Knitters-Knitters

You've Got Tenants, Mr. Farnsworth

We have tenants.

That sounds ominous, doesn't it?  I'm reminded of the Far Side cartoon where a doctor says, on seeing spotted cow heads sprouting from his patient's neck, back and knee, I'm afraid you've got cows, Mr. Farnsworth.

Tenants are a very good thing, a thing worth celebrating.  A buyer would have been even better, but despite Irma's complicated reasoning about why the Obama family, Oprah and any celebrity who'd even flown over Illinois really owed it to us to purchase our Chicago house as a Midwest pied-a-terre, no buyer surfaced during its nine months on the market.

I've been a tenant many times, and I'm a tenant now.  I think I'm truly a renter at heart, and I don't know if I'm capable of ever hammering a nail to hang a picture without a pang of  is this okay?  Being a landlord feels very strange to me.  I'm learning a lot about how we live vs. how other people live, and what our particular threshold is for disrepair compared to others.  For instance, the ice maker in our freezer never worked in the Chicago house, even though it was new when we moved in.  Naturally, LB and I bought ice from the corner store on an as-need basis.  We never considered another avenue, but then, I learned to drive on cars that needed intense counseling and perhaps exorcism before repair work could even be considered.  And LB grew up in a house where flushing the toilet required safe-cracking experience and a generous perspective on what constituted "flushed."

It's a little embarrassing that our tenants assumed the ice maker situation was a new problem as opposed to a given.  On the other hand, we initially found it odd that the toilet in the boys' bathroom of this house ceases to flush at all when it's below zero outside.  There's nothing stopping us from calling a plumber about that toilet, but our first and only instincts have been to pour large pots of water into the bowl while simultaneously praying for warmer weather.  We're good tenants that way.

Bad Bug Experience

When I'm sick I dream of reptiles.  Last night it was snapping turtles: I was in the back seat of a Volkswagen Beetle, and we (LB was driving) had pulled into a driveway to visit someone.  I had several blue kittens with me in the backseat.  The woman we were visiting thrust her baby snapping turtles into the backseat window, while I frantically tried to protect the kittens from the turtles.  In real life I'm allergic to cats and would have happily fed the kittens to the snapping turtles one by one, but in this dream the protection of these kittens was serious business.  Finally I allowed one of the turtles to bite me, and it wasn't that bad.  I was about to say this aloud: hey, it's not that bad, but instead I had a coughing attack and the startled turtle bit down HARD, proving that the first bite wasn't a bite at all--just a getting-to-know-you mouthing.

Tonight I was supposed to go out to dinner with three friends from high school: one I haven't seen in about 6 years and for the other two, it's been more than 20.  Instead I'll be huddled on the couch drinking Theraflu and if there's any justice at all, watching Boston Legal on the Netflix DVDs that should arrive today.  My high school makes the one in Dead Poet's Society seem like a "free to be you and me" kind of place, and whenever a reunion year has come up, I've thought to myself:  it's too soon.  But I did want to see these ladies, and the fact that the get-together involved cheesecake means that I am disappointed on many layers levels.  This outing will happen sometime in March and assuming the other three ladies sign the waivers, there will be pictures here on Knitters-Knitters.  But it isn't happening tonight and for that I am Bummed.

Here's something nice I didn't tell you: one morning a few weeks ago when Olive and I were waiting in the main office for Miss S to arrive, a very tiny little girl from Olive's inclusion class approached me and asked, in halting first-graderese, "Can... Olive... come... tomybirthdayparty?"  Olive has returned from school with party invitations in her backpack before, since as most of you know handing out invitations at school means everyone has to be invited.  But Olive had never been invited so cutely, so deliberately, by someone who so clearly wanted her to come.  I told her, "Yes, Olive will come to your party and I'm going to buy you A PONY."  I didn't really say that last part, but she will indeed be receiving My Little Ponies.  LB is taking Olive to the party this afternoon.

I should have known I was getting sick.  Last night when LB and I were watching the local news, there was quite a bit of patter about how best to celebrate Pulaski Day (Monday).  A restaurant was recommended that featured traditional Polish fare.  The camera zoomed in on a ladleful of pork goulash landing on a giant potato pancake, which was then folded over like a taco and adorned with an ice cream scoop-sized portion of sour cream. Finally, the whole log was sprinkled delicately with chives. Instead of jumping off the couch and proclaiming, as anyone would, "That is pure genius and what we will be eating for Pulaski Day come Hell or high water," I thought, huh.  That just doesn't look good to me right now.

At Ransom

On Thursday, my camera died a swift, furtive yet accidental death at the hands of a child.  Not much more needs to be said than that except for:

1) Removing the memory card, then jamming it back in again upside-down is a really, really bad idea and 

2) This person:

...has never done a furtive thing in her life.

I'm left--temporarily--without the ability to show you my life in real time, and have no choice but to go into my out-takes archives and show you things that happened some time ago, but are still worth seeing.

Here's mom upon receipt of her ruffly scarf, Christmas day.

I took this on our way to Dr. Park's in Andersonville, where we were headed for Phase III of my root canal.  My intention was to get a good picture of Pulaski's statue, but a young man came between us.

The innocent honesty of the check cashing place that doesn't mince words about what it is (Currency Exchange--feh). 

And a spaniel with absolutely...

...no shame.

Field Trip

Yesterday we went to the Field Museum.  Every New Year's Day the Sullivans go on some sort of field trip, but in previous years "Sullivans" meant "LB and the eldest 5 children."  This year Olive was up for the challenge.

It was not a pretty day in Chi-Town.

In fact, it was an altocumulusly dark day.

If I have one complaint about the Field Museum, it's that there are far too many tchatzhkellas and not enough life-size dioramas of buffalo hunts, Indian markets, igloos complete with Eskimos and fake fires, pelt trading re-enactments, Ukrainian Easter Egg Christmas trees, and buttons to press to make the rattlesnake shake his tail.

True connoisseurs of natural history museums may argue that the Milwaukee Public Museum's emphasis on huge dioramas is indicative of its lack of actual artifacts.  It may not speak well of me that I'd rather see a dramatic representation of a Masai lion hunt with arrows and open jaws and skittish horses than an original carving of a Mayan sun, but, there it is.

There were a few small scale dioramas, and here are two of my favorites:

Also, lots of astoundingly realistic animals who were very cooperate about being photographed.

One of Bucket's distant cousins:

Affectionate donkeys.

Dik-diks (note: this is not a Knitters-Knitters nickname--they really are called dik-diks).

The accusatory gaze of the endangered:

And here he is, God's gift to warthogs:

Olive watched happily most of the time, but this exhibit made her jump out of her stroller: a faucet.

As several of you noted, 2008 saw a lot of finished knitting projects from me.  I really need to get a life, or perhaps, another hobby -- like photographing my spaniel.  Sabina suggested I call this mosaic Clover Overload.

For the New Year, LB has picked out a new favorite outfit: the same dark blue pinstripe suit, but this time paired with the blue fine-checked shirt and yellow honeycomb silk tie.  This is going to take some getting used to.

Last year I made two resolutions, and kept neither.  This year I'm going to go the OFD route: whenever he opens a fortune cookie, he holds the slip of paper at arm's length and makes a big show of squinting and reading haltingly, as if he's really trying to decipher the tiny print.  Then he says, Keep...up...the...good...work.

Ta en Slurk

Today we went into Chicago so I could see my beloved Dr. Park and complete the final phase of a three-stage root canal.  It was the easy part--putting in the permanent crown--and afterwards I walked over to Erikson's Deli, the only place I know around here (please correct me if I'm wrong; I'd love to be wrong about this) where one can buy Solo soda.  The last time I had some was late winter of last year.  I went to Erikson's several times during the spring, but they were always out of Solo.  On my last visit, I asked the proprietress when she was expecting more and mentioned that I'd looked for it online but had not found any company that ships Solo directly to individuals.   Apparently, these were fighting words.  I got an earful about how I, the online shopper, represented everything that was wrong with today's economy.  At this point I told her I'd happily buy my Solo here if she had any but since she didn't, I felt I was within my rights to look elsewhere. This was met with finger waggling and actual yelling about how I, little Jen Sullivan with my Mastercard in hand, ready to purchase Lars ginger snaps, cardamom rusks and a beef summer sausage was personally responsible for small stores like hers going out of business.  A few weeks later I called the store from my cell phone (so she wouldn't see my name in the caller ID) and tentatively asked if she had Solo in stock.  She shouted No! and hung up. 

I did not go back to that store for a very long time, but today, all giddy with relief over having finished my root canal, I decided to risk it.  There it was--bottle after bottle of Solo soda.  I nabbed 8.  When I went to pay, I saw a note at the register indicating that the proprietress was absent due to illness and to ask the clerk for the address to send a get-well card.  Do I wish her ill?  No.  Will I be sending a card?  Nei. 

The new clerk was very friendly, and on seeing all my bottles, asked me if I were having a party.  No, I just really, really like Solo soda.

Big Day

Me:Yesterday was a big day.  How do you feel about Obama becoming president?

Dana: I voted for him.

Me: Why?

Dana: Because he's brown-skinned, like me.

Dana pauses, then smiles again.

Dana: Also...yesterday I got new boxer shorts.

Home?

For several weeks we hovered in that danger zone of unpacking, where you've basically moved in but scattered throughout the house are 8-10 boxes which run the risk of becoming a permanent part of your landscape--and thus--invisible. This week, we've been tackling a small stack of boxes in the basement playroom, and have found a few items we haven't seen in two moves.

First off, a coat hand-knit by my grandmother.  I wore this quite a bit in college and felt very retro vintage.  And warm.

My pressure canning pot.  Many years and several children ago, I used to can!  Not out of necessity, but for the rustic romance of it.  I remember being very disappointed with my initial results, and complaining to Susan that my canned green beans tasted disturbingly like canned green beans.  She said, And what, pray tell, did you expect them to taste like?

LB found my Morse code clicker with instruction booklet. I'm not expecting to be using my nascent coding abilities anytime soon, but this is Abel memorabilia, and... well, they aren't making any more of it. I blame part of my reluctance to finish unpacking on the fact that clicker and booklet had not yet been found, and, as odd as it sounds, I didn't want to know that they weren't in one of those final boxes. When LB came across this last night, my relief was palpable.

Also discovered recently were my capris length navy blue sweatpants with the baggy knees.  A minor find, but comforting, nonetheless.

I'd like to say all this has made my feel more at home, but there are still a few things around here that frighten me.  Case in point: several plants in the side-yard that I can't identify.  I know they're here on purpose, because we kept the same gardener as the home owners, and he has pruned around them but not removed them.  To me, they look very much like extra-terrestial dandelion heads emerging from one large alien pod.  I don't like seeing several things emerging from one thing (it's a good thing I never had twins), and this fear is at the root of my fear of opossum and echidnae.

As if the plant isn't scary enough all by itself, while I was leaning in to get a close-up, some sort of animal came darting out from behind the plants and ran right over my foot and I was wearing sandals at the time.  The animal was too heavy to have been a mouse or a chipmunk, but I felt distinctive rodent toenails scrambling across my instep.  I think it was a rabbit.  I let out the sort of scream one might save for being chased across a deserted parking structure in the dead of night, and my heart rate still has not returned to normal. 

Soon.

The Old House

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.

 In fact, the happier the memories, the harder it is to endure them.  I don't like going back, period.

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:

Girls: finding a photo of me and a friend, at college.  Who is that with you?

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!

So I had been wary of bringing Olive back to see the Old House.  You never know with her what's going to be be joyful and what's going  to be disturbing, and she tends to act out, Elliot to my E.T., whatever I'm feeling.

But it was very clear she was delighted to see her old stomping ground.  In fact, she did a little dance...

one of her best dances ever...

complete with a clear narrative...

...in the form of special arm movements and graceful neck bends....

It's going to be okay, Mommy!  

Stronger Every Day

Today was Olive and my first day of commuting from the new location. On the way home from camp, "Feelin' Stronger Every Day" came on the radio. For a moment I felt a pang at not being able to marvel at the synchronicity of hearing Chicago while driving in Chicago, but then we were home and it was time to turn off the radio, anyways.

Assume We Have a Can Opener

This will be short.  Since I like to keep my visceral revelations on the metaphoric as opposed to literal level, I will simply state that Olive and I have a stomach virus in common.  And while it hardly registers even a blip on Olive's energy level, this bug has left me unable to commit to being anywhere for more than 45 minutes at a time. 

We have found a house to rent on the other side of the Edens!  There is the very small matter of convincing the owner that Cavalier Spaniels are such wee and mild-mannered dogs that Clover can hardly be considered a dog, really.  She's basically a cat--a cat who goes to the bathroom outside.  Okay, a cat who barks.  Like the optimistic economist in one of my favorites jokes, let's simply reject the homowners original statement of  "no pets" or at least consider it to be negotiable.

We will know for sure presently.  In the meantime, do send some heavy-duty dog-loving vibes to Northbrook.