Knitters-Knitters

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.

Suiting Up

First things first: thank you for your suggestions on which photo to use for Miss Olive's application!  We went with pictures #1 and #4, and put them next to each other on the page thusly:

Except we printed it on best quality for the actual application, and on shiny photo paper.  I must confess that the pictures and polling of all of you represented the totality of my participation in this application, the rest of which was executed by LB (as suggested in the prior post's photos).  Should Olive make it through the gauntlet of the application process and the waiting list and be admitted to this school, I will have ample time to redeem myself by driving to and from Northbrook, every day, twice a day.  And then, the number of entries in categories Driving and How I Hate It and Driving, S'okay will grow and grow, one category expanding perhaps a bit faster than the other.

Isn't it good that we don't know the future?

For the moment (and I do mean moment--these things change quickly) it looks like we will be staying in Chicago.  These photos are not our 'hood, but our nearest neighboring hood of Andersonville.  It's also the location of our dentist, our ophthalmologist, the guy who cuts my hair, and the Swedish deli that sells Solo soda.

The knitting project below has entered the joyless, duty phase of its development--i.e., the second sock.  Sigh.  The only thing that keeps me going is the anticipation of blocking, photographing, and putting them on my Ravelry page as a Finished Object.  LB promises to model with no grumbling, despite the fact that the weather has gone from dead of Winter to Spring allergy explosion in a matter of days.

Speaking of LB and modeling, the other evening at dinner Agatha asked him which of his outfits is his favorite.  The changing out of each day's suit before dinner, the ceremonious rehanging on wooden hangers, and the dutiful re-entry of said suit into the Sacred Suit Rotation is something that takes, in everyone's opinion but LB's, TOO LONG.

He said, "My charcoal gray pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and my mint tie with the fish bones."  Agatha replied, "You must have thought about this a lot because you answered my question pretty fast."

I had no difficulty getting him to pose this morning.

El Sobrante

I was an adult before I saw my first Star Trek movie.  It was Star Trek V.  Unfortunately for my viewing companion, I had no knowledge of what had happened in movies I through IV, and an innate inability to understand the theory of warp drive. The notion of life on other planets was not a "given" in my mind, and as yet, no one had ever proven to me that there was any benefit to the space program.  It would be fair to suggest I did not come to this premiere with an open mind.

As many of you know, the movie begins on Nimbus III.  I asked my companion where this was and if it was going to be on the test, and he said, "It's an inhospitable planet.  That's all you need to know."  I remember very little of this movie, other than the idea of a planet being inhospitable, yet residential.

11 years later, I learned that Nimbus III is not another planet after all--in fact, it's a "census designated area" in Contra Costa County, and it's called El Sobrante.  It's indeed barren and desolate, post-apocalyptic in mood, and without nuance.  I'm pretty sure I would have hated it even if there hadn't been that sneaky, oddly savvy  little girl next door who came over before we'd even unpacked to announce, "My mom says I can come over to visit you every day while she's watching All My Children." 

And I don't believe my opinion of the area was colored by the fact that we inherited the phone number of a young woman who owed money to many angry people, and who was, apparently, a close, personal friend of an inmate at San Quentin.  Every day I received a collect call from, "The Monkeyman."  You'd think after the first few times his call was rejected, he'd get the idea.  Instead, he continued calling, and identified himself to the operator as "Robert, AKA The Monkeyman,"  as if this would somehow make a difference. At that point, I called San Quentin to complain, and was told, huffily, that inmates have rights.

Our time spent there was an endless nightmare, a test of personal endurance, and a time period by which all other time periods would be judged.  It was 29 days, and I've always considered it proof of my tenacious spirit and unwavering adherence to The Truth that I hated every minute of it.  At no point did I ever catch myself in the Raley's parking lot thinking, Eh, this is doable.

In retrospect, it wasn't El Sobrante's fault.  It didn't mislead in initial appearance, and the only brochure we'd ever been shown was the one given to us by our landlord: Rat Extermination in Contra Costra County.  There have been no songs referring to El Sobrante as tottling, or as the Census Designated Area that wouldn't sleep, or even as my kind of town.  It is completely without pretense--heck, even its name means The Leftovers.

This morning I waited in the alley, in the rain, for the Doug Heffernan-esque guy from AAA to finish jump-starting my car.  It took five minutes--in my mind, that's a short enough time to forgo obligations of small talk, but apparently, he disagreed.  He said, "I left Chicago...and then I missed it ...and I came back.  I'm thinking it might be effing time to get out of Dodge, know what I'm saying?"  I thought about how Olive will soon be changing schools and it occurred to me: during the entire time we lived in El Sobrante, it never rained.

Weekend in Eyesland

Yesterday I went to see my eye doctor on Clark Street, stopping first at the Swedish deli.  Erikson's is very small, heated to just over 50 degrees Fahrenheit, and located beneath the free-weight section of the Cheetah Gym.  That means that every two minutes or so, there's an enormous, roof-shaking crash punctuated by a guttural scream.  I found it hard to take, but the proprietress seemed unphased, and when I asked her what the noise was, took a moment to recognize just what sound I was referring to.  The store was so loud that when LB called (to tell me that to go to the eye doctor, I should walk right upon leaving the store instead of left), I didn't hear my phone at first.  And even then, it didn't register that the soft strains of Flo Rider was coming from inside my purse. 

This deli carries a brand of soda LB and I have taken an immediate liking to.  We liked it even before we saw the online ad, but the ad makes it even better.  Make sure your volume is on when you click the link--it takes awhile to load, but it's well worth it.  And by all means, ta en slurk when the opportunity arises. Solo is not especially fizzy, but that may be because according to the date on the bottle, the soda has expired.  Does that make it Solono longer?

Also purchased was a beef summer sausage and honey mustard which, predictably, Olive loved.  There was Lingonberry jam (tastes a lot like whole-berry cranberry sauce) cardamom rusks, and extra-spicy ginger snaps. 

At the eye doctor (and yes, I did remember to turn right) I brought out my super-long scarf project.  Contrary to the experiences of others who have dared to knit in public, my project was immediately praised and fondled by a stranger.  When I told her I was knitting it to draw Winter to a close, she told me she'd leave us alone so I could accomplish this faster.

During my exam, it was discovered that my eyes are 42 years old--despite my religious adherence to an under-eye age-reversing moisturizing cream regimen.  Fortunately, presbyopia enables me get new glasses, guilt-free. 

I didn't have to get my eyes dilated this time, which meant that when I went back to the lobby area to wait for LB, I had a clear view of a waiting patron who looked shockingly like my ex-husband.  I am Bad With Faces, and not just with similar-looking famous strangers, like, oh, say, Matt Damon and Leonardo DiCaprio.  If you and I should ever meet on the street and it looks like I'm snubbing you, I'm not.  I could walk past myself and not recognize me, and more than once, I've seen my reflection in a shop window and for a moment thought nothing but, that woman is even shorter than I am!  LB tells me this is not so unusual, and that it's even happened to him once or twice, "Except that I, at least, thought I looked familiar."

My ex-husband is aware of the glitch in communication between my optic nerve and brain.  If that fellow on the couch had indeed been my ex, he would have known to announce who he was.  Still, the resemblance was so striking and unnerving that I had several material world issues (or as Ex used to call them, Jen Moments) involving my rapidly-growing boucle scarf, circular needles, keys, purse straps, and rolling skein.  Couch-guy looked increasingly ill at ease and pretended to be suddenly very interested in updating his Blackberry address book.  Perhaps I resembled someone he knew. Or maybe he was just addled by the CRAZY KNITTING LADY sitting across from him.  I think we were both relieved when LB called to say he was a block away from Visionary Eye Care.  Nothing breaks the ice like hearing how Shawty goes lo lo lo lo lo.

Once home, LB and I arranged the Scandinavian treats on paper plates and we all supped cocktail party style.  Olive ate her weight in summer sausage and tangy mustard, but had plenty of appetite left over for pork quesadillas.  She is also fond of Solo and insisted on drinking it straight from the bottle, thus infusing it with the degree of backwash one might expect from a six year old autistic person with motor planning difficulties.

Tonight was movie night for LB and me.  We bundled up, turned up the thermostat  and watched 101 Reykjavik.  **Spoiler Alert!**  This film has the fondly familiar Icelandic plot line of our guy finding out his new love interest is only sleeping with him to conceive, so that she and his lesbian mother can raise the child together, turning our guy into a father and an elder brother simultaneously.  And the sweaters.  Oh, the sweaters!  A Lopi with traditional yoke patterning, made into a cardigan with steeks.  A U-neck vest with broad stripes and a collared shirt underneath and untucked, Degeneres-style.  A fine-ribbed turtleneck made from unspun Icelandic wool, single plie. 

Really, if you see only one Icelandic film this year, 101 Reykjavik should be it.

Reason #7 to love Icelandic films: some people find them soporific.  Twenty minutes in, and Olive Elbeesdottir was fast asleep.

Wherever I Go, There I Am

I can't drive past the giant turquoise water tower without thinking, perfectly reasonable people live in the Northern suburbs.  If we lived in Skokie, for instance, it would cut my morning commute by about 3/4ths.

And then I see this: the vast and desolate expanse of Lake Cook Road that leads into the bleakitude that is Northbrook.  Further solace can be found in Radio B96's Overnight Suburban Crime Report.  See?  It's not just us.

I know, in that quiet way you know things, that I am meant to live--always--within striking distance of a check cashing place.  Or three.

On Peterson, there's a Cuban restaurant-turned-KFC, proving that there really is such a thing as too late to the party.

Luckily, we know how to do this at home.

It's been warm (well, 50 degrees) for the past two days...

...but nobody told the Rabbi.

 

My beloved peeps were out in full force today.

Hurry up, Much Older Brother!

And the cause of this spate of warmer weather?

It's the incredibly warm boucle scarf I began knitting a few days ago, thus causing the mercury to rise and deeming most outerwear unnecessary.  You can thank me later.

The Sad Go Shopping

A week ago, there was a story on the news about how people who feel sad spend more money than people who feel happy.  They proved this by showing one group of people a sad video, and the other group a not-so-sad video, and apparently, the group that saw the sad video bought more bottled water after the viewing than the other group.  What they neglected to say was what the sad movie was about: people dying of thirst, perhaps.

I was really feeling more S.A.D. than sad when I stopped at this shop yesterday, on the way to Autism Academy.  How is it that I've passed this store every school day since July 18th, and only now decided to stop?  And what made me decide to stop yesterday?

It may have been the weather--the same climate and degree of winter sunlight as Northern Finland... without all that cool Finnish stuff.

I thought I was only this sad (these are fireplace matches, photo taken on the front seat of my car):

but apparently I was this sad (socks and shirt for Olive)

...and then some.

This clock makes me very happy, and validates my decision to have remained kitchen clock-less lo these past 5 years, forcing the children to squint at the microwave.  Sabina quickly pointed out that Moomins are Finnish and not Swedish.

Did I mention that this shop also carries...

wool?

Not a big variety (and yes, Sabina, I see that the yarn is actually Norwegian), but the shop owner is nice.  No Yarn Store Hustle, and no posse of reproachful knitting table ladies. And, it turns out we "know" each other a bit.  She was complimenting my choice of sock color, and I told her I that since I have a child named Olive, I feel compelled to purchase any and all children's clothing I find in this particular shade of green.  This caused her to flash an expression of recognition: turns out she'd seen LB pushing Olive in a swing at the park, and she was wearing a very nice sweater.  Soon, Hollywood will descend on the name Olive (it's already started) and you won't be able to swing a dead Snork Maiden without hitting one.

My Scandinavian score put me in such a good mood that when I got home, I cleaned something.  It's a shame I didn't take a before picture, but this is the top of the art supply cabinet. 

Previously, it was strewn with the many unguents and salves necessary to acclimate Olive's skin to the climate of Planet Earth, pins, needles, hair ornaments, hair brushes and detangling sprays, library books, a forgotten juice cup (ewww), antibiotic ointment, eye drops, nose squirter and everything else that must be kept Up High.  But it turns out, we have some shelving in the bathroom that also serves this purpose.

Olive in her new socks:

Snow Porn

Apparently, what happens in the alley doesn't necessarily stay in the alley.  Remember this helpful little fellow, posing valiantly atop a snowbank? 

In my haste to get the bleep back inside where it was warm, I left him behind.  That evening when LB went out to finish what I'd started, the shovel was gone.  C'mon... stealing a person's snow shovel?  Where's the camaraderie, the brotherhood, the solidarity of the frozen solid?  It's enough to make a girl stomp off to Winona Avenue and knock over some chairs.

On a related note, Miss Susan suggested I take some "pretty pictures of snow."  In some parts of the country, it seems, snow is considered pretty.  Personally, I'd rather share pictures of something more appealing, like other people's armpits or the stuff our dishwasher repair guy removed from the drain filter.  But Susan does not ask for things often, so I am loathe to refuse her.  For this photo, I even rolled down my window:

Here's my 'hood, as seen through my dirty windshield.

And here's a scene that made me feel all warm and fuzzy about Chicago: a Pulaski street sign so covered with snow that it's barely legible.

Here's the statue in front of Autism Academy.  I'd put little sweaters on these children, but I'm afraid they'd wind up in the same place as our snow shovel.

This little shrub is in the Autism Academy courtyard.  All my photos look a bit dark to me, but that's in part because we have no sunlight here.