People joke about being flighty, or absent-minded, or whatever. I don't tend to. If I forget things, it's because I'm well and truly overwhelmed with responsibilities, or something.
Which brings me to the fruit flies.
For the past. . .month, maybe? I'd get in my van, say a little prayer of thanks for it (I still love it very much) and set off on my way. Then I'd notice a fruit fly. Just one, usually. It would hover in front of me, and eventually at a stop or something, I'd squish it against the windshield and that was that.
Then it dawned on me -- when I have fruit flies in the house, they're coming from somewhere. So I fuss at the children, insisting that one of them must have left an apple or something in the car and you know you're not allowed to eat in it, blah blah blah. Protestations of innocence all around.
One day, Thing 1 said, "I bet it's the refrigerator." These van conversions have a little under-seat refrigerator, just big enough to hold a weekend camping trip's dairy, or some such. When I heard her, I just stared.
The last camping trip was in October.
Last week, I pulled the refrigerator out of the car and opened it up. Since October, a half jug of orange juice and something in a storage container had been merrily riding along with us, a haven for a colony of fruit flies.
I've thrown the big stuff away, but haven't yet steeled myself to wash and bleach the rest. I hope the liquid sloshing around didn't break the fan and cooling unit.
At least there haven't been any more fruit flies.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Why I Do Not Have a Tattoo
Lots of in-house fun today. Painting the basement, going to yoga class covered in paint (we got up very early, but not early enough to eat, paint AND wash), and then picking out flooring for the nearly-done rumpus room down there.
Afterwards, we treated ourselves (we were out grownups only) to a nice cup of coffee. And at Peets there were displays of tableware. Since having children, my priorities have changed, somewhat, and one of the things I put behind me mostly is a terrible craving for dinnerware. Plates, tea services, matching linens. . . I usually have it under control. I do this by reflecting on the fact that a) my children still break many things, and b) dinner time doesn't often resemble the fantasy portrayed in a Pottery Barn catalog and c) there is Time Enough for Such Things.
But some things can trigger a flare-up. Peets had a nice set of tea/coffee things, with sort of a Polish folk design on them. Luscious colors -- deep blues and reds -- enough to trigger a horrible desire to just run out and buy a nice tea set -- a red pot! Matching cups! Maybe. . . saucers.
When I came to, I was clutching a sticky bun and remembering that my children are, at this very moment, in exile upstairs until-it-is-clean-and-I'm-not-kidding. The other realization that hit me, thinking about carpet and paint and deep, enticing colors of tea pots, was that I'm not that permanently attached to many things.
The broad outlines are the same -- I still tend towards comfortable, sporty, outdoor clothing -- but the particulars change. When I spied a sweet young thing wearing a pair of Monkey Boots, black leggings, a wee black skirt, a wool coat, and Serious Librarian glasses, I saw me in graduate school. I don't think it's a look I can still pull off.
I bet I wouldn't even like the same tea pots any more, assuming that I had the kind of life which allowed me to indulge every lustful whim towards ceramic and cloth. I don't know if I still like my wedding china, because I'm afraid to take it out. So while I'm still recognizably the same person, the most external expressions of me change.
Bringing me to why I don't have a tattoo. There isn't anything I can commit to long enough to want it inked under my skin. I know some people have their children's names tattooed on them, and I think it's fine, for them. Me? I'm way too aware of what skin does as it ages. Plus, I also don't carry pictures of my children. There's no question at all that they are central to my life -- in essence, their names are burned into me, inside. I don't need them anywhere else to hold them in my heart.
I'm also aware of what time does most cruelly to memories in some cases. When my grandmother died, she was alone in the world, even though she was surrounded by her children. Her mind had left them behind in another iteration of herself. She was well-cared for, but she was profoundly alone. If this happens to me someday, having names on my ankle or bicep isn't going to remind me of where I misplaced those relationships.
And when you have four children, three of whom have extremely long names, and one of whom has many names, where do you find the body real estate? (Pause for my spouse to mention my rear end.)
I plan to stay pretty much the same me. I plan to keep loving but not indulging in table thingies. I plan to keep knitting, even though the thought of One More Sleeve right now is killing me. I'll get there, even if I'm not willing to permanently ink a pair of circular needles on me.
Afterwards, we treated ourselves (we were out grownups only) to a nice cup of coffee. And at Peets there were displays of tableware. Since having children, my priorities have changed, somewhat, and one of the things I put behind me mostly is a terrible craving for dinnerware. Plates, tea services, matching linens. . . I usually have it under control. I do this by reflecting on the fact that a) my children still break many things, and b) dinner time doesn't often resemble the fantasy portrayed in a Pottery Barn catalog and c) there is Time Enough for Such Things.
But some things can trigger a flare-up. Peets had a nice set of tea/coffee things, with sort of a Polish folk design on them. Luscious colors -- deep blues and reds -- enough to trigger a horrible desire to just run out and buy a nice tea set -- a red pot! Matching cups! Maybe. . . saucers.
When I came to, I was clutching a sticky bun and remembering that my children are, at this very moment, in exile upstairs until-it-is-clean-and-I'm-not-kidding. The other realization that hit me, thinking about carpet and paint and deep, enticing colors of tea pots, was that I'm not that permanently attached to many things.
The broad outlines are the same -- I still tend towards comfortable, sporty, outdoor clothing -- but the particulars change. When I spied a sweet young thing wearing a pair of Monkey Boots, black leggings, a wee black skirt, a wool coat, and Serious Librarian glasses, I saw me in graduate school. I don't think it's a look I can still pull off.
I bet I wouldn't even like the same tea pots any more, assuming that I had the kind of life which allowed me to indulge every lustful whim towards ceramic and cloth. I don't know if I still like my wedding china, because I'm afraid to take it out. So while I'm still recognizably the same person, the most external expressions of me change.
Bringing me to why I don't have a tattoo. There isn't anything I can commit to long enough to want it inked under my skin. I know some people have their children's names tattooed on them, and I think it's fine, for them. Me? I'm way too aware of what skin does as it ages. Plus, I also don't carry pictures of my children. There's no question at all that they are central to my life -- in essence, their names are burned into me, inside. I don't need them anywhere else to hold them in my heart.
I'm also aware of what time does most cruelly to memories in some cases. When my grandmother died, she was alone in the world, even though she was surrounded by her children. Her mind had left them behind in another iteration of herself. She was well-cared for, but she was profoundly alone. If this happens to me someday, having names on my ankle or bicep isn't going to remind me of where I misplaced those relationships.
And when you have four children, three of whom have extremely long names, and one of whom has many names, where do you find the body real estate? (Pause for my spouse to mention my rear end.)
I plan to stay pretty much the same me. I plan to keep loving but not indulging in table thingies. I plan to keep knitting, even though the thought of One More Sleeve right now is killing me. I'll get there, even if I'm not willing to permanently ink a pair of circular needles on me.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Yarn finds a way
Actual fiber things have been happening here.
Not, of course, as much as I would like, life having sped up most distressingly. In fact, as I look at my weekly calendar, I see that there isn't a lot of room left in my cleaning, cooking, driving, and working duties for things like "working out" and "knitting" and "spinning." Fortunately, I have managed to slip in some "lying in the bath reading dopey mysteries" as well as some "wandering around sipping tea." But those aren't as exciting to photograph -- like I would put a picture of me in the tub on my blog.
Some navajo-plied silk, in the Lake Berryessa colorway from Lambtown.
Even closer (and I think wet-blocking silk is probably not a good idea, since it's now a tiny bit fuzzy. Advice, anyone?):
I lost the wire yarn guide for my spinning wheel, and discovered that while wiring one's wedding ring to the flyer with a twist-tie does work in a pinch, having the part would work much better. And wouldn't you know it? A sock's worth of Finn top jumped in my online shopping cart when I bought a new one from The Woolery.
Thing 3 really will get a sweater this year:
I discovered this morning that I'm 2 1/4 stripes from finishing that sleeve. Striped sweaters are the salvation of the countingly-challenged. But I'd better order a couple more balls of the Cashmerino Aran so I can make the requested hood. Boring pattern, but butter-soft.
I think spouse and I are going to start getting up earlier over the weekend so by Monday I'll replace some of my "sleep" with "exercise." Even though I'll be tired, I like me much better when I remember to move the bod! Maybe it will free up some time for knitting, too.
Not, of course, as much as I would like, life having sped up most distressingly. In fact, as I look at my weekly calendar, I see that there isn't a lot of room left in my cleaning, cooking, driving, and working duties for things like "working out" and "knitting" and "spinning." Fortunately, I have managed to slip in some "lying in the bath reading dopey mysteries" as well as some "wandering around sipping tea." But those aren't as exciting to photograph -- like I would put a picture of me in the tub on my blog.
Some navajo-plied silk, in the Lake Berryessa colorway from Lambtown.
Even closer (and I think wet-blocking silk is probably not a good idea, since it's now a tiny bit fuzzy. Advice, anyone?):
I lost the wire yarn guide for my spinning wheel, and discovered that while wiring one's wedding ring to the flyer with a twist-tie does work in a pinch, having the part would work much better. And wouldn't you know it? A sock's worth of Finn top jumped in my online shopping cart when I bought a new one from The Woolery.
Thing 3 really will get a sweater this year:
I discovered this morning that I'm 2 1/4 stripes from finishing that sleeve. Striped sweaters are the salvation of the countingly-challenged. But I'd better order a couple more balls of the Cashmerino Aran so I can make the requested hood. Boring pattern, but butter-soft.
I think spouse and I are going to start getting up earlier over the weekend so by Monday I'll replace some of my "sleep" with "exercise." Even though I'll be tired, I like me much better when I remember to move the bod! Maybe it will free up some time for knitting, too.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
How many can you think up?
When I was getting Things 3 & 4 in bed tonight, I lay there thinking of what I could be doing. I usually arrange my "to-do" list for the evening, or think about all of the stuff I have to do, or something equally karmically useless.
On really good nights, I breathe deeply and smell my children's hair.
But not tonight. Tonight, I wondered how many opening lines of novels or plays I could remember. I came up with only four, not counting the vast number of children's stories I have completely memorized (how many of you can still recite Goodnight Moon?):
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
(This, technically, is just the opening line of a section of a book) -- Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
Call me Ishmael.
When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
And that's it. Pretty small potatoes for someone spending most of her life immersed in lit'rachure. Can you recognize all of them? How many opening lines live in your brain?
Oh, I'm at the arm division of another plain-vanilla-but-yummy-yarn top-down raglan sweater for Thing 3. I'm wondering if I should go back and add a few inches. There's not enough yarn to do a hood anyhow, so I'm going to have to buy more -- might as well make it with room to grow. I'd be knitting on it but there's a cat sleeping on my forearms.
On really good nights, I breathe deeply and smell my children's hair.
But not tonight. Tonight, I wondered how many opening lines of novels or plays I could remember. I came up with only four, not counting the vast number of children's stories I have completely memorized (how many of you can still recite Goodnight Moon?):
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
(This, technically, is just the opening line of a section of a book) -- Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
Call me Ishmael.
When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
And that's it. Pretty small potatoes for someone spending most of her life immersed in lit'rachure. Can you recognize all of them? How many opening lines live in your brain?
Oh, I'm at the arm division of another plain-vanilla-but-yummy-yarn top-down raglan sweater for Thing 3. I'm wondering if I should go back and add a few inches. There's not enough yarn to do a hood anyhow, so I'm going to have to buy more -- might as well make it with room to grow. I'd be knitting on it but there's a cat sleeping on my forearms.
Monday, January 7, 2008
This one goes "Sproing"
I learned something new the other night, and wanted to run around the street telling people about it.
Have you ever had the kind of experience when your brain goes, "Aha!" and it's just like getting that hard-to-reach itch properly scratched? Yep, that's what led me to graduate school. It's a terrific feeling. Unfortunately, graduate school offered few opportunities for scratches like that, so I turned to fiber instead.
After reading instructions and watching videos and thinking, "None of this makes any sense at all," my inner voice finally broke through and said, "Just try it." So I did. I Navajo plied.
About a half-bobbin of old koolaid-dyed singles hanging around presented the perfect subject. The wheel seemed too fast, so I used my top-hook drop spindle and the slower speed plus parking it made managing the loops much easier. As I wound the yarn on, I gave the little cop a feel (snort) and it was incredible! Soft, squishy, springy -- just such a pleasure to hand.
I can't wait to try it on some yarn with distinct color gradations. Maybe I'll have to dye some roving specifically for this.
And this way madness lies, you see. But man, is it fun.
Have you ever had the kind of experience when your brain goes, "Aha!" and it's just like getting that hard-to-reach itch properly scratched? Yep, that's what led me to graduate school. It's a terrific feeling. Unfortunately, graduate school offered few opportunities for scratches like that, so I turned to fiber instead.
After reading instructions and watching videos and thinking, "None of this makes any sense at all," my inner voice finally broke through and said, "Just try it." So I did. I Navajo plied.
About a half-bobbin of old koolaid-dyed singles hanging around presented the perfect subject. The wheel seemed too fast, so I used my top-hook drop spindle and the slower speed plus parking it made managing the loops much easier. As I wound the yarn on, I gave the little cop a feel (snort) and it was incredible! Soft, squishy, springy -- just such a pleasure to hand.
I can't wait to try it on some yarn with distinct color gradations. Maybe I'll have to dye some roving specifically for this.
And this way madness lies, you see. But man, is it fun.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
I can blog late on Christmas morning because something very strange is happening at my house. Every child is doing something fun, and quiet. Reading, playing a puzzle, jumping on a pogo stick, it's a Christmas Miracle!
[Oh, wait, a couple of them are erm, discussing whose candy is whose. That's what you get with chocolate for breakfast.]
I have been so spotty of blog of late and so -- scattered -- in general that I figured I'd just do lots of pictures. But then I started typing and. . . well, I get going. This has been the most difficult year I can remember in a long while. Nothing really terrible happened to me or mine, just lots of hard stuff right after another and I've been surprised at how much it took the wind out of my sails. So I hung on to what I could -- my family, some fiber, food and music, and I'm looking forward to the New Year.
Enjoy these promised pics, and I hope you and yours are healthy and happy, and you have much good to look at now as well as to look forward to.
Suzee was right -- we were in Tennessee. This tree came from my uncle's farm -- my kids helped cut it down -- and you can't pay for that kind of stuff. After the kids decorated, we hung out.
My mom took us to a an ice show at Opryland. It was cold enough to remind me why I don't live somewhere more northerly.
Thing 4 gave in to an impulse I completely understood:
In August, I thought I'd never see my father alive again. I was wrong. I'm very glad.
I finished my first round of 3-ply yarn. The brown is local Merino, the fawn black Bluefaced Leicester, and the white some Sheepshed mill ends, so there's some mohair.
My plying needs work.
Christmas joys involve lots of boinging around at our house.
Finally, while these are emphatically Not For Christmas, they're merely a Kitchener away from being done and on Thing 1's cold little feet. As I despise knitting socks, I'm pleased.
Merry, merry.
[Oh, wait, a couple of them are erm, discussing whose candy is whose. That's what you get with chocolate for breakfast.]
I have been so spotty of blog of late and so -- scattered -- in general that I figured I'd just do lots of pictures. But then I started typing and. . . well, I get going. This has been the most difficult year I can remember in a long while. Nothing really terrible happened to me or mine, just lots of hard stuff right after another and I've been surprised at how much it took the wind out of my sails. So I hung on to what I could -- my family, some fiber, food and music, and I'm looking forward to the New Year.
Enjoy these promised pics, and I hope you and yours are healthy and happy, and you have much good to look at now as well as to look forward to.
Suzee was right -- we were in Tennessee. This tree came from my uncle's farm -- my kids helped cut it down -- and you can't pay for that kind of stuff. After the kids decorated, we hung out.
My mom took us to a an ice show at Opryland. It was cold enough to remind me why I don't live somewhere more northerly.
Thing 4 gave in to an impulse I completely understood:
In August, I thought I'd never see my father alive again. I was wrong. I'm very glad.
I finished my first round of 3-ply yarn. The brown is local Merino, the fawn black Bluefaced Leicester, and the white some Sheepshed mill ends, so there's some mohair.
My plying needs work.
Christmas joys involve lots of boinging around at our house.
Finally, while these are emphatically Not For Christmas, they're merely a Kitchener away from being done and on Thing 1's cold little feet. As I despise knitting socks, I'm pleased.
Merry, merry.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Notes from Somewhere Else
Clues about where the children and I are? Well, there's a lot of churches here, we just had a big lunch yesterday with my cousins and their children and my aunt and uncle, wild turkeys are walking outside of my window, we're going to spend the night at the farm I used to mosey around on as a child, and my children just put up a cedar tree in my mother's house that we cut on another relative's farm.
It's lovely, but the pictures are going to have to wait as my cable is at home, but there is actual knitting content -- I'm 50% through a sock. Yes, it is the only thing I can think of to knit right now, and Thing 1 is more than impatient for it, having walked through and then outgrown her only other pair of handknit. These are squooshy and soft, knit out of Cleckheaton Tapestry in some mix of blues and purples, and she'll love them.
I even did some spinning last night, even though I'd left the yarn guide that fits on the flyer at home. I MacGyvered a guide out of my wedding ring and a twist tie, and it's workable. I just hope I can find that little piece at home where I wrapped it safely to bring on this trip. . .
So even though I have about 28 papers to grade, this is shaping up to be a very nice pre-holiday family break. I hope you and yours are as relaxed.
It's lovely, but the pictures are going to have to wait as my cable is at home, but there is actual knitting content -- I'm 50% through a sock. Yes, it is the only thing I can think of to knit right now, and Thing 1 is more than impatient for it, having walked through and then outgrown her only other pair of handknit. These are squooshy and soft, knit out of Cleckheaton Tapestry in some mix of blues and purples, and she'll love them.
I even did some spinning last night, even though I'd left the yarn guide that fits on the flyer at home. I MacGyvered a guide out of my wedding ring and a twist tie, and it's workable. I just hope I can find that little piece at home where I wrapped it safely to bring on this trip. . .
So even though I have about 28 papers to grade, this is shaping up to be a very nice pre-holiday family break. I hope you and yours are as relaxed.
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