Knitters-Knitters

Breasts, Bossa Nova, and a Contest Involving Sausage

You probably thought you were home free regarding extraneous Jen information when I posted the results of my most recent pap smear, but I feel compelled to tell you my mammogram results were good, too. 

As I mentioned last year, I go to Waukesha for mammograms because they give you while-you-wait results.  In the two years I've been going there, I've never seen another woman in her 40's or even her 50's in the waiting room.  Where are you 40- somethings getting yours done? Are you blithely going to whatever imaging center's the closest and then waiting patiently for that little card in the mail?  Do you worry while you wait, or are you pleasantly surprised when you get the postcard?  Oh, that's right.  I had a mammogram last week.  I had that kind of mammogram exactly once.  It took two weeks to get my results, and I lost 8 pounds.  Not coincidentally, it's when I first became acquainted with Dr. Bowtie.

I've been working on an idea I have for people who are afraid to fly, and who are also afraid of diagnostic procedures (I'm certain the cross-over between these two groups is huge).  It works like this: you board a very large plane and are immediately anesthetized.  In an airborne exam room, a team of doctors, radiologists and lab technicians go right to work, giving you a mammogram, a colonoscopy, a pap smear, a CBC and, if applicable, a liver function test and sed. rate analysis.  When you land, you are given the results of everything.  As an added bonus, you're in Hawaii!  It'll be called Global Imaging. 

Going to Waukesha also means going to Milwaukee and visiting the folks, and unfortunately, being stoned on valium anxious about my impending mammogram, I forgot to pack my camera for the trip.  I wish I'd brought it, because after the mammogram LB took me to a yarn store in Elm Grove called  The Yarn House.  It was the tiniest yarn store I'd ever seen, and the sign on the door had a list of presidents who'd served terms in office during the years the store existed.  I think JFK was the first on the list.

The elderly proprietress immediately asked LB and me if we were brother and sister.  Surprisingly, we've been asked this before.  In the past it's always amused me but now I'm starting to wonder.  It could explain a lot: missing arms, autism...you think?  Naaaahhhh. 

She also told us that she'd known Elizabeth Zimmermann personally.  The first time EZ came to the shop with her husband, she warned the owner: Brace yourself: he's charming.  The proprietress showed every sign of being a flirt, and when her younger assistant went to get a ladder to access the Rowan Kid Mohair for me, she said, Why are you bothering with that?  We have a tall man, here, gesturing gracefully at my brother LB.  Later, when she was ringing up the sale and LB tried to interject that surely I didn't need another 24" circular needle in size 4mm, she said to him, You mind your manners!

I bought the Rowan Kid Mohair in a rather breasty shade of pink, and unvented a stitch pattern for it.

I call it the bossa nova, because it's physically impossible to do it without humming The Girl from Ipanema.  Knit three rows.  On the fourth row, it's knit one, then knit the next stitch together with the loop directly below it from the previous garter stitch ridge.

My left thumb nail suffered a terrible blow in 1999 and hasn't been the same since.

These are working hands, and they date me.  The rest of me looks much younger.

 

Besides, Elizabeth Zimmermann?  Total man-hands, you know.

Repeat these four rows.  If I dug up my Harmony stitch guide I'd probably find this listed as garter stitch variation #3, but I like Bossa Nova better.

Enough with the breasts and the pink already; let's move onto sausage.  It's been a long time since I've held a contest, so here we go:

On I-94, driving from Milwaukee to Chicago, 'round about Kenosha you will pass a sign that says, " ___ Recreation Area."  If you are as immature as LB and I, then you will giggle at this sign every time you drive past it.  What is the name of this recreation area?

You may Google; one guess per person, please.  The prize is a Usinger's gift assortment called the Snacker's Delight and it looks like this:

If there is more than one correct guess, I'll do a drawing.  USA participants only this time around, given Usinger's shipping parameters.  The drawing will be on Friday, October 16th.

 

Kosher for Keshet

A giant THANK YOU to everyone who posted or emailed with sources and recipes for Kosher salsa!  I am going to compile a big list and then put it in my navigation bar.  It will then read, "Home, Categories, FAQ, Who's Who, Archives, Kosher Salsa."  Seriously, I don't know why more people don't have that in their navigation bar.  It may not come up often, but when you need Kosher salsa, you really need it.  While we're discussing headers, thanks for the compliments on my new banner.  It was created by Ingrid, who designed templates for me back in my eBay Olivespearls days.

Back to Kosher again: I found one of my childhood favorites on Alibris.  Gan Gani: Let Us Play in Israel.  I love Alibris. 

I can't read Hebrew, but I'm guessing this says something back-to-schoolish, with the way his mom is looking at him fondly from the window. 

Speaking of which, on Sunday we attended the Keshet back to school party.  It involved something I'd never done before, never seen anyone do, and wasn't sure was even possible: yes, we took the West Touhy exit.  Here we are, moments from the big step.

This is for Debbie, who is fasinated by how much other people pay for gas.

Here's Olive en route, demonstrating her understanding of the word party.

There was a balloon guy in attendence.

And a bouncy house.

Two Rabbis.

Kosher chips and salsa! 

Swinging.

 

Puckers-puckers in the knees.

Squee!

My Summer Vacation

When we arrived at Susan's guest house, we found the pantry stocked with Olive's favorite foods.  It was almost as if Susan had found an online record detailing all of Olive's prefer...hey...

This is a horse (of course).  Susan's horses look just like the ones on TV, except no talking.

Agatha and Abbi, making flag cake.  It was Agatha's first time, and she didn't understand why it was supposed to be baked in a rectangular pan until it was time to decorate.

Sabina holding a kitten.  In the words of the immortal Bill Baughn (indulge me--it's not every day I get to quote from The Myoelectric Myth):

A prosthetist has made claim to have developed a prosthetic hand with "the sense of touch". When a child can put his prosthetic hand through a hole in a box and tell us he has found a kitten, that the kitten is warm and furry, that it is licking his hand and his tongue is rough and wet, then and only then will it be honest and ethical to use such a term.

 

This is Romeo.  He's 137 in dog years.  Clover was unafraid of him, due to either his lack of initiative or lack of teeth.

Olive with a Bomb Pop.  Remember Bomb Pops?  These were bigger when we were littler weren't they?  Come on, you 'member...

Susan and Christina in a mother/daughter shot.  I'm sorry they're blurry; they kept making tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if they'd had too much caffeine.

Agatha, Brett and a Roman candle.

Olive walking briskly.

Olive up high.

Abbi, Mercy Grace, Agatha, Brett and sparklers.  At one point in the visit, Susan mentioned how cool it looked when Anatole did things with his little arm.  Apparently, seeing people handle pyrotechnics with their toes has gotten old hat.

Gideon (Susan's youngest) watching the fireworks while gently running his toy helicopter atop Clover's head.

Wake Me When We're Not in Iowa

We're back!  We had a great time. 

Though our visit was far too short, we did accomplish a lot.  We communed with nature:

We held kittens...

...and pyrotechnics.

We're very tired.

And sunburned.

I will decompress slowly in the days ahead, sharing photos and details of our wonderful vacation Chez Easley.  And I will work in a circular fashion, discussing the drives there and back, the first and last days of our trip, and concluding with the 4th of July.  I'll begin with a few words about Iowa, and a quiz with a prize.

This trip marked the end of my perfect record of never having been to Iowa.   Unlike many experiences my parents shielded me from during my over-protected childhood, this one bespeaks no alarmist behavior on their part.  My apologies to those of you who live in Iowa or who love Iowa, and to those of you who've never been but have, perhaps, been holding it out there as an experience to postpone and savor. 

You may be thinking that having been born and raised in Wisconsin and now living in Illinois, Iowa would come as no great shock to me.  You'd be wrong.  In fact, the drive was painful enough drive to register as a Learning Experience.  I learned that I'm waaaay more agoraphobic than claustrophobic, and that the sky looms even larger in a treeless landscape.  Olive slept through as much of Iowa as she possibly could, then sat up with a gasp and a cackle when we crossed back over the Mississippi into Illinois. 

On the drive out to Missouri, I still had the optimistic naivete of someone driving through Iowa for the first time and assumed that since we were relatively near a city I'd heard of, Starbucks couldn't be too far away.  Yes, I'm one of those people who gets a cozy, secure feeling at the sight of that round, green logo, with its promise of slightly citrusy and occasionally burnt coffee.  But I was wrong!  Starbucks was not in striking distance.  I don't even want to think about how far we were from the nearest check cashing place.

Now for the quiz:  where in Iowa were these three photos taken? 

I'm looking for the name of the one city nearest to those three pics, with the usual rules applying: you must not share my DNA or last name, no Googling, and if you're guessing with 100% confidence make sure you sound all tentative and insecure in your comment.  If there's more than one accurate guess I'll do a drawing. 

The prize will be a Starbucks gift certificate. 

In Which the Sullivans Hit the Open Road

Early tomorrow morning (well, today--you know what I mean) we are leaving for a long car trip.  This is the first vacation we have ever taken as a family in which we were not visiting Perlmans or Sullivans.  Think about that for a moment: that's pretty big stuff, isn't it?  We are going to see people we aren't even related to.

We're driving to Missouri to visit my pal Miss Susan and her family.   Susan and I have known each other for 13 years, and have seen each other exactly three times.  We met on a listserv for parents of amputees, where we discovered our shared objection to fitting congenital upper extremity amputees with prosthetics during infancy.  You know, the usual.  You probably remember Susan best as the person who created this beautiful book:

Susan has more than twice as many children than I do, two of her children have no arms at all, and she has grandchildren.  She has lots of pets and even livestock.  However, she does not have an autistic nonverbal child so I've sooooo got her beat, there.  Hah!

Of course, since this vacation involves a long car trip, I have planned accordingly by purchasing a Long Car Trip Knitting Project.

Many colors of Blue Sky Alpaca...

...out of which I will knit 48 garter stitch squares to make a very soft patchwork blanket.  When I get back I'll sew it all together and then do a garter stitch saw-tooth edging.

Now, if you were a small nonverbal person in possession of such a very special blanket, wouldn't that convince you that your Big Girl Bed was a superlative place to spend the entire night, and not just part of it?  Say yes.

I will be back on Monday evening (Tuesday afternoon, to you) and will have many pictures to share in which Sullivan children blend right in with everyone else.  I'm excited for my children.  It's a rare thing to be an unusual-looking family and have another unusual-looking family you can hang with where no one will think it's Weird that you're homeschooled, missing a limb or two, and have a larger than average number of siblings.

But mostly I'm excited for me.  Because when I'm hangin' out with Susan, I'm not Marginal Mom who "must be a very patient person."  If anything, I'm a dilettante, a rube, a slacker at this whole mom thing. 

My mother always told me that if you make just one friend in your life who truly wishes you well and wants good things to happen to you, you're lucky.  I am very lucky.  Nuff said.

I'll leave you with today's notes from Aliza:

Today your camper participated in:art, music, sports, tefillah, pie-making for the harvest.

Today your camper especially enjoyed : decorating her feet for walking in freedom, dancing at the fake wedding: biggest smile EVER.

We marched like soldiers to get the flag of Israel for independence.  (Please send Olive with a new pair of pants; hers got dirty.)  She went to a fake wedding and had an amazing time in honor of celebration day, and ended off the day with a party, snow cones, and party hats.  We had a fantastic day.

I'm guessing Olive got to hear this song today:

Ticky Tacky

For the first several days of living here we had no satellite service, which means no TV.  Instead, in the evenings I watched season 2 disc 1 of Weeds, which was entertaining, but I imagine even moreso if you've actually seen season 1.  My favorite part is the theme song.  It leaves me with nagging questions about ticky-tacky, and if I've been using the word wrong all these years.  I'd assumed ticky-tacky was an adjective ascribed to certain facts that were minor data points--things with which those of us getting the Big Picture should be unconcerned--but apparently, ticky-tacky is also a building material.  And you can use it to make houses.  Perhaps it's something like Spackle, or stucco, or even particle board.

I like my old definition better, and as one who oftens concerns herself with the small stuff, it gives me a perfect jumping off point to share some details about where I live now, and, as the young people say, where I'm at.

It is a 15 minute drive from this house to Olive's day camp.  It's odd that here in the suburbs, where you hardly need them, traffic lights with green arrows abound.  Note to self: stop turning left on red lights.

Olive is still wait-listed at Keshet, and is unlikely to secure a placement there for the fall: at least, not the fall of '08.  We have not heard yet where her public school placement will be, but likely, it's going to be Hickory Point: a very small, leave-it-to-Beaverish school for grades 1-3.  It participates in the NSSED program, and is approximately 40 yards from our house.  We wouldn't want it any closer, really, lest we be trampled at the end of every day by a throng of children stampeding past our house, like in You're In Love, Charlie Brown.

There is a harmonious flow to an attached garage which exceeds, benefit-wise, the aesthetic charm of a house where the garage is not visible from the street.  Especially when one is carrying groceries.  And, undoubtably, this will prove even more true in January.

If an architectural visionary designs and constructs a house with built-in display areas, it is possible that his tenants may choose to show off a very different collection than what he had in mind.

If you run out of yarn for a project and have to order more--even if you pay for expedited shipping--you run the real risk of starting a new project in the meantime.  A project which you have no wish to set aside once the new yarn for the old project makes its appearance.

If in making sure you have enough yarn for your new project, you un-knit a previously abandoned item and use that bit of ravely yarn across the chest, you will see a glaring swath of warbly demarcation.  Intellectually you know that this will not show after the sweater has been washed and blocked, but still, it nags at you.

The fact that the pattern you're using specifies a rolled neck and hemline will not change the fact that leaving off the ribbing (or hem facings) strikes you as a depth of laziness to which you will not allow yourself to sink.  Frozen pizza for dinner, wet towels draped over the radiator and a Hefty bag that doubles as a clothes hamper is one thing, but a sweater with no edge treatment?  You'd never be that sort of mother. 

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:

Skating Away

It's natural to conclude, during physical discomfort, that something is wrong.  Your internal body temperature is around 99 degrees, and yet outside it's 5 below zero (my apologies to those who think in Celsius), and a discrepancy of 104 degrees sounds very extreme.  Heck, you're not a scientist so even a discrepancy of 29 degrees just doesn't sound right, but there it is: you're comfortable in 70 degree weather, but not in -5.  And your car, she's uncomfortable too, protesting loudly first thing in the morning and making that threatening putt-putt-putt during your left turn on a stale yellow arrow, daring herself to stall and extorting small little pulses from you--not too hard now--on the accelerator.  But she keeps moving, and the hot air keeps blasting at your feet and your face because that's the setting you've deemed least uncomfortable, and you know you're lucky because you can remember driving around in old beater cars with windows that didn't close all the way despite frantic revolutions of the handle.  All around you there are motorists less fortunate: pushing their cars, pulling them, cursing them, encroaching on your lane with their salt-crusted, newly dented flanks.

And just when you're starting to wonder if the fact that you have to wear driving gloves and you hate to wear driving gloves because they choke at the wrists and your hands can't breathe might be all Al Gore's fault, you make your every-11-second check in the rear view mirror and you see that the strange little person in the back seat is smiling.  She's smiling because the curve of the offramp gives her a satisfying downward pull in her seat, her coat is very fluffy, the bone-dry road is sparkly in the sunlight, and there's a song on the radio with a guitar intro that's sprightly, full of whimsy.  There's ice mentioned in the song and skating, and Little Strange-o in the backseat has never been skating but you have.  You've owned skates and you've rented skates, and you've been on indoor skating rinks and man-made outdoor rinks, and yes, you've skated with your friends on a frozen lake surrounded by giant pine trees.  You've ignored the frozen snot tucked into your scarf, the ache at the ankles that will hurt more later, the surprising smack of falling down on a substance that won't absorb its fair share of the blow.  You've cracked the whip and because you've always been small, you've gotten to be the caboose at the end of the train that gets to soar the farthest and the fastest before being released, airborne almost, into that windswept expanse.  You have gotten to do this many, many times.

And the song?  It's from your own childhood and you haven't heard it in a long time.  You are suddenly, glitteringly happy, and now, you're that strange little person in the back seat.  You get it.  It's Chicago and it's January, and it's supposed to be cold.  You're still driving, of course. You can't floor it, let go of the wheel and shout wheeeeeeee like it's Pine Lake in 1981, and you know that the woman who's watching her car get towed to the shoulder probably wouldn't appreciate your rolling down the window to shout, Thank you for rounding out the periphery of my experience!  But you can sing along.

T Minus 2

It's pretty obvious vacation has gone on long enough when, on hearing that Daddy is taking Olive on a field trip to the dry cleaner's, three of your other children immediately materialize in front of the big pile of soiled dress shirts clamoring, "Oh, boy!  The dry cleaner's!" 

The unexpected break gives me the opportunity to play with one of my favorite new toys, a Christmas present from LB's mom.

She made this little felt wool purse which contains four cards of beautiful buttons, to say nothing of the buttons on the outside of the purse. 

This gift brings out my inner dachshund, and I have been very distracted by my instinct to hide the little purse, find it again, snarl at everyone within a four foot radius, and then hide it again. 

Thus far I've been able to resist the temptation to scent-mark it.

The conundrum is so obvious it hardly bears saying: how do I use my buttons when that means I won't have them on the pretty cards anymore?

Excuse me, I have to go hide them again.

Olive's new smock is almost done, and bears little resemblance to the Elizabeth Zimmermann February Baby Sweater that inspired its design. 

It's complete except for a few inches of sleeve: so close and yet so far away.  It's not lost on me that if I were making this for Sabina, I'd be done by now. 

My personal deadline is TONIGHT, thus giving me time to block it for Olive to wear on Monday, AT WHICH TIME vacation ends and Autism Academy resumes. 

I miss Olive falling asleep easily at 9 pm and staying asleep until the next morning.  I miss the Sacred Notebook entries. I miss the hours between 10 am and 1 pm during which I am free to use the washroom in the solitary manner nature intended.  I miss--dare I say it--The Drive.

Following The Rubric

Several years ago, I had a work-at-home job where I graded video course exams in continuing ed. for public school teachers.  Learning to grade these exams involved many 3-hour meetings at the college that offered the courses, and an innumerable amount of hours spent watching the videos themselves.  And then there was The Rubric: a sacred document presented at one of those interminable, stale bagel meetings.  The Rubric was big and scary, and contained exhaustive instructions on how to grade what were basically subjective essays with the finality and black-and-whiteness of a true/false test.  There was, however, a wink-wink-all-around understanding that these rubrics were to be ignored, the essays skimmed, and for God's sake don't bother watching the videos themselves!  This cushy gig all came to a brutal end when the college went through its accreditation review, and someone decided to start paying attention to those continuing ed. classes and how they were assessed.  This meant that the graders were now expected to actually follow the rubric.  Dang, I miss that job.

This is a long way of saying that now that the Edens is getting its accreditation review much needed construction, the days of blithely checking the traffic website and assuming an 8.5 (the traffic is rated on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the worst) means, oh, 40 minutes instead of 35, are over.  Now these numbers actually mean something.  Yesterday it was 8.9, and it took an hour and fifteen minutes to get to Autism Academy.  Today it was rated 8.4, and it  took exactly 60 minutes.

But the good news is, taking clear pictures while driving is a whole lot easier.

This fellow doesn't realize how good he has it, waiting for the bus.

I saw some romance...

...between roadblocks.

I got to look at the underbelly of the overpass for a really long time.

Some actual construction, including measurable improvement.

This sign amused me.  If I'd been so inclined, I could have turned off the engine, gotten out of the car, set up a tripod, taken several shots from different angles, and gotten back behind the wheel with no worry of having hindered the progress of traffic. 

As Wise Cate (Olive's speech therapist) once told me, "I was offered a job out there in the 'burbs once, but turned it down.  It's the sort of commute I could make for my own kid, but not someone else's."

But here's a happy pic: Miss Olive in her fall duds.  It's a dark and somewhat blurry photo but what makes it special is she's posing.  She gets it.