Knitters-Knitters

A Late-Summer Night's Special Ed Dream

Several nights ago, I had a dream that I was angsting over feeling unprepared for Olive's first day of school (which is less than a week away).  I worried that I didn't know what school supplies she needed to have in advance, if any.  I wondered if her school had a microwave, so that she could enjoy her typical fare of Indian curry dishes, black beans and rice, and spicy noodles instead of just cold sandwiches.  Now, this part of the dream isn't hard to analyze--at that time, I actually didn't know the answers to these questions (since remedied).  Where things get strange is when Soon-Yi Previn and Eric Lax materialize out of nowhere, to help.

Now, Mia Farrow is a regular in my dream-chamber and has played everything from starring roles to a face in the crowd.  Woody Allen, though not a frequent guest, has appeared here and there.  And, even though I didn't know what he looks like in real life until today (when I Googled his photo) this is the second time I've dreamt about Eric Lax.  But Soon-Yi?  Never, and I never wanted her there.  I had no interest, and if one could hire a dream-bouncer, she'd have been on my Denied Access list--for Mia's sake.  Yes, I chose sides.

The thing is, in this dream Soon-Yi was nice.  She gave me a list of everything Olive needed, and each item had a check mark next to it.  Then Eric Lax wordlessly handed me a large white plastic bag.  I didn't open it, but I understood it to be full of all the supplies on the list.  And I remember that I could clearly see a curve in the bag's shape that suggested one of the items was a protractor.  Soon-Yi did all the talking in this dream, and though I don't remember specifically what she said, it was general reassuring remarks about drop-off and pick-up locations, fat, non-toxic crayons, rolls of sticky-tape and how everybody worried about this sort of stuff.  She patted my hand a lot, which is, incidentally, Olive's main way of saying hello and good-bye (patters-patters, we call it).

The dream ends with a close-up on the face of Eric Lax, and my noticing that he's wearing a bow tie.

*******

The bow tie is significant.  I know of only one person in real life who wears a bow tie regularly, and that's my shrink.  Actually, saying he wears a bow tie regularly is an understatement.  He always wears a bow tie.  I've never seen him without his bow tie.  He is the bow tie.  You'll think I'm making this up for the quirk-factor, or, at the very least, to make my psychiatrist sound more interesting than your psychiatrist.  It's true, though---if I entered his office and found him in an ascot, a bolo, or a regular old necktie, I think I'd burst into tears.

After dreaming of Soon-Yi and her being so kind and all, I felt I should at least read her Wiki page.  I was shocked to see she has a Masters in Special Ed.  Had I heard this somewhere, and that's why my brain conjured her for this odd orientation? 

I'm pretty good at analyzing other people's dreams, but rarely my own.  In this case, I'm left with a thought that comes to me so often in this strange and convoluted journey that is Olive's--and our--education: help often comes from unusual sources.

Egg Rolls

It was great seeing Annie again and I realized what a terrific person she was and how much fun it was just knowing her and I thought of that old joke, you know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, 'Doc, uh, my brother's crazy, he thinks he's a chicken,' and uh, the doctor says, 'well why don't you turn him in?' And the guy says, 'I would, but I need the eggs.' Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but uh, I guess we keep going through it...because...most of us need the eggs.

-Woody Allen

When my dad (OFD) goes to the Chinese restaurant, there's always some anxiety involving the egg roll and spicy mustard.  Traditionally, during the egg roll course at Milwaukee's William Ho's, both spicy mustard and sweet and sour sauce are brought to the table.  And with the same regularity, the spicy mustard is whisked away before the entree arrives.  For whatever reason, Mr. Ho does not consider the main dish--any main dish--to require spicy mustard.  The problem is, OFD likes the spicy mustard on his shrimp in lobster sauce, on his white rice, on his fried rice, and occasionally, on his beef and broccoli.  One would think it'd be easy enough to simply ask the waitress to leave the mustard behind, or if unable to catch her pre-whisk, to please return it. 

Herein lies the problem: once, long before I was born, OFD requested that the spicy mustard be left behind for him to enjoy with his entree.  The waiter came back with the accusation that surely, OFD must have forgotten he'd ordered a fish dish, thus implying that no reasonable person could intend to put spicy mustard on fish.  OFD felt powerless to object.

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, the spicy mustard conundrum joined us at every William Ho's outing.  Asking for the mustard to be left behind could precipitate a confrontation so stressful as to interfere with OFD's enjoyment of the first course.  And asking for the mustard to be returned was right out.  Hiding the jar under the table whenever the waitress materialized seemed childish (my suggestion), and sneaking in our own mustard would have felt like crossing the line. 

Why didn't we just eat someplace else?  William Ho had the best egg rolls.

Today was Olive's first day of showing up for Summer camp.  Because of our horrible gastrointestinal virus, we had missed orientation and the entire first week of activities.  We did not get to meet the counselors before today, and we did not have our Special Packet: you know, the one that says where to go, what to wear, what to pack in the satchel, and in fact, what sort of satchel it should be.  All we had this morning was a short letter sent long prior to orientation that said, in reference to camp arrival, Please be prompt!  Drop-off and pick-up locations are in front.  Drive down the fire lane, please, and do not get into the carpool lane!

Some people, like LB, can read directions such as these with no increase in blood pressure.  They're sure that the whole fire lane/carpool lane business will be completely self-explanatory upon arrival, and if not, well, what's the worst that can happen?  But when I read things like this, I know that my near future holds a circuitous maze of one-way lanes, poorly placed orange cones, and the promise of being yelled at by someone in a crossing guard's banner. 

It makes me feel, to put it another way, as if I've arrived at Mr. Ho's after the egg roll plates have been cleared.

As I could have predicted, there was more than one fire lane, and we ended up in the fire lane more traveled. It was the fire lane meant for parents of 'Nother Kids: the ones who leap effortlessly from the back of the minivan and can follow the language of cursory waves and written signs that say exactly where they should be.  It's amazing how one parent being in the wrong lane can slow down the entire drop-off process, and it's equally amazing (though I may be overly sensitive about this sort of thing) how quick those parents of regular kids are about pressing the horn.  When the requisite woman in a banner  showed up with her indecipherable instructions to use that lane back there, see? Where those cars are coming out.  No!  Not the first one--the one behind it! I barely flinched.  I already knew there was no succor to be had, let alone spicy mustard.

I am convinced these are the things that shorten our lives, these pokes in the sternum in the form of brief, admonishing exchanges with other people.  And it makes sense to me now why no condiment in the world was worth, in OFD's mind, the risk of an evening out turning into a jab in the chest.  The question of why we venture out into the world at all is so handily answered above by Woody Allen that it hardly bears repeating, let alone paraphrasing, but there it is: we need the egg rolls.

Comedy, Thy Name is Kelsey

Some of you may have already noticed the new feature on Knitters-Knitters in the left-hand sidebar: Rotating Crane Quotes.  Just click on the photo of our pals Niles and Frasier to read one of my favorite quote from the series.  Sometimes the quote will be from Frasier himself, sometimes from Niles, occasionally from Marty until, suddenly and without explanation, we hop over to visit Charlie and Alan Harper at Two and a Half Men.  And then, when we all need a break from all that brotherly angst, we'll switch to the mother/son dynamic featuring my beloved (and, as yet, undreamed-about) George Lopez.

I'll try to change the quote every time I post here, which is astonishingly often, when you think about it.

If It's Sunday, it Must Be Pay-per-View

By Sunday, I've usually exhausted my Netflix selection for the weekend and am forced to chose among the meager, poorly digitally-mastered selection from the "free" portion of Comcast On Demand.  I usually pick something I've seen before, so I'm not tempted to let my knitting fall to my lap.  Today's fare was Mighty Aphrodite: hilarious when it first came out, and even funnier now that we have adopted children.  It's especially poignant since it features a peek into one of LB and my parallel universes: the one where we live in Manhattan with perhaps just one incredibly gifted child, who can hold his own at mostly-adult parties and for whom I never need to pack extra pants in my teeny-tiny purse.  Also, I can actually wear the same smocky overdress Helena Bonham-Carter sports while mashing with Peter Weller and not look Amish.

In this universe, we occasionally run into Woody Allen--not in the context of filmmaker and fans, but as, say, equals.  And when I say to him, "Every time I quote you during therapy, which is often, my psychiatrist always feels the need to add, 'But you know, Woody Allen is not okay,'" Woody says, "Oh, really?  My therapist says the same thing."  In a parallel universe, I occasionally feed Woody Allen lines.

Back to my knitting.

Again with the Gandingus

The Connoisseuse of Slugs

When I was a connoisseuse of slugs
I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the
naked jelly of those gold bodies,
translucent strangers glistening along the
stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies
at my mercy.  Made mostly of water, they would shrivel
to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,
but I was not interested in that.  What I liked
was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the
odor of the wall, and stand there in silence
until the slug forgot I was there
and sent its antennae up out of its
head, the glimmering umber horns
rising like telescopes, until finally the
sensitive knobs would pop out the
ends, delicate and intimate.  Years later,
when I first saw a naked man,
I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet
mystery reenacted, the slow
elegant being coming out of hiding and
gleaming in the dark air, eager and so
trusting you could weep.

-Sharon Olds

Thank you to everyone who participated in Olive's mix-tape project!  I got some wonderful suggestions, and all of you are getting a little something in the mail.  Some of you are getting to choose your prize, and some of you are having the choice made for you solely on the basis of what I already know of you (i.e., TXC and Laura, you will not be getting yarn).  And some of you may be remembering that there was another contest, not so very long ago (in which a prize promised) but which was never mentioned after the initial quiz.  I think we all know what I'm talking about here.  The gadingus: what is it, where is it, and what, if anything, needs to be done about it?

First off, no winner or prize was annnounced because none of you gave the correct answer.  Some of you were in the (cough) ballpark, but no one was on the nose.  Or on the gadingus. 

Many of you  knew--instinctively, onomatopoetically--that a gadingus is only native to 51% of the population.

This person has a gadingus.

This person does not.

Not.

Again, no.

No, and it's a matter of public record.

The gandingus knows no  racial or cultural boundaries. 

Lance here has ONLY EVER had one.

Anti-Semanticism

Today we are celebrating Anatole's birthday.  He turned 10 yesterday, but I've assumed the right to celebrate all family birthdays on the nearest Saturday.  He has requested pancakes for dinner--blueberry to be specific--and bacon (lots of it) and a tower of brownies instead of a cake.  With walnuts.  He has also requested a flashlight, which he will be receiving this evening, along with various and sundry gifts he did not request but will no doubt enjoy.  But really, in his mind, it's pretty much all about the flashlight this year.  And the food, glorious food.

Last night I received two gifts which I did not request and did not enjoy.  The first was that my mild, in the background, totally do-able cold turned into a raging sinus infection accompanied by multicolored excretions and earache, a malaise the likes of which has turned brownie-making into an exercise that'll require frequent stops to rest, and deep guttural sighs.  The second gift, which was perhaps caused in part by the first, was a fever-dream about Mel Gibson.  If you were a reader on my old blog, then you know my nightmares fall into a few simple categories.  Mel Gibson, of course, falls into the category of fleeing from the Nazis.

Now, I still love Braveheart.  I don't summarily dismiss Mel for being a drunken, raving anti-Semite, if for no other reason than, well, there's a lot of them out there.  I'm not prepared to throw F. Scott Fitzgerald onto the ash heap, nor Edith Wharton, nor even Charles Lindbergh.  But as I've said many--too many--times, Mel's not invited over to my house for latkes anytime soon.

In the dream, Mel Gibson came over to join in the festivities for Anatole's birthday.  There was a moment of sublime glee when I thought the Dream of Refusing Entry to Mel Gibson was about to come true, and then I remembered:  I was serving pancakes, not latkes.  I'm pretty sure that we all agree I had backed myself into a corner, and as the Klingon warrior I consider myself to be, I had no choice but to invite Mel in.  Sending him away based on the slight similarity between latkes and blueberry pancakes would be a gesture without honor.

The search for the perfect word is a task that fills my waking hours and haunts my sleeping ones.  The perfect word is like a line drive--it flies like an arrow and is difficult--though not impossible--to catch.  Sure, I could have said, "Mel's not invited over for dinner anytime soon," but that wouldn't have been specific.  And humor requires specificity. And being understood and listened to requires, I've learned, humor.  The beauty of the perfect word is that it can't be misunderstood--it can only mean one thing.  But the problem with the perfect word is that it can only mean one thing.

Just the Facts

Some things I took at face value, but which turned out later not to be true:

1) Terence Trent d'Arby means Terence Trent of Roast Beef Sandwich.

2) If you bring your weenie dog with you to Wienerschnitzel, they give you a free hotdog.

Some things I was right about, but no one believed me at first.

1) that really is Antonio Banderas' voice in the Nasonex ad.

2) that really is Steve Buscemi's voice in the Go phone ad.

3) Wally George is Rebecca de Mornay's father.

4) I know someone who used to play with Woody Allen as a child, and whose mom said, "That little red-haired Allen Konigsberg will never amount to anything."

Some things I've convinced others were true, just to mess with them:

1) Father Corapi pronounces his last name Crappy.

2) Cadbury Creme Eggs have more iron than regular eggs.

Kelsey Alights

Last night I dreamt that while dining in a Chinese restaurant,  I was approached by the manager who told me Kelsey Grammer would soon be coming to give me a large present.  This was delightful news, but not particularly surprising.  Almost immediately, Kelsey arrived.  We met in the lobby.  The gift, it turns out, was an enormous supply of diapers for Olive: in her current size, and then in several larger sizes.  Now, since Olive is not yet toilet trained this gift would be undeniably useful.  But while self-toileting does not top my list of skills-that-would-make-my-heart-soar for Olive, I do want it to happen.  And I expect it to happen.  Lots of diapers (I'd have preferred pull-ups, but diapers are okay) in her current size would be one thing, but giving us diapers in a size that would easily fit me showed a clear lack of faith on Kelsey's part.  The dismay must have shown on my face, because Kelsey went on at some length, describing the special absorbent properties of these diapers, how they were better than all other diapers, and, inexplicably, how they would give my car better gas mileage.

On waking, my first thought was that Kelsey Grammer had made a choice to enter my dream chamber, to give me some sort of message.  Kelsey was upset with me, but why?  He must have read my blog, and been insulted by my ambivalence toward Back To You.  Or somehow, he knew I'd been faintly surprised to hear that his show had been picked up for a second season.  I hadn't believed in Kelsey, so in turn, he wasn't going to believe in me Olive.

It took some time, but eventually coffee prevailed and I recognized what you all are clamoring to remind me: I'm the one who put Kelsey in that Chinese restaurant.  This changes things, and now, I'm all what am I trying to tell me?  We've got lots of to work with: my concerns about Olive.  Kelsey Grammer as Frasier--a psychiatrist.  Potty, and all that implies.  Chinese food.  Really good Chinese food, and in Milwaukee. 

Feel free to jump in at any time with your own analysis.  Or should I say, Back To You?

This or That

There are several things I can't make up my mind about.  And not just the little things, like whether the minimum driving age should be raised, or where I stand on global warming.  It's the larger, more global issues I'm talking about.  You know, the stuff that affects me personally.  For instance:

Is Back to You a good show, or am I only watching it because I'm hoping against hope for Kelsey Grammer to spontaneously burst into Frasier, wearing a proper suit and spouting out words like jejune and boulevardier?

And speaking of suiting up, is How I Met Your Mother kind of funny overall, or is it really just one very funny Neil Patrick Harris walking with a thump drag thump drag because he's got four dull characters hanging off his pant leg?

Another cup of coffee, or a nap? 

Is it worth it to even own black pants when I have a mostly white dog?

The photos herein are of the three current knitting projects fighting for my attention.  Unfortunately, it's the Noro project (center)--the one I've done the least on--that needs to be completed first.  It's Sabina's "Sweater to wear outside when it's not yet cold enough for a coat."

Lopez and Old Lace

Miss Olive did cooperate last night, and LB and I watched the George Lopez HBO special.  It was, as expected, hilarious, but ... I may be just too young for HBO.  I didn't like it nearly as much as Why You Crying? and there were moments when I actually felt embarrassed sitting next to LB.  If you're at all squeamish when hearing vivid descriptions of genitalia, watch it alone.  I will never again be able to eat green onions.  Or roast beef, or chorizo. On the plus side, I learned many new Spanish words.

It was a big knitting weekend for me.  I finished Olive's seed-stitch Tomten Jacket.  In the end, I decided to sew up the opening and make it a pullover instead of a zippered cardigan. 

While cleaning some things out of the hall closet, I came across a little coat I'd knit for Daisy years ago, and the front hung significantly lower than the back from the weight of the zipper.  This, coupled with Olive's penchant for zipping things up and down and up and down and up and down made me go for no front opening, and decorative buttons.

What amazes me the most about this little coat is that I actually finished it.  I love the look of seed stitch, but when doing it I find it impossible to build up any momentum whatsoever.  The yarn is Noro's Cashmere Island, and I used 4mm needles.

Last night I started Sabina's sweater, which features a border of old shale lace.  The lace will be the soft dove color you see here, and the stockinette portions will be in a gorgeous shade of aqua that you'll have to wait a bit to see.

Just a little Team Olive tidbit: last week, Autism Academy had a special visitor.  From the sacred notebook:

We had our pet therapist come today with a dog and Olive LOVED it!  She was all giggly and excited...she loved holding the leash and could barely contain herself when the dog came up and smelled her face!  It was a great time--I loved watching!

Poor Clover--no special skills, aside from power napping.