mamacate

Whaddaday

I did something last night I haven't done in years.  I pulled an all-nighter.  I did it so that I could do a few soul-enriching things over the weekend and still get a pretty darned good report (if I do say so myself) in on time.  I did wind up working both days of the weekend, but I took breaks to do very important things like meet up with Marcy and Jill (formerly of the Webs master knitter program, now of her own master knitter program) to have a proper English tea at the new rug hooking store less than half a mile from my house; and to have a lovely dinner with Tamatha and Ethan, the kids' godparents.  We enjoy getting the kids to call Ethan "Gahdfahthah" with a gangster accent.  As you know, we're easily amused.

Anyway, I did it, I think it's pretty darned good, and I got 3 hours of sleep so, you know, whoo hoo and all that.

Today I was on kid duty, and, well, I was not exactly the Perfect Mother.  Henry picked today to Not Nap.  Now when Henry Doesn't Nap, it's a hazard to the general population.  He gets pretty seriously grumpy and Henry has a certain combination of smart, a little aggressive, and a mischevious sense of humor that are a great combination for parental homicidal psychosis.  We did finally agree that he would sit in his room and look at books for a half hour while I combed wool in the living room, and we were both much more able to cope after that.  He crashed at 7:30, and I crashed with him.  At least for a while.

But unfortunately, despite my dreams of a couple of days to relax, this afternoon I got one of those emails that makes your stomach drop out.  I'm working with some people on a report about what the heck I've done over the last year, and, well, apparently what I gave them sounds a lot like what I gave them last year.  Note to self: overachieving to give preliminary results on research that is in mid-analysis makes you seem all cool and productive at the time, but then when you finish the analysis and, um, you were so good that the preliminary analysis was spot on, and didn't change, despite putting your data through Abu Ghraib, you're gonna be kicking yourself.  So, I get this email this afternoon, while the kids are bouncing around in the front yard and I'm trying to decide if I should make a pot of coffee or just eat chocolate, and I realize, no break for you, honey pie.  Miles to go before I sleep.  Promises to keep.  That sort of thing.

It will be okay, it will.  Good night's sleep, all that.  Not to mention spinning a little hand-combed BFL/BL cross wool.  I'll get there.  There are things I can give them that prove that I didn't spend the last year of my work life blogging (really!  I do it at night!) and twiddling my thumbs.  Spinning my wheels, perhaps.  But it reminds me that there will be no nice breather before I take on the next shreiking deadline.  And I was kind of hoping, you know, to just do some combing without that feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Anyway, sorry, so sorry, for this blog becoming my professional stress dump.  I do, still, in fact knit.  And I even spin from time to time (no, the good kind).

In my ongoing effort to get various monkeys off my back, I have finished--ta da!--Birch.  Kim, with kind prescience, realized that I too would run out of yarn, and since we were knitting the same color, she sent me the rest of her extra yarn, and boy did I need it.  I had something like 80 stitches on the needles when I ran out.  I knit loosely, but this was kind of over the top.  I didn't swatch (I know), and I just went down two needle sizes like I usually do, from the size suggested.  Well, I wound up with a big shawl.

At first, you know, since I'm all sunshine and light lately, I was all, "it's HUUUUUUGE," "it makes me look FAAAATTTT."  But I got a grip and I like it.  I still need to block and weave in ends, but I got my MIL to take a picture or two.

Of course, I had to do a Claudia:

And this pose, which I like to call SuperKnitter.

So finishing stuff is feeling good.  I have a sock that's just about to be finished (of course I do have two feet and at some point will have to make another one).  The unpronounceable shawl is up to the edging (though that's 20-odd rows of ever-increasing stitches, and I'm now over 300 so it's not the slam dunk you might think.  Plus I'm going to have spin up a little more yarn).

Anyway, back to putting out fires.  I can't WAIT for October.  I'm ready to shake this feeling of impending doom...

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.

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.

I Count the Bright Hours Only

What wonderful responses to my lace post.  Thanks.  I'm glad I've discovered something so many of you have known for a long time.  I assume this is all a part of the plan for world domination (which, apparently, involves a knitting  theme on Typepad).  A mindfulness-based plan for world domination?  Perhaps it's not world domination, but amazingly, Buddhist principles are making their mark in government and world affairs.  Think we can get the current administration to try out some principles of compassion on our government?  Take a page out of Bhutan's book?  Okay, maybe not.

In knitting news, I'm birching along slowly.  Risa is unstoppable, doing insane and amazing things with the birch pattern and knitting like a house afire.  And I can't even use that "well, she doesn't have twins" excuse, because, well, she does.  She's just that good.  I'm okay with that.

As for spinning, I'm in a bit of a bobbin bottleneck and I need to finish plying the Copper Moth tussah before I can really get moving on Motley the Marvelous Montadale.  This is not exactly a terrible thing, since I'm kind of loving the silk.  I did a certain amount of hemming and hawing (I know, me?, can you believe it?), and with some advice from Marcy, I decided to just randomly ply them together.  I think it works.  The yarn is not my most even or well-plied.  You should have heard Marcy barking at me (as per my request for coaching) at spinning group--STOP MOVING YOUR BACK HAND!--I did get good plying coaching though, and good long draw help as well, thanks Marcy!  But, like the rest of my spinning, its inconsistency and imperfections are part of its charm.  Oh, humor me, won't you?

As an aside, I've become very attached to taking photos in the garden outside my office door.  It's also outside the College president's window, and, oh, every other senior administrator in the place.  Do you think this is a bad professional move, to be photographing yarn and knitwear in front of every dean and VP on campus?  Is that a stupid question?  Does anyone have any illusions about the fact that I'm already considered pretty freaky, and at a liberal arts college, freakiness is quite a competitve category?  Never mind.  Given my absence of career aspirations, and the opportunity to pose my handspun on an antique sundial reading, "I COUNT THE BRIGHT HOURS ONLY," I shall choose not to worry about it.  Here's another picture so you can better understand my dilemma.

Finally, we had an interesting thing happen in the car this morning on the way to preschool.  Henry, just turned 3, was very excited to report that he tied his shoes together (he's good with string, funny, that).  He was extremely upset at the idea of my untying them so he could walk and only acquiesced when I offered to take a picture.

So, the obvious conclusion, clearly, is that my son is a total freaking genius.  I mean, the manual dexterity!  The determination!  The logic!  The skill!  I cannot fail to note, however, that he did tie his own shoes together in this display of brilliance unleashed.  So perhaps the nonrefundable deposit at MIT will have to wait another year or two. I'm still saving, though.

I Just Need a Little Space Right Now

Well, it didn't take long for that fancy-pants yarn and me to have some issues.  I've mentioned before that starting lace is always a problem for me.  I do okay once I've got a few rows knitted, but the first couple are just one screw-up after another.  This is much less of an issue when the first couple of rows consist of say, 3 stitches, or maybe 12.  Two hundred and ninety-nine?  Not good.

There was a forgotten yo ("yarn forward" say the fancy-pants instructions, what is that?  And people, are we really k2tog tbl or is that just some fancy-pants way of saying ssk because, well, what the fuck?), there was tinking, though I could have just picked up some yarn on the next row, and, as near as I can make out, there was a dropped cast-on stitch during that whole tinking episode.

I also tried to knit during TONIGHT's bedtime, which did not exactly go smoothly.

Oh, and the PMS isn't helping.

So anyway, cast on 299 stitches, knit 297 stitches wrong, toss knitting petulantly into the corner, spin some Motley, glance balefully at the crack yarn, get ready to spin some Copper Moth tussah, have a glass of wine, blog about it...now what?  I suppose that after the wine and the bitter disappointment, now is not the time to try to set things right. 

We've had a little misunderstanding.  I thought, easy pattern, I can do this is poor light with a three-year-old writhing in the bed a few feet away.  Okay, so yeah, not so much.  And 1-2-3 Magic and charted patterns aren't exactly a perfect match either.  I need to knit socks at bedtime.  Or an established pattern I have already grokked.

More wine, and some spinning.  It's the only solution.  I need to calm down before I can look at that fancy-pants yarn again.  I know we promised we wouldn't go to bed mad, but honey, I don't know if this is going to work out.  I just need a little space right now.  Hopefully we'll feel better in the morning.  Good night.

Update: I didn't leave well enough alone.  I couldn't just let this attitude go, fancy-pants yarn or not.  I didn't spin tussah like a sensible person.

No more needles for you FPY!

For mohair, this stuff frogs really nicely.  Just so you know.

I now have 299 cast on (I actually put them back on the needle one by one--arguable whether that saved any time, I know).  I am tired and should really quit while I'm ahead.

Where's the chocolate?  This has been a very emotional evening.

Let's Talk About the Weather

There hasn't been really good porn weather lately.  Motley the Marvelous Montadale has yet to have his day in the sun.  But I brought my camera and a couple of goodies to work today, and my coworker kindly pitched in to take pictures in the 5 minutes of hazy sunshine we seem to be allotted today.  I have a lovely garden right outside my office door.

Ugh, now that I'm looking at it, that point looks like it's giving me a wedgie.  Trust me, no thongs were involved in the taking of this photograph.  This porn is strictly fiber-related.

I also felt the need to take gratuitous images of the shawl in repose on a lovely stone bench.  Just so you can see and appreciate the Indigo Moon fiber.  I think of it as the shawl freely expressing itself.

So, now that I've finished and even blocked (with the help of two three-year-olds, no lie) the shawl, I'm on to something completely different.  A shawl!

I cast on for Birch last night while putting the kids to bed.  It's good knitting time, at least when they're not trying to kill each other.

So, I get it now.  Why everyone keeps comparing KSH to a controlled substance.  It's just...just...oh my god.  What can I say?