running into someone you know when you don't look your best is running into someone you don't know if you know.  People who know me at all are aware of this failing of mine, and the few times I've run into LB when out and about, he's greeted me the way one might greet a visually impaired person: verbally.  Loudly.  And if he's too far away for me to hear him, he'll jump up and down and wave his arms.

This is where it becomes truly important what kind of person curly-haired Starbucks lady is.  Is she confident, happy in her relationships, and does she consider herself to be generally likable?  If so, she'll interpret me not recognizing her as just that--me not recognizing her.  Perhaps she'll think I left the house wearing someone else's glasses, or hung over, or she may just think it's because I haven't had my coffee yet.  But if she's insecure at all, she could think I'm snubbing her.  Exactly three times in my life, I've been aggressively confronted by someone who thought I was ignoring them, and who had been nursing this special brand of pain for maybe three, four instances of my having walked right past them.  It's awful, having someone accuse you of hurting their feelings on purpose, and anything you may say in your defense simply reaffirms their secret suspicion that they're not memorable.

On the flip side, I sometimes think I know people I don't.  A few weeks ago at church I walked into the sanctuary with LB, Agatha, Dana, Anatole and Daisy, and when LB started heading toward an area where we don't usually sit, I grabbed his elbow and pointed him in the right direction.  The lady who passes out programs asked LB how old our children were so she could give them age-appropriate kiddie programs (with coloring pages, etc). LB quoted the wrong ages and I admonished him for not even remembering how old his children were.  Finally, LB stopped walking and slowly looked down at me, and it became clear that this tall man in a maroon sweater was very much not LB, and was growing ever-more curious about why this short, bossy woman at his side felt she knew his kids better than he did.  The real LB was several feet ahead of me, standing with our aforementioned youngsters, watching in amusement and waiting to see how long it would take me to realize this man wasn't my husband and that those kids at my side weren't my children.

I'm guessing dinnertime. I may not always know my children's faces, but I never forget their food preferences.

***********

To those participating in the yarn/spinning fiber/chick-flick contest who guessed St. Augustine, Florida: I'm granting you all a free second-guess.  My ex husband got Florida in the divorce.  There's no official ordinance as of yet mandating that I stay out, but I'd never chance it.  

Prizes! Nostalgia! Frontal Nudity!

It turns out I wasn't done playing with my new scanner.  As much as I really wanted to post a photo of Hen wearing a flamboyant green cardigan and filling it out like a St. Patrick's Day sausage casing, Lo stopped me.  You owe her one, Hen.   

Instead, here's me as a baby:

The photo below is my most favorite childhood picture of me.  Thumb sucking, ear-pulling, and so shy that I can barely stand to be in the photo at all.

Here's Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, circa 1995. 

Daisy had a love/hate relationship with No, Monkey! No!  She adored it and was terrified of it and had to have it read to her every evening.  She'd insist she was brave enough to keep it in her room overnight.  But after about twenty minutes, we'd find it here:

Here's Anatole on his arrival day, with Sister Ellen.  Her job was to escort him through customs and perform the hand-off.

And here he is a few minutes later, taking his first bottle from me.  On the far left is Lo.  And standing in back of LB is Lois, the most dour adoption social worker who ever drew breath, and who seemed to have an odd antipathy toward placing children.  She was never so happy as when she'd give us our weekly phone call to say, "No new info on when he'll travel!"  When she finally called to tell us his flight had been scheduled, her tone made me think someone had died.

Here's Tole on his first day with us, looking appropriately scared out of his mind.

A few weeks later, he was much more at ease.  And fatter.

Agatha was my chunkiest baby ever.  Here she is posing with a pal from church, born two days before her.  I call this photo 7 lean years and 7 fat years.

As a toddler, Agatha had a deep aversion to the sound of other children whining.  In this photo Anatole is about to whine, and Agatha is poised with a toothbrush in hand, ready to whack him with it should he make a sound.

Dana always looked good in hats.

Here's Sabina holding Dana, or as she used to call him, "Chocolate pudding in the shape of a person."

Here's a postcard from where LB and I went on our honeymoon.

If you can guess the city and state or at least the state, you will be entered in a drawing (put your guess in the comment section, and be sure to indicate which prize you'd like) to receive either 3 skeins of Koigu Multi in colorway 8903:

or 105g spinning fiber (70% BFL, 30% mohair):

or one copy of Nights in Rodanthe, viewed exactly once.  I bought it thinking it was the sort of guilty-pleasure chick flick I'd want to watch several times after LB went to bed.  It turns out once was enough.

Open to both US and international readers of Knitters-Knitters, and the shipping is on me, of course.  Since I don't expect many people to be able to discern the location, you can guess even if you already know, just as long as you and I don't share DNA.  Make sure you sound sort of hesitant and insecure in your guess though, so not everyone jumps on your bandwagon, assuming you have inside info.

If you don't knit, spin, or like chick flicks, then I'm afraid this just isn't your contest.  But hey, you did get to see me naked!