The Warden's Log

HONOR THE GOAT

2016-11-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

For those who may not be aware, I'm a Chicago Cubs fan. I converted to Cubbie-ism at the age of 12 in 1982. When asked why a Cincinnati girl jumped ship to the Cubs I always say it was for two reasons. 1) I thought little cubbie bears were cute. 2) I had a wild crush on the Cubs catcher, Jody Davis. Yes, I was at that age, straddling childhood and those teenage years. And I've lived and died with the team ever since.

Handmade Cubs rosary

We had some good teams. Some very good teams. And we never made it to the World Series. Not since 1945. And we hadn't won one since 1908. That's a long time, my friends. My son, who likes to believe in the paranormal (whether he really does or not) blamed the Curse of the Billy Goat. For the non-baseball fan, I'll give you a brief version of the story. Game four of the 1945 World Series, Billy Goat Tavern owner William Sianis brought Murphy the goat to the game. Folks complained about his odor (the goat, not Sianis) and Murphy was asked to leave. A furious Sianis said something along the lines of, "Them Cubs, they ain't gonna win no more." There's a debate whether this meant the Cubs wouldn't win the World Series again or the Pennant again, but either way we had a long, long drought.

After witnessing my angst when the Cubs reached the postseason in 2015, my sister, Nancy, created for me an "Honor the Goat" kit as a Christmas present. The text of the parchment included read, in part, "Although some believe that heaping various forms of abuse on goats in general is a path to breaking the curse, this document suggests that the best way to disable the curse is to lift Murphy the Goat to the highest level of esteem." It then went on to direct me to appeal to Murphy's majesty and power and to offer him a tribute before each game by putting a coin on the shelf beneath Murphy's statue on a hand-crafted shrine. The kit also included a stuffed Curse Breaker goat and a handmade Cubs rosary.

Every single game of the season I put a coin in Murphy's shrine and said, "Oh, beloved goat, I honor you and humbly ask for a Cubs win in today's game." When I went on vacation with my sister and kids, I texted my husband each day asking if he'd "fed the goat." I continued through the National League Division Series (which we won) and the National League Championship Series (which we won). After getting our first Pennant in 71 years, I declared the curse broken, even though some thought we had to win the World Series for this to happen. In gratitude to Murphy and all goats, I made a $71 donation to the Woodstock Farm Sanctuary for the care of one of their goats.

Sianis with Murphy the goat

Minor panic might have set in at that point. We were so close to that World Series win. Towards the end of the Championship Series, I started putting dollar bills in Murphy's shrine. Each subsequent game I put in a dollar more than the game before. I began praying that Cubs rosary every day, looking up a few prayers online because, I'm sure much to the horror of the nuns who taught me, I'd forgotten what prayers went on some of those beads at the beginning. I rarely prayed an entire rosary as a kid. I've gotten into using mala beads this year and saying mantras on them as a form of meditation. I took to chanting an entire strand of mala beads twice a day, using the mantra to Ganesha for overcoming obstacles. For good measure I did the Novena to St. Therese, the Little Flower. You say the prayer every day for five days and then are supposed to be "blessed" with a rose appearing to you. I promptly forgot about this last part until one day my daughter walked into the kitchen and on the back of her shirt was this big rose. She had just gotten her t-shirt for being part of the crew on the school's production of Beauty and the Beast and was wearing it for the first time. Hmmmmmm....

For those who haven't had the t.v. on the last few days, I will break the news that the Cubs won the World Series! It was the most agonizing October of my entire life and that last game on November 2 almost killed me. Not only did the score go back and forth, but the Indians came back to tie it in the bottom of the 8th against our ace closer. I was hysterical, on the floor, punching things, crying and wailing. Then, it started to rain. And they rolled a damn tarp out onto the field and I thought, "I'm going to have a genuine nervous breakdown right here on my family room floor. I'm seriously going to lose my mind while wearing plastic baseball earrings." The game started after 15 minutes and, miraculously, we scored two runs in the top of the 10th. Just to torture Cubs fans everywhere, the Indians got one of those runs back in the bottom of the 10th, but we held on to win our first World Series in 108 years! Then I collapsed on the floor again, hysterical and crying and wailing... Yes, after ordering five tons of World Series merchandise I made another donation to Woodstock Farm Sanctuary, this time for $108. And all the money collected from the goat shrine over the season will go to the Anthony Rizzo Family Foundation, formed by the Cubs first baseman to support kids with cancer.

So, my sister takes credit for breaking the Cubs curse. And you know what? I'll gladly give her the credit. I still don't believe in curses, but I can't argue with success. I might also mention that a strand of mala beads, like I used for the World Series, has 108 beads. A baseball has 108 stitches. And the Cubs won their first World Series in 108 years. Hmmmm...

NO SENSE OF HUMOR

2015-05-13T15:38:00.001-07:00

NOTE TO SELF: Do not send an email detailing your latest freakish fall/injury to your sister thinking she'll find it funny. Instead she will call at one in the morning insisting she's taking you to the emergency room because she has no sense of humor.

I honestly thought she'd roll her eyes at my continued clumsiness when she read this:

Subject: Ugh! I did it again...

Actually, this wasn’t MY fault exactly, but I had another weird fall/injury. Do you guys remember when I was a senior in high school and one day after school I got this weird pain in my chest and fainted? I was on my way into the kitchen and grabbed the side of the doorway and the next thing I knew I was on the floor? (And Ginger the dog was there in my face looking all concerned?) Well, I did THAT again. I came out to the kitchen between innings of the ballgame. I took a sip of pop and then got this horrible pain in my chest. I’ve had that happen before, but it’s usually just very brief pain, almost feeling like an air bubble or something. Anyway, this time the pain was excruciating and wasn’t letting up and I put my hand on the refrigerator to steady myself, kind of doubled over because of the pain. Next thing I knew I woke up on the floor, with my head right in front of the sink. I sort of flailed around at first because I was completely disoriented and couldn’t figure out if I was dreaming or was really looking at the kitchen ceiling or what. I pulled myself up, but I had horrible pain all through my neck and upper back and I was dizzy. Daisy came running in so I don’t know if I landed with a loud thump or if I was making noise passed out or what. I got to my feet and all I could think was that I needed ibuprofen for my neck. I wasn’t sure if I hit my head or just landed on my back. I kind of staggered over and got the meds, but I was half out of it and not really steady on my feet. I swallowed the pills and was kind of leaning on the counter when I realized my teeth were out of whack, with my lower ones thrust forward like a bull dog. I felt them and they all felt loose on the bottom. I got to the bathroom and in the mirror they were visibly loose and a little bloody. I’ve slightly chipped one of the front teeth (more just made it kind of uneven on the bottom, not like a big piece out or anything) and a couple of the top front teeth are all rough on the inside. For the next half hour I kept spitting out little pieces of my teeth like grains of sand. The only thing we can figure is I fainted and went face first into the fridge, maybe snapping my neck forward in the process. (A couple of the magnets were on the floor.) Not sure how I fell since I ended up flat on my back. Wish I had video footage of it just so I could know what the hell I did. I guess it’s also possible I snapped my neck when my head hit the floor and my teeth jammed into each other, but I don’t seem to have any pain or lumps on the head itself.

The Vulcan said he’d work from home tomorrow and take me to the dentist if I can get an appointment since I doubt I’m going to be able to turn my head in the morning with the way this feels right now. He also wants me to go to the regular doctor, but I’m afraid he’ll send me for a couple thousand dollars’ worth of tests. He was Googling around and thinks maybe this is what I have:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Precordial_catch_syndrome

Apparently a lot of people on Reddit complain about it. I’ve certainly had that catch in my chest before, but this is only the second time I’ve ever passed out from it. He kept quizzing me on other symptoms to make sure it isn’t heart-related, but there really wasn’t anything. Just that really sharp pain in one spot.

I should have known better. My sister was hysterical and insisting you don't screw around with heart pain and she was coming over. I don't know if you've ever seen the episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Andy and Barney are trying to forcibly remove Ernest T. Bass from Mrs. Wiley's house, but if you have, that's what it would have resembled (see it here at the 21:25 mark). I would not have gone and sore neck or no I would have put up a kicking fight. (Ten years ago when I went I was stuck there for eight hours and swore I'd never go again unless I was missing a limb.) I finally had to put my husband on the phone to reassure her he was confident it wasn't my heart. Then I couldn't fall asleep, so I'd like to publicly thank her for ensuring a woman with a busted neck and busted teeth was also going to be getting her kids out the door on three hours of sleep.

I did indeed go to the dentist next day and the x-rays showed no severe damage. My four front lower teeth are all loose, which means lots of ice cream for me for a few days, and next week I go back to have things rechecked and my chipped teeth sanded smooth. I also went to the doctor, who immediately knew what I was describing. He used lots of medical terms, but then said "essentially an air pocket forms" and causes pain and if the pain is intense enough it can make you pass out. He was confident it had nothing to do with the heart, but he did an EKG just to satisfy my sister who was lurking in the waiting room. All along I was sure it was nothing serious and was far more concerned about the state of my teeth. I kept waiting for a couple of those lower suckers to suddenly flop out of my mouth and into my bowl of gelato. Then, like Ernest T. Bass, I could get a gold one put right in the middle with space on each side so it would stand out better, especially when I'm dancing...

MOMMIES

2015-05-10T14:44:00.000-07:00

She started off so cute.

It takes a special kind of sociopath to be upset when her mother likes the Mother's Day gift she picked out instead of hating it. Foghorn was certain I'd loathe her gift of a skein of powder blue yarn. Are you kidding? Yarn? Me? Just to taunt her I laid it on thick, saying I'll make a beautiful bear with a blue sweater and hoodie for a little boy in Africa and she had picked the perfect gift. That made her so mad she hit me with her tablet. She was equally disgusted at my reaction to my birthday gift a couple months ago. She had chosen a sporty headband in what she thought was a particularly ugly shade of blue. I loved it. Hey, I was logging lots of miles on the treadmill and this was actually a very useful gift. She was furious. I told my own mother this past Friday, "You're lucky. You have me as a daughter. Look what I'm stuck with."

Goodies from The Inmates and The Vulcan.

My son, The Professor, put in a little more effort. Uncle Chester had taken them shopping and, as usual, he wanted to go to JoAnn's. He started looking at the jewelry-making supplies and then decided I'd like beads, but he looked carefully to find those hideously beautiful 70s colors I love - avocado, tangerine, marigold. He found ones he thought fit the bill, then handed them over to Chester to actually make into something. (Luckily she makes jewelry for her own Etsy shop, so this wasn't a daunting prospect for her.) He also went out with his father the night before and purchased flowers, again in colors that perfectly match my Brady Bunch family room decor. My husband surprised me with a Steam gift card so I could pick out some games for myself. My son even reluctantly let me give him a hug, a good day all around. (Of course, he didn't hug me back, but we can't ask for too much here.)

It's the story of a lovely lady...

Lunch was at my mother's -- roast beef with the trimmings and the traditional Mother's Day strawberry rhubarb pie (with apple pie for the gentlemen). I gifted my mother five episodes of The Andy Griffith Show for her iPod and two tiny cooling racks, purchased after she made an offhand comment a couple months ago about wishing she had some more of them. Earlier in the year we both read When Books Went to War about the Armed Services Edition books that were produced during World War II. These tiny paperbacks, almost like miniature magazines, were distributed to troops all over the world, with new titles printed on a regular basis. We both enjoyed reading about them and I thought she'd get a kick out of actually owning one. I'm having a little trouble imagining a 20 year old guy curled up reading Meet Me in St. Louis, but I was surprised by other similar books that were popular among the soldiers.

I liked it so much I made my husband get me one with
Satchel Paige's "how old would you be if you didn't
know how old you were?"

For a good decade and a half now I've been giving my mother baseball-related gifts for Mother's Day. Many times they're something I've made, such as a felted knit baseball purse or baseball-shaped afghan. This is one of the few years when handmade wasn't in the mix. Instead I opted for a new book by Mike Shannon, editor of Spitball magazine, with gorgeous paintings of famous Reds players. I also read an article a few months ago about a couple of local sisters who started a small business making bracelets out of baseball glove laces. These Baseball Lacelets are engraved with inspirational words of your choosing and come in a variety of sizes. I debated several good baseball quotes and finally settled on Yogi Berra's "when you come to a fork in the road, take it." I knew that line made her chuckle. My son tried to say he understood what Berra meant, that this was something deep and profound. I told him Berra was just a little bit dim. Then he said, "You definitely have to have a fork when you go to the woods with your pic-a-nic basket." Smartass.

Happy Mother's Day to all!

CHARITY KNITTING - THE MOTHER BEAR PROJECT

2015-05-08T11:41:00.000-07:00

I often go around saying I do a lot of knitting for charity because my desire to knit is disproportionate to the number of folks who actually want to wear my stuff. Besides the people who have enough hats/scarves/mittens, there are those (like my husband) who don't understand why you'd bother to knit a pair of socks when a six-pack of Hanes costs less than the skeins of yarn. I consider him a man with a complete lack of culture. And his son adores my knit wool socks and has to be forced to stop wearing them when the weather tops 80 degrees. I also try to make him understand that striped knee socks don't go with shorts. But I digress...

About a year ago I got involved with The Mother Bear Project. This group sends hand-knit or hand-crocheted bears primarily to kids affected by HIV/AIDS in developing countries. (You can read more about this group and the horrors of the AIDS crisis in Africa for these children here.) Since some of these kids literally do not have one toy to call their own, The Mother Bear Project was formed to put lovingly made bears into their hands. Sometimes I wonder how much good I'm really doing. Obviously these kids' problems are not going to be solved by one grizzly in a skirt, but then I also think that if it can bring them a little joy, give just a trace of comfort, then it's worth doing.

I've donated twenty bears so far and have another six or seven ready to go in the next shipment of ten. The pattern, which is purchased through The Mother Bear Project website, is based on a WWII-era pattern. It's a simple design, originally used to make toys for English children being evacuated from areas most at risk for bombing during the war. The wonderful thing about it is that it's basic enough that any mildly proficient knitter/crocheter can make one. However, it can also be modified with hats, skirts, hoodies, headbands, flowered embellishments. If you want to be bowled over, check out some of the pictures in the Ravelry group here. There are some amazingly creative women there. My donations tend to be a little more basic:

I'm wild about the hoodie!
Directions on Ravelry here.

I've written previously about my relationship with a once-abused dog named Tristan and his rescuer mommy, Lori. I've been sending him handmade toys on holidays for three years or so and according to Lori he loves them. The problem has always been that I hate to make them. I found knitting dolls to be beyond painful and crocheting them was only slightly better. Still, I slogged along every holiday because they made him so happy. When I discovered Mother Bear I was suddenly blessed with a pattern that did not make me twitchy to knit and could be adapted to any theme or season or reason. He may never get another pattern again. And I think that's alright with him. Some recent examples:

The vampire for Halloween.


An Easter ducky

Tristan's brother, Tully, had a recent
medical emergency, so he needed
his own home health aide.

Christmas bear gets the taffy-pull treatment.

If you're interested in crafting for The Mother Bear Project (or making a monetary donation), you can check out the website here. If you'd like to know about Tristan and Lori, you can check out her dog-lbs. blog here.

SIXTEEN

2015-05-06T04:52:00.000-07:00

Today is the first of the semiannual weep fests known as my children's birthdays. The Professor turns sixteen today. For one day at least I'm able to see past the pimples and 5'10" frame, ignore his constant jokes about genitalia, and put from my mind the fact that he's now legally allowed to drive a car. For 24 hours I remember the little boy obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine, dinosaurs, and aliens. The kid who compulsively watched Jurassic Fight Club, Monster Quest, and Primeval. I remember his various short-lived obsessions like being a spy, collecting paintings from antique stores, and wanting to start a Patridge Family-style band (even though none of us can play anything except the recorder and then nothing more complex than "Hot Cross Buns").

With Grandma-made Jedi robe.

Photo albums in lap, I took a trip down memory lane to some of his past birthday parties. There were bears and trains and James Bond-themed soirees. We did Star Wars and U.F.O.'s and Scooby Doo. This year's theme was "Give Me Cash and Leave Me Alone." Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but it's definitely been low key. Friday evening Uncle Chester took him for his traditional gift of a rib dinner at Montgomery Inn. Saturday was lunch at Applebee's. In the evening was carry-out Dewey's Pizza with homemade cake and presents and no decorations. His grandmother gave him cash. We gave him cash and a dvd he picked out -- a double feature of the B horror movies Psycho Santa and Satan Claus, plus a new hard drive for his computer so he has room for all the videos he downloads. (I pray they're not porn. Probably are.)

A chic fedora and a briefcase full of spy gear.

This morning I'm baking another cake for his actual birthday and he'll be taken out for a steak dinner. I have one surprise gift. He loves the song 99 Luftballons and I found a t-shirt at Threadless with the same name that literally has 99 red balloons pictured on it. Thought he might get a kick out of it. Or, like many other shirts, he'll never wear it and I'll end up stealing it for myself.

What happened to getting videos
of The Wiggles?

I try not to think about how close we are to high school graduation or dwell on the question of how many years are left when I'll see him on his birthday at all. How soon before he's too busy with some girl to even show up for his cash or his cake? Sniff, sniff... Okay, time to go torture myself with some home videos of a baby in an Exersaucer....

Seems like a week ago.

CROSSING THE FINISH SWINE

2015-05-04T07:41:00.000-07:00

Should I be embarrassed to say that the main reason I registered for the Flying Pig's 10K race is because of the logo? Cincinnati is hosting this year's All Star Game and as soon as I saw the adorable little piggy in the baseball cap I knew I had to have a medal of that.

The all-powerful Shrinky Dink charm.

I did not go into Saturday's 6.2 mile race with any great expectations. In the back of my mind had always been the goal of finishing just under an hour and 30 minutes. That would require a pace of a little better than four m.p.h. the whole way. I can walk that fast, but not necessarily for six miles. And Cincinnati has some hills. Quite a few hills. This was not like walking loops around a high school track. As of Friday evening my personal best time had been one hour, 33 minutes or roughly a 15:06 per mile pace. To finish in goal time, by the skin of my teeth, I need to average no more than 14:30 per mile. Ugh... Yeah, I couldn't do that. I'd never done that. Still, Friday night I kept thinking about it. I even made a tiny Shrinky Dink tag for my shoelace.

I honored my Earthathon team on my racing bib.

My cheering section for the 10K consisted of my sister (the Inmates' beloved Uncle Chester) and my husband. For some reason my children turned down the chance to get up at six a.m. on a Saturday so we could get downtown and in position for the eight a.m. race. In fact, my sister regularly stays up until three or four in the morning, so she wasn't running on all eight cylinders, either. (Even on her best day she's lucky to be running on six.)

The race's corrals were lined up on Joe Nuxhall Way next to Great American Ballpark. I was in corral F, reserved for those of us who thought it would take us longer than 1:30:00 to finish the race. Yeah, we were literally the end of the line. But we were festive! There were piggy hats and piggy tails and sparkly tutus, my favorite on a burly 30-something man. What we lacked in speed we made up for in attitude. Fearing footage of me plodding along the course would turn up on YouTube, I made myself as inconspicuous as possible in capri pants and the Flying Pig t-shirt. I have this phobia about going viral on the Internet... At one point my sister suddenly glared up at a window above the Reds Hall of Fame and Museum before realizing the man looking down on her was actually a poster of Pete Rose sliding into third base. (Later at lunch she said she felt like she was having a "flaccid assback". She'd meant to say "acid flashback." Yeah, she needed some sleep.)

I handed my jacket off to the Vulcan and my purse to Uncle Chester. They both wanted off the course before the race officially started and they got trampled by a woman wearing a pig nose and sequined pink headband. As the 4500 participants slowly moved as one toward the starting line, I plugged in my earphones and got my Green Day-heavy playlist ready. While the handy Flying Pig app allows family and friends to track folks in the real races (i.e., full and half marathons), my cheering section was stuck with the lower tech version of me texting my husband at each mile marker. As we went over the starting line, I clicked the chronograph feature on my watch and set out to the tune "500 Miles" by The Proclaimers. So I wasn't really going to walk 500 miles, but at that moment it kinda felt that way. (Anyone familiar with Cincinnati and interested can see the course map here.)

I walked along for about a quarter of a mile, my legs gradually warming up and getting looser. Then I did the strangest thing. I started to jog. I had sworn I was not going to do my basset hound trot in public, but there is power in the combination of adrenaline and a slight competitiveness. I began to pass people. And every time I passed some boney-ass looking cute and perky in her Lycra jogging shorts, I felt a shot of energy go through me and I went just a little faster. I know, I know. It's petty and bitchy and juvenile. Damn, it was fun.

I crossed that bridge at some point...I think...

We crossed the bridge into Newport, Kentucky. I glanced at my watch at the first mile marker as I fumbled to pull my phone out of its case and text The Vulcan. It read 13 minutes and change. Wow, that was well under the pace I needed. I continued to walk, tossing in a jog about a third of the time. At the second marker I was still well under pace. I felt the energy shoot up again. Could I do it? Could I actually get in under 1:30:00? I tried to do mental arithmetic and figure how much my pace could slow and still make the goal. I gave up as I slurped water at the 2.5 mile station, spilling more on my shirt than I got in my mouth. My notorious lack of a sense of direction left me wondering why nothing in Cincinnati was looking familiar. We had crossed the bridge back into Ohio, yet my surroundings still looked like northern Kentucky. It wasn't until I got to the three mile mark and we started to cross the big bridge that I realized that other bridge had been over the Licking River and we were still in Kentucky. Yeah, this is why I never leave home without my phone and MapQuest app.

As we crossed we were saluted with honks and waves from a guy in a cement mixer and the driver of the train going the opposite direction. Once over the bridge into Ohio I knew I was past the halfway mark. I glanced at my watch and the time was under 41 minutes. Holy crap! I was still on pace. A little more Green Day, a little more jogging, a little more adrenaline when I lumbered past the skinny bitch in the pink jogging skirt. Okay, she may have been a perfectly nice lady, but she was thin and had nice legs and probably would have made fun of me in high school, so I used my bitterness to my advantage.

By mile four we were back near the stadium and the spectators had increased significantly. So did my anxiety. I slowed down to a walk again and tried to figure out if I could reach my goal without any canine cavorting. Then I thought, "To hell with it." I caught my breath, then went back to my ungainly gallop. At mile five I texted my husband for the last time. All that fiddling with the phone and its case and trying to type was slowing me down even more and I needed all the seconds I could get. I shoved the phone case in my pocket and checked my watch. It read an hour and six minutes. A few quick calculations and I realized I could walk the last 1.2 miles at a very moderate 3.2 m.p.h. and still come in under 1:30:00. I couldn't believe it. I could make it.

As "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred blared in my ears I started to get worried. What if I suddenly hit the wall? What if some muscle decided to pop and I could only limp the rest of the way? I had visions of me crawling to the finish line as all the skinny bitches ran past me and my goal slipped away. I started to jog again. By that point I probably looked like I was wearing ankle weights, my feet fighting gravity with each step. I chugged up the tiny incline on Pete Rose Way that now felt as steep as Mt. Everest. The six mile marker was in sight. I could make it. I think I can, I think I can... OK, only two-tenths of a mile. I inhaled deeply and slowed down to a walk.

Up ahead I could see the "Finish Swine". I was gonna do it! I looked to my left and could see my cheering section. I waved my arms at them and then saw their looks of recognition as they picked me out of the crowd. I gave them two thumbs-up as I walked past and there are few times in my life when I've been quite that happy. I intended to just walk across the line, but in my peripheral vision I caught one last bouncing Barbie coming up on the inside. With a final jolt of adrenaline, I scuttled away from her and across the line.

I tried to catch my breath as a teenage boy put the medal around my neck and another guy handed me a Mylar blanket. I'm sure I looked like an idiot, smiling to myself as I wandered into the recovery area practically jumping up and down. I slurped a cup of Gatorade and grabbed a bottle of water. My cheerleaders were to meet me outside this participants-only area. I didn't see them, so I took the opportunity to email my mommy. My official time, I found out later, was 1:21:41. I honest to God didn't think it was possible. I didn't think I could move that well if I had a zombie on my ass and a donut truck in front of me.

So, do I consider myself a great athlete now? Not hardly. The real athletes were crossing the finish line before I hit the first water station. It never was about me being fast or good compared to anyone else. It was me compared to a past me, By-Default-Girl. I remember trying to do Jane Fonda's workout tape when I was in high school, her second one that had an aerobic section about three minutes long. I couldn't do it. I had no stamina whatsoever. That certainly didn't improve as I got older. My joy isn't because I did something no one else could do. It's because I did something I didn't think I could do. And there's magic in that, I tell you. Magic.

FLYING PIGS, SHRINKY DINKS, AND THE EARTHATHON

2015-04-29T06:24:00.000-07:00

Remember that kid in grade school who was always picked last for teams in gym class? That wasn't me. I was the other kid. You know, there are two kids left and one is picked last for a team and the other goes to the second team by default? And then the team groans because they're stuck with that loser? Yeah, that was me, By-Default-Girl. I was a lousy athlete, I freely admit it. I sucked at catching and throwing and kicking. I had no arm strength and no aim and was completely uncoordinated. I was also the fat kid, a double whammy. I still feel intense resentment over that damn rope they tried to make us climb. Combine lack of strength and coordination with an over-sized body and you can imagine that little bit of humiliation.

I mention all this because I'm doing the 10K at Cincinnati's Flying Pig Marathon this weekend. No, I'm not running it. I'm simply walking, but hopefully at a fast enough pace that I finish just ahead of the last place finishers, probably a group from the local elder care center slowed down by their canes. My husband asks why I don't jog part of it. I do jog in short bursts on the treadmill, little one-lap intervals between various walking paces. The problem is I steadfastly refuse to run in public. This meme came through as a Tweet from a member of my virtual running group and sums it up perfectly:

The Vulcan assures me I do not look like that. I'm convinced I do. I once saw slow motion video of a basset hound running, jowls flapping and flab undulating and I just know that's what I'd look like if I broke into a trot. And since there may very well be news cameras in the vicinity, I'm not taking any chances. Just finishing will be enough. Well, let's say finishing and not being dead last.

My mommy was very proud.

I did the Flying Pig's 5K last year and I still marvel at it. Not because I had some earth-shattering pace, but just because I did it. Me. By-Default-Girl. In an organized athletic event. If you had told that rotund kid in phys ed that some day she'd walk 3.1 miles and get a medal for it she would have thought you were nuttier than the ice cream Drumstick she had every day at lunch. And if you'd said the next year she was going to walk 6.2 miles? Forget about it.

To motivate me to walk 25 miles or so on the treadmill every week, I joined the Earthathon. It's a virtual relay race in which ten teams are running the circumference of the earth. As a group we are going to put in the mileage equivalent to circling the earth ten times, roughly 250,000. It's only slightly competitive. When the first team finishes running the circumference, those members then will help another team reach that milestone and so on until there's one big team finishing the last lap. When I signed up I said to put me on whichever team needed me. I could have been on a team like Legs of Passion or Stars on the Run. My team? United Snails. At first I was slightly bummed. Not exactly a name to inspire. Then I got to know my teammates through Twitter and they turned out to be so enthusiastic and supportive and fun that I realized I was on the PERFECT team for me. And, let's face it, the name totally fits. I embraced my inner snail. I found a piece of clip art (here) and made it my own personal logo. I had my sister put it on a shirt for me. Last week I got out the Shrinky Dinks and made myself a necklace and a charm for one of the 5,017 Rainbow Loom bracelets my daughter made me and a tiny snail for my gym shoe. Call it snail mania, but for my birthday I got a little silver snail pendant and I bought myself a stuffed snail to put on the shelf over my treadmill. And I may have a Littlest Pet Shop snail on my desk. Maybe...

So, at age 45 am I an athlete? Not even close. I still can't throw a ball (or catch one). I'm totally uncoordinated and fall down regularly. In the summertime I do little in the pool but tread water and the best I can manage on a bike is to stay upright. Having said all that I can also say that, at age 45, I'm in the best shape of my life. That's not saying much. I've always been overweight and out of shape and compared to a real runner, I'm a pathetic mess. But compared to the me of the past, By-Default-Girl, I'm at the top of my game. I can't help but feel slightly proud of that, even if my children do tell me I'm past my expiration date.

THE CURSE OF THE SELFIES

2015-04-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

My daughter, Foghorn, is eleven. She'll be twelve this summer. In reality she's thirteen no matter what the calendar says. This is an ~~infuriating~~ interesting age and is accompanied by mood swings, a fresh mouth, and the unwillingness to wear any clothing picked out by her mother. It is also wreaking havoc with my smartphone.

At least once a week I try to take a photo or add an audio book to my phone, only to find there's no room. In the past this would leave me perplexed and scrambling for an explanation. Now I know to just go to the photos. If I'm stupid enough to leave my phone unattended it will inevitably be filled with lovely shots like these:

Then there are the texts. My husband suddenly finds himself on the receiving end of a barrage of texts allegedly from me. They are invariably nonsensical, insulting, or are giving permission for Foghorn to do something/buy something that in reality is out of the question. An example from this weekend:

The Vulcan and I have a secret code word we use whenever there is any uncertainty as to the writer of a text, for obvious reasons.

Foghorn also has a butt obsession. She thinks Kim Kardashian is the queen of all things because of her larger-than-life derriere, as well as her ability to be rich while having no visible talent. Since I have contempt for all things Kardashian (Kim and her entire extended family), this causes some mother-daughter conflict. Foghorn twerks compulsively and talks butts compulsively and I continually find obnoxious things written on my to do lists, chalkboard grocery list, or Post-Its. This little baby was on my laptop to remind me of where I left off reading on a certain blog and Foghorn decided to add her own touch:

And then there are the times she manages to combine two or more of her favorite annoying habits into one text. This one to her father...from my account, of course:

Yeah, Foghorn as a real thirteen year old ought to be one big thrill fest. I can't wait. Sigh...

SASQUATCH AND THE DUMBEST THINGS HEARD AT A BALL GAME

2015-04-25T14:11:00.000-07:00

The Cubs came to town to play the Cincinnati Reds last night, so naturally I had to go. Thanks to lingering rush hour traffic, we were slightly late and missed the top of the first inning. We raced to our seats, first row of a balcony section and the two seats on the end, and found a guy already lounging in seat number two. Apparently thinking the occupants of the end seats weren't going to arrive, he and the three females in his group had decided to spread out. He was nice and quickly gathered his beer and moved down a spot. He then took his correct seat...and half of mine. Now, I'm not exactly a lightweight myself, so don't think I'm making fun of this guy. I'm simply noting that he was tall and hefty and just big. He was very, very big. He was Sasquatch big. He sat with his knees apart, putting his right thigh where my left one should have been. His ham hock arm dangled over me and nearly rested on top of my scorecard. His massive shoulder jutted into my space and I was left pinned between him and my husband, trying to make myself as narrow as possible. The Vulcan thought I was getting all cuddly with him. In reality I was leaning into him to try to get a breath. It was like wearing a corset.

Sasquatch had several beers and a bag of peanuts, filling his empty beer cup with the vacant shells. It was a chilly night and The Vulcan kept asking if I wanted my jacket, but I informed him that I was quite warm. Sasquatch was generating so much body heat it was like being curled up next to a polar bear. Plus he was a very effective wind break for the biting late evening breezes. He topped off his peanuts and beer with cotton candy, putting the empty cone in the cup holder, completely blocking my view of home plate. My sister's reply to my email of the pic was, "He'd be wearing that cone up his fat ass about then," but he was actually a nice guy and he would have removed it if I'd asked. Instead, I just leaned forward for a better view. I had to do that often during the evening anyway. Whenever he talked to the ladies on his left, he bent his torso forward and effectively obscured the entire infield. Fortunately for me, he and his companions got up frequently and disappeared for an inning, returning reeking of cigarette smoke. Sadly, based on his size and habits, I don't think this guy is long for this world. The highlight of the evening was when Sasquatch decided to take part in the wave going around the stadium (which, I might state emphatically here, I loathe and think should be banned from the ballpark). He stood and waved his arms and tried to flop back into his seat...and missed. He hadn't noticed his chair seat had sprung into the upright position. Towards the end of what turned out to be an extra inning game (but a Cubs win), two of his companions stayed in whatever smoker's paradise they'd found and Sasquatch left an empty seat between us. He departed for good before the final out and as we stood for the 10th time to let him by, he excused himself again and said, "Thanks for being cool about this." That's okay, Satchy. Just watch your ticker.

Besides the inability to take a deep breath, my visit to Great American Ballpark was also cursed with the oh-so-familiar patron -- The Big Mouth. You can pretty much guarantee that at every game there will be one person, usually a guy, who talks frequently and, naturally, at a volume five levels higher than everyone else. Last night The Big Mouth was sitting right behind me with his wife and two other folks. This particular Big Mouth had a Kentucky accent as thick as sausage gravy and he was the expert on all things baseball. Just to add to his pontificating was his amusement in himself. Most of his comments were punctuated with a loud guffaw that came out something like "hue-HUH" and sounded for the world like laughter I heard on an old cartoon with hillbilly bears. Besides his nonstop commentary on everything from the game itself to the ballplayers' ages to Brandon Phillips' teeth, he munched peanuts and in flicking the empty shells managed to hit me in the back of the neck several dozen times. Whenever Sasquatch and his pals went for their smoke break, the other gentleman in Big Mouth's entourage draped his feet over the empty seats in front of him and I got to sit with dirty boots caked with mud and peanut shells a foot away from my face. There's a deal with a local pizzeria chain that if the Reds' pitchers strikeout 11 during a game, everyone with a ticket gets a free small pizza. That was reason enough for Big Mouth to give us, with each hitter, an update on the pizza quest. "Eight more strikeouts for pizza, hue-HUH!" "Only need five more for pizza, hue-HUH!"

In all fairness to Big Mouth, I will say he was the baseball expert within his group of four, as I have never heard so many idiotic things said at one ball game in my life. Those of you who don't like baseball and know little about it can maybe forgive them their ignorance. For someone like me they were fingernails on the blackboard of my soul. The best lines of the evening:

Jon Lester, Cubs pitcher, came up to bat. Like many pitchers, he has yet to get a hit early in this season and thus has no batting average, hits, RBI, or OPS.

Friend of Big Mouth: What's with all them zeroes on that guy?

-------------------------

Mrs. Big Mouth: Are all the bases the same distance apart?

Mr. Big Mouth: Yup.

Mrs. Big Mouth: Huh. It always looks a lot shorter from second to third.

-------------------------

With Reds runner on third:

Mrs. Big Mouth (shouting): Steal home!

Big Mouth: Naw, he don't wanna do that now.

Friend of Big Mouth: Is he ALLOWED to steal home?!?

Big Mouth: Yeah, he can steal home.

Friend of Big Mouth: Can he steal from first to second?

The runner was on third as a result of a single followed by two stolen bases.

-------------------------

During the sixth inning:

Friend of Big Mouth: Do they have half time?

Big Mouth: No, there ain't no half time. They got the seventh inning stretch.

Friend of Big Mouth: Do they switch players?

Big Mouth: They got guys on the bench they can bring into play if they want.

Friend of Big Mouth: What do they do when they ain't playing?

Big Mouth: They watch the game.

My children often hurt my heart with their lack of interest in baseball and some of their questions make me cry. I now console myself that I could be mother to these folks. And I leave Friend of Big Mouth with this parting shot, my favorite Foghorn Leghorn moment. Hue-HUH!

LITTLE HOUSE IN THE SUBURBS

2015-04-23T08:48:00.000-07:00

Laura's statue in the downtown Mansfield
square.

The sister and I safely made the trip to Mansfield, Missouri and back. My daughter only emerged from her room upon my return when I yelled up that I'd bought her caramel creams at the Cracker Barrel. My son at least appeared, although a hug was out of the question. As always I could count on my dogs to welcome me back enthusiastically. They were loud and boisterous and all over me when I got down on the floor by the couch. Each got annoyed that the other was hogging the attention of her mother and they started getting nasty with each other. I noticed various large colored stains on my living room carpet caused by the dogs chewing up markers. I asked my husband why he didn't clean them and he said he didn't know how and my son yelled, "You know where the carpet cleaner is!" Smart boy. The Vulcan said he missed me, but it's always hard to tell if he really missed me or was just glad to have someone take over the household again.

View of Laura's farmhouse from the road.

The trip involved way more driving than I like in much too short a period of time, but it was totally worth it. Let me say loud and clear if you love the Little House books and/or their authorn the Laura Ingalls Wilder Home and Museum is an absolute must-see. I had high hopes going in, but it actually surpassed my expectations. Located on (what else?) The Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Highway, the home site has Laura and Almanzo's farmhouse, a museum building, book store, and the Rock House, a retirement home their daughter built them in the 1920s with all the modern conveniences. (They didn't like it.)

Unfortunately pictures inside the buildings weren't allowed. That's a pity since the museum was chock-full of wonderful Ingalls mementos that those familiar with the books would salivate over. There was a school bus full of kids present and normally a bunch of runts running around a museum would drive me insane. In this case I had trouble loathing them since they would run up to display cases and holler, "There's Pa's fiddle!" or "Look! It's Mary's quilt." I heard one say to another, "This is the best museum ever." He had a point.

I actually kind of envied those kids who knew the stories well and could point out book-related bits to each other. My sister has only read Farmer Boy and we listened to the last two books in the van on the drive, so I looked at most of the stuff alone, lingering over items that I had pictured in my mind so many times. There were the name cards so new and fashionable in Little Town on the Prairie, including one belonging to Nellie Owens, one of the real life girls who inspired Nellie Oleson. There was Laura's lap desk which hid a $100 bill on the trip from De Smet, South Dakota to Mansfield, Missouri, money to be used as the down payment on the new farm. There was Mary's Braille slate and the bit of hand-knit lace Ida Brown gave Laura on her wedding day. There was the bread plate Laura and Almanzo had bought in their first year of marriage and was one of the few things to survive a fire that destroyed their home a few years later. There were dishes and handmade quilts and photographs and dresses. There was a case of Alamanzo's effects, including his shoe-making supplies, pocket watch, and wallet. There was a section devoted to their daughter, Rose Wilder Lane, a famous author in her own right. There were two of her desks and typewriters, examples of her needlework, and souvenirs from her trips around the world. One boy exclaimed to another, "Hey! There's Rose's Russian tea set!"

Hanging on Laura's front porch.

The farmhouse was a surprise, although I had read beforehand that visitors were often shocked at how small it is. Laura was 4'11" and Almanzo about 5'4" and their house was built to size. The kitchen ceiling was low and the height of the counter by the window where she would knead bread was only about 30" from the floor. My 4'10" sister thought it was perfect. The house overall was much smaller than I picture when I hear "farmhouse." I imagine the big, rambling places like on The Walton's. The rooms here were relatively small and even the living room, which had looked like a huge open space in books, turned out to be just slightly bigger than my family room. I always say it's people's little bits and pieces that touch me and this house was no exception. On their bedroom walls were Currier & Ives prints that Laura had ripped from a calendar and framed. Next to Almanzo's bed was a little wooden box full of his balms and salves, left there by Laura when he died. My sister asked about some of the beautiful needlework in the living room. Most was made by Laura or Rose, but it turns out Almanzo liked to do rug-hooking in the winter. And next to the fireplace was a container full of his handmade canes. (After a bout of diphtheria in his early 30s, Almanzo was left temporarily paralyzed and limped the rest of his life.)

The Rock House was built by Rose for her aging parents to live in ease and comfort. After moving her parents into their new home with electricity, indoor bathroom, etc., she plopped herself in their farmhouse and had an indoor bathroom installed off the bedroom. After about a decade, she left and her parents zipped back up to their farmhouse where they wanted to be in the first place. What shocked me about The Rock House is that it is based on a Sears Catalog Home plan -- The Mitchell. I have an ~~obsession~~ interest in Sears homes and my sister and I whipped our heads around to look at each other with open mouths when we heard this was one. (You can see the original ad for The Mitchell here.) Rose made some changes, the most obvious involving the exterior. She wanted local stones used instead of the Sears-designed wood and she paid local teenagers to dig up the rocks. From the outside it's a darling English cottage and I loved it. Inside it wasn't my style. It had some lovely niches that I adore, but it reminded me a lot of the Spanish-influenced style in California and it's not my cup of tea. Anyway, Rose designed it with all new furniture. I could see if Laura's dream house was that cute farm building, this house she would loathe. It's not good or bad, it's just different and apparently not really what her parents longed for. The most impressive part, to me, is that she began writing the Little House books while living there, so I tried to soak up any literary juice that might still be lingering.

We couldn't leave Mansfield without visiting the graves, which are in a cemetery at the end of Lincoln Street just outside of the downtown square.

The Inmates' Uncle Chester in the cabin.

We spent the night at Mansfield Woods, just down the road from Laura's house. We had a cute little cabin, very clean and with all the modern appliances (I'm not into roughing it). The only downer, and I knew about this going in, is that they had no wifi and no television. Ack! Definitely not a place to take my children. I'm not much of an outdoorsy person, so sitting on the deck staring at a pond was not gonna do it. I ended up propping my iPad on a chair and watching downloaded shows on J.F.K. assassination conspiracy theories while knitting. My sister decided to write about me in verse on her blog here. I would be offended if it wasn't, you know, true. In my defense, I'm extremely allergic to poison ivy and had to be on steroids last time I wandered through a patch (15 years ago). And I don't like bugs and I swear I swallowed a bug during a nature walk in Cooperstown two decades ago. And I don't like when it's hot. And I have really bad sinuses, so sue me for being on alert for pollen-shedding trees...

REVENGE! My sister had fun managing
the staircase down from our cabin door.

And what would a trip be without a few souvenirs? I also brought my mother home a little kit for making a quilted wall hanging with red work embroidery of Laura-related pictures.

An Ozarks Public Television special on dvd
and lotsa postcards (for me).

No, I don't really intend to cook anything, but this
book had wonderful pictures and anecdotes about Laura
and the farm. On the right is a thin volume
on Almanzo's sister.

My favorite! An actual piece of a
pecan tree they planed in 1900.
Got to bring a little piece of the
farm home.

THE DOWNSIDE OF THE BASEBALL SEASON

2015-04-17T13:00:00.000-07:00

I normally dvr everything and thus see relatively few commercials, which pleases me no end especially during election cycles. Unfortunately I like to watch baseball games live and I really, really like to watch baseball in general, even if it's not my team. With all that viewing comes the trap of being forced to watch commercials. And as soon as baseball season starts everyone around me gets to hear my yearly rant on the most annoying of all commercials -- the ones for erectile dysfunction meds.

There are three distinctive styles of E.D. commercial. The first is geared towards the guys. It shows a 50-ish woman, very beautiful and fit, talking about how wonderful it would be if you could be all intimate and stuff with your gal. While the litany of possible sides effects is rattled off at lightning-speed, the lady is waltzing across the screen in a tight dress and combing her gorgeous locks in the mirror and looking all MILF-ish. The point of this ad is to make fellas believe if they can get it up, their frumpy middle-aged wives will suddenly morph into this chick.

Interpretation #2 appeals to the ladies. It shows all these happy, midlife crisis-free couples, looking into each other's eyes and cuddling and going to all these wonderful places together. The message here is if you help your husband get an erection he'll suddenly hold your hand while watching chick flicks and take you on romantic dates with dancing. He'll think you're absolutely adorable when you get paint on the front of your shirt or break your high heel as you're getting ready to go out. This stuff would have annoyed the piss out of him before, but now that he's got these pills he'll find you nothing but charming. This style particularly annoys my mother, who is of the opinion that any couple married any length of time does not sit around making googly eyes at each other. She also commented on a couple at a restaurant once. The lady was chatting away and the guy was concentrating on every word and my mother snarled, "Either they're on a first date or he's having an affair. No man listens to his wife that intently."

The last version appeals to the guy's inner macho man. It shows cowboys wrangling horses and working on muscle cars. The Mad Men folks want every guy, from the construction worker to the nerdiest engineer, to think he'll suddenly be all blue collar studly if he picks up a prescription. For some reason the most aggravating image of this one is the guy doing a belly flop onto his surfboard and paddling into the waves. I imagine him with one of those side effect four-hour erections and can't help but think his landing on that board couldn't have been comfortable.

I always find it hard to believe they actually have to advertise to get men with E.R. to take the damn pharmaceuticals. All you have to do is tell me there's chocolate in aisle #3 and I'm there. You don't have to coax me into buying it. You'd think the guys would rush for those boners-in-a-bottle like I run for Raisinettes. I suppose there could be that male ego thing at play, not wanting to admit, even to a doctor, that he has a problem. If he won't ask for directions I guess he's unlikely to admit to not being able to perform. As for the ladies, I can't believe there's a one who falls for our version of the commercial. I mean, think back to the boyfriend you had at 20 or 22. Pretty much a walking erection and yet I doubt he playfully fed you popcorn at movies and played tickle-butt as you were washing the dishes together. If so, you dated a much better class of guy than I.

ROAD TRIP

2015-04-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

This week the sister and I are off to "The Land of the Big Red Apple" (as the Ozarks were described in 1895). I've long been a Laura Ingalls Wilder fan and have always wanted to visit one of the home sites. Unfortunately her family didn't settle some place close like, say, northern Ohio, so we have to travel west in our covered wagon (also known as a Sienna minivan). I've had my eye on the Laura Ingalls Wilder Home and Museum in Mansfield, Missouri for quite a while now. It's not one of the locations in the Little House books, but rather the farm she owned with Almanzo from the late 1800s until their deaths. She started her writing career there, first writing articles for the Missouri Ruralist about farm life (she was a champion chicken-raiser) and then, of course, her series of books. This museum is of particular interest to me because a) it's the closest to home and b) it has some artifacts particularly appealing to me such as Pa's fiddle and Laura's lap desk and some of her handwritten manuscripts.

This will be a whirlwind trip, since my husband, The Vulcan, isn't thrilled with being left to take care of two kids, two dogs, and two cats. Hard to say which couple he finds more difficult to handle. To make sure the dogs don't chew the entire house apart in my absence he's planning to work from home. Can't say what he'll do to protect himself from the kids. I thought I saw him piling sandbags in front of the bunker (i.e., his office) and stockpiling canned goods.

Anyway, we're looking at just short of a 10 hour drive, with only one day in Mansfield before hurrying back home. In the meantime I thought I'd share a little pictorial evidence of my ~~obsession~~ interest in L.I.W. and the Little House books. For those unfamiliar with her work (or uninterested), feel free to skip to a more interesting blog.

Quilt made by my mother from the book
Quilting With Laura.

My modern version of Laura's engagement ring. Hers was
in a gold(en) setting, described as a "garnet, with a pearl
on each side." I've thought about getting an antique
version from eBay, but bristled at the prices.
Got this Etsy one as a tribute, if you will,
to Laura's ring.

Just like the plate Laura and Almanzo bought as
newlyweds from the Montgomery Ward catalog.

Laura and her sisters each got porcelain boxes,
with a little tea service decoration on top. My sister,
not sure I'd want want a vintage one enough for the price,
made this one from air-dry clay built over a china box
topped with a mini tea set. (Then covered with gesso,
paint, and varnish.)

A replica of what they think Ma's china shepherdess
looked like. This modern statue I ordered from one of
the museum gift shops...probably made in China.

The Laura Ingalls Memorial Book Shelf, minus
the books I already packed in my suitcase.
Yeah, I'm one of those types -- one pound
of clothes and five pounds of books.

CRIMES AGAINST THE MOTHER TONGUE

2015-04-13T06:39:00.000-07:00

Sideways Mystery Mittens.
I'm making futures pairs with a colored stripe
to break up the monotony.

I have to take someone for a colonoscopy today. I'll spare him/her the embarrassment of mentioning his/her name, but suffice it to say I'm packing up plenty of knitting to keep me occupied. The last couple Cubs games have been spent working on these Sideways Mystery Mittens from Elizabeth Zimmermann's The Opinionated Knitter for the charity project Mittens for Detroit. Should be able to churn out another one while at the horse-pital.

Strange as it may sound, colonoscopies cannot be brought up in my family without us reminiscing about my late father. I could make a joke about my Old Man and a pain in the ass, but that would be too obvious. Actually, it has to do with a combination of his butchering of the English language and his tendency to tell the same story over and over. A couple decades ago he went for his first colonoscopy and in his telling (and retelling and retelling) they said, "You have huge, huge, huge polyps in your colon." (Always three huges and always with the same inflection.) Except he didn't say "polyps." He said "palettes." Huge, huge, huge palettes in his colon. Remember Archie Bunker and his frequent mispronunciations for comic effect? Yeah, that was our Old Man.

Just for my own amusement I made up a list of his top ten abuses:

10. Huge, huge, huge palettes, obviously.

9. He had a pain in his Achilles heel (pronounced uh-chill-ees).

8. He went to his yearly appointment at the urine-ologist.

7. He was having trouble with his rotator cup.

6. He could barely walk because of this ache in his butt-locks.

5. He just had his prostrate exam. (He also liked to call it the "finger wave,"
which he at least pronounced correctly.)

4. When they first came out, he bought him one of them George Foster grills.

3. He often went to the terlet (and thus his frequent visits to the urine-ologist).

2. He was annoyed by professional basketball player Shageel McNeal.

1. During the 2008 election season we had many discussions about
John McCann and his opponent, Barack O'bana.

Here's hoping today's patient is palette-free. Happy Monday, everyone.

SWEATING THE SWEATER

2015-04-11T11:45:00.001-07:00

I've been knitting for about five years and in that time I've done countless pairs of socks, scarves, ear warmers, and hats. I've done a handful of afghans, lots of bears for the Mother Bear Project, and a few pair of mittens. I'm always knitting something and have developed a crafty form of ADD which causes the inability to simply watch t.v. or a movie without knitting needles in my hands (a fact which embarrasses my daughter at a movie theater to no end).

The February Baby Sweater

The one thing I had not managed was an adult sweater. I've done baby sweaters and am particularly fond of Elizabeth Zimmermann's February Baby Sweater from The Knitter's Workshop. The thought of jumping from something tiny and relatively quick to something that would span my girth was a little daunting. Last fall, though, I decided to cast on for a sweater of my own. Six months later I have knit (and unraveled) five of them. I knit a sixth that is still intact and I just finished the seventh. Ding! Ding! Ding! I think we have a winner.

This gull pattern would have been
so pretty in an adult size.

I'd love to show you photos of my misadventures in sweater-making, but each time I started unraveling the second I realized it was a dud, figuring the quicker I turned the malformed sweater into wound balls of yarn the less time I'd spend thinking how many hours I wasted making it. Because of my love of the aforementioned Zimmermann baby sweater, I wanted to make an adult version a lady developed. (Free pattern found here.) I made it and it was too large. Not only too large, it seemed to hang off me as attractively as an over sized hospital gown...made of wool yarn. Immediately unraveled.

All that remains of
The Tomten Jacket.

Next was my attempt at another Zimmermann pattern, The Tomten Jacket. (Found in Knitting Without Tears or through Schoolhouse Press here.) I had made a child's version for Foghorn when she was smaller and she got a fair amount of use out of it considering it was about 10% too small and she grew quickly. Anyway, I knit this baby up in the same burgundy yarn I'd used on the February Lady Sweater above, but added a couple stripes of rose colored yarn around the bottom since this thing was nothing but garter stitch and I thought might be too plain. I finished. It was huge. Now, for the non-knitters let me explain about gauge. When you see a gauge listed in a pattern, it tells you how many stitches/rows per inch the pattern is based on. Smart people make a test swatch and see if their gauge matches the pattern. If not, they need to change the needle size until the correct gauge is achieved. On the first two sweaters I did not make a swatch, but I did check the gauge after I'd knit a portion of the sweater itself and in both cases it seemed correct. In the case of The Tomten Jacket, it wasn't just that it was too big, but that I misunderstood that this thing has super deep arm holes, so when I measured from my underarm to where the sweater should end, my calculation didn't take into account that the armhole starts a good four or five inches below the armpit. Therefore, this thing was that much longer. Um, yeah. It looked less like a sweater and more like a horseman's duster. I realized, though, besides being too big, this thing was just not going to be my style. Too boxy and those giant sleeves just weren't going to work for me. Frogged again. (For the non-knitter, "frogged" mean unraveling your work. Rip-it. Rip-it.)

My third Shalom. I was
so sick of knitting this color by
then I never even bothered
to unravel it.

The third attempt was the Shalom Sweater, an extremely popular pattern out there on the Interwebs. (Available free here.) The problem with the Shalom Sweater is that it's written by an individual, not a professional pattern-maker, and has directions just for her size. This pattern is for a bust measurement of 32-34". Ummmm, I think my chest was bigger than that at birth. (Sorry, Mom.) I found various people on Ravelry (bless them) who had resized the pattern and tried to find one that seemed to roughly match my measurements. I did. I knitted it. It was huge. Seeing a pattern here? I decided I would be brilliant and re-knit the same pattern but with smaller needles. Dud. Then, and even I'm questioning why I wasn't stuck in a rubber room at this point, I unraveled it and knit it a third time. And it was a disaster. Okay, so maybe the Shalom Sweater was not for me.

Hey, it's at least wearable.

I gave up for a few months and then started scouring Ravelry for a new cardigan. I came upon a Leisure Arts pattern (found here) that, based on the model's jewelry and clothing, probably dates from the 80s. It was a long, simple, v-neck cardigan. Not as intricate as my other attempts, which is what I wanted. Something straightforward and relatively simple. I was a good little soldier and knitted a gauge swatch. Still, my tendency to knit big made me go a size down on the pattern. I finished a week or so ago and I wasn't completely displeased. It's not overly attractive, I admit. My husband looked at me as we prepared to leave for my mother's and said, "Aren't you going to change into something else?" Sensing my wrath (or perhaps catching a glimpse of my Charles Manson eyes) he quickly added, "It's a nice sweater...to wear around the house. But why don't you wear something else to go somewhere?" I actually considered this one a minor success. It's a little big (cursed again), but it fits like a sweater and it looks like the pattern picture and I even managed to sew all those seams competently. I slop around the house in it, but it wasn't the home run I was hoping for.

Fast forward to a week ago when, pumped up on Easter candy, I headed to Ravelry again. I found My Favorite Cardigan from Fancy Tiger Crafts (pattern here). It was a very simple sweater. No frills, no lacy pattern, no pockets. Just a basic cardigan. The pattern description mentioned that it was adjustable and there were several points during the process when it could be checked for fit. Revolutionary! I downloaded the pattern and used the JoAnn gift card and cash given to me by my mother and sister in my Easter baskets to get some yarn. I so lacked faith that this would work out that I chose Red Heart acrylic yarn in the color Grey Heather, which I'm currently using on a charity project for the Arkansas Special Olympics. I figured when this sweater-making session ended in tragedy, I'd use the unraveled yarn for the S.O. kids. By some miracle, that turned out to be unnecessary.

Vintage buttons stolen from my mother.
They were still in package and were originally $.15.

This one actually turned out right! It's not fancy and it's (dare I admit it) a little on the small side. I was so certain I would knit it too big, as I had every other one, that I sized down. Turns out that was a mistake. My gauge was spot on. Technically I could button the little darling, but it would look too much like a sausage in a casing for my taste so I'll just let it hang open until I lose those ten or fifteen pounds (which I'm sure is going to happen any year now). Yes, I made some errors. It's about an inch too long, as I misunderstood part of the instructions for the border. And I ended up not liking the look of five buttons on it after I made five button holes. Pretend you don't see those extra ones. All in all, though, I'm happy.

Bingo!

Of course, this is the sweater that caused someone-who-will-remain-nameless to shout, "Ahhhh! Ugly sweater alert!" Now I know what hand-knit goodness to make the little darling for Christmas. She didn't really want that new iPod anyway.

IT'S A GIVEN...

2015-04-10T15:39:00.000-07:00

Don't take this as a sign of how this week's been or my mental state at the moment. Just a few observations on my part. It's a given that:

The dog will get diarrhea on her evening walk if you only have one pooper scooper bag.
When you finish a hand-knit sweater you're actually happy with an obnoxious girl will say, "Ahhhhh! Ugly sweater alert!"
Your husband will wait until the light is burned out in the kitchen to write "light bulbs" on the grocery list.
The morning after your dogs kept you up half the night afraid of a storm your teenage son will want to have a serious conversation about his theories on aliens, the afterlife, and portals all combined...before he catches the bus at 6:30 a.m..
The night a beloved t.v. show is having the premiere of its first episode of the final season (to which you have been looking forward for six months), your baseball team will be playing its season opener. (Just so you know where my loyalties are, I watched Mad Men on Monday.)
When you're on the months-long waiting list for half a dozen popular books at the library, three will become available simultaneously.
Your husband will wait until your dishes are covered with a hard water film fresh from the dishwasher before writing "water softener salt" on the grocery list.
The evening you decide to ease your pain with a Little Debbie brownie you will discover some bastard ate the last one and left the empty box in the pantry. And all your kids' Easter candy is gone...as well as your own. And you sit typing at the computer trying desperately to talk yourself out of running down to the creamy whip for a medicinal banana split (or what I like to call "Housewife Heroin").

Have a good weekend, everybody!

A week of pouring rain?
Perfect time to roll in the back yard.

ERNIE AND DUROCHER

2015-04-09T13:54:00.000-07:00

The Professor & Foghorn with
the Ernie Banks statue outside
Wrigley Field in 2011.

Ernie Banks is arguably the most beloved player in Chicago Cubs history, known for his positive, upbeat personality. The Hall of Famer, "Mr. Cub", loved the game so much that he is known for his catchphrase of "let's play two." He passed away earlier this year and every Cubs fan is still in mourning. He stopped playing when I was a toddler, but I loved this man so much I seriously considered naming Foghorn "Ernestine."

In the late '60s and early '70s, towards the end of Banks' career, the Cubs were managed by Leo "The Lip" Durocher. He had been a member of the St. Louis Cardinals' rowdy "Gashouse Gang" of the 1930s, then went on to manage most famously the Dodgers. He earned the moniker "The Lip" with his salty tongue and brash manner and is (somewhat erroneously) credited with the phrase "nice guys finish last". I've always had a thing about Durocher, probably because he appears on an episode of Mr. Ed along with a bunch of the L.A. Dodgers. And I don't care what anybody says, seeing a horse run the bases and then slide into home, depositing his hoof squarely on home plate is one of the funniest things ever. Since I was/am a big Mr. Ed fan, I think I developed a fondness for Leo at an early age.

A year ago I read a book about Wrigley Field and the Cubs and it mentioned that "The Lip" was not fond, to say the least, of Ernie Banks. He criticized Banks' playing, among other things, but I have a feeling we also had a major clash of temperaments. Banks was light, Durocher was dark. Banks was cheerful, Durocher gruff. You get the idea.

Daisy & The Professor

When Daisy entered our lives last year she immediately bowled me over with her enthusiasm for life. For the first week I caged her at night since I wasn't sure what she might do and when let loose in the morning she would race out, squealing with joy, propeller tail whirling around, and immediately locate the nearest toy. St. Jimmi would come wandering in so she could go out to potty and Daisy would rush up to her. I always imagined her saying, "Oh, Jimmi! It's so wonderful! It's morning! And today we get to eat and pee and play with toys! Oh, boy! Oh, boy!" Jimmi would take one look at her and let loose with her howls, a sour expression on her face. This was repeated every morning. Daisy was ready to greet the day with a smile. Jimmi was ready to figuratively hike her leg on it.

Daisy started getting the same surly reaction from Jimmi on a nearly hourly basis. Jimmi was mad if Daisy tried to play with her or approached her at the water bowl or tried to climb on the couch with her or tried to look out the same window. Not surprisingly, Jimmi earned herself the nickname "Durocher." While the nickname of "Ernie" for my basset didn't stick, Jimmi has continued to be called Durocher. She's mostly adjusted to Daisy, although she's still very vocal, and Daisy's mischievous side has emerged, making her intentionally push Jimmi's buttons. I always compare Jimmi's anger to a tea kettle put on to boil. Daisy will be in her face, trying to get her to play or aggravating her on purpose, and Jimmi's eyes will start to get big. Then her nose and lips start to quiver. Her chest begins to heave. And then, whoosh! Like a tea kettle suddenly whistling, the steam comes out of the dog's ears and she explodes in a howl that could puncture the eardrum. And Daisy finds that very funny. She stands wagging her tail and watching Jimmi scream and looks around like, "Isn't this fun? Let's play two!"

** While I don't have any video of Durocher giving Daisy what-for, I do have some footage of her reaction to a seven year old Foghorn who was being too loud and rowdy:

MEET DAISY DUKE

2015-04-08T11:42:00.000-07:00

"Adopt Me"

I had no intention of rushing out for another dog when my beloved Frank died. I was too raw and distraught and we already had St. Jimmi, so it's not like the house was lacking canine energy. There was also the issue of Jimmi herself. Jimmi is not mean. Jimmi is...bossy. And sometimes loud and definitely opinionated, especially when faced with someone she finds annoying. Usually this annoying creature was poor Frank, who really never did a thing to her, but that didn't stop her from doing her "fish wife" routine, as my mother called it. She'd get pissed at him and start this loud, incessant howling that could go on for ten, fifteen minutes sometimes. She'd get right next to his ear and let him have it. He'd try to walk away and she'd follow, like an infuriated wife, hollering as if saying, "And let me tell you one other thing..." The only person who really gets her going is Foghorn. When Jimmi has reached her limit, Foghorn gets the same howling routine as Frank and if that fails to shut her up, Jimmi trees her on the couch as if she were a two-legged raccoon. In other words, Jimmi is the alpha dog and that can present difficulties when bringing a new dog into the house.

I didn't actively look for a dog last summer, although I kept an eye on the listings from Recycled Doggies, one of my favorite rescue groups and the folks who gave us St. Jimmi. Besides needing a mid-sized model with a temperament that could get along with our Bluetick Coonhound's, there was a the small matter of her matching my personality. My ideal dog would probably be one of those yawning bloodhounds from Hee-Haw. I like a dog who gets enthusiastic about walks and likes to fetch toys -- but in moderation. After a walk or fifteen minutes of play, my perfect dog then wants to cuddle up with me for a nice nap. Hound dogs have always worked out well for me for that reason.

As I say, I wasn't actively looking, but by August I did find myself checking not only Recycled Doggies but other shelters and rescues on PetFinder as well. I kept saying the right dog would find me, as they always seem to do. Of course, that didn't mean I shouldn't keep my eye open... Then one day I found a dog on the Animal Adoption Foundation's Petfinder page. Her name was Sandy, found as a stray during a storm. She was a basset hound mix mixed with probably golden retriever or yellow lab and as soon as I saw those sad, droopy eyes, I thought we had a winner. Bassets are generally pretty laid back, a nice way of saying lazy. She was described as getting along well with cats, kids, and dogs, all important in this house.

Getting ready to head home.

I sent an email asking if she was available, which she was, and mentioned that I'd like to come and see her on Saturday. We arrived at the shelter, a good 40 minutes away, all four of us plus Jimmi, only to find that Sandy wasn't there. She was out at an adoption event at a comic book store. Would have been nice to have known that. I suddenly went from not being in a hurry for another dog to being frantic some Fantastic Four junkie would scoop her up before we could get there. Back in the car and raced down the expressway and pulled into the parking lot on two wheels. Okay, I didn't really drive like that, but my husband swears I did. We walked in the door and there she was. While she can certainly put on that sad basset face, at that moment we saw her usual face, smiling and cheerful with sparkling eyes. She stood on four short legs with an "Adopt Me" vest around her middle, her tail going in circles like a helicopter. I bent over to say hello and she was all over me. I sat on the floor and in half a second she was cuddled in my lap, happily accepting the pats of my husband and daughter. The Professor was waiting in the van with Jimmi, so we walked Sandy outside and let the two get to know each other. Since we weren't on Jimmi's turf it was hard to tell if there would be issues, but we didn't immediately have a snarling fight and that seemed like a good sign. They mostly ignored each other while the rest of us fell in love with this little blonde beauty.

Orange collar with black name tag to
match The General Lee.
NO Confederate flag.

We filled out paperwork that day and went to the shelter on Sunday to bring her home. I had toyed with various names connected with my various obsessions. Since St. Jimmi was named for a character in Green Day's American Idiot she could have been Billie Joe (for the lead singer) or Whatsername (for another character). Wrigley was seriously considered for my love of Chicago's Friendly Confines. And then, of course, she could have been Carol Brady after my BFF. Ultimately, though, my childhood obsession with The Dukes of Hazzard won out. Sheriff Rosco on the show had a basset named Flash and although this new dog looked nothing like the traditional brown, black, and white basset, I decided to go with Daisy Duke. As my sister pointed out the name was all the more funny (and therefore fitting, in a strange way) because she looks nothing like the long-legged cocktail waitress from the series.

Snacking has its challenges.

Daisy is everything I wanted in a dog. She's mostly easy going and fairly quiet. We were shocked by her bark when it first came out, though. It's very deep and is a bit disconcerting given her appearance, kind of like Christie Brinkley speaking with Barry White's voice. She's a first class cuddler and immediately made herself at home in my bed. The cats hate her, which is to be expected, but she's not aggressive with them. She does, however, enjoy chasing them which does not go over well. Like most hound dogs she's a bit of a hungry gut and despite her stature has managed to steal hamburgers off the kitchen counter. She's unfortunately a chewer, which can cause problems when she's left alone. Often I try to move as much as possible to high ground before leaving for an extended period (read: longer than ten minutes). Dogs, like people, have their good traits and bad and I accept hers even if I'm not always thrilled by them. Overall she's been the perfect dog for filling the void left by my devoted sweet Frank.

Within two minutes of entering her new home,
Daisy found the toy box.

Half an hour later, after pulling every
toy out of the box, she was ready
for a nap.

Too bad she can't relax.

And, yes, I do go around singing, "Just the good old dog, never meanin' no harm..."

IT'S BEEN A LONG, LONG TIME

2015-04-07T15:25:00.000-07:00

The last post I wrote was on May 8, 2014. That's one day short of eleven months. I'd like to say it's because my life has been a whirl of exciting adventures in those roughly 333 days since. Yeah, I'd like to say that. In fact, it's been the usual mix of despair, joy, heartbreak, laughter, and worry that make up most lives.

The Cliff's Notes version of the last year, following the death of my dog, included my sister having cancer, my brother's dog dying, my children being surly teenagers, us adopting a new dog, my other brother's dog dying, going through a Christmas season when I was so grouchy I really didn't want to put up my decorations, turning 45, and getting a subscription to MLB Network so I can see all the Cubs games this year. I know other things happened in between, both good and bad, but if you asked me to describe the last year, that's pretty much it. Nothing earth-shatteringly bad, no lottery wins, just life. And that, unfortunately, does not explain why I haven't written a word. My life is always very...lifey, so why the drought?

The Inmates - Easter 2005

I put most of it on my daughter, Foghorn, who has morphed from an obnoxious, loud, difficult, opinionated child to an obnoxious, loud, difficult, opinionated teenager. Except she's eleven. And don't think the thought of the next seven years or so don't make me break out in hives. See, she was my biggest source of material and while many people probably found her overbearing and in need of a good slap, they often found her antics amusing because a) it wasn't happening to them and b) it was happening to me. Now that she's about half an inch shorter than her mom and in full command of a teenager's vocabulary I doubt people would find her so funny. What's mildly annoying in a six year old becomes flat out rude, crude, and infuriating in a pseudo-teenager and makes people ask, "What's wrong with you? Get a grip on her!" And I can't disagree with them...if only I knew how. Don't get me wrong. We're not talking drugs or shoplifting or sneaking out in the night to meet middle-aged-men-pretending-to-be-adolescent-boys. We're talking insolent and stubborn. She steadfastly refuses to go anywhere with any of us anymore and on the rare occasions when forced (my birthday party, Easter Sunday at Grandma's), she snarls at everyone and makes sure they know how lame she finds them, which is always very lame. She rarely leaves her room and is a self-described "hermit," leading Uncle Chester to start calling her Hermie. And, yes, I now torture her by singing, "Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a knit wit..."

Foghorn - Easter 2015

So, with my main writing material gone and people not interested in a blog composed of nothing but my knitting projects (I'm not that talented of a knitter), what do I write about? I'm not overly fascinating. I don't do a whole lot. I've become that stereotypical 40-ish woman (I refuse to say I'm middle aged) whose kids don't really need her anymore or, more accurately, have nothing but disdain for her, who raised kids instead of having a job, and now finds herself saying, "What the hell do I do with the next four decades?!?" The obvious answer should be do all that writing that you haven't done in the last 16+ years because you've been raising children. Yeah, except I'm not sure I want to do that anymore. Getting published always was hard (as evidenced by the millions of hours of my life spent writing and the relatively small amount of published pieces I have to show for it) and it's arguably harder now than ever. I have trouble doing something without a purpose. No, I don't get paid for knitting, but I have a finished product I can be happy with, that I can gift to friends or relatives (or friends' dogs) or charities. I'm not just producing something that will sit in a drawer. My history of writing feels like I've knit 721 scarves...and they're all in Rubbermaid bins stuffed in the bedroom closet. I'm not sure I have the ambition it takes to try to get published anymore. It seems like such a sad waste of effort when I could be doing something productive like knitting while binge-watching Mad Men on Netflix.

While I haven't figured all that out yet one thing I did realize is that if I don't write something with some regularity, my ability to put two cohesive sentences together might leave me entirely. Thus my reason for this post. Or I may have just wanted to publicly whine about my kids. I do like to do that...a lot. No, fear not, my intention is not to turn this blog into endless posts about my midlife crisis and search for self. I'd write a book about it but, hey, the bookstore shelves are full of those already. It'll just be my usual blog, but without as many stories of my children. Hmmmmm...feel free to unsubsribe now.

They never should have introduced me to
Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey

GOOD-BYE

2014-05-08T09:20:00.000-07:00

"Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear."

-- Rudyard Kipling

I knew this day would come, sooner rather than later, but I still wasn't prepared to have my sweet dog, Frank, put to sleep. He's been battling Lymphoma since last August and generally has been doing very well. Unfortunately, time has a way of tearing apart the body just as much as illness. He was about 13 years old, past the life expectancy for a dog his size. He'd gradually lost his hearing and a lot of his eyesight and often seemed a little out of it, like he wasn't sure where he was. Still, he enjoyed his walks and was enthusiastic about going to "Grandma's house" on Sundays for lunch and loved nothing more than hanging his head out of the window as we cruised down the road.

Back in January I thought I was going to lose him. He wasn't eating and he was panting heavy and he wouldn't stop pacing the floor. His back legs seemed to sag under his weight and he refused to lower himself to the ground. He spent a couple days at MedVet and after numerous tests they diagnosed him with pancreatitis. It broke me to see this poor dog looking so ill. I think part of his problem was they had him very doped up on painkillers, but he was obviously agitated, probably not sure why he was being left at the vet's and why things hurt and why he didn't want to eat. Even after he came home, it was several weeks before he was back to what passed for normal those days. I swore to myself that I wouldn't put him through that again. From the beginning my big concern was that he not suffer, that the quality of his days was more important than the quantity.

Last evening he didn't seem himself. I took him for a walk and he was very draggy and barely sniffed and moved at a snail's pace. Later I could see that he wasn't eating and I couldn't get his medications in him, even wrapped in a piece of lunch meat. He vomited and was trembling mildly and couldn't seem to get comfortable. This morning when I got up early to get my high schooler out the door, Frank was pacing the house, shaking and panting heavily and refusing to lie down or eat. This was too familiar. I warned the kids before they left that I was worried about him and it wasn't impossible I might have to have him put to sleep, that they should say their good-byes just in case. By the time the youngest got on the bus, Frank was obviously in bad shape. I went to my mother for advice since she loves dogs every bit as much as I. She thought it was time to let him go. My husband agreed.

The folks at Village Animal Hospital squeezed him in at 10:30 and couldn't have been kinder. My husband and I stroked Frank's head as the vet shaved his leg and then injected him. I had been crying all morning, but even my husband, who is not nicknamed "The Vulcan" for nothing, shed a few tears as Frank slipped peacefully away.

Young Frank with Baby Foghorn

When Frank turned up in the neighborhood back in 2001, neighbors tried unsuccessfully to find his owners. When that didn't work and none of them were able to keep him, I took Frank, hoping to find a no kill shelter that would accept him. I was 8 months pregnant and had a four year old son besides. We already had a spoiled beagle and a cat and my husband kept saying, "Don't get attached to him. We're not keeping him." I really did try to place him elsewhere. One no-kill worker told me they'd take it to their "dog committee," but it was unlikely they'd take him in. "Unfortunately black dogs of his size are a dime a dozen," she said. "We don't like to take them because they're hard to adopt out."

Patiently tolerating the pearl bracelet
Foghorn put on him

So, Frank stayed with us and was the best dog anyone could ask for. He was sweet and cuddly, gentle with the kids and never protective of his food or toys. He tolerated being bossed around by the beagle and the cat and later another cat and another hound dog. He put up with the numerous weddings Foghorn staged in the living room, more often than not with him as the groom and dutifully wore a paper ring on one of his toenails. I poured out my troubles to him, since he (unlike some people I know) looked me right in the eye as I talked and was always sympathetic. I cried into his fur over everything from death and illness to baseball losses. My father loved him so much he insisted that the dog's picture be put in his coffin when he died. I obliged. Frank was doted on by my mother and sister. And he adored them in return. In short, he was the ideal family dog.

Often over the years I've thought of the shelter worker who called dogs like him "a dime a dozen." Was she crazy? This dog was one in a million.

Rest in peace, my sweet boy.
You'll never be forgotten.

A TOTALLY GROOVY BIRTHDAY

2014-03-19T14:47:00.001-07:00

With a little help from my daughter's dolls,
all my gifts were on display at my mother's.
Yep, lousy photo. Took it with my phone
under bad lighting.

Okay, yes, I know I use that word way too much, but there are times when there is no word I can substitute for groovy. There's a nuance that isn't there if I say "fun" or "cool" or "awesome."

I wrote after Christmas about how I received this ~~groovy~~ cool American Girl knock-off doll and had big plans for decorating her room (actually the top of a mission style cabinet) in true 70s fashion. I did the doll bed in January. After months of anticipation, my ~~8th~~ 44th birthday finally arrived and with it the most ~~groovy~~ awesome gifts ever! Some were asked for, some were surprises. All were GROOVY!

I apologize now for the photos. I'd like to blame it on my camera, but it's probably just my general incompetence. Don't hold it against the girls...

In case you're wondering about the Double Mint twins on the left, my mom and sister had to purchase another knock-off doll to act as a mannequin for fittings. The second from left is Echo. Foghorn's Kit and Kainani dolls are on the right and were quickly stripped of their clothing after this photo shoot and given back to their owner.

Denim skirt by my mother.
Crocheted hat and sweater by my sister.

An American Girl promotion item from Wrigley
Field and ordered from eBay. Of course she needed
a Cubs jersey. Shorts by my mother.

Granny square poncho by my sister.
Jeans by my mother.

Funky fur hat, vest, and purse, as well
as crocheted purple pants by my sister.
Shirt and socks by my mother.

Echo in her new romper and bandana
showing off her green shag foot rug.

Remember those?!? Echo's tape recorder and record
player. My record player had Kaptain Kool and the Kongs
on it.

My sister did the tie-dyed shirt and leather
vest. She wanted to give it Roger Daltrey
fringe but couldn't make it work.
The colors in the shirt remind me of the one
Joe Cocker wore at Woodstock.

Every girl needs a terrarium...and framed David Cassidy album cover.

My sister made the doll jewelry box, as well as the bling inside.


My sister crocheted the ultimate accessories - shag pillow and rug. And a chair in my hideously beautiful 70s colors!

Seat lifts for storage! Perfect place for her to stash her
16 Magazines.

Crocheted doll dress by my sister.

Hooded cape sewn by my mother.

Crocheted jacket, hat, and purse by my sister.

Socks by my mother.
Duct tape shoes by my sister.

I swear my sister had a shirt just like this
in 1972. Dress by my mother. Leather
bracelet (with name etched) from my sister.

Could it get groovier? My sister crafted an owl necklace
for me and a matching one for my doll. Oh, my!

Okay, these shoes just came from eBay, but I had a pair just
like them in the first grade! I can still see myself in my plaid
uniform, flowered shoes, and Scooby Doo lunch box.

Yep, sometimes it pays to have crafty relatives. You couldn't purchase groovy stuff like this at any price.

And for folks who are interested in whipping up some accessories for their ~~own~~ daughters' dolls, here are some helpful links:

1) Instructions for making the socks can be found at Karen Mom of Three's Craft blog here.

2) Instructions for duct tape shoes can be found at Sew Adollable here and here.

3) Instructions for the barrel chair can be found at Cobbler's Cabin here.

4) Instructions for the t-shirt can be found at Second Chance Studio here.

5) Many of the crocheted clothing items came from Crochet for Dolls: 25 Fun, Fabulous Outfits for 18-Inch Dolls by Nicky Epstein.

AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL DISCOVERY

2014-01-30T08:20:00.000-08:00

My metal nemesis on the right.

My oven bit the dust last week. Actually, my oven has been dying a slow, painful, lingering death for years now. The thing has never baked evenly, necessitating the turning of every cake pan and cookie sheet midway. Five years ago the electronic display that shows time and temperature and cooking mode started working only periodically. My husband assured me this was not an issue and I simply needed to press in the display itself a few times until it lit up. This worked...sometimes. Three years ago the display went out entirely. With no idea what the temperature inside actually was, I had to turn it on and then count by fives as I pressed the arrow, hoping that my addition was correct. Did I mention my husband didn't see this as a problem either?

Six months ago the beast began crying out in pain. Fifteen to twenty minutes into baking, the oven would started to beep insistently. It very well may have been displaying some error code that I could have looked up in our manual, but, see, the display didn't light up... The Vulcan saw this as no issue and explained, with that look of condescension typical of computer engineers and auto mechanics, that if I pressed the up arrow, then the down arrow, then pushed the display in, the beeping would stop. This worked...sometimes. With increasing frequency it didn't. Last time the heating element was replaced I tried to have the display fixed, but was told the good old Magic Chef was so old they no longer made the part. Still, my insistence on a new oven fell on deaf (and parsimonious) ears. Had this been, say, the main television set acting this way or, heaven forbid, a computer monitor, it would have been handled long ago. Not that I'm bitter.

During the holidays I got hollered at during the baking process and it failed to hush more and more frequently when I used my husband's technique of jabbing the various buttons. This made for an interesting holiday season, especially when I needed to use it for 40 minutes straight for my candied sweet potatoes. It yelled at me and I poked buttons and it quieted down...for three minutes. Then it called me again. Rinse and repeat. I found myself standing in my living room, screaming at the ceiling so that my husband above in his office would know just how unhappy I was. He pretended not to hear.

I've spent the last month with children home more often than not, thanks to snowstorms and arctic temperatures. The Inmates picked January to decide to binge on cake and I baked them nearly as fast as they ate them. And my temper got shorter and shorter. No longer was the oven content to silence himself for a few minutes if I pushed his buttons just right. Now he refused to shut up at all unless he was turned off completely. If I shut it off all the way and let it sit for five minutes and then turned it on again, it went ahead and finished baking...sometimes. And ~~that thick-headed cretin~~ my husband simply said, "It works okay for me."

I am not saying he resembles my husband...
but you feel free to do so.

Why, you may ask, was he so reluctant to get rid of the oven? Well, according to him, it was a very expensive oven. He may be right. It came with the house when we moved in 14 years ago and it was a well used piece of equipment at that time. It was big and had a convection oven at the top which we never once turned on. The former owners apparently lived a much different life than the Vulcan and I because after they left we continued to get their catalogs for $300 men's dress shoes. My husband has a pair of loafers 25 years old. So, I have no doubt these fine folks bought a really high quality oven. But they bought it decades ago and I couldn't understand why that meant that if it stopped working we had to keep it. I guess if somebody had willed us a 1905 Rolls Royce we'd still have it instead of the minivan despite the fact that it had no heat and had to be hand-cranked. See, it was expensive...

I finally popped my cork last week when even my method of turning the oven completely off and back on stopped working. I tried to make my grandmother's Swiss Steak recipe and spent hours running back and forth to the kitchen arguing with the oven to keep cooking. I finally dumped the mess in a crockpot and emailed my husband asking if he wanted to go shopping on Wednesday or Thursday. Not if. I asked when.

Monday the Best Buy guys arrived with my new oven. As they were preparing to haul the old one away, one of the deliverymen said, "Have you been cooking in this this morning? The 'hot surface' light is on." I had to explain that the light always stayed on and I hadn't used it since the night before. He looked the old Magic Chef over and said, "Man, I haven't seen one like this in ages." They had a good time trying to get it out as it was abominably heavy and bulky. As they prepared to bring in my new unit, the guy called me out to the truck saying they unwrapped it and it was damaged. Damaged?!? Turns out it had a dent in the rear left portion and since it was going to go between cabinets and wouldn't show, I said I didn't care as long as it was functional. I'm supposed to get a call from the warehouse about a price adjustment, but nobody's bothered to get a hold of me yet... Not that I'm bitter.

So, the new unit was put in place. Since the Magic Chef had an attached convection oven, it was a good 6 feet tall and just made it under the cabinet above. Last time I painted the room I had no desire to try to move that mammoth thing, so I just painted around it, knowing that behind was off-white paint that would have to be covered some day. What I didn't expect was the flash from the past that awaited me:

"Here's the story...of a lovely lady..."

Our house was built in 1978 and I can only assume I'm looking at a patch of the original wallpaper. It's avocado and tangerine colored flowers and it's hideously beautiful. I can only imagine when my entire kitchen was papered in that Carol Brady-style goodness. As expected, I have a stove's width patch of wall to paint, but I'm thinking that wallpaper is gonna stay. A groovy little stripe of history right above my range. I mean, if you uncovered the foundation to an 18th century summer kitchen in your backyard while excavating for an inground pool, you wouldn't just pull out the bricks and discard, would you? Well, maybe you would, but I wouldn't. I love historical little bits and when you find something old and groovy that you didn't even know was there, you're obligated to preserve it...no matter what husband or children say about the disgusting colors.

And to my old Magic Chef, I serenade you:

EVERY CHICK NEEDS A GROOVY PAD

2014-01-27T12:51:00.000-08:00

When Echo, my faux-American Girl doll, entered my life on Christmas, I knew immediately what I would be receiving for my March birthday. A doll that fab has to have a cool bedroom set to reside in and since I'm notoriously hard to buy for, I knew my family would be more than happy to let me pick out these accessories myself. (Yes, this will be for my 44th birthday. No, I don't think that's strange at all. Well, maybe I think it's a little strange, but the 70s bits you can buy for this doll are so...so...groovy that I just don't care if I look like a freak with arrested development.)

Groovy, but...ouch! The price!

While I'm willing to pay the relatively steep prices they want for the record player and tape recorder or the lunch box set, I bristled at the $125 they wanted for the doll bed. Granted, it has those cool love beads hanging down, but I still thought there had to be a cheaper alternative. A quick Google search and I found numerous sites with do-it-yourself American Girl beds that probably wouldn't have stretched my limited abilities with nails and carpenter's glue.

Sitting at my mother's kitchen table having lunch, I glanced to my left and saw her collection of little pitchers on this battered, wooden two-shelf unit. I immediately said, "I think that would just fit my doll." I happened to have the doll with me (I was harassing my sister about making Echo a poncho) and sure enough, the shelf was just the right length for her to lie flat and just wide enough. My mother graciously dumped her pitchers elsewhere and I carted it home.

Marcia, Marcia Marcia!

I gave the thing a couple coats of white semi-gloss and then went in search of fabric. My sister assumed I'd want it to be all Brady Bunch girls-inspired. I've mentioned many (many, many) times that as a kid I was absolutely obsessed with having their bedroom. Those funky 70s flowers on the wallpaper! Ah, heaven! However, Echo is going to reside most of the time in my family room and, most of the time, that room is decorated with my gorgeous retro decor in the avocado-tangerine-marigold color scheme. I needed fabric that would scream 1972 but that didn't clash with the other chotchkies in the space. We can't clash. That would be tacky.

Hobby Lobby let me down, but I found just the thing at JoAnn's:

I knew I had a winner when I showed it to my mother and she literally recoiled from the pattern. I was hoping to find fabric with owls, but anything with the birdy motif was either the wrong color or too nursery-oriented, or the owls were strange and bug-eyed and not groovy at all. Mushrooms were almost as good. And the fabric goes perfectly with my mushroom sign and my mushroom mug...

I'm not a fan of the sewing machine. I can knit for hours on end, but put me in front that damn Singer and I'm ready to beat myself over the head with it. I spent all of Friday evening, into the early hours of Saturday, working on the bedding. Then I got up Saturday morning and spent another hour and a half tweaking it some more. I have some OCD tendencies and like Monk the detective, I can't stand things that are crooked or asymetrical. The canopy kept coming out uneven and the bedspread billowed out instead of draping nicely by the sides. I finally solved the latter by just tucking the whole mess under the mattress. It's not like the doll is really going to use the bed. And, no, I don't intend to sit around playing with her. Even as a child I wasn't wild about dolls. Loved my stuffed animals, but dolls usually ended up with their heads shaved or on my dissecting table. (I just had to know what the inner workings of Baby Alive looked like.)

I made quick work of the mattress by using four folded cloth diapers from the basement, formerly my children's burp cloths. Much easier than trying to cut a piece of foam with an electric carving knife. The pillow is just stuffed with a wad of fiberfill.

And the result? Voila!

I'm a lousy photographer with a mediocre camera. I swear it actually looks pretty cute.

Caught in the act.

I have to say I'm pretty pleased. Even my sister admitted it looked better than she thought it would. I mean, she thinks the fabric is horrendous and vomit-worthy, but it totally is the look she knew I was going for. Unfortunately the doll and her bed reside on a long mission cabinet in the family room, just in front of this window-like opening that goes into the kitchen. The cats frequently use the table as a springboard to leap through the window and I have this strange feeling they'll constantly bump that bed and ruin the symmetry of the fabric. I'll probably spend half my life straightening the canopy and making sure there's equal white space showing on each side. Thank God the motif in the fabric wasn't in straight lines or I'd need some new medication.

The only question now is the love beads. Do I add them so that it more closely resembles the real thing or would adding beads to the wild fabric be overkill? The one thing I don't want to be is tacky.

QUESTIONS ON A SNOW DAY

2014-01-21T08:03:00.000-08:00

This has been a bizarre winter. The Inmates used up three of their allotted five snow days before the end of the year and shot through the other two before they returned to school in 2014. (Yes, that twitch in my right eye is the result of that two week break turning into a three week break.) We've had bitterly cold days with subzero temperatures and winds that would sear your cheeks if you didn't have them covered.

This past Friday was an in-service day and yesterday, of course, was Martin Luther King Day, so the kids enjoyed a nice four-day weekend. And much to my horror the snow started last night and this morning the text came through that school was cancelled and now it's a five-day weekend. And there's this thing called a polar vortex heading our way... Not that I'm bitter.

I do, however, have a few questions:

1. Why do my children, who are normally blessed with abundant health and sufficient energy, turn into enervated masses of flesh when it's time to shovel the driveway?

2. Why do my dogs choose the coldest, iciest, snowiest days to follow me around the house, expectantly staring at their leashes on the hook every time I wander into the kitchen?

3. Why does my request to leave the video games for half an hour and go walk the dogs with me meet with the same reaction as if I said, "Let's all go for rectal exams"?

4. Why does my son, who is capable of making crepes from scratch, spend every snow day requesting food from me as if I were a short order cook? And why does his hearing, which never misses a word when watching Supernatural, suddenly fail him when I holler, "Make yourself a sandwich!"

5. And last, but certainly not least, why the hell do the snow days have to come at the end of an already long break?!?

This picture a friend sent me this morning sums up the sentiments of every mother I know:

FAB AND FAMOUS FELLOW KNITTERS

2014-01-16T10:32:00.001-08:00

Foghorn modeling the
Miss Marple Scarf for
my mother

Just as cold January days make one think of soup and hot chocolate, it also makes me think of wool and knitting. Yes, I have knitting on the brain in the summer as well (and the spring and the fall), but there is something about gloomy, snowy days that just cry out for woven yarn draped across a lap. Having finished my son's latest pair of socks, I turned to some rose colored tweed wool and a pattern for a Miss Marple scarf for myself. Although I didn't learn to knit until I was past 40, I longed to do it from an early age, probably going back to grade school when I watched Wilma Flintstone work with a pair of brontosaurus bones chanting, "knit one, purl two, knit one, purl two." When I was 12 I became addicted to Agatha Christie mysteries and wanted desperately to be like her elderly sleuth, Miss Marple, who could solve a murder while knitting a baby sweater for her goddaughter.

Joan Hickson as Miss Marple,
solving crime in the Caribbean

Once I caught the knitting bug and actually mastered it enough to make something wearable, I began to mentally gather a roster of fellow knitters. While my husband may find my tendency to publicly knit embarrassing, I know I'm in good company. Just consider the company I keep:

Joan Crawford -- no man dared tell
her not to knit in public.

She may not have been Mother of the Year, but Joan Crawford was a compulsive knitter. She claimed it calmed her "nervous hands". It had the added bonus of screwing with her acting contemporaries. Joan famously aggravated the crap out of Norma Shearer during the filming of The Women by sitting out of camera range when Ms. Shearer was filming her close-ups, needles clicking away the whole time. I'm sure this was merely a woman completely caught up in her handicraft and in no way was meant to break a ~~competitor's~~ fellow actor's concentration.

Eleanor Roosevelt

Eleanor Roosevelt is known as one of the most accomplished first ladies in history, champion for the poor and women and minorities. She was also arguably the most famous knitter for the war effort in the 1940s. In fact she helped start the whole WWII knitting campaign at a Knit for Defense tea held at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York in September of 1941. She went on to become known as "The First Knitter of the Land."

OK, this guy's fictional, but I adore him nonetheless. Pushing Daisies fans will know him as Emerson Cod, the private eye. His catch phrase, "Oh, hell no!" is very popular in my household. When not solving crimes, he likes to relax with a couple straight needles and manly colored yarn. How can you not love a big, burly detective who can knit his own gun holster?

Christina Hendricks

How can you not love a gal who made curves popular again and showed that not every grown woman has to have the measurements of a 13 year old boy. As Joan on Mad Men, she wiggled into the hearts of guys all over Manhattan. Maybe she should take a tip from her real life counterpart and knit Don Draper a nice fair isle sweater. Maybe that's what has been throwing him into the arms of all those women. The poor man is just cold.

Dorothy Parker with knitting bag
(and some dude, maybe a husband)

"If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be a bit surprised." How can you not love Dorothy Parker? I lack her writing talent, but she and I have the same distaste for the domestic drudgery of cooking and cleaning. (Unlike Ms. Parker, I do those activities, while she reportedly threw dirty underwear back in the drawer with the clean and just let her maid figure it out.) Like her, I also think "a little bad taste is like a dash of paprika." I just wish I'd been clever enough to come up with the line. Anyway, in a bit of a paradox she happened to also have been an avid knitter. Perhaps she composed all her quotable quips while her hands were occupied with a nice garter stitch scarf and her mind was free to wander.

The list of famous knitters is long and ranges from Sarah Jessica Parker to Queen Elizabeth. There are even reports of some men getting in the act. While I doubt the picture is truly a candid shot from personal life, I at least like the idea of the company I keep...

MY OLD MAN

2014-01-07T09:08:00.002-08:00

My father is rarely mentioned on this blog. I'm not sure why that is. He passed away in 2009, so he couldn't sue me for anything I write. My siblings all I know whatever I say, now matter how absurd it sounds, is probably the truth. The old man was, at his best, aggravating and crotchety. At his worst...well, we won't touch on that. My mother, who has the patience of Job, divorced him after 25 years of marriage. In this day and age that marriage wouldn't last two years. She often comments that we can't get through a holiday (or sometimes a weekend) without him being mentioned. I remind her that we're not remembering him fondly and lovingly. We're usually remembering some crude remark or annoying habit or his Archie Bunker-like abuse of the English language.

Over the weekend I was doing some decluttering and found an e-mail I sent to my sister at work more than a decade ago. At the time I was about eight weeks pregnant with my first child, deathly ill with morning sickness, and had told no one but my mother and sister. We lived in a tiny house then, situated on one of the busy main streets of our small city and had no on-street parking. This is relevant to the story. I reprint the e-mail here, exactly as I wrote it to her (questionable punctuation and all). I couldn't capture my father better if I wrote six pages of pure description. The thing is, I got phone calls from him like the one I write about several times a day on average. He was also the king of having a discussion, hanging up the phone, giving you just enough time to get back to whatever you were doing, then ringing again. The Helen mentioned in the e-mail was my stepmother. She divorced him later...not surprisingly.

September 28, 1998

I'm curled up in a fetal position, trying to keep the room from spinning, when the phone rings. Thinking it might be the roofer who is supposed to show up sometime early this week for my estimate, I answer it. "Yeah...call me back." I know dozens of people with phones and answering machines, yet only my old man makes me constantly call him back to check to see if his answering machine is working. Apparently he had the flashing light, but when he hit play nothing happened.

So, I call back and leave a message. The phone rings a few minutes later. "Yeah?" he says. "Yeah?" I say. "Well, you gonna leave a message?," he says. "I already did," I say. Well, he didn't hear Helen's voice and he didn't hear me. I tell him I left it and was he sure the volume wasn't turned down. "The what?" The volume switch. "What's that?" The switch that lets you control how loud or soft the voices are. You can turn it off if you're taking a nap or something. "I have a on/off switch," he says. No, a VOLUME switch. He then reads me all the switches he DOES have, none of which are volume. He then goes into asking me when we're going to blacktop the driveway. I said we're not gonna do it this year. He then tells me the stuff's on sale and I repeat we don't want to do it this year.

He goes back to explaining to me for the fifth time how he gets the blinking light but nobody's voice. I said are you SURE there's no volume switch? What about on the side of the thing? Yep, there it is. He didn't even know there was such a thing on there. I tell him to turn it up. He says he doesn't know which way is up. I say turn it the opposite direction from where it is now and see if it plays. He tells me he can't hear messages when he's on the phone! I tell him to hang up and listen.

A few minutes later the phone rings. Yep, he got Hazel's message and my message. Helen must have hit it while dusting (he tells me twice). Then, I'm told to pray for Helen's surgery and he goes on about that before going BACK to harassing me about the blacktop. "Hell, they got all the stuff on sale, even the brush." I tell him my husband is having too much trouble at work right now to be bothered with that. "Hell, he don't have to do nothin'." I tell him my husband is the one who'll have to park four blocks way in the subdivision across the street and walk home all the time. "Why can't we park in the grass?" We can, but we can't get to the grass if the driveway is wet with blacktop. "Why can't we go over the curb? Why can't we put a piece of wood over the curb and drive up it?" I said that the street's too busy. I can't be putting hunks of wood in the road. People'll just knock it down and drag it halfway down the street. "Okay," he says, all dejected.

Giving a drunken rendition of "Up Against the Wall, You
Redneck Mother" at his second wedding reception.

My sister commented at the time that she could just see him with that damn phone machine in his hand, turning it every which way trying to find the volume dial, as well as jamming the play button over and over and getting wilder and wilder because there was no voice coming out. She shared the e-mail with friends, noting that this was his "benevolent side."

I found this pin in my father's possessions just before he died. Yes, I pinned it inside the suit in which he was buried. He always said he wanted to be buried upside down so the world could kiss his ass. This was as close as I could get.