mamacate

Playing Catch-Up

I finally got the computer, the digital camera, and the cable in the same place at the same time.  I've been busy with the textual sleight of hand lately, trying to distract you from the fact that I haven't shown you jack in nearly a month.  And my only excuse is the pervasive sense of flaky, out-of-control-ness of my life.  'Cause I can think about the whole heavy, deep, real stuff, but I'm still here making life complicated for myself.

Anyway, the preschool teachers will now have warm hands.  Well, the one who went home after a long day with the preschoolers to have her fourth baby, she got a hat.  Because girlfriend's gonna need her hands.

L to R, 1x1 rib hat in Rowan Biggy Print, (little) big mittens in Rowan Biggy, Fiber Trends felted mittens in Brown Sheep Bulky, same pattern with two colors of worsted-weight Brown Sheep worsted held together (I love the effect this makes when it's felted).  I got biggy print for all four teachers, but I got bored really quickly.  This happened last year, I knitted the same mittens for all three teachers and by the end I was about to pass out.  I'm glad I mixed it up this year, and I think the mittens suited their recipients.  And of course the hat.  Though really I think I should have knitted her a live-in cook and maid.  Heck, if I could knit that...

The felting was fun.  Eleanor modeled the mittens pre-felting.

Insane, huh?  They were big, even when felted.  Happily, the recipient is over 6 feet tall, and I think she appreciates roominess.  I also gave further felting instructions with the mittens.  I figured it was better to under-shrink than over-shrink.  Also note the gorgeous pillowcase in the background, a surprise birthday present from the ridiculously talented Lisa.  Henry's reclining--back when this picture was taken we had a milder version of the thing that's been making everyone puke through the holidays, which so far has granted immunity to the nastier version.  Thank you, goddess of viral mutation.

There were some gigantic slippers.  I never got a picture of them felted, but you know what Fiber Trends felted clogs look like.  I don't even need to link the pattern, do I?  But have you ever seen them worn like this?

Those are the in-laws Christmas morning.  I gave them to MIL, a knitter, with a note saying "some assembly required."  They had fun guessing what they were.  Then I felted them later in the day, trying them on as we went.  Worked out well.  I just should have brought the fabric paint to put treads on, as MIL had fallen down the stairs earlier in the week and was (reasonably) a little worried about slippery soles.

Here's Eleanor posing with Santa's snack. 

She was terribly excited about putting out some goodies for Santa (homemade Shortbread; Santa enjoyed it thoroughly).  Henry, on the other hand, just thought it was a great opportunity to boost some shortbread.  Personality, I tell ya.  We're living proof here that environment aint everything; these kids could hardly be more different.

I don't recall exactly, but I think Eleanor might be shaking her head in resignation.  Or more likely laughing.  But I had to get the plate because he totally would have eaten them all.  I mean, they did have frosting on them.

It was great to have a week-plus together as a family, despite the parade of grandparents with varying levels of tolerance for three-year-oldness (and varying levels of interest in blaming such three-year-oldness on our many foibles as parents, because you know, their kids were perfectly well-behaved at all times when three--I'm looking forward to forgetting this stuff myself, thanks).  We're back to "win the lottery" as the primary goal for family income production.  Not terribly realistic, I acknowledge, but neither was the last year, and we did that, eh?  I'll allow as how a backup plan may be in order.

In other belated photography news, there was this meme a while back, I confess I don't even recall who started it, and you were supposed to show your knitting space.  I'm actually really glad people posted theirs, because it motivated me to make mine a bit more comfortable.  Actually, the old one was fine for knitting, but not so great for the blogging and the blog-reading, since it involved twisting around to the side all the time: the computer was beside the couch.

Here's my dog occupying the old spot.  My rolling knitting drawers and knitting basket (and all the clutter!) are still there.

The new knitting spot is much better for the blogging and the blog-reading, since we're admitting to our self that we do this INCESSANTLY and should probably not have to contort our body in order to accomplish same (and we have suddenly started referring to our self in the first person plural, don't ask us why).  And so that nobody gets any crazy idea that we're, like, neat (wouldn't want to have to explain that sort of thing, like poor Juno) this photo comes complete with randomly-strewn clean laundry and miscellaneous clutter.  And a ripped and stained chair.  Because we're too smart to buy new furniture when there are short people around.

But anyway, love the new spot.  The printer is even on a flat surface.  Amazing, really.

Speaking of love, there's one more thing I need to tell you.  I'd love to be all non-materialistic and thrifty and shit, but my beloved mother-in-law got me something that has changed my life (the deal was I was supposed to get her one--miscommunication involving dear partner--final result--I win the suckiest DIL award, though I plan to make it up to her ASAP).  Anyway, my true love, here he is:

Yes, it's a Roomba.  I can now knit and vacuum at the same time.  It's the Best. Thing. Ever.  Unless you like vacuuming.  Then you're just weird. 

Who says the future isn't bright?

Merry New Year!

Parties, First Night, overtired children, visiting relatives, unreasonable looming deadlines, xmas hangover.

But also:

The three-year-old sitting by himself waaay in the front with the other kids in front of the stage.  And never looking for mom.

The other three-year-old sitting in my lap, and when the puppeteer said "louder!," yelling it so hard her whole body shook.

Overtired children going to bed early.

Combing and spinning Romeldale, just for the feel of it in my hands, not plying or planning, just spinning.

Knitting stockinette because I'm too tired for anything else, and liking it.

Meeting a knitter at a party and telling her about the online knitting world.

Drinking beaujolais while it's still nouveau.

Leftover chocolate.

Snuggling up in bed before midnight with a good book.

May your 2006 be filled with lots of the good stuff.  See you next year.

Collegium Trium Ursorum*

Yesterday morning I wake up to a three-year-old girl doing a dive-bomb into a full-body hug.  "Unnhh...wuhhhh?," I believe, were my exact words.

"Mama?  There's a small college in a dell."

"Unghhh...rrrrrr...mmmm...a small COLLEGE?"

"Yes mama!  There's a small college in a dell where the three bears live."

"Oh, right, yes, of course there is.  Thank you for telling me."

Off to find coffee. 

And a small college in a dell.  Maybe they need institutional research help?

*mad props to my mother the latin teacher who fixed my declensions.

Coupla Photos, and Then a Bunch of Stuff About Wool

You know the blogging-life thing has gotten weird when your coworker (that's Minh, of the good TV tips), says to you, as you leave the office, "post halloween pics soon," and tells you that his wife has issues with the difficulty in separating fiber content from other topics.  All I can say is, I feel ya, but everywhere I look there seems to be wool.  Sorry about that.

So, ya want the halloween pictures, ya got the halloween pictures.

Eleanor was a bucket loader.  Actually, the bucket fell off at some point during trick-or-treating, at which point she became a forklift, a transition she handled admirably for a three-and-a-half-year-old.

Henry was a ghost, complete with bang-clank equipment and a ghostly crown created in mixed media (felt and pipe cleaners) by mamarhys.  Mamarhys is entirely responsible for the brilliant, creative costumes.

Mamarhys may be the crafty, fabulous mama, but guess who hit the markdown bin for costumes for the dress-up bin?  Who knew Halloween fell in the beginning of November for the children of the cheap parsimonious thrifty?

Yup, Henry's wearing the princess dress.  Rock on, dude.  Eleanor has on the spider costume, which involves two extra sets of legs connected to gloves, so all the legs move when she moves her hands.  Slays me.  So freakin' cute.

So Minh and family may now stop reading.  The rest is about wool.

Kepler proceeds apace.  I'm starting to enjoy it.  Sorry, no pics yet, not much to see, just a bunch of stockinette.

I've been navajo plying the fiber I got at Foxfire Fiber, and I've learned a few things, the hard way.

1. Softly-spun long-draw singles and navajo plying don't really go together.  Navajo plying needs a pretty firmly spun singles to keep from BREAKING.  You know, over and over again.  Rhys, sitting innocently enough next to me on the couch, finally said "what is WRONG?"  It was one of those moments, when, teeth gritted, you growl, "yes-I-do-this-to-relax-what's-it-to-ya."  Lesson learned.  Okay, maybe lesson learned for the next bobbin, since I seem to have forgotten it halfway through the second one.

2. If you get the tension just right, it's almost effortless.  Until 1. happens again.  You want it to just sort of feed in gently as you pull out the loops.

3. Slow down.  I needed to navajo ply on a slower ratio than I did the singles or what I usually use to ply.  Keep that loop open and don't let it get ahead of you.  As (I think) Alden Amos says, few problems in spinning can be corrected by treadling faster.  Words to live by.  Now to remember those words when I'm actually at the wheel.

That's left to right in the order plied.  Kind of a sad thing to do to such nice fiber, but I decided barber-poling was worse.  Hopefully all will be redeemed in the knitting.  Maybe a hat, with the cashmere/silk as a cabled band?  Hmm.

So, speaking of nice fiber, I think I mentioned that Deanna and I split a CVM/Romeldale fleece at Rhinebeck and that she gave me my half at the Twist.  I washed some of it and decided to try out my new combs.

And also:

(Yes, Shrek slippers.  Henry adores them.)

Resulting in:

And this:

So soft. So silky.  Ahhhhh.  I just want to stay home and comb and spin.  What's this whole "making a living" thing about, anyway?

Off to bed.  I'll be picking up Miss Henny Penny from her trip to Dave Paul's wheel-spa tomorrow at an intermediate point, kids and friend in tow.  Later gators.

A Break from the All-Despair Network

Sorry if I made anyone spiral further than they were already going.  I know how you feel.

And I know you're all on pins and needles, but I made good progress with my report and even put in a few hours at the "temp" job. Go me.

But what I wanted to tell you was what Eleanor said to me in the car this afternoon.  She was making a threat telling me the consequences of my behavior, because they never hear anything like that from little old me, and she said the following:

"If you don't listen to me RIGHT NOW, I will give you a bad present and you can't have ANY YARN."

Girl knows what's going to get my attention.

The Week in Review

I'm back, and we seem to have survived the experience, though some of us only barely.  I managed to do reasonably well with the giant family reunion, including the following highlights:

• Knitting hysterically, yet pointlessly, on my still-unfinished birch shawl in hopes of wearing it to the party, even though Kim told me hers was only moderately loosely knit and still she ran out of yarn.  Despite the fact that I went down two needle sizes, mine is really loose.  I'm not out yet, but I can see it's inevitable.  That's when I gave up.  Well, also we had to leave for the party.  My Diamond Fantasy Shawl made an appearance instead.  It's sad when a handspun lace shawl starts feeling like a schmata.  I need to reblock it.  I can practically tie the ends in a bow, they're so stretched out.
• The wild guest chase, in which guests are directed to arrive at a remote cabin down a steep dirt road with very limited parking, at which point we, the younger generation, are told to send them to a different remote location down another dirt road several miles away, which involves making a 42-point turn and probably hitting the porch in the process of getting out of the already-full driveway.  At the other remote location they will be served cocktails, in preparation to go into town to search for parking and get on a boat and be served....cocktails.  It should be clear that the cocktail logic is the only part of this setup that is entirely sound.
• Experiencing the Joy of Cousins, in which Henry and Eleanor idolize and worship their older cousins, while attempting to stage a WWF event with their younger cousin, and generally having one of those normal, healthy, fabulous extended family experiences where everyone is together and the majority of people are Not Drunk (okay, when the children are awake), and you know, they're family.  This is a foreign concept to this only child adult child of adult children of alcoholics.  I think this is what they're talking about when they say "creating memories."  Who knew?  Someday they'll be the ones telling dirty jokes out on the porch while we drive them crazy with overcomplicated travel plans and gigantic family parties.  I can't freakin' wait.
• Being asked, in all seriousness, if Henry can have "something to stand on so I can get jiggy."  When I suggested he get jiggy while standing on the floor, he informed me that this was not an acceptable solution.  Clearly, my extreme non-coolness has already begun.
• Upon relating this story, being given the suggestion by cousin Sean (I just know this guy has a blog--I just have to find it.  He's, I don't know, I can just tell) that perhaps Henry's new nickname should be h. diddy.  I admit I agreed, but Henry vetoed it out of hand.
• Eleanor looking WAY, WAY too grown up, first in the car while talking on the cell phone, and second while wearing a SHRUG to the party.  I know.  I had nothing to do with it.  She loves it.  She even wore it to bed one night.  Photos below.
• On the same theme, watching my kids grow up BEFORE MY EYES, with Eleanor giving me long and complex explanations of every play scenario and situation.  Why, why, oh, why does it go from these completely civilized moments to people whacking each other and throwing themselves on the ground because the color of their cup is wrong?  I know, it's growing pains, but I can see the age of civilization off in the misty distance, but we have to climb the mountain  of THREE-AND-A-HALF first and sometimes...it is steep.
• Experiencing the actual party, which I actually enjoyed heartily (Eleanor piped up when I mentioned this at dinner tonight "yes, I did too"--this was just before she laughed hysterically at Henry saying "poopyhead").  I was sure to take the recommended dose of gin & tonic just as the party began, and was fully prepared for what came.
• Having two (out of a grand total of two) cars have major problems necessitating immediate repair this week, including Rhys' car's brakes going out as I went over a mountain last weekend, and my car breaking down on Rhys an hour away from the dealership, the only place that could fix this problem.  We worked it all out with a surprising minimum of difficulty, and everyone is home safe and sound.
• Finally, a trip to Patternworks, at which I shot my wad, then a wee trip into the yarn store by the market, at which I was forced to buy yarn for sweaters for both children, and finally dropping by The Fiber Studio on my way home , and being followed home by some mooritt NZ wool, maybe a corrie cross.

Sick of listening to me babble?  Me too.  Here are pictures:

Eleanor, 3 going on 16.

Henry putting the finishing touches on his first real lego creation.  I look forward to years of stepping on lego pieces with bare feet in the dark.  I suspect this is how most children learn curse words.

"No, duck, come back here!  I SPECIFICALLY came out here to play with you!  You were sitting on the dock and when I came to play, you left!  What's that about?  C'mon!  C'mon back!"  I think he almost convinced the duck.  Almost.

When in Rome, you know.  The kids ordered their own Shirley Temples at the bar.  My BIL got me the G&T.  Everybody's happy.  Note the fashion statements.  Henry got his charming cowboy hat (doffed, since I insisted that he always look up and if there was a roof, take it off) from his cousin in Wyoming.

"H. Diddy?  I think not.  Call me Hank."

"Jiggy?  Why, yes, I think I will get jiggy."  Note the handmade bracelet created and gifted by almost-six-year-old Wyoming cousin.  Will. Never. Be. Taken. Off.

Fiber?  Why yes, I believe I did mention Patternworks, home of the Wall o' Koigu.  Let's peek in the bag.

Is there a 12-step program for this?  Yeah, I know about this, but I mean one that won't just make it worse?  Like any morning after, I'm too  ashamed to show you more.  Let's just say I have a lot of socks in my future.

My debauchery also included fleece, when the "by chance" Sunday hours at The Fiber Studio actually turned out to be happening.  I don't know about you, but despite living near many fiber farms, I don't just get to pick up a raw fleece at the corner store.  Luckily, this was only a pound of raw fleece, the mooritt corrie(?) cross from NZ.  The label just said "mooritt," and the owner didn't have details.  Still, I came right home and washed my little heart out, and now I have nice clean fiber.

I'm still pretty lame at identifying a wool breed by sight, so tell me if you think it's something else.  I thought maybe Romney, but it's too soft and short based on the pics in In Sheep's Clothing, but who knows, maybe a lamb fleece?  I am now desperate for a set of English combs, and I don't think I can wait to order from Canada.  Any objections to the Indigo Hound Five Pitch combs, which can get here in time for my fiber orgy family vacation with Sara?  Speak now, or forever...oh, I don't know.  I do wish I didn't have such a good ear for what wool is saying to me.  This wool refuses to be carded, drum or hand.  It might consent to flick carding, but only under protest.  Yes, the wool's imaginary voice is bossing me around.  What's your point?  I may also be picking up a few icelandic lamb fleeces for Sara (really, they're for Sara, swear--I might buy a few ounces from her...you know, to help out) from Barbara at Jager Farm this week.  But it doesn't really happen *all* that often.  And I'm just being helpful.  Aren't I a good friend?  I know.

Finally, HEN is settling into her new home. 

I think she's happy, and who wouldn't be?  She's starting out with cormo/silk roving from Alice Field.

Marcy has officially decided that the wheel's name is Hróðþjóð Eðný Niðbjörg, but consents to Henny Penny "for the sake of the children."  The fact that neither one of us wants to even attempt to pronounce that has nothing to do with it.

Work remains insane, and I'm only telling you this to apologize for the brain dump here, and to apologize in advance for infrequent blogging.  I'm hoping that Sara and I will be doing some remote blogging from vacation next week (and not too much remote working, sigh), and I am very far behind on blog reading.  I remain optimistic that the fever pitch will tone down at some point.

Nighty night.

Moon, Moon, Moon

Moon, moon, moon,
Shining bright.
Moon, moon, moon,
My night light.
Moon, moon, moon,
I can see.
Moon, moon, moon,
You're taking care of me.

Centuries of soaring verse inspired by the lunar lady, and yes, I go with Laurie Berkner again.  I told you it was catchy.

I've been complaining about the weather a lot lately, and now's the time to express a little gratitude.  The humidity broke yesterday, the sun is bright and beautiful, and while it's hot, it's really quite pleasant.

Last night when I let the dog out before bed, I stepped out and spotted the full moon shining above the towering white pines in my backyard.  The air was still with a crisp New England twinge, just cool enough to refresh; a summer cool that always surprised me as a NYC kid at summer camp in New Hampshire.

While the dog sniffed and explored the backyard, I sat on the back step and just watched the quiet, black silhouettes of the trees against the deep blue of the midnight sky.  Finally getting back to spinning Motley last night must have calmed me somehow, because it felt like the first time in oh so many years I have just sat under the moon, late at night, and felt the cool air on my face.  With so much bustle in my days now, and before all the grief and weight and loss of waiting for my babies (I used to ask the moon for a gift every single time she appeared), it was revelatory to sit under that moon and want nothing but what I had right there and then: blue-silver soft light, the cool stillness of a New England summer night, crickets and daylilies and teeming green slumbering around me, and the warm breath of my family, finally made flesh.

I didn't thank the moon, because she doesn't bestow anything, really, beyond light and tides and her own kind of gravity.  She's just there.  For me, last night, that's all I wanted, and I'm grateful that I was there with her.

So thanks.  That's all.

(Not) Perfect

Liz has a great post about Wabi-Sabi and the quest for perfection today.  It got me thinking about something that has been rattling around in the old brain for a bit.

We are, um, slightly addicted to listening to Laurie Berkner in the car.  If you have a preschool-aged child, you probably know who I’m talking about, and if you don’t have one, figure 2 parts Raffi, one part Peter, Paul, and Mary, and a dash of, I don’t know, Suzanne Vega or something.  Folky, poppy, kid music.  With an extreme, severe, and gigantic tendency toward getting stuck in your head.  When Jenny of Three Kid Circus mentioned that she was humming Victor Vito in her head, I went out and bought the CD, not realizing that the humming might well not be voluntary.  Catchy.  Yeah, just a little.

Anyway, there’s a song on the Victor Vito CD called “I’m Not Perfect.”  It goes like this:

I’m not perfect

No I’m not

I’m not perfect

But I’ve got what I’ve got

I do my very best

Do my very best

Do my very best each day

But I’m not perfect

And I hope you like me that way.

Then it goes along to sing similar verses for “you’re not perfect” and “we’re not perfect” and in the end it’s “And you know I love you that way.”

And you know, there are days, driving to school after a particularly intransigent morning, or an afternoon where I literally had to drag them out of the preschool building, when that song is a bit of a balm for my spirit.  It makes me feel a little better about the extreme imperfection of my parenting, and my general self, at those moments, and, well, all the time.  So I sing along with it, rather imperfectly, and it kind of makes me feel better.

The thing is, the kids are listening (this is supposed to be kids’ music, after all).  And in short order, they start singing the song themselves.  “I’m not perfect, no I’m not!”  And then I’m torn.  Because part of me wants to shout out, “You ARE perfect!  You are absolutely perfectly, completely, ideally, and faultlessly YOU, and that is perfection itself.”  And I do think they’re perfect, Ellie in her freckle-nosed, round-bellied, pretend-ballet-dancing blur, and Henry in his blond and handsome talkative seriousness.  Even when Henry steals Eleanor’s Groovy Girl and throws it over the backseat for pure spite and she head-butts him in retribution (yeah, that would be THIS morning’s excitement), could they be any more perfectly three?  Any more perfectly twins?  I’m here to tell you, that’s about as perfectly THEM as it gets.  (Which is why I often have a perfect headache.)

So, in the midst of all this perfection, this not-always-desirable and far-from-peaceful perfection, do I really want my kids singing a song about not being perfect?  I mean, I don’t think they’re going to need therapy for this or anything, but I’m just trying to figure out what my stance is.  So I try it on for myself.  What if I was singing that song, and somebody said to me, “Yes you ARE perfect!  You are perfectly scatterbrained, perfectly irresponsible, perfectly sloppy, and perfectly YOU.”  And after recovering from that pretty major back-handed compliment, I might say, um, BULLSHIT.  I’m not even perfectly any of those things (except perhaps sloppy), and I’m not perfect and I don’t want to be.  Perfection is too much pressure.  I don’t want to spin perfectly and I don’t want to knit perfectly and while I imagine I’d like to parent perfectly it probably wouldn’t be very good preparation for life in a world full of real people and anyway, no danger of that happening, that’s for sure.

So perfection isn't for me, but then what do I tell the kids?  Perhaps my resistance to imagining myself as perfectly me, in the glory of all my imperfections, is just the layers of a grown-up life, and perhaps they can still accept themselves as perfect.  Or maybe I should give them the same slack I give myself and say, “No, I tend to think you’re perfect, but nobody is really, and you don’t have to be.  In fact, take my advice, don’t go there.  It isn’t any fun.”

I guess what I really want to protect them from is the idea of perfection.  It’s a word they’ve asked me to define, and I said that someone who’s perfect is someone who never makes mistakes, and there aren’t any people like that in real life.  I want them to strive for wonderful things in life, but I think that the drive to do that is naturally occurring, and sometimes the quest for perfection is what chases it out of some of our hearts.  I know that perfectionism can stop me dead in my tracks if I let it.

For now, I suppose I’ll take the easy, imperfect, lazy-mom approach of which I am so fond.  I’ll keep singing, loudly and off-key, and encourage them to join me in the chorus.  Because I suppose in the end, that’s the point.  “And you know I love you that way.”

Edited to add that I should have linked to my dear friend Sara's column in Bay Windows on a very similar topic.  Thinking about this in the context of disability brings the notion of true perfection to a completely different level, and reminds me that the human version of perfection takes a million different, equally perfect forms.  And because I can't resist the opportunity to show a cute kid picture, I'll link to a photo I posted in response to her original post on the topic.

Something to Show

Well, not much to say, but it turns out that I do have a fair amount to show.  This is only because I haven't uploaded pictures in a while.

Well, despite an early and rather obnoxious wakeup call each day this weekend from my lovely son, who has been doing great since the surgery but has suddenly regressed terribly, possibly related to the otty-pay aining-tray.  Anyway, I'm ready for it to be over.  The early wakeups and the humidity.  But I think I mentioned that.

As I was saying, we did have some fun this weekend.  At the dog festival, we took Scoutie to see Madame Bowowski, who read Scoutie's skull and her past lives.  She told us that in a past life Scoutie had been a roman soldier named Caninus Maximus.  It was all very cute, but also somewhat surprising since Scoutie's nickname around the house is Scoutivarius Maximus.  Perhaps Madame Bowowski does in fact have special powers.  And before my mother, the high school Latin teacher, comments to correct , I know it should have been Canis Maxima.  Or something.  I never took Latin.  Probably for the best.

The highlight of the weekend, however, was the pediatric pedicure party.  That is, the pedi pedi party.  Everyone wanted pink sparkly toenails.  Who am I to argue?  It was kind of a fun, girly, boy-y bonding moment (Henry was hardly going to let sparkly toenails pass him by, and he carries it off in a very manly way, I must say).  I'm looking forward to lots of home-spa days in our future.  Rhys isn't sure she approves, but maybe next time I'll do something less enduring, like blue facial masks or something.  They'll love that.

Despite the dusk-like sky all day today, I did manage to get a photo of the cashmere.  It's 175 yards.  Lacy gloves, perhaps.  The little bits in there are either the  embarrassing flaky residue of my sanity, or goat dandruff, called scurf.  You decide.  I'm hoping it will wash out.

In less recent spinning, I photographed the Copper Moth tussah back when that firey orb was still gracing our sky, that is, last weekend.  I think I've been putting off posting it because the pictures really point out how different the two skeins are.  One is 240 yards and the other is about 300 (next time I'll actually attach the paper to the skein).  So I can probably get two scarves out of this, and a scarf was what I had planned in the first place.  But having them be unintentionally different makes me want to make a shawl or something.  Warped, I know.

Also in old news, a couple of skeins of the wonderous Motley, which, when I return to him after spinning the cashmere, should be quite an experience in relaxation.  Motley is a blast to spin and just flies onto the bobbin with minimal effort, in no small part thanks to the work of my friends at Zeilinger's.  However, the finished product is not as enticing as I might like.  It reminds me of an old yarn, now discontinued but alive in my stash, called Ballybrae, if anyone remembers that stuff.  Not bad stuff at all, in a rustic sort of way, but not the luxury I sometimes hope for from handspun.  Don't care, though, as it makes me happy.  And it still wants to be a cabled cardigan. 

All that said, and I will leave you with a little wool porn.  I promised some Motley in good light, and Motley in good light you shall have.  Look closely and you can see that Motley was well-named.  He actually has black and white fibers, rather than gray ones.  He wasn't spotted--I saw the freshly-shorn fleece--that's just how his wool grew.  Kinda cool, huh?

Say goodnight, Motley. 

Good night, Motley.

Just a List of Random Things

I don't have much today.  So feel free to ignore me completely.  Just a list of random stuff.  Things I've been meaning to blog about but haven't worked into a post, so here they come.  Uninspired.  That's me.

So, in no particular order:

• Sara is selling these very cool bracelets to support Challenged Athletes.  If you're feeling inclined to support such a cause, go get one.  Make her give them lots of money!
• Okay, why don't I have a job where I get to go on a cruise and blog about it for a living?  Bay Windows has an "embedded reporter" on the R Family Vacations cruise (the gay family cruise Rosie O'Donnell is promoting).  Here's the blog.  For your daily dose of envy.
• Jo has an excellent post about responding to terrorism.  I didn't blog about London, mostly because I didn't know what to say, but everything Jo says makes tons of sense, and it's actually consistent with my philosophy on a personal level.  I have been the victim of violence in my life, and I have made a very clear choice not to live in fear.  So far, it has worked for me.  Thanks, Jo, for connecting the dots for me on a larger scale.  I will not be terrorized.
• On a complete and utter tangent, can somebody explain to me why people from Ottawa always sign their names in comments as "NAME in Ottawa?"  I don't have a problem with it or anything, but it seems to be ubiquitous.  Have you noticed this too?  Is there something about being from Ottawa that makes it an integral part of your identity?  Is there a rule that each first name can only occur once within city limits, thereby making such a moniker a perfect identifier?  Is "In Ottawa" a last name and you people have a really big family?  Or is it just that there's a conspiracy afoot to prove to everybody that all the cool people live in Ottawa?  Because it's working.  I'm just saying.
• Birch?  Yeah, black hole phase.  'Nuff said.
• I had a little freakout last week that a) in September, Rhys will be going back to work more than full-time, b) the kids will cut down from four to three days a week at preschool, and c) both my jobs plus the freelance would still be going strong.  A and B are still happening, but C is looking like it's going to slow down, as originally planned (well, one job was supposed to end in June, yeah).  That, combined with Rhys' job insecurity and the whole "who gets to stay home with the kids" thing have put me on a bit of a roller coaster.  But after all of that, it looks like the original plan of me doing freelance and Rhys working full-time and the kids spending less time in preschool is going to happen.  Among people I know, I cope with uncertainty pretty darned well, but even I am getting a little weary of the "what's next" in my life these days.  That little in-the-end-inconsequential roller coaster last week was a good reminder that what I'm doing is really what I want.  And if I change my mind, I have options.  That's good too.  Except when I drive myself crazy with it.
• My spinning boot camp lesson with Marcy turns out to have been even more helpful than I thought.  I'm plying more consistently and more enjoyably (to me, I think the latter is actually more important), and I'm starting to really get long draw, which I never did before.  I actually did long draw with 100% cashmere last night.  Well, it was a short long draw, but the twist was in the fiber supply, and I wasn't choking it off with my wheel-side hand.  Of course I have a little pile of pieces of cashmere singles where I broke the yarn repeatedly, but dude, 100% cash is not easy to spin.  On the other end of the spectrum, I have about 200 yards of Motley that's springy and sproingy and ready to knit.  I may swatch by making a hat.  It's not an elegant yarn, but I can spin it long draw with one hand, and filling up a 4 oz. bobbin takes less than an hour.  I don't care if it comes out feeling like acrylic.  Okay, let's not go that far.
• In kid news, I've really been hesitant to say anything about this, because the stakes are terribly high.  But, well, the time has come to take the risk and put it out there---here goes---okay---I'm going to say it now.  Okay, that didn't work.  I'm just too afraid that the curse of saying it out loud will come down on my head and I'm sorry but I can't risk it.  I think pig latin is exempt from that curse, so listen closely: I ink-thay we're one-day with iapers-day.  Both kids are regularly, enthusiastically, and relatively reliably using the otty-pay.  This changes my life in ways I have yet to fully comprehend.  I offer thanks to whomever is in charge of indoor plumbing.
• Okay, all of a sudden, everyone is coming out of the woodwork and half of them have blogs.  A former student worker of mine (and the first person to call me an "older lesbian"--yet I still talk to her!), and her friend, with whom I kicked around Webs on Saturday; one of my kids' former preschool teachers, who is starting a parent-teacher knitting group at preschool, just as a start.  And they're all fibery folks.  Cassie did point out that the original world domination plot involved spinning, but I think the knitbloggers might beat the spinners to the punch.  Luckily, my children are being raised to name every part of a spinning wheel, when they hear the word "naughty" they think I'm talking about a yarn-measuring device, and when a drain plug is found, it's obviously "for washing fleece."  So the next generation is well-prepared to inherit the earth, regardless of which group makes it first.  Today, we're tying our shoes together and peeing in all the right places.  Tomorrow: world domination.  Plans subject to change.