Better Than Yarn

Genevieve, enter stage left

2012-01-15T23:28:00.000-08:00

On January 3rd at 4:07PM, I gave birth to our daughter.

Genevieve Danger, day 1: 6lbs 11 oz, 19" long

She's utterly fantastic. It's insane how much I love her. She makes the most amazing faces, and is (so far) pretty easygoing. She cries when she's hungry or wet, but that's it. Seriously.

She smells amazing, and she snuggles like it's going out of style. Also? She has crazy fantastic dimples, which I'm hoping to catch on camera. Because the cuteness will kill you.

Napping in Andrew's arms

She sleeps pretty well (about four hours at a time at night), so we have no complaints. Andrew is an amazing father; he changes (cloth!) diapers like a champ, and he's been taking fantastic care of me, too. I'm really happy that his company has such a phenomenal paternity leave arrangement.

My parents have been over the moon over Genevieve (who we've been referring to as "DangerMouse", since she yawns like a mouse), and the only issue seems to be that whoever isn't holding Genevieve thinks the person who *is* holding her is "bogarting the baby". (A term that has been bandied about quite frequently around here.)

Genevieve holding Andrew's finger

I've gotten a lot of questions about the particulars of her birth, and how Genevieve is doing, so I'm going to do my best to answer them here.

The dogs:

Niki and Elphie are adjusting nicely to Genevieve. Elphie was totally cool from the start; Niki had some ... challenges with the adjustment. It took about two days for Niki to relax and ease up on the assertive grooming.

Elphie seems to have taken a shine to Genevieve; she checks on her everytime Genevieve makes a peep, and when she comes back in from a walk, she checks on Genevieve FIRST- before getting water or having her leash taken off.

We are using the tips from Childproofing Your Dog, which have been really helpful. Andrew and I both recommend it, and we got it based on our favorite vet's recommendation.

Breastfeeding:

Genevieve latches like a piranha. I'm pretty sure that I've heard her growl as she goes in for the attack. I got really excellent lactation support at the hospital, so the first few latches were pretty awful, but we're over that particular hurdle and on to finessing the other details. You know, like being able to unhook the nursing bra one-handed, and finding the "just right" angle. All details.

Diapers:

Cloth. We're doing basics- prefolds and covers, like Mom did for me and KidBrother Sam. Cloth diaper technology has come a long way, but the favorite of the family is the bumGenius Diaper Sprayer. The thing is AWESOME!

Since Genevieve was three weeks early, we didn't have ANY diapering stuff. Thankfully, there was wi-fi at the hospital, and within two hours of Genevieve being born, I was ordering a few basics (to be delivered the same day we were discharged). Thank heavens for Amazon Prime. Seriously.

Since I prefer to support small businesses, we did most of our diaper shopping at Tiny Tots in Campbell. I got fitted for nursing bras, got a sling tutorial, and Andrew got to ask all his cloth diapering questions- and they were cheerful about taking the time to help us. PLUS! The prices are *really* close to prices on Amazon. So, it's a win on all fronts.

I love her eyelashes.

STOP READING HERE IF YOU DON'T WANT BIRTH DETAILS. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

The birth story:

Genevieve wasn't due for another three weeks (and one day) the day she was born. Our day started early- around 2am, when I got up for my regular 2am mosey to the bathroom. I did my thing, washed my hands, and as I went to crawl back into bed - SPLASH! My water broke. Spectacularly.

I was horrified. Not only was she not due for another three weeks, but SWEET MOTHER OF MERCY it was gross. I froze there for a minute, trying to figure out how to get back to the bathroom without making a wet mess all over our wood floors, when Andrew startled awake (let the record reflect, with a scream).

He helped me to the bathroom, we did the requisite checks of fluids/colors that you do, and then called Labor and Delivery like we had been instructed to do in case of such an event. The L&D nurse declared us "another full moon baby", and told me to have some breakfast, grab a shower, and come on in.

My contractions really kicked in about ten minutes after my water broke. I told Andrew that I just. Wasn't. Ready. I needed my three weeks. Andrew informed me that it wasn't really up to me at that point.

Mom and KidBrother Sam came over right away; Mom made me some oatmeal for breakfast, and KidBrother Sam made himself comfortable on the couch to keep the dogs' routine regular. I called my dad, who was in Los Angeles visiting family- because we had THREE WHOLE WEEKS until the baby was due. In the meantime, Andrew grabbed our mostly packed "go bags" and scrambled to get the last few things thrown in there, and loaded the car up in a flash.

My dad answered the phone with a start, and gasped out an "Is your mom okay?!" Because at that hour, the news is rarely good. I informed him that the baby was coming, and that he may want to head home a little earlier than he had originally intended. (By the way, he made it back home in RECORD time.)

We got to the hospital around 4am, got checked in (and checked) and I was 85% effaced and 1cm dilated. Andrew was a champion coach, and we used all of the tools we had learned in Bradley class. He was AMAZING, seriously. (Who knew that among all of his many talents that he was an incredible doula as well? What do you call a male doula? A dude-la?)

I made good progress, but as the hours passed, my contractions became more and more painful. There was vomiting. There were tremors. And, sweet mother of pearl, there was back labor. Yes, my friends. My precious daughter was going to be born face-up.

After 8 1/2 hours of natural labor, we had exhausted all of the coping skills we learned in class, I was in mind-numbing pain, and I was utterly knackered. I asked for some painkillers and was able to rest for about an hour. Once the painkillers started to wear off, Andrew and I decided that it was time for an epidural- the back labor was not easing up.

The epidural was a patient controlled one, and I had it for about an hour before I was ready to push. In that hour, I went from 7 to 10cm. Booyah.

Once it was time to push, I pushed. And pushed. According to Mom, I pushed for about 30 minutes. Assisted by the midwife, Mom got to "catch" Genevieve. The cord was wrapped around Genevieve's neck, and she was as purple as the umbelical cord, but she still cried as she came out. Andrew cut the cord and she was whisked over to the warmer where they gave her some oxygen to pink her up.

Me? Second degree tear. Exhausted. Oh yeah, and my blood pressure and temperature had spiked (pre-eclampsia), so I was put on magnesium sulfate and antibiotics to make sure I didn't have a seizure or infection. It made me feel terrible, and I had to stay in bed for 24 hours. Thankfully, I had Andrew with me the whole time, and he was able to be both SuperDad and UltraHusband.

Since Genevieve was *technically* premature (a term that stings like a thousand shallow cuts and makes me feel like I failed her from the start), we got some extra help with nursing. She also had jaundice (which is normal), and her levels were low enough that we could bring her home, provided that she was on a biliblanket all the time- except when her diaper was being changed.

She was on the biliblanket for five days, total, before her bilirubin levels dropped sufficiently. We did it with skin-to-skin contact, because everyone told us it was better for Genevieve. Also? It's totally delightful to snuggle a newborn skin-to-skin.

We got tips from the nurses, and Andrew made sure to pay close attention on how to keep an eye on both of us recovering. He's been changing diapers, fetching and carrying, and making sure that on those days where I start feeling like my old self, I don't overdo it and backslide. (Who, me?)

We're almost two weeks out, and we're all doing great. It's because of our family and friends- Laura cooked us a week's worth of meals AND did the emergency shopping/laundry so that Genevieve would have luxuries like socks, diapers, and some onesies.

We've had other folks drop food off for us; my in-laws have brought dinner when they visit AND tidied the kitchen when we were done. My parents have been helping out by running errands, cooking, cleaning, and holding Genevieve while I live it up and take hot showers, or attempt to eat food while it's still warm.

Thank you all for your well-wishes and congratulations. I am so happy to be sharing my baby with all of you.

With a little help from my friends

2011-12-24T23:56:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, Andrew and I figured out how to juggle the holidays so that neither of our families felt jilted. We would follow German tradition and do the bulk of our celebrating on Christmas eve, have breakfast (*coughbrunchcough*), and open our gifts in a leisurely manner.

In the afternoon, Andrew and I would mosey over to his family celebration and have Christmas dinner with them. It was such a simple and elegant solution; I felt like a genius for working it out.

Christmas eve dinner is always crab, and we invite our closest friends to join us. It's the BEST. Sure, it requires some planning, but it's totally worth it.

This year, I couldn't do most of the things I normally do to plan. Andrew has been running around like Buddy the Elf, trying to get everything done, and I'm directing via lists from the couch. The tree isn't up this year because there just wasn't time. But Christmas isn't about the tree.

We made our list this morning, and we went through the timeline for the day to make sure that (a) dinner went on as scheduled and (b) I didn't "overdo it" (Andrew's words). As the guests arrived, I was told to sit and direct; so I did.

Laura (the Joy of Cooking Fairy) took care of the crab, Andrew roasted a chicken (for my father, who is not a fan of shellfish), Bromantic Brandon picked up ice for the drinks, Mom did dishes, Snackary lined the table in paper, and MacGuyver Colleen cracked the eggs for the homemade egg nog. Our one-butt kitchen was a-bustling with activity.

(Side note: The egg nog recipe from The Joy of Cooking is AMAZING.)

It was a team effort, and that's really the message of the holidays, right? Nobody was stuck cooking all by themselves, or cleaning up solo. The Holiday Cheer^TM was abundant, the food was delicious, and we had enough egg nog to share with our neighbors.

The evening wouldn't have been the same without the company of our family and closest friends; it wouldn't have be do-able without them either. That's the sign of real friendship; everyone seems to come together when times are tough, and when times are good, we all just bask in the goodness.

I'm a little sappy about it, but this is my first year needing help, and for this type-A, control-freak, it is incredibly reassuring to know that - believe it or not - I don't have to do everything.

Slipped deadlines

2011-12-22T06:03:00.000-08:00

There are 9 days left until 2012. It appears that I will not be finishing Andrew's sweater before the ball drops. I can't even begin to tell you how disappointed I am that I won't be meeting this goal.

Andrew understands; I can't knit with swollen hands, with my feet up and my torso reclined, *or* through the hormone-related joint pain. Still, his sweater sits on a TV tray next to the couch, with its half-knit sleeves mocking me with how close I got.

If I was a less confident person, I would worry that Andrew took the not-finishing-his-sweater as a sign that I don't love him. Since I'm not, I'm taking a sweater-half-done approach; I'll have to keep him around long enough to finish the sweater, which of course, is a sign that I love him even MORE, right? (I'm glad we're on the same page.)

With any luck, the swelling and joint pain in my hands will subside, and I'll be able to finish it up before SharkBean makes her debut. If not, then Andrew will just have to wait until I get around to finishing it. Let's face it, if a handspun, handknit sweater isn't worth waiting a little longer for, then I don't know what is.

Mama's watchin' her stories

2011-12-21T06:56:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned in the previous post, part of how I'm spending my time is watching TV. There are some pretty good shows on this season, along with some old favorites.

Most notably, Andrew and I have been watching Grimm, The Walking Dead, and American Horror Story together.

Grimm is new, and it has a distinctly Supernatural vibe to it, with a few major exceptions- namely, no hunky Winchesters. Don't get me wrong; David Giuntoli is cute enough, but he's no Jensen Ackles or Jared Padalecki.

It's more enjoyable if you're (vaguely) familiar with the Grimm fairy tales; less enjoyable if you speak any German. (Mom is frequently annoyed by the mangling of German on the show.)

Shortcomings include that *everyone* seems to know that the main character is a Grimm, who hunts all the fairy-tale bad guys- except that this one doesn't, really. It's been fun watching this show develop.

The Walking Dead is (now) filming the third season (I think), but the second season? Fantastic. So much character development! The writing is so good that they've completely changed my opinion on a number of characters. Just don't watch it at night if you're like me; I have the most horrific zombie nightmares if I watch this one too late at night. (But seriously, it's sooooo good.)

I'm a little torn on American Horror Story. It's dark. It's ultra-violent. They don't give away too much of the story too quickly. It's created by the same guys who created Glee. (Andrew didn't believe that last bit when I first told him, by the way.)

I'm not into the violence- particularly the prevalence of graphic violence against women (and feminized characters) on the show, but mostly, I'm really skeeved by the idea that the house *itself* is a creepy character. Not being safe in your own home is a great horror trope, but it makes you jump at small, benign noises after watching it.

We watch this show week after week, and I'm still not certain that I like it. I'm partly worried that it will take a LOST turn, and I'll feel cheated out of the time I've spent watching. Only time will tell.

Some R & R

2011-12-20T06:35:00.000-08:00

Last week, I was put on modified bed rest. I won't go into details because - frankly speaking - this whole pregnancy business can be ~~pretty gross~~ extremely magical. What this really means is I'm spending a lot of time on the couch with my feet elevated.

I've been doing some reading, and I've been watching some TV. The reading has been productive, the TV watching... not so much.

I just finished reading The Rookie Mom's Handbook, which I enjoyed enough that I thought it would be worth blogging about. I borrowed it from the library (and I'm returning it tomorrow), so nobody sent me a comp copy for review. I just thought I'd share books that I liked, since there have been quite a few that were ... not as good.

Cover picture shamelessly stolen from Amazon.com

What I liked:

- The book is very positive, and it takes into account that you might not have your pre-partum body back 15 minutes after being discharged from the hospital.
- Some of the suggestions were very creative, and I hadn't considered before. Also, they sounded very fun.
- At least *3* of the activities required yarn. I wholly approve.

What I didn't like:

- A lot of the suggestions include going to a mall, shopping, or other consumer-centered activities. Take this with a grain of salt: On a good day, I hate the mall.

Overall, I'd recommend this book, especially if you're worried about being short on ideas on how to maintain your identity post-partum.

Me? I'll be here on the couch, reading and catching up on my stories.

Jasmin 2012

2011-12-13T11:40:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it's mid-December and I haven't talked about Jasmin 2012 yet.

The theme for Jasmin 2012 this year is "balance". (Special thanks to AmyDe for the suggestion, I couldn't think of a single idea for 2012 aside from "apocalypse". Balance is better.)

I like "balance" as a theme because with SharkBean getting ready to make her debut, I have zero idea what the rest of my life is going to look like with her in it. But let's take it one year at a time for now, shall we?

Balance is tough for me, so it's going to be a challenge sticking to it. I used to be all go-go-GO! all the time, but what I have already learned from SharkBean is that is just not going to work. (Now I'm just "Go! Nap!")

Everything will not always be the way I want it to be, when I want it to be done (because I just *can't* do it all anymore), but that's okay. I can (and will) rely on the people who offer to help, and - the "balance" part - not get my giant knickers in a twist when it's not done 100% the way I would have done it. I have a feeling that when SharkBean is a more vocal member of our household, this will be especially important.

[This is where I give Andrew lots of credit for pulling a double-shift- working full time and doing the lion's share of the housework when he gets home.]

For now, I'm going to be okay with doing what I can and coping with the rest. Even if it *does* look like our bedroom threw up all over the house. (We're still moving back in to the bedroom, and the Grownup Furniture^TM is AMAZING, even if I have to take a running leap to get into bed.)

Lighting the way

2011-12-12T06:28:00.000-08:00

The fact that we will be parents in under 2 months is starting to sink in. Proof?

Add caption

We have nightlights all over the house now. (Specifically, these ones.) It makes our house feel more like a home, which is strange, because it's never *not* felt like home.

Until this last weekend, I had forgotten how amazing night lights are. Having night lights all over means:

- I no longer have to do a shuffle step when I get up in the middle of the night to avoid stepping on either of the dogs.

- I can get a midnight snack without searing my retinas with overhead lights.

- Personal injuries (toe stubbings, knee bangings) have been greatly reduced, not just by my graceful self, either.

- The gentle lighting is always flattering. (If for no other reason, go with this one.)

Cashmere is not a carcinogen

2011-12-11T10:01:00.001-08:00

Knitting and spinning aren't happening too much for me much these days. Thank *goodness* I have the Cricket loom!

Some manly gingham, in Jade Sapphire 2-ply cashmere.

I started this scarf a while ago, shortly after I finished my Five Projects and for some reason, it never got finished. I had a frustrating week because, let's face it, if I can't play with yarn, I'm ~~pretty awful~~ less delightful to spend time with. It's like being around a smoker who can't get out to get a cigarette, if you've ever been around one.

[Once upon a time, I was knitting at a Starbucks, and I was ~~accosted~~ approached by a woman who used to knit when she was in college, and after she was done talking at to me at the speed of light, she declared that if she didn't have a cigarette RIGHT NOW she was liable to choke me.]

While smoking and knitting *can* alienate some people, wool isn't a carcinogen, so just pass me my knitting and I'll stop twitching.

I'm also getting larger. We're at 33 weeks (and change), and sitting at the table is becoming a bit ... iffy. The Cricket is great, because you can weave anywhere without a huge space (or seating) commitment for a loom. It's also not a million dollars.

[Side note: I wish LYSes would do a trade-up deal with Crickets; learn on a Cricket, trade it up for a Flip if when you decide that weaving is TOTALLY AWESOME. Truth be told, you'll have to pry my Cricket from my cold, dead hands, regardless of the presence of any other looms in the house.]

It's amazing how inspiring making fabric is; I have SO many ideas about things I want to weave, and things I want to learn how to do. Yesterday, I also BRIEFLY considered doing a whole whack of weaving for Christmas. Which is 14 days away. Fortunately, I came to my senses quickly, and didn't share this particular bit of crazy with Mom.

For now, I'm going to finish this scarf. Because the next project beckons.

Two dog night

2011-12-07T06:11:00.000-08:00

I mentioned in an earlier post that Andrew painted in anticipation of our Grownup Furniture^TM. Part of painting included dismantling our very well-loved bed, and sleeping in our guest room.

When we bought the bed for the guest room, I *insisted* (all those years ago) that we spend a little extra and buy a queen-sized bed. I hated people who would invite couples to stay over, only to have them (us) on a twin bed; either we'd have to squish, or rock-paper-scissors for the bed. Even if Andrew *had* ever won, his feet would have dangled over the edge. I vowed to never be that hostess.

The salesman, when we splurged on a high-end mattress for the guest room, asked us were we really, really sure? Considering that our guests sleep soundly, Mom recovered from cardiac surgery, and one of us sleeps on it when the other is sick, yeah. I have never regretted this decision, except when I end up on a subpar mattress when traveling. My own fault, really.

We sleep on a California King bed, normally. There's enough room for my beloved but oversized Andrew, myself, two dogs, and the Snoogle. (The Snoogle is the best invention, ever, by the way. I have to wrestle both dogs *and* Andrew for it. Every night.) The dogs come and go as they please, and usually it's one dog or the other on the bed- unless it's REALLY cold outside. You know, like 40 degrees.

(For the record, the house never gets below 60ºF/15.5ºC. My dogs are both double-coated Chow mixes, and they're indoor/outdoor dogs. Who don't like the cold. It gives entirely new meaning to a two dog night.)

What I have observed in the last few nights is the following:

The smaller the bed, the more creatures want to be in it at the same time. Proof:

Andrew took this picture when I was sleeping, sick on the couch. Charming man.

I'm just lucky that we're not all sleeping on a twin. If the theorem holds, we'd have to share it with an opossum. Or something.

A holiday plea

2011-12-06T11:10:00.001-08:00

Dear Readers;

This holiday season, please, stop killing yourselves. If you need an excuse, please please PLEASE, make it your gift to me. Stephanie is knitting mittens for an army, Alison always expresses her love in stitches, and I know that more than a few of you reading are scrambling to find a way to get all of those gifts knit, crocheted, woven, or sewn.

I know you want your loved ones to feel loved. Believe it or not, your loved ones want you to be happy, too. (And if they don't, they should.) Knitting yourself into a repetitive stress injury- or madness - is not in the Holiday Spirit^TM. Trust me. We have 19 days until Christmas, 16 days until Yule, and 14 days until the first day of Hanukkah. Time is a'tickin'.

Some suggestions from me, the Grinchiest Elf on the block:

- Amazon.com. Everyone buys stuff there, and a $25 gift certificate is usually more well-received than a gift made with love. Also, it's near impossible for me to make something for *less* than $25.

- Bake, and use butter. A few extra pounds will also keep your loved ones warm! BONUS: You can finally justify buying a bucket of butter, like this one:

Why yes, that IS 5 lbs of butter. And this year it WILL BE MINE!

Enlist the young people in the family- they'll enjoy it and not realize that they're participating in a whitewashing-the-fence-type scam. Chase it with a brisk walk after dinner, and admire the decor on the homes in your neighborhood. We have a set of neighbors who never cease to amaze me with how much Holiday Spirit^TM they have. Especially after a few mugs of Glühwein. (Our family gets into Holiday Spirits a whole different way, if you get my meaning.)

- Put together s'mores kits (scroll down, totally worth it), but make the marshmallows from scratch, and use the Smitten Kitchen recipe. Andrew and I were asked to recall a favorite memory in birth class last week, and it's remarkable how much we enjoy something as simple as making s'mores in the backyard with friends.

Remember what the intention of the holiday season is really about. I was in the car with LittleJ last week, and, as usual, I asked her how she would feel about our gift to them (the kids) being baking and decorating gingerbread men. Also, doing it earlier than Christmas, since my mobility is getting more and more limited as the Countdown to SharkBean looms nearer and nearer.

[Side note: The "kids"? Only three are under 18 at this point. When did they get so OLD?]

LittleJ, at 16, pointed out that it's not about *when* we do the baking. It's about the doing the baking. We could all take a page out of her book.

Operation Home Beautification

2011-12-04T11:04:00.001-08:00

Andrew has gotten the nesting bug something fierce. He's had it since August, when we were listening to the PregTASTIC podcast on the way up to Uncle Andy's memorial. One of the contributors on the show mentioned that their baby was imminently due, and - GASP!- they hadn't finished the nursery yet. Even though I was only four-ish months pregnant at the time, Andrew shared the panic.

A month or so ago, Andrew, GingerMan, Bromantic Brandon, and KidBrother Sam painted SharkBean's room, the hallway, and the entryway (the areas in the house where we didn't need to move furniture). Shortly after that, her furniture showed up, and what used to be Andrew's office started to really start looking like a bedroom.

We'd find ourselves randomly in SharkBean's room, just admiring the sand-colored walls and the smell of new maple furniture. There was envy, and envy smells like old IKEA dressers.

Fortunately, Andrew and I had picked out some Real Grownup Furniture^TM, which happened to go on sale at EXACTLY the right time. Andrew ordered the furniture, and we got started on packing up the bedroom. And by "we", I mean, Andrew packed and did the heavy lifting, and I directed. Because that's where we are at this point.

As I blog, Andrew is painting our bedroom, which looks much larger when none of our furniture is in it. By next weekend, we'll (hopefully) be moved back into our bedroom, but with our fancy new furniture. Possibly with new lighting.

For now, I'll be sitting on the couch with my feet up, knitting. Because somebody needs to.

Orangutans and Canadian Geese

2011-11-16T06:04:00.000-08:00

Knitting a sweater for a giant man is fast work. Did you all just faint?

Let me backtrack.

If you recall, I'm knitting Andrew the Baseball Jersey from Knits Men Want, out of my handspun.

Photo from the book, by Jared Flood. Because I'm knitting mine SO FAST that it would be a blurry shot.

I cast this on last Tuesday (11/08) right before our birthing class, literally, the INSTANT that one of the skeins of yarn was dry. (The rest were still damp, in case you were curious.) I was so ~~stressed that my deadline would slip~~ excited that I haven't taken a single picture of the finished skeins. Of which there is only a little left from the first batch at this point.

(Side note: I don't think I'll need any of the extra 9 oz that I spun for the body. I'll likely need all of the sleeve color, plus the extra 6 oz that I spun, since Andrew is an orangutan. A lovable, supportive, orangutan who helps me put on my shoes. But seriously, the man has a 75" wingspan. That's the same as a Canadian Goose, in case you were curious. I googled it.)

In three hours of class, I managed to knit all three inches of the ribbing. For Andrew. Who has a 48" chest. There was a lot of self-high-fiving in the car on our way home.

I even had him try it on- using the incredibly clever Try-it-On Tubing that I got as a gift last week. I don't know why, but I was surprised that it fit the way it's supposed to. I swatched. I did math. But on 24" circular needles, nothing looks big enough to circumnavigate my redwood of a husband.

I was pleasantly surprised; Andrew was not. Apparently, my being an AMAZING knitter is no longer a surprise to him. That's what being together for 10 years will get you, I suppose.

In one week, I've knit all 18" of the body, which is the "divide for the armholes" part. I think this is partly due to the fact that I'm working with handspun- which we all know is the most satisfying thing to knit with, ever- and partly because knitting a giant tube of stockinette stitch is possibly the most compelling knitting in the world right now.

Maybe not the most compelling, but definitely the most satisfying. My brain is itching to knit a lace shawl- or maybe finish one that I've already started - but there is something really great about being able to just grab something and knit and knit and knit.

It doesn't hurt that no matter how exhausted I am, I still have enough brainpower to work on this sweater. Tomorrow I divide for the front and back and do the armhole decreases.

Let's just hope I don't get caught up on the sleeves. 45 days until 2012!

Selective Memory

2011-11-13T06:52:00.000-08:00

Me: Do you ever remember a time when we were growing up when you weren't exhausted?
Mom: [Uncomfortably long pause] ... That's not the part I remember.
Me: Is that because you were too sleep deprived to remember?

Kosher

2011-11-12T07:49:00.001-08:00

Andrew: What makes Kosher salt Kosher?
Mom (simultaneously): How it's slaughtered.
Me (simultaneously): They say a prayer over it.
Andrew: [Pause] You two are seriously unhelpful.
Mom & Me: [Hysterical laughter]

Jasmin 1997

2011-11-08T06:46:00.000-08:00

My Mom has a friend named Mary Ellen, and when Mom tells people about Mary Ellen, the first thing she says is "Mary Ellen always has something nice to say about everyone."

Impressive, right? Also, it really speaks to her character. Having been raised with stories of Mom's time in Boston (where she and Mary Ellen met and became friends), it worked it's way into my developing brain.

When I was in high school, I started actively saying nice things. (We could refer to this as "Jasmin 1997".) Not insincerely, but when I looked at someone and thought "Wow, X looks good in that shirt" or "Hot damn, that's a great haircut", instead of keeping it in, I would tell them.

Some people thought it was strange. Some people were put off by the bluntness, since my intention was really only to say the nice thing and move on with my day. Especially on the high school scene, where you have the Mean Girl/Queen Bee phenomena, and cutting someone down is more fun (or more empowering) than saying something that would potentially lift them up.

At some point, I stopped. I don't know if it was hormones, or classic teen angst, but I just ... stopped. For a long time. I would occasionally pay a compliment to someone I knew, but strangers? Not so much.

I was at a store the other day, and the girl at the counter had the best dye job I've seen in ages- and I knew it was a dye job the same way that most people knew that my hair wasn't naturally hot pink. So I told her.

After the shock of a Random Compliment wore off, she felt really good, too. Like, spring-in-her-step, tossing-her-hair good.

You know what? It felt really good to say it. Maybe it's time for Jasmin 1997 to make a comeback.

Excitement Stew

2011-11-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

A dish of Excitement Stew for your Sunday brunch:

- The new Michael Bublé Christmas album. I got it in the mail a few days ago and *almost* broke the "no Christmas music before Black Friday" rule. Almost. (You can bet that this will be what we listen to on Black Friday when Mom and I go to the Pajama Jammie Jam at Purlescence at o'dark hundred.)

- New furniture. My IKEA dressers are giving up the ghost after seven years of hard use. Andrew might have fixed them once or ten times already before declaring them "done".

Andrew and I found furniture made out of REAL wood, made in Eugene, OR. Since I want to retire there, I'm excited to be supporting their economy. It's due to arrive at the beginning of December, so we're emptying out the bedroom, painting and having lights (and a dimmer switch!) installed in the meantime. Real wood furniture? Smells amazing.

- SharkBean. She's due to arrive in 10-14 weeks. She has already met Galina and Lily Chin. She's got a wooly future ahead of her, but for now, she seems content doing barrel rolls every time I sit down. Maybe she'll be a knitting and spinning pilot. Or a Cirque du Soleil tumbler.

In any case, that clock is ticking down at what feels like breakneck speed. I can't wait to meet this strange little person I've been growing.

Snipe hunt

2011-11-03T06:50:00.000-07:00

One of the perks of living so close to my parents is that we have the same mailman. Ron the Mailman has been delivering the mail in our area for over 20 years, which is kind of awesome. He has watched the families grow and change, and in our case, grow up and start our own family. He has also heard me ~~caterwauling~~ singing in the shower, and thinks I'm pretty good.

Mailman Ron and I have a special relationship. He will tuck large packages behind our gate and leave a note in the box (when we get them), if something needs a signature, he'll take it to my parents' house and have them sign for it instead of making me find time to head over to the post office for a pickup. Let's suffice it to say that Mailman Ron always has my back.

I always know when we have a substitute mail carrier. Mostly because they are terrible, slow, misdeliver a LOT of mail, and most of all - they aren't Mailman Ron.

Mailman Ron is married to a lapsed weaver. He thinks all of my "wool mail" is hilarious because, let's face it, if it's not actually yarn or roving, it's books/needles/notions for my knitting. He doesn't really get why I spend all this time knitting and spinning when I could be *weaving*. He was over the moon when I told him earlier this year that I was officially a weaver.

Fast forward to yesterday. Andrew and I have been getting bids on how much it's going to cost to install some desperately needed cabinets in our garage. (Remember Project Workspace?) While one of the sales folks was figuring out our estimate, Mailman Ron walked up us sitting in the open garage. The garage that was positively GAPING, exposing the neighborhood to All of Our Things. It's tidy, so I don't feel too bad about it, but I felt a little naked. If that makes any sense.

(Let's face it, there are *much* worse things we could store in our garage. Use your imagination.)

Two of the looms (the table loom and the Gilmore X-frame loom) live in the garage right now, and are on the garage door side- clearly visible when the door is open. Apparently, Mailman Ron's wife had a mystery loom in their attic, and he had been searching for the missing parts. (He had been hunting for legs. For a table loom.)

After a quick peek at the two looms, and a short conversation, his mystery was solved. I'm not going to tell you how long he's been looking for the missing legs on that loom.

Long enough that it will be a while before that's a funny story for them, that's for sure.

Failing already

2011-11-02T06:36:00.000-07:00

I have never been comfortable with failure. From what I have gathered (from anecdotal evidence, of course), motherhood is basically a never ending series of failures and guilt. Starting from conception.

Let me back up. When we first found out that SharkBean was on the way, I had already started reading "What to Expect When You're Expecting, 4th Edition", which is like *the* book to read, or so I've heard.

While it's incredibly helpful about pointing out What Could Go Wrong When You're Expecting, it felt more like What You're ALREADY Doing Wrong to Completely Fail Your Child. Or maybe that's my interpretation- since I read what *could* go wrong, and I tend to jump to "that WILL go wrong". That might be my personal brand of crazy, though.

I read "What to Expect" in short bursts, get well ahead of where I am, and put it down in favor of something else. Since we started Bradley classes this week, I thought I would get a jump on class by reading "Natural Childbirth the Bradley Way". I know. I'm a nerd, the sky is blue, grass is green, and all three statements are obvious. (Who else shows up to a birthing class having read the book already?! This gal.)

I got to the nutrition section, and I got hammered with Mommy Guilt. I eat a balanced diet, but I could stand to eat more leafy greens. We all could. (Except Mom. She gets a pass on excessive leafy greens. See: Vitamin K and cardiac patients.)

Since I like to share all of my crazy with her, she is lucky enough to be subjected to my Freakout of the Day(tm). She usually thinks it's funny. Today she pointed out that - while she ate nutritious food - she didn't really count servings of leafy greens or protein. "... and look at how well you and your brother turned out!"

I'll admit, it made me feel better.

Other things that I have felt like I was already failing SharkBean at:

- Talking to her. I don't, other than to say things like, "SERIOUSLY?! Could you ease up on using your elbows?!"
- Singing to her. This kid has gotten an eclectic mix of whatever I'm in the mood to listen to. Including stuff that holds an "R" rating.
- Finishing her sweaters. I can just hear her little voice now, "My mom is a process knitter."

Tiny cows, jellyfish, and tradition

2011-11-01T12:16:00.000-07:00

Halloween is my favorite holiday. Our family actually has almost as many Halloween traditions as we do for Christmas.

Historically, we have decided by August what we're going to be for Halloween. This hearkens back to when we were little and Mom wanted *plenty* of time to sew our costumes, and that never really changed. Until this year.

Somehow, Halloween fell to the background this year. When Andrew's eldest sister invited us for a Halloween party last Friday, I *scrambled* to figure out what on earth we could go as. All of my costume pieces are fitted and I am... a completely different shape.

What to do? I ran a couple of ideas past Andrew, and we landed on Priest (for him) and pregnant nun (me). Off I went to the Halloween costume store, in search of a habit.

I must share that I've never bought a costume before. I have bought components, but they were always Real Clothes. For example, a few years ago I bought my sailor costume from the Army/Navy surplus store. A beautiful, wool, sailor's uniform. I also wore the living daylights out of the pants afterwards. Real Clothes.

The Halloween costume store stinks. It smells like off-gassing plastic and poor decisions. But, with a day left to the event and I was badly in need of a nap, I marched myself through aisles and aisles and aisles of "sexy" costumes. I had started to lose hope that there would be ANYTHING to cover my bulbous midriff when I saw... The Sexy Nun costume.

Seriously? A Sexy Nun? Fortunately, they had her more conservative counterpart- just a Nun costume - right next to her. I grabbed it like it was hot and got in line.

Funny thing- the guy behind me was going as Jesus, and hit on me ALL the way until he realized that I was pregnant- which was when I waddled to the register. I've totally still got "it".

I brought it home, and it lived in the bag for a day. When we unwrapped it, even Andrew gasped at how strong the offgassing fumes were. (Andrew looked positively delicious in his priest outfit, for the record. Gabriel Byrne, Colin Hanks, and Joaquin Phoenix have got NOTHING on him.)

Sunday, Andrew and I hit the pumpkin patch because we had plans to carve a pumpkin.

For the record, SharkBean is the size of a $3 pumpkin.

The pumpkin patch lady was so charmed by my competing pumpkin photo, that she insisted we get a family photo:

My pumpkin brings all the boys to the patch. Oh yeah.

Sunday night, we fired up Hocus Pocus (which is my favorite Halloween movie ever, right next to The Halloween That Almost Wasn't) and got to carving pumpkins.

I love silly pumpkins. Andrew and I teamed up and came up with this:

Andrew did the left side, I did the right side.

Mom's was a more classic jack'o'lantern. But she's a classic gal, so it fits.

Ours, left. Mom's, right.

So, fast forward to last night. We're THAT house. You know, the house with the full-sized candy bars. I have a feeling that so long as I am married to Andrew, we will always be That House. It's not a bad thing.

Early on in the evening, we had some small kids at the door, but their littlest sister (dressed as the world's tiniest and most adorable cow) didn't come to the door. You see, the Tiny Cow was a babe-in-arms. I walked out to the edge of the stoop and asked if the Tiny Cow would like any candy.

I know trick-or-treating can be an iffy proposition with tiny people, so I didn't want to chase them down the street, but apparently, one of the neighbors was outright NASTY to the Tiny Cow. She refused to give her any candy. Where exactly is the holiday spirit in that? Every house has X amount of candy; I understand that Halloween is a first-come-first-serve situation. And it's not like she was a no-costume teenager.

(For the record, I overheard the Tiny Cow's older siblings exclaiming how we were SO MUCH NICER than those OTHER people.)

We had a parade of zombies, ninjas, and princesses. Best costume of the night went to a young man whose costume was a jellyfish. It was positively stunning. KidBrother Sam (who had arrived by this point) declared it the best costume of the night (he was right) and awarded the young jellyfish *two* full sized candy bars for his efforts.

KidBrother Sam also pulled out his phone to take a picture, to which I stopped him and said, "You can't take pictures of people's *children*!"

Sam turned to Jellyfish and asked how old he was.

"Old enough," answered the Jellyfish, causing all of us to laugh hysterically.

(Given that answer, I'm pretty sure that the Jellyfish was at least 30 years old.)

Oh, and for the record? We've already decided on what our costumes (including SharkBean's) will be next year. You can never start planning too early.

Disorganized sounds

2011-10-29T11:05:00.000-07:00

SharkBean hasn't even been born yet, and I can just hear my nomination for "worst mother of the year".

Let me explain.

The other night, I heard a thump in the bedroom. This isn't unusual for a couple of reasons- one being that I'm not sleeping as soundly as I used to (YAY! Third trimester!), the other being that the dogs come and go out of our room during the night, and Elphie will none-too-delicately thump her furry self down next to the bed. She is remarkably loud for a 30 pounds-soaking-wet dog.

But this was a *different* thump. It was what I would call a "disorganized sound"- meaning, normally you hear her butt, then her elbows hit the hardwood. Orderly. This was just one, strange thump. One strange thump, I could disregard, despite the fact that my spider senses were a'tinglin'. When I heard a second, and a third, my spider senses were on full alert.

I turned on the light on my nightstand, searing my own retinas, got on the floor (easier said than done, for the record) and saw that Elphie's dewclaw had gotten caught and somehow twisted on her (charming) ear fur. Seriously caught.

I propped her face and paw on my knee, and woke Andrew up, since I knew that if *I* got up and got the scissors, chaos would ensue. (Niki would discover that OMG! Elphie was getting MORE ATTENTION RIGHT NOW!) Also, if you thought sitting on the ground was a production, getting up off of the ground? Not a subtle or simple endeavor.

With surgical speed and precision, Andrew and I separated Elphie's paw from her ear, for which we were rewarded with nose kisses and snuggles (a la The Lion's Paw, remember that book?), all without waking Niki up. Still, the guilt. It PLAGUES me.

(Mom has informed me that Mommy Guilt is the most pervasive kind- she has guilt over things that happened more than twenty years ago. For the record, I've forgiven her for everything *except* the saddle shoes. And mostly forgiven her on those, too.)

Lesson learned: hear a funny noise, get up right away. At least then the guilt isn't "I let this go on for fifteen minutes." Then it's just "MAH POOOR BAYBEEEEEEE!"

Right, Mom?

Prioritizing

2011-10-25T09:18:00.000-07:00

This last week, Abby (from the Knit Knit Cafe podcast) came to visit.

Things that got done:

We went to BJ's and had deep fried artichoke hearts (since Mom and I didn't get to go to Rhinebeck this year):

WAY better than at Rhinebeck, in case you were curious.

Abby made challah:

Do you see Venus of Willendorf? Seems apropros at the moment.

Started a new sweater:

The Rocky Coast Cardigan. 1 Million stitch markers optional.

We also saw Anthony Jeselnik live at Rooster T. Feathers. (He was better on the Charlie Sheen Roast, for the record.)

Things that did not get ~~done~~ finished:

From the bottom up: Blue streak cardigan, Baby wrap sweater, Logan's Sharks Cardigan

Ah, priorities.

Dessert first

2011-10-21T11:03:00.000-07:00

When last I left you, amazing readers, you were staring at a pot of poison green, turned emerald green wool.

Apple Green Malabrigo, mmmmm!

Apple Green + Blue dye = Emerald green

Remember? Good.

I refused to be deterred by a little thing like the color not being exactly right, and instead took Judith MacKenzie's advice on overdyeing, which is to keep dyeing until you get a color you like. This is what I ended up with:

Yes, they are drying in the back of my car.

Much better. Since the skeins were still damp when we started our adventures yesterday, I set up them up to dry and utilized the back of my hatchback in a way I'm *relatively* certain the manufacturers didn't intend. Added bonus: my car smelled delightfully like wool all day.

Our adventures ended up at Purlescence, where many of our adventures end, and after socializing for a bit, one of the skeins was dry enough to wind and cast on:

This is the most color accurate photo of the yarn. Coastal Knits in the background.

It's not navy, but I LOVE it. I got my sweater started, and I'm not *quite* at the "coasting" portion (get it? COASTING!!!!) of the sweater, but I am enjoying knitting it more than it should really be legal to enjoy knitting anything.

Especially since there are three sweaters waiting in limbo for finishing touches on my dining room table. There's nothing like having dessert first.

Dyeing to start

2011-10-20T08:58:00.000-07:00

This week we reviewed a PHENOMENAL book on the podcast- it's Coastal Knits by Alana Dakos and Hannah Fettig. They're both brilliant, and this book is - as the kids say - 100% full of win. It took real restraint for me to actually sit and record with Mom instead of just go stashdiving and start half a dozen new sweaters.

Seriously. I love all the sweaters in this book. Instead of pulling yarn for all the sweaters, I decided to start with ONE (restraint! Self-control!)- the Rocky Coast Cardigan:

Picture shamelessly stolen from Alana's blog.

There are so many things I love about this sweater- mostly that it's an open-front, drapey cardigan that I can wear regardless of how big the bump gets. It will also look great once I've lost all the baby weight and have a six-pack. (A woman can dream!)

One of the (many) great parts of Coastal Knits is that they suggest alternative yarns for each sweater. And for the Rocky Coast cardigan, Malabrigo is a suggested substitute.

I have a robust stash. I could have *sworn* that I had a bag of navy blue Malabrigo in my stash- and I'm rarely wrong about what yarn I do - or don't - have. I checked the stash, and there were other colors, just no navy blue Malabrigo. Boo. (Any bets on the navy blue turning up when I'm 90% done with this sweater?)

I went and fished the poison green (which they call "Apple Green") out of my stash, and to my utter shock and delight, this cardigan calls for *ONLY* four skeins of Malabrigo. I had four skeins, five if you counted the skein that was in a Hugo-in-Progress.

I swatched, because I've never knit Malabrigo at 4 stitches per inch- in CABLES!

Ever-so-gently blocked. Houston, we have gauge!

In the spirit of "making it work" a la Project Runway (CAUTION: noisy site), which we're FINALLY current on, guess who has two thumbs and still had 4 (or 5, if you count the one skein in my half-knit Hugo monster) skeins of poison green Malabrigo leftover from her Twist cardigan, and a dyepot? This gal.

I have faith in Hannah Fettig, but when it comes to custom colors, an extra skein is always better than trying to match it at the end. So, I ripped out my half-knit monster and told Hugo, "Sorry, this is for the good of the sweater."

I threw all five (neatly tied) skeins in some soapy water to soak, and waited.

I had to wait for Andrew to get home, because my dyeing stuff is all neatly tucked away behind some of the baby stuff we've got- but completely inaccessible to my short and round-in-front self. While he was not thrilled that I was cooking wool (instead of, you know, food), he knows better than to put a dampener on my enthusiasm. Smart man.

(He also made dinner while I was cooking wool.)

I used Mother MacKenzie's miracle dyes, because *somehow* I am completely out of any and all blue Jacquard dyes. I have enough red to dye the Nile, but blue? Nuthin'.

Just blue in the dye bath yielded these results:

Dye bath #1

Not dark enough. Not navy blue, not hunter green, not a nice teal. I decided to let the pot cool overnight, and overdye it the next day.

I got up early yesterday morning and fired up a pot of the Mother MacKenzie's worker blue and a good dose of black. Today? We have a beautiful, albeit damp, hunter green.

Now if only it would hurry up and dry so that I can cast on. Dyeing is not for the impatient.

99 days

2011-10-18T09:40:00.000-07:00

Today, we hit 99 days to SharkBean's due date. At this point, the calendar is getting progressively busier (classes, appointments, and oh yeah, the holidays), and this whole we're-having-a-baby thing? That is getting really real.

I know. You'd think ultrasounds, the elastic-waisted pants, and the merciless kicking would have been what made it "really real", but no. SharkBean's furniture arrived this weekend (crib and dressers), and that's when it got Real.

The crib has been built. We’re calling our AMAZING electrician to install a few lights (and a dimmer switch) this week. She is officially a real person, with a real room, real furniture, and her own dimmer switch.

That's when the crazy kicked in. We're going to be parents. We're going to be 100% responsible for someone else. Everything is going to change, we just don't know how. We just know that everything is going to change.

I vacillate between being really, really excited to meet SharkBean, and being COMPLETELY terrified that we will make All of the Wrong Decisions and we'll end up on Maury Povich. Which I don't watch. (Anymore.)

We haven't been documenting The Bump as diligently as we should, but I mostly blame that on the fact that I tend to sport the Cryptkeeper look on the weekends, unless we have plans. (I'm also usually the one who takes the pictures.)

Picture one, not as the Cryptkeeper:

18 weeks, 1 day. Spike heels worn only for this photo.

A Cryptkeeper Sunday, complete with stylin' headband:

24 weeks, profile

24 weeks, from the front

The other thing I'm finding strange is the kicking. Does kicking mean she likes something, or she *doesn't* like something? USE YOUR WORDS, SHARKBEAN!

Ahem.

I'm supposed to be talking to her, but what do you discuss with a developing baby? I figure she can listen in on conversations I have with the dogs about the importance of being neighborly, discussions I have with Mom about knitting, and all of the peaceful natural birth stories I was reading out loud to Andrew from Ina May Gaskin's Guide to Natural Childbirth. (I hope if nothing else, this last one sticks with her.)

In any case, she has her whole life ahead of her for one-sided lectures. For now, I hope to provide interesting material for her to eavesdrop on.

Thought Goulash

2011-10-09T06:16:00.000-07:00

I'm still in a wait-and-see-if-your-data-is-fully-recoverable place until Monday. There's nothing I can do about it right now, and my options are somewhat limited if it turns out that the Nice Computer People can't recover all of my stuff. Thus, agonizing over spilled milk (or a disintegrated hard drive) is pointless, n'est-ce pas?

So.

Instead, here's some Thought Goulash for you to chew on:

- I'm reading Ina May's Guide to Childbirth. I dig it so far. She has uncommonly good sense, and the calm voice she writes with is reassuring. She is like the Elizabeth Zimmermann of natural childbirth. (The knitters will know what I'm talking about.)

- The public library system has made a whole bunch of ebooks available to borrow on the Kindle. I can't tell you how excited this made me. I am reading NOTHING but utter drivel on my Kindle. (I'm finishing the "in Death" series by J.D. Robb, in case you're curious.) No War and Peace for me!

- Egg season has begun! I have gone through 30 eggs in 2 weeks. Chances are good those numbers will rise as the temperature drops. This last week alone, I baked three batches of cookies and a loaf of pumpkin bread, along with the usual egg-using suspects.

- I finally got the dogs licensed. Every time I say (or think) that, I think "Licensed to kill." That's probably not what the City of San Jose has licensed them for. I'm also not letting Elphie convince me to give her the keys to my car. Especially not after she stole half of my salami sandwich yesterday.

- I need to complete the finishing on Logan's sweater. It shouldn't take me longer to sew on the grosgrain ribbon and buttons than it took me knit the whole sweater. Longest journeys, one step, yadda yadda.

Just in time for Sharks season!

- I didn't spin enough for Andrew's sweater. I really liked spinning it the first time, but when you're spinning (roughly) another POUND to get enough yardage, it takes the wind out of your sails as a spinner. Especially when you thought you were done with the spinning and ready to start the knitting. And you only have 84 days left in 2011. And a huge husband. Of the 15 ounces extra I needed to spin, I have about 8 oz left to spin. Not bad, really.

- I'm knitting a tiny sweater for SharkBean. I'm on the finishing part of that one, too, and that's where I'm stalling out. Notice a trend?

You should see this with the ruffle. So cute!

- I've reached the "wear a headband" stage of growing my hair out. And I'm 24 weeks pregnant. Guess whose license needs renewing WITH A NEW PHOTO? According to my math, it should have required renewing LAST YEAR, you know, when I had a great hairdo in an awesome color, and I was in the best shape of my life? The universe will make it so I never have a great driver's license photo. It's a petty complaint, but seriously.

Disintegration

2011-10-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Computer Gods;

If you help me recover all the data from my disintegrating hard drive, I promise to back up my data at least once a week. A lot has happened on my computer since January, which happens to be the last time I backed up my computer. Pretty please?

Love,

Jasmin

Taking initiative

2011-09-29T09:56:00.000-07:00

It's Banned Books Week in the United States, and I've been reading blog post after blog post about how pointless, stupid, and oh yeah- how ANTI-AMERICAN it is. You know, if you count the first amendment.

But that's not what this post is about.

When KidBrotherSam and I were growing up, Mom kept tight control over what we watched on television. If it was violent, it was out. If it showed that being disrespectful to parents is okay, it was out. Those are the two main things I remember her censoring for- and I *totally* agree on those choices, but I'm sure there were more. (She also seriously limited how much TV we watched. Something like 3 hours total per week, and only on the weekend.)

Sam and I have always been voracious readers. I don't think it's because we didn't watch TV; I think it's because our parents were readers. What my mother never censored was our reading material. In hindsight, I remember Mom reading some of the stuff we read, and as an adult I can recognize that if Mom thought a book might have objectionable content, she would read it, too. (She never let on that was *why* she was reading our books. And we never questioned it.) Afterward, we would talk about it.

It wasn't a "This isn't appropriate for a child your age" conversation; she was always taking the temperature of how I had interpreted the objectionable content in books, somehow without obviously leading the discussions. I'm sure I missed a lot of the objectionable material, but the stuff that I picked up on, we talked about.

I have to say, I'm seriously impressed with how Mom parented us. When I was 14 years old, I was reading the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series (before they got all super-smutty), and one of the books centered around snuff films. My Mom, in her SuperMom cape, instead of ripping the book out of my hands and handing me something (perhaps) more age-appropriate, had a calm discussion with me about snuff films.

Stop a moment and think about that last sentence. How many parents could have a calm discussion with their teenage daughter about snuff films? Mom was pretty unflappable as a parent. I don't even remember her making crazy eyes, quickly changing the subject, or having an uncomfortable nervous laugh, ever.

Enough bragging on my mom. The point is, instead of censoring what we read, she made sure that she was informed about what we were reading. She read it herself. She talked to us. (Novel idea, that last one.)

It wasn't until I was in college where Mom actually expressed any negative opinions about *what* I was reading. My senior seminar class was on Virginia Woolf and Toni Morrison. In case you're curious, filicide is where Mom draws the line. Not only did Mom not read any of the Morrison books, she also *did not* want to discuss any of it.

She never said, "Don't read it" or "Don't take the class", she basically said, "I just *can't* talk about this with you." I don't blame her; it was a seriously dark semester. By then, I was a GrownUp (sort of), and my choices in reading material were my own.

Books aren't dangerous. Sure, they put ideas in people's heads. But if you stay ahead of the curve, you can probably keep your kids from inciting a revolution with a few calm conversations.

Probably.

Smug cometh before the fall

2011-09-26T06:11:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, I was telling Andrew how much I loved my iPod. It was a 2006, 5th generation video iPod (with a color screen!), it had 80G of memory, and I loved it. I also smugly declared that I had no need or desire to get a new, fancy iPod touch- unless they come out with one that has the same amount of memory as this one. (I have a lot of music. A LOT of music.)

Given that flash memory isn't quite there yet, I had been more than content with my precious iPod. Also, I told Andrew, since I take *exceedingly* good care of my stuff, I wasn't planning on replacing this iPod until the hard drive fails. Verne and I were in agreement on that one. We were smug as could be, and Verne may have thrown in a "Kids these days!" just for good measure.

The very next day, in a feat of spectacular klutziness, I managed to do a *spectacular* job dropping my iPod. I don't think I could have *thrown* it harder than it managed to drop.

No big; I've dropped it before. A few times. When I fired it up the next day, I noticed this:

Doesn't that make you sad just looking at it?

Hm. I could still *mostly* see what I was selecting, but over the next few days the screen got worse. And worse.

Still, Verne and I were intent not to replace this iPod. ("Kids these days", see above.)

With drama worthy of Sarah Bernhardt, I put my hand to my forehead and told Andrew that I would soldier on with a cracked screen.

Andrew, earning his nomination for Husband of the Year, kidnapped my ailing iPod and now, check it out:

Yes, I do have 694 podcasts episodes to listen to.

All better. Apparently, Andrew took my old iPod to go live on a farm**. Probably with LukeWarm, our old oven. Apparently, at the farm, Andrew found this little iPod who happened to need a home. You see, he's an older model, and nobody seemed to want him.

Andrew took him by his sync cable, and let the new iPod know that he'd have a long, happy life with me.

Provided that I don't drop him, that is.

** The "farm" is the Apple Repair/Replacement program, in case you're curious. Or you happened to destroy your screen, too.

Beauty is pain

2011-09-21T11:54:00.000-07:00

One of my mother's favorite sayings is "Kill me, but make me beautiful". It's a cultural saying, but in an age of waxing, threading, and other painful beauty trends, it has never been more relevant.

My Sothia, fini.

That's how I feel about knitting ruffles. I love how they look. I love wearing them. I love adding a little extra bounce to my step to make them swing when I walk. I also find them utterly painful to knit.

Not literally, of course. It's not like faggoting, which is the natural enemy of my carpal tunnels. It's just... a lot of knitting. Which is a silly, because I'm usually itching to knit something else. Which is technically, THE SAME KNITTING.

But then you look at the ruffle-in-progress, how far you have to go, and if you're me, you feel like Brent Spiner in Independence Day. You might also have done a dramatic re-enactment for your family, shaking the shawl in front of you and rasping out, "Kiiiiiiiiiiiiill meeeeeeeeeee" in the creepiest voice you can muster. So creepy that both dogs decide it's time to leave the room.

So you knit and knit and knit. Then you knit some more. You decide that you will NEVER knit another ruffle EVER again so long as you LIVE.

You knit a baby hat and a baby sweater in the meantime, because sometimes you just need a relationship break from a project, you know? It's me, not you, Sothia. But since it was LOVE with Sothia, once you finished your dalliance with a baby hat and sweater, you come back, refreshed and ready to commit.

And you will commit, wholeheartedly. After what seems like an eternity, you begin the bind-off. You stay up really, really late because all you want in the world is the satisfaction of finishing this project. And also, Kit Kats.

I can feel your ruffle envy.

You double your yarn for the bind-off, because you LOVE how substantial it feels, and then spend the remaining 60% of the bind-off wondering if you have enough yarn to finish. You then decide if you run out of yarn, you're abandoning this project forever. Thankfully, you have enough (and a little leftover, even!) and that particular set of events doesn't transpire.

You go to bed, and the next day, you realize that you have a GORGEOUS shawl. You consider turning up the air conditioning so you can wear it around the house, but instead decide to weave in ends and take pictures of your beauteous shawl.

In my mind, this wrap will make me six feet tall. It's the "V".

You look at the colors, the beautiful ruffle, you feel that rush of accomplishment and pride at a job well done, and you say to yourself, "This wasn't so bad. It was really fun to knit."

"...Maybe I'll knit another one."

The Stay-At -Home Survival Guide: A review

2011-09-14T06:55:00.000-07:00

I've had some questions about what I've been reading, as far as parenting books are concerned. The first book I read (and liked, nay, LOVED) was the The Stay-at-Home Survival Guide: Field-Tested Strategies for Staying Smart, Sane, and Connected While Caring for Your Kids by Melissa Stanton.

I'm not being paid to review this, Seal Press didn't send me a galley copy, and best of all? I borrowed it from my local library.

Cover, for you to enjoy

While it's true that I'm not a stay-at-home mom *yet*, that's the end goal. I was reading this book, and it was like Melissa Stanton had been following me around when it came to how other people reacted to our choice to have me stay home. True, she was a few years ahead of me (the book came out in 2008), but her powers of pre-cognition are to be commended.

But seriously.

Stanton talks about dealing with the "yes, but what do you DO" question, household finances, and how demanding being a full-time Mom can be. So it's not a parenting-parenting book, per se, but it helps parents. So it totally counts.

It took me a LONG time to figure out that most people don't respect useful lifeskills that they lack- like raising children, cooking, or knitting. People who don't (or can't) cook from scratch don't appreciate that skill from someone in a home environment. If you measure success and happiness in dollars and cents, any activity that doesn't make money is worthless and a waste of your time.

We know that's not true. Knitters put thousands of hours into projects every year- many of which never get finished. We knit because it brings us pleasure, because it can be challenging, because it is creatively fulfilling. Not because it is profitable- or even has the *potential* to be profitable.

[Did you just fall out of your chair laughing at the idea that hand knitting is - or could be - profitable? I did.]

Back to the book.

It also includes loads of useful advice and strategies on changing relationships (romantic and otherwise), keeping up your self-esteem, and division of labor.

Division of labor isn't really an issue in our house. Given all of the Mommy Memoirs I've been reading, Andrew is really and truly a prince among men. He doesn't expect to be waited on when he gets home from work, and doesn't assume that because I'm staying at home that I've become the maid, the cook, and the household personal assistant. I thought this was normal in a marriage, but I stand corrected. Also, horrified that it's *not* the status quo.

Not only does he contribute to household chores, but he usually also picks some sort of home improvement project every weekend (sometimes something small, sometimes something... bigger). For the record, I also try to defend his leisure time, by making sure he has plans to do something fun.

(Did I just sign my own death warrant by bragging on my husband? Let me balance all his great qualities with the fact that he snores like a buzzsaw and sometimes leaves his shoes in the living room. He also has a taste for handknit socks and wears a size 12 men's shoe. Move on, he's not so great.)

In short, I really felt like Stanton addressed a lot of the issues that *all* parents have- not JUST stay-at-homes. I handed the book over to Andrew to read and he's finding it useful, too, for managing expectations (mostly). I've been screening the books, and handing over the ones that I particularly like to Andrew to read. (I have more time right now to sift through the chaff. Also, I read faster.)

I think this is a great book for *all* parents. Everyone has a schedule to accommodate, whether or not you work outside the home. I think the real key is that *both* parents need to read this book. (All the books, really, but this is a good place to start.)

The writing is compelling, Stanton has a personable style as a writer. I powered through this book in two days- that's how "readable" it is. Pick up a copy, you'll thank me for it.

Dueling haiku

2011-09-13T06:20:00.000-07:00

In mid-May, I posted a haiku to Facebook, which prompted what can only be described as a haiku duel between KidBrother Sam and me. I've posted about how clever he is, and for some reason, I keep thinking about this exchange, which all took place over the course of a twenty minute window.

Mostly, I'm impressed that Sam and I can argue, regardless of the format. Fun fact: as children, Mom told us we couldn't argue unless we did it in song. I attribute much of our creativity to that.

Me:

I have a long list
No desire to do it
Procrastination.

KidBrother Sam:

Equal protection-
Circumcision paper due;
Browse reddit instead.

[Explanation: KidBrother Sam was a poli sci major. That should explain the haiku above.]

Me:

Graduation day
Approaching imminently
Get it done sooner.

KidBrother Sam:

Senioritis has
Absconded all give-a-damn
Will-power absent.

Me:

Not graduating
Means spending more time down south
I love you lil bro.

Inverse proportionality

2011-09-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

I hit the 20-week mark with the SharkBean this week. (That's halfway, for everyone who has never been pregnant.) I am *thrilled*. She looks less carcharias, and more homo sapien. I can feel her practicing krav maga. This is really happening. It's pretty exciting.

I'm definitely, exclusively in maternity clothes. Mom informed me that I have "popped", though I don't look pregnant enough to have the young men at the grocery store offer extra help yet.

It's is a pity, since I can't wear any of my normal "good service" attire, curse you uncomfortable-yet-effective spike heels! Most of my regular clothes are in storage, since there is ZERO chance I'll be wearing them for a while. Mom also may have suggested SHROUDING my beautiful pumps so that they don't get dusty. It breaks my heart, but she might be right. (She usually is.)

That's totally okay, maternity clothes fit either like (a) pajamas or (b) being naked. Elastic-waisted pants and maxi-dresses, where have you BEEN all of my life?!

My dad asked how I was feeling, and I told him that I felt big, meaning, it feels crowded from my ribs down to my hips. I'm putting on my shoes by sitting and putting my foot up next to me (thanks, yoga!), as opposed to just bending over, or squatting and bending over like I ~~normally~~ used to do.

My dad thought I was concerned about weight gain, and hurriedly told me - ME, the kid who hasn't ever had body image issues - that it's okay to be big when you're pregnant, it's a good thing, etc. Love his heart- how many fathers try to tackle body image issues head-on, instead of glossing over them and hoping everything turns out okay?

My dad. He took a very "shut it down" approach- quick, and clear. It wasn't necessary, but as a Future Parent and Aspiring Grown-Up, I appreciated it.

I told him I didn't care about the weight gain, but that it's getting hard to do simple things like put on my shoes. Or sit comfortably on the couch without the assistance of a mountain of strategically placed pillows. I actually heard his sigh of relief at my *very normal* complaints.

[NOTE TO ANDREW: Apparently, we will NEVER, EVER, EVER be able to stop worrying about SharkBean. Why didn't anyone WARN us?!]

As a woman, I'm totally okay with getting bigger. Circle of life, phases of the moon and all that. Also, the spectacular boobage. I'm totally sold.

As a knitter, things are more complicated.

I have two sweaters worth of handspun waiting to be cast on. For two fitted sweaters. I have a few UFO bins full of half-finished projects. Also fitted. My tastes run to tailored clothing, and I'm caught in the I-don't-know-how-my-weight-will-settle-out place. Weigh that against my mother's sage advice, "Knit for the body you have, not the body that you *want* to have."

The body I have is changing, week by week. What is a knitter to do?

I came to the solution, finally.

Knit something small. Knit something that doesn't depend on *your* size. I can go on a binge finishing old lace projects. A lace wrap will always fit! That gold Icarus I started five years ago? Will look AMAZING on me, regardless of my size.

I think it's funny how inversely proportional this whole thing is; as I get bigger, my knitting gets smaller.

But, first things first. My oldest friend in the world, Joey, is going to be a dad ANY MINUTE. So last night, some yarn was wound, a tiny sweater was selected, and I am quickly reminded of how incredibly fun (and fast!) it is to knit for small people.

Especially if they happen to be Sharks fans. Now, to find the perfect buttons...

Playing (o)Possum

2011-09-06T11:02:00.000-07:00

Sunday mornings are usually pretty quiet around here. If Andrew and I both sleep in, we usually have an extended cuddle session with the dogs, then Andrew makes breakfast while I check Facebook and Ravelry and inform him of What Happened while we were sleeping.

*This* Sunday, I got up a little earlier because we had a somewhat busy day planned. I got myself a glass of juice, and sat down at my computer. A little while later, Andrew got up and started making breakfast. Business as usual.

As Andrew was dishing breakfast, Niki was acting... twitchy. Suspicious. He was grousing at something under the stainless steel rack in the kitchen. I took a glance, and all I saw were dust puppies. (A "dust puppy" is like a tumbleweed, but made of dog fur.) I told Niki that none of his toys were under there, and thanked him for his diligence.

[SIDE NOTE: Lest you think I *never* clean my house, I sweep almost every day, and dust puppies are just a reality of having two double-coated dogs.]

Andrew and I sat down in front of the TV to enjoy our eggs and (decaf) coffee, and 10 minutes into the episode of Dexter we were watching, Niki was still grousing and growling.

"I looked and I didn't see anything. Could you please go take a look?" I asked Andrew.

Andrew agreed, I paused the DVD, and kept working on the beautiful cup of decaf he had made for me. (I miss coffee so, so, SO much.)

I hear Andrew blow the dust puppy out of the way, pause, send the dogs behind the dog gate, and then the following conversation transpired:

Andrew: Um, Jasmin?
Jasmin: What?
Andrew: There's a... [long and thoughtful pause]... possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you joking?
Andrew: No. There is a possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you serious?
Andrew: Yes. There is a possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you messing with me?
Andrew: No. Come look.

You have to understand, sometimes, he messes with me. And seriously, who would BELIEVE that there was a possum in their kitchen? So, I moseyed over to the kitchen, did as much of a chaturanga as one can manage at 19 weeks pregnant, and this is what I saw:

Dog toy? Home invader? Who can tell.

I looked again, because it wasn't very clear.

That is NOT just dog fur.

As I looked into the face of evil and terror, I might have yelled something like "OHMYGOD. THERE IS A POSSUM IN OUR KITCHEN!" I also may have jumped up on a chair, mouse-in-the-house style. (Are you as impressed with my bravery as I am?)

Andrew and I briefly brainstormed on how to deal with our home invader, while I intermittently praised Niki for being such a GOOD DOG and finding the nasty little thing. Andrew dreamed up a plan about how to get it out of the house and I summarily dismissed it, since all I could imagine was him getting mauled and killed by this monster, and in a few years, having to explain to SharkBean that she lost her father to a vicious opossum.

(At some point, I also clarified to Andrew that we have opossums in our area, not possums.)

I decided to call Animal Control, since they seem to cover this type of thing, and I got an answering machine. I left a slightly panicked message, which ended with, "I look forward to speaking with you very, very soon. VERY, very soon."

I assumed, since it was a holiday weekend, that they might not be in the office. I called 311 (non-emergency), and that call went a lot like this:

Me: Hello, there's an opossum in my kitchen. Is this the right place to call?
311 operator: In your kitchen?
Me: Yes, under my stainless steel rack.
311 operator: Hang up and call 911.
Me: 911? This is an appropriate 911 call?
311 operator: YES. Hang up NOW and call 911.

So, I called 911. Apparently, this was her first opossum in the house call. She connected me to a real, live person at Animal Control who told us we were the VERY NEXT pickup on their list. Animal Control also told us to keep an eye on the opossum, because should it get loose in the house, they wouldn't be going on a search-and-rescue mission hunting it down.

I assured her that there was nothing more compelling to watch in our house than the opossum. Mom took the dogs over to her house, so that they wouldn't continue to antagonize the Wild and Vicious animal in the house, and we held Opossum Watch 2011 in our very own kitchen.

So, for the next hour, we watched the opossum. Andrew named him (presumably "him", I didn't do an anatomical scan) "Bandit", and then insisted I look up information about opossums while we waited. He also declared them "cute" and informed me that we should buy SharkBean a stuffed opossum.

Then, the paranoia kicked in. We're working through season 5 of Dexter, and one of the antagonists is an animal control person.

"What if we're inviting a Boyd Fowler into the house?!" I might have freaked out.

Andrew and I decided it was worth the risk, since I had also declared that we needed to abandon the house. (I made the same declaration when I found out that we have black widow spiders in our garage. Which apparently, we had at the last house, too, Andrew just never told me.)

I was pleasantly surprised when Officer Rick (my new, personal hero) showed up, smiling, and was as friendly as could be. He told us that the opossum was likely much more afraid of us than we were of him, to which I responded, from my perch on the chair, "I seriously doubt that."

Officer Rick assessed that we had an adolescent opossum, and then talked Andrew through how to safely extract one from the house, should we have another uninvited visitor. I may have told Officer Rick that I loved him forever.

Bandit was a little skittish, and got tangled in the phone cord that lives under the stainless steel racks. Gentle as a lamb, Officer Rick untangled Bandit in a flash, and then lowered Bandit- who was the size of a HOUSECAT - into a cage.

Officer Rick also assisted in the photo-op.

After a short discussion of what Bandit's fate was, it turns out, that unless there is a suspicion of rabies (there was not), they just release opossums back into the wild. Since our neighborhood lacks wilderness, and I didn't think any of our neighbors would appreciate the gift of an opossum in any of *their* yards, Officer Rick offered to release Bandit at the perk ponds nearby.

[SIDE NOTE: Apparently, this is NOT Animal Control policy. They trap the critter, and it's up to you, the homeowner, to find a place to release it. I think it was the terror in my voice that may have changed his mind. Maybe it was telling him that I loved him forever. Who can tell?]

Officer Rick shared a fair amount of opossum facts with us, including:

- Mama opossums have 13 nipples, and incidently, have litters of 13.
- A litter of 13 means that there are 13 MORE opossums running around our neighborhood.
- Opossums love fruit that falls off of trees. Especially apples and tangerines, which we have in plentiful supply.

As he was on his way out, Officer Rick took a look at Bandit, and said, "You said you have dogs, right?"

"Yes..." I answered, not freaking out because our dogs are current on their vaccinations, and Bandit showed no signs of rabies. (We also thoroughly checked the dogs for bites, scratches, etc.)

"Do they play with stuffed toys?" Officer Rick asked.

"...yes."

"Hm. It looks like this little guy has been mouthed at. See how he looks a little wet?" Officer Rick pointed out.

That is one moist opossum.

After assuring us that Niki would be fine, just have horrifically stinky breath, Niki went from being the hero of the day, to being QUITE POSSIBLY Bandit's escort into the house, QUITE POSSIBLY bringing a playing-(o)possum-Bandit through the dog door like any other dog toy. Any other stinky, interactive, mouth-full-of-terrifying teeth dog toy.

It's like finding out that a heroic firefighter caused the fire. Doubly so if that heroic firefighter may have given you nose kisses after CHEWING ON AN OPOSSUM.

Oh, and once the dogs came back? Niki was incredibly unhappy that we had his new toy removed. I might have told him he has the meanest mom in the world, and then asked Andrew to brush the opossum funk off of Niki's teeth.

Funny enough, the last two mornings have felt so much better, since there HASN'T been an opossum in the house. It makes a dead rat seem trivial by comparison.

You have got to love relativism.

Heart, spine, and lenses

2011-09-04T10:10:00.000-07:00

This week, we had the Money Shot ultrasound. You know, the one where you get to see The Junk.

I'm not going to lie. I had some high expectations for this appointment. First, Andrew and I had placed a friendly wager on which sex the baby would end up being (I won, for the record). Second, this time we were promised something that looked less like a legume and more like ... something you'd put in a onesie.

(Let's be real for a moment, not even the VeggieTales had a legume. Legumes are hard to love.)

The ultrasound tech was really nice; she made sure that I was able to maintain some of my modesty, and in a moment that was *truly* worthy of an adult film, with no warning, she squirted me with warm ultrasound jelly.

"It's warm!" she exclaimed, very pleased that she didn't shock me with cold, unexpected ultrasound jelly.

I laughed my crazy nervous laugh, gave Andrew a sideways look and said, "Yes, yes it is."

So. Back to the magic.

She starts the ultrasound, and it was a lot like watching a post-modern French film. And you don't speak French because your mother told you that living in California, you'd use Spanish more. Ahem.

The tech was friendly, and was walking us through the ultrasound, pointing out things as if we could clearly discern them. Andrew, his usual helpful self, was making noises like he could actually interpret was was really just a Rorschach to me. I *might* have called him out on this. Perhaps in front of the tech.

At one point, there was clearly a foot and a leg, and I felt like a Rhodes scholar being able to point at it and I say, "I know what that is!" Truly, it's the small victories.

Towards the middle, she asks if we want to know the sex, to which we said, "Yes, please!"

She does a quick screen capture, types "girl", and there it is. Our SharkBean is a girl. Check her out:

Not a shark. Probably.

"How can you tell?" I asked, because really and truly, I couldn't. So she shows us a shot which is the equivalent of SharkBean sitting on a photocopier, commando, at an office holiday party. Which I most certainly hope she does not do. EVER.

(For those of you who were hoping to see some cute baby butt cheeks, Andrew and I had a LONG discussion about invading SharkBean's privacy and posting pictures of her junk- or lack thereof- on the internet. I was rooting for y'all.)

What surprised me the most is how truly awesome ultrasounds are- SharkBean's little bones glowed on the GIANT monitor, showing us that they're all growing the way they should, and also, that she has a big head already (whimper) and the long Lockwood legs (woo!). We saw a healthy little heart, a developing brain, and eyes complete with lenses.

The pièce de résistance was towards the end of the ultrasound, where SharkBean was kicking away, and moving like crazy. Andrew looked at her hands and their movements, and I KID YOU NOT, said, "It looks like she's knitting."

Too small

2011-08-31T10:39:00.000-07:00

The pre-swatch swatch

A conversation:

Andrew: [Picks up swatches on table] What's this?
Me: Your sweater.
Andrew: [Holds up to his chest] It's a little small.
Me: ...
Me: Hm. Guess I'll have to rip it out and re-knit it.

Measure in wool

2011-08-26T15:38:00.000-07:00

How do you measure ten years? RENT would have us believe that it's 5,256,000 minutes. While I love RENT, in our house, ten years looks like this:

That's what 2 lbs of singles looks like.

Seasons of ~~love~~ woooo-ooooo-ooooo-oool. Early in the year, I told Andrew that I would spin and knit him a sweater to commemorate ten years of being together. First, he picked which sweater he wanted me to knit for him:

Baseball jersey, from "Knits Men Want". Which, incredibly, they do!

It was a hard choice, since he has requested 90% of the sweaters in Knits Men Want, but I made him pick ONE. Step 2 was to select which fleeces would make the cut, so he chose a Romney/Rambouillet cross that I bought at Rhinebeck in 2009:

Meghan has the "twin" of this fleece. (The shot is a little dark, apologies.)

Gorgeous, right? I love how silvery it is. The fleece had AMAZING crimp, and was a joy to spin. My qualms are with how Zeilinger's processed it, leaving enough grease on it to make it smell rancid until I washed it again, myself. They also charged me extra weight (ahem, thumb on the scale, much?) on all three of the fleeces that they processed for me, and didn't bother to label which fleece was which, or how much finished weight I ended up with. I can't recommend them, sorry, Zeilinger's.

The "up" side of re-washing it is that I can enthusiastically recommend the unscented SOAK for getting nasty, stinky, rancid lanolin out of wool without stripping it completely dry. Way to go, SOAK!

(BONUS! According to their website, SOAK is biodegradable and non-toxic, so I take my grey water and pour it in my compost. The earthworms say it's like a spa treatment, but to be fair, they're earthworms, so take their recommendation with a grain of salt. Or a spoonful of compost.)

Andrew wanted a darker color for the sleeves/collar, and I may have guided him toward this beauty:

This fleece was streak-y like an Alpha Phi Omega pledge

This is a Merino/Border Leicester cross that I picked up from Black Sheep Gathering in 2010, and the incomparable Shari from Morro Fleece Works worked her magic on it:

Makes you want to reach out and touch, I know.

I wish I had gotten a picture of the fleece pre-processing, it had the most INCREDIBLE stark white skunk streak running through it. (I have an auntie who went grey the same way, and every time I see a streak that defined, I think of her hair.) You can see it in the picture above, with the locks I pulled from the fleece.

Blended and pindrafted, I love how it creates a heathered effect in the singles. I would love this fleece in a box with a fox, in a house with a mouse, or in this case, in a sweater for cooler weather.

The swatches have actually been done for almost a month, and Andrew asked what the hold-up was. The singles have been sitting on the coffee table for *approximately* the same length of time, being gorgeous and single. You know how they are, smug little things.

I told him that I couldn't ply the sweater until I took pictures of the singles for Ravelry. (Along with being gorgeous, single, and smug, they are also vain.) With the clock ticking down (with 127 days left in the year, about 1/3 for you lovers of fractions), I figured I should stop making excuses and actually see if I can finish in time.

Let the countdown begin.

Family stories

2011-08-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

Last month, Andrew's Uncle Andy passed away. We did our grieving then, and waited for the family to schedule the funeral/memorial.

This last weekend was the memorial. It was up at Uncle Andy's house in Grass Valley, which is a 3 1/2 hour drive from where we live. Longer, if you happen to have a SharkBean pressing on your bladder. We loaded up my little car, and with Andrew at the helm, we fired up my iPod and made the trek up to Grass Valley.

(Side note: the bag of snacks he packed without my knowledge has me convinced he's ready to be someone's dad. Props!)

When we FINALLY got there, it was great. They had a slideshow of family photos featuring Uncle Andy, and nearly everyone managed to fly or drive in for the memorial. The family was all together for the first time in quite a few years, and the memorial was more jovial than I expected.

What I found very touching - but a little odd - was how incredibly excited the whole family was about SharkBean. I will also point out that I got the distinct impression that they were a little disappointed that I didn't appear *more* pregnant. I assured them that at Christmas I would be much more impressive. (Be proud I didn't say, "It's a lot more impressive when I'm naked." Because that, folks, is a fact.)

Over the last ten years, I have noticed that Andrew's family don't tell stories. There are three stories that they tell, and that's it. Sure, they talk about the weather, philosophy, and pop culture, but no stories. It's strange to me, because if *my* family didn't tell stories, we'd be practically mute at the dinner table. As it is, it's hard to get a word in edgewise, the meal takes three hours, and that's how we like it.

Last year, BigJ asked me about being a writer. He asked if I thought it was genetic or learned behavior, and I told him I thought it was more environmental. I explained that telling stories makes my family feels connected to each other, to our family history, and it's really how we communicate what is important to us. Especially if it's a story about something awkward; we cope with disappointment, discomfort, and a number of other things by being able to laugh at ourselves.

In short, you learn how to tell stories from hearing stories. That's my opinion, and I showed him that same night at the dinner table that his family just doesn't tell stories.

This weekend, I was corrected. There is a storyteller in the family, and that's Uncle Ted. Ted is the only person in the entire extended family who towers over Andrew, and he tells the stories. I was lucky enough to sit and chat with Ted, and it turns out that Andrew is a descendant of Meriwether Lewis. Truly, I wish they lived closer.

Ted was also *not pleased* that Saturday was the first time he was hearing about SharkBean- making him the last person in the whole world to find out (literally). I felt about six inches tall while I gracefully threw Andrew under the bus on that one. (I made sure all of *my* extended family had been informed.) I also may have cited a story from Andrew's childhood involving Ted and not relaying other Vital Information. (I'm pretty sure Andrew was surprised I remembered that one.)

Andrew's family history is really rich- his grandfather was an admiral in the Navy, and there was a ship (not a boat, as I have been corrected approximately one million times about) commissioned (and de-commissioned) named after him- the U.S.S. Lockwood. There are all sorts of tangible parts of their history; just a few include the flag from his grandfather's funeral, a sword (used to cut wedding cakes now), and a bell from one of the ships that The Admiral (how everyone refers to Andrew's grandfather) commanded.

Andrew's brother, Ed, suggested that we ring the bell at Andy's memorial - the way they had done for their mom. It was a great idea.

It was incredibly touching; nobody spoke, but the whole family took their turn ringing the bell, three times each, in memory of Andy. It was quiet and dignified; the sound of the bell echoed off of the trees into the distance as his loved ones wordlessly rang it for him.

What I learned is that family history doesn't always look like a carefully-tracked geneaology chart, or need funny stories. Just like how our families look different, family history and tradition defines how our families differ.

Thank goodness they've got new people adding to the family all the time. While the quiet symbols are important, somebody has to tell self-deprecating stories at the table.

Direction and management

2011-08-18T10:34:00.000-07:00

Lest you think (from my Math post) that we live in squalor, surrounded by disorderly piles of yarn and fiber, let me assure you, we do not. It's all organized and shelved, there is just a *lot* of it. (I once had a guest who remarked, "LOOK! It's all labeled so you know what you're stealing!")

I can still pull stuff out of the closet (and off of the shelves), but lifting has become a bit of an issue, so a lot of things get pulled out until I can get help putting them back away. Lucky for me, I married up. By "up" I mean "tall and does my heavy lifting".

We spent a lot of this last weekend with me directing Andrew on where to move things that I had intended to take care of, but really couldn't manage on my own. While I prize my "Lady Hulk" title, I am learning to ask for help when I need it. And ask I did.

I'm used to making lists, and systematically accomplishing things on the list. It's incredibly satisfying. However. If you make a list for someone else, someone who (perhaps) works full time and is your Lovable Beast of Burden, it can make you feel like a bit of a jerk. Especially when by the time your Lovable Beast of Burden comes home, you are SO TIRED and can not be on your feet for ONE MORE SECOND.

... Especially if you *might* be giving directions from the couch, where you might be knitting and watching TV, or laying down with the TV on. There has been a lot of TV involved, along with obsessively reading about how to not be a terrible parent. Or vampires. You know, to mix it up a little. (I know, I know. For true literary balance, I should be reading about the zombie apocalypse, too. My shortcomings are many. Thank goodness I'm cute.)

Instead of feeling guilty (because that's not my forte), I'm using my project management skills to work out what needs to get done in order of priority with Andrew. I don't actually make the lists, and I'm learning to be okay with it when things don't get done RIGHT AWAY. I see it as practice for when the SharkBean joins us.

I'm not letting everything slip- I've been working with the dogs on some training that has needed to get done, since that's all about being consistent and not about muscle. On top of that, I'm trying to teach Elphie how to fold laundry, since she is Very Interested in clean laundry. Unfortunately, she lacks some dexterity, so this hasn't worked all that well. Proof that not all ideas are good ones.

She sticks to doing what I fondly refer to as "furmanent press"- which is rolling all over warm, clean, flattened laundry. Considering what I've heard about what *other* dogs like rolling in, I'm 100% okay with her rolling on clean laundry. What's a little dog fur between friends?

SIDE NOTE: I was reading one of the parenting books y'all suggested (I've checked them ALL out, and I'm currently powering through them), and the one I'm reading now seems to have followed my mother around and modeled their "ideal" solutions around how she raised us. When I asked her, she claims to have neither read nor written the book. Further proof of my mother's innate awesomeness.

Henry IV, Part I - A Review

2011-08-15T06:31:00.000-07:00

Event: Henry IV- Part I, Shakespeare Santa Cruz

Cost: Our tickets were comp'ed, but you can buy yours here (Tickets range from $14-$50)

Prince Hal (Erik Heger, center) brings together forces, including Falstaff (Richard Ziman, far right) to vanquish Hotspur and defend his father, the king, in Shakespeare Santa Cruz's 2011 production of "Henry IV, Part One".

The Review:

I read Henry IV (pt I) in college, and I HATED it. I thought Falstaff was a cartoon, and that Hal was an over-privileged, spoiled douchebag. I blame the teacher, who systematically took all of the humor and bawdiness out of every bit of Shakespeare's work that we read that semester. He also declared that the histories were "boring".

To be fair, if that had been my one-and-only experience reading Shakespeare, I don't think I would have ever considered attending a live performance. After all, Shakespeare is soooooo dry and boooooooring. Thank goodness I had fantastic teachers before and after the disaster that was English 102.

Given how amazing all of the other productions at Shakespeare Santa Cruz have been, I decided to go in with an open mind, and I was surprised to find that I really, really enjoyed Henry IV, pt 1. It was not a "boring history" that dragged on and on and on. It was funny and spoke to me on a number of levels.

As with all of Shakespeare's work, the characters are incredibly multidimensional, and the acting took it to depths that I hadn't even considered when I read it all those years ago.

V Craig Heidenreich plays King Henry IV with command of the stage which I can only really compare to Martin Sheen's opening scene on the pilot episode of The West Wing. (Side note: If you haven't seen The West Wing, do yourself a favor and watch it ALL. From the beginning.) Heidenreich plays a father who hopes for the best for his son, but young Prince Hal is at that age where he could grow up to be a great young man, or a total loser.

Now that I think about it, I have the experience of a few extra years, and watching Sam grow up since I read this play, I remember a few years where I wasn't quite sure which path he'd choose. And he didn't have the fate of a kingdom resting on his adolescing shoulders.

We see Prince Hal (played by Erik Heger), carousing with Falstaff (played by Richard Ziman) who drinks too much, tells tall tales, and doesn't necessarily pay all his debts. Despite Falstaff's flaws, he's clearly a good friend to Hal. Their relationship, while on the surface looks like it should be more of a father/son relationship, it's more of a bromance. It reminded me a lot of the Alan Shore/Denny Crane relationship from Boston Legal.

Hal gets the call to arms from his father, and in the blink of an eye, we watch as Hal makes the decision to man up and defend his father's kingdom. It gave me chills. Heger plays the role where it just seems to scream, "I'm not a loser, I can make you proud!" And he does.

Another notable performance was given by J. Todd Adams, who played Henry Percy/Hotspur. Or, as I like to refer to him "the *good* Henry", who is the young Henry that seems a more appropriate choice for the throne than Hal. You can see both sides, yes, Hal needs to grow up, but young men need *time* to do that. Yes, Hotspur has had his eyes on the prize, seemingly since day 1. We all know who *that* kid is in our lives.

(Is it just me, or does it seem like the British throne has always had issues with monarchs and succession?)

If you're in the area, RUN-don't-walk to get tickets to see this production. I couldn't recommend it more.

Impulse control and interpretation

2011-08-12T10:49:00.000-07:00

I am not mature enough to be a parent. Apologies in advance, SharkBean.

Evidence A:

When I go to the pet store to restock on dog food, I always check for new and enriching toys for the dogs. Chances are good that a couple of toys usually make their way into my cart, and since the dogs have gotten a little less destructive in the last couple of years, let's just say they have a good selection of toys.

Nylabone has recently come out with DINOSAUR SHAPED DENTAL TOYS. Part of me imagines that the creative minds over at Nylabone sit around plotting about how to get *me* to buy more dog toys, and boy, did they get my number. I am powerless against cool dog toys.

These are especially fun if you growl while you chew on them. Or so I'm told.

There were three different dino-chew toys at Pet Food Express, and with AMAZING restraint, I managed to only buy two: a T-Rex and a stegosaurus. I have tried to use the chew toys as a learning tool, telling the dogs about the dinosaurs, but they remain unimpressed.

Niki has been monopolizing the (now headless) T-rex, and as I write, Elphie is grunting and gnawing away on the stegosaurus. It's really, really funny to watch. (I would record it, but she would notice and stop as soon as the camera/phone comes out.)

"Cute" has a lot of value in our house, evidently.

Evidence B:

Andrew and I went for an appointment for SharkBean (a regular checkup) a couple of weeks ago. On the wall of the room, there is a "helpful" poster with weekly developmental milestones, and some of them had pictures of what the developing baby looks like.

15 weeks (where I am right now) looks like Golum. I am a terrible person for saying it, but that is exactly what the depiction looks like. The eyes on the poster, though closed, also seemed to follow me around the room. It was pretty creepy.

"Hello, Mother."

(That's the closest I could find online that wasn't icky.)

I pointed it out to Andrew, who responded that at 15 weeks, we'll just have to call SharkBean "My preciousssssss".

Math

2011-08-10T06:45:00.000-07:00

I have a very, very special houseguest visiting next week. A guest SO nice, I said "very" twice. My guest room looks like a Jasminian Devil has been let loose in it. Which is actually *exactly* what happened.

It's a very nice guest room/office/stash den; there is an EXTREMELY comfortable bed (ask Mom or Dr. Gemma), a flat monitor hooked up to a DVD player and an Apple TV, a nightstand with speakers for your iPod and a little lamp to read by. Sounds idyllic, right?

There is also A LOT of wool in there, in its various forms. Like, enough wool to realize that the outside walls of the house aren't insulated. (This is exactly why we all need a million fleeces, by the way.) Enough to get me on "My Strange Addiction", or "Hoarders Lite". (Is there a "Hoarders Lite"?) It's all special and I NEED ALL OF IT.

Ahem.

I stashed with a purpose. I planned for my time home as an artist. And then I promptly lost my mojo.

So, here's a little math that has become increasingly apparent to me, in the form of a word problem:

If you buy ANY yarn/wool, and don't knit (or spin), the amount of stash GROWS.

Many of you, being intelligent people are saying, "Duh. You can do math, Jasmin."

Yes. Yes I can. The problem is that in my mind, I can knit a sweater in three days and spin a sweater's worth of wool in a week."

In theory. The problem is the application. Hopefully my Very Very special houseguest will find it in her heart to forgive me. And not take photographs of the room for blackmailing purposes.

Frankly, Scarlet

2011-08-05T06:15:00.000-07:00

Last year, I cast on the Oat Couture Prairie Blanket and got 12% into it before something more interesting grabbed my interest.

Cascade 220 Superwash, because I'm a realist.

I had wanted to knit one of these when I was 15 years old, but the first time I tried it, I wasn't as capable of reading the wrong side of my knitting or following a moving texture pattern, never mind doing both simultaneously. I've done a little more knitting since then.

It's not for SharkBean. The red isn't speaking to me for SharkBean, beautiful as it is. Also, after watching Shark Week, it is vaguely reminiscent of chum. Not a bad thing, just an observation.

(Side note: Beth had a great name for the color, "Blood and Romance". It had nothing to do with chum. Unless she meant "Fish blood and guts" in the "blood" bit.)

I have someone in mind, but really, until she tells me that she's expecting, I'm not handing over this beauty. It's not the next "hardest thing I've ever knit", but I like it for lots of reasons.

It's a brilliant variation of the classic dishcloth blanket, which I knit 7 million of in high school (for the NICU at the local county hospital, the same folks who get all of our Head to Toe hats). The dishcloth blanket, according to my Aunt Constance, is the ultimate in blankets-that-stay-on-babies. But dishcloth blankets are SO BORING TO KNIT.

Miles and miles and miles of garter stitch, which is either (a) what hell is like or (b) penance for doing something horrible. It's the knitting equivalent of having to write lines. ("I will not say nasty things about acrylic yarn.") Over and over and over again until your hands fall off.

Somehow, the traveling rib on the second border (because there is a small garter border on the outside, THEN an eyelet, THEN the traveling garter rib!) makes knitting this a particularly potato-chippy knit. Also, it's a really sophisticated design, especially for something as utilitarian as a baby blanket.

A really cool baby is going to do all sorts of unmentionable things to this beauty. Probably in a leather jacket and sunglasses, like in "Look Who's Talking?". (Wow, dated movie reference, much?) Or in a suit, like a mini Tim Gunn. (Phew! I hope that gives me some cool cred back.)

Why a baby blanket if it's not for SharkBean? Everything else in my UFO bin is either (a) a fitted sweater or (b) a boring vanilla sock. This is literally the first thing I was excited about working on. Not because it's a baby blanket, but because everything else feels a little pointless right now. (Also, it was the first thing that I grabbed that I could just grab and knit on. I might be a fickle knitter.) I see a lace binge in my future. (See? Told you.)

I tried starting a baby sweater, but it didn't work out. I'm going to wait for a pattern to physically attack me before I try knitting for SharkBean. The question is, do I knit a vent for the dorsal fin, or an incorporated cover? (Just in case.)

Research is power

2011-08-04T06:51:00.000-07:00

A month ago, while we were out running errands, Mom and I stopped at a bookstore in search of parenting books. Specific types of parenting books.

Who am I kidding? My life is an open book. I was looking for books on attachment parenting and co-sleeping. (Suggestions greatly appreciated, for the record.) I was raised by hippies, I married a hippie, and despite my (former) denial, ladies and gentlemen, I AM A HIPPIE. A hippie who likes to do her research.

When we were talking about adopting a dog, I read about dogs. Dog training, dog breeds, dog health. I even watched the Dog Whisperer, until I realized that it was the owners that needed retraining.

Anyway, we get to a Big and Noisy chain bookstore (which I NEVER shop at, for the record), and while standing in the "parenting" aisle, we were approached by a teenage employee.

Before I continue, please note that I love teenagers, especially employed ones. The ones that are engaged enough to ask "Is there anything I can help you with?" cheerfully are in danger of being attack-hugged. They are unicorns.

When I asked where the attachment parenting and co-sleeping books were (because I could find *zero*), RaisedByYuppies asked what attachment parenting *was*.

Mom, being the cheerful educator, attachment parent, and former lactation counselor, briefly explained the precepts of attachment parenting to RaisedByYuppies. (You would brag, too, if she was your mom.)

RaisedByYuppies then informed us that it's more fashionable to raise babies using the "cry it out" method, and that babies need boundaries. Given that I haven't been my sharpest the last month (or so) I ignored her ignorance, and Mom and I left, me in a huff. I'm still annoyed that I didn't say something smart and caustic to her. I did not ever claim to be a nice person.

Though, I suppose if I had punched her in the face while screaming about how important nurturing is, she may have missed my message. Maybe it's a good thing I restrained myself.

It was then, in the car when I was ranting about uninformed opinions and that as a matter of form, I don't take any advice from a teen working retail, that I realized: Librarians are smart, and libraries are full of books. Books they will cheerfully let me read FOR FREE. Without offering opinions.

This might be obvious to you, but I keep forgetting about the amazing resource that IS the local library system. Also? The Sunnyvale library has a KILLER selection of cookbooks. It's a great way of deciding whether or not you HAVE TO HAVE a specific cookbook in your collection.

We zoomed over to our local library, where I picked over the parenting shelves, hunting for books that appealed to my hippified self. For the cost of ZERO dollars, I checked out a dozen parenting books, which I have slowly been picking my way through. Some have been "eh", one was awful, and one has been GREAT. So great, I think I'm going to write the author a fan letter and give the book its own blog post.

Given that all experiences are opportunities for learning, here are mine:

- Never go to a chain bookstore. Buy locally from Recycle Books, on Amazon, or not at all.
- Libraries are amazing, but I'm so sad that they have DVDs there now. They might as well say "Watch a movie, literacy is doomed anyway."
- My hippiness has its limits. And that limit is Elimination Communication.

A reconciliation

2011-08-03T06:08:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, a knitter named Jasmin knit her [then] magnum opus, and it was called "Mariah". She knitted the body in a flash, and not even the sleeves managed to slow her down:

I understand your sleeve envy.

She installed the zipper all-by-herself (using the tutorial from Splityarn), and even though it was hot and humid out that day, she put it on proudly so that she could take a picture of herself in it.

I look like Mom when I make that face.

If you recall, she hated it. She sulked for a while about it, and in a fit of holy-crap-it's-early-and-yoga-starts-soon induced urgency, she grabbed Mariah to wear to class. Because that's what you do with ugly/ill-fitting clothes. You wear them to yoga.

(Can we go back to first person? This third person business is exhausting and frankly, confusing my poor, addled brain.)

So I did. I got *SO* many compliments on Mariah, it was unreal. All from non-knitters. One woman from class liked my Mariah so much that she is LEARNING TO KNIT. I'm totally serious.

I'm not normally someone who is swayed by public opinion, but when they're saying really nice things about a sweater that you created, stitch by stitch, it counts more. It just does. You could say that Mariah and I have found a place where we can cheerfully coexist. And that place is yoga.

I do need to order a better zipper, and "let" Mom help me apply it (no reflection on Caro's tutorials, more on my lack of mad zipper-installing skills). For now, this story finally found its happy ending.

Oh, also? I cut off (almost) all of my hair:

I call this "pink steel".

The whole not-bleaching-your-roots business was driving me crazy, and I've always wanted a mohawk. Suzy (my amazing stylist, since I was 6 years old) refused to give me a mohawk, because (a) I would never blow my hair out to have it be mohawk-y and spiky and (b) even if I did, the sheer WEIGHT of my hair wouldn't stand up.

This is our compromise- the curly ladyhawk. Depending on my product mojo, some days it's more hawked than others. Sometimes when you have an extreme change in your life (like perhaps, a SharkBean in progress (thanks, LizzLizzLizz), and extreme 'do usually follows suit.

Because that's how I roll.

The Three Musketeers - A review

2011-07-31T18:08:00.000-07:00

Event: The Three Musketeers, Shakespeare Santa Cruz

Cost: Our tickets were comp'ed, but you can buy yours here (Tickets range from $14-$50)

“All for one, and one for all!” The Three Musketeers (Kit Wider, Allen Gilmore, and J. Todd Adams) with D’Artagnan (Leigh Miller) in Shakespeare Santa Cruz’s 2011 production of “The Three Musketeers” (photo by rr jones).

The review:

I read The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas when I was nine or ten years old, unabridged, because my mother was a teacher and didn't believe in sugary cereals *or* abridged books. I tore through it an a day (ah, summer), and despite the fact that it's been almost 20 years since, I remember enjoying it.

I also have seen two of the eight million film adaptations, my favorite being the all-star Disney Cast. Feel free to lose all respect you ever had for me, I also LOVE the first two Mighty Ducks movies. And Newsies.

If you have somehow managed to miss any references to The Three Musketeers, it's basically a story about bros, brawls, and babes. I might paraphrase.

Let's talk about the acting first, shall we? There were lots of familiar *voices* from previous productions at Shakespeare Santa Cruz. I say "voices" because this is a Hair and Costume drama. SO. MANY. HAIRPIECES. I know it's necessary for historical accuracy, but the wig budget for this show must have been through the roof. It also obscured a lot of the familiar faces, which is a pity since the actors are *so* handsome. Repeat attendees with an ear for voices (ahem, me), will recognize many of the distinctive voices onstage.

The acting was stellar- Charles Pasternak, who was my favorite Romeo EVER (take that, DiCaprio) played an utterly foppish and convincing King Louis. (Andrew didn't recognize him at ALL, which speaks to how much Pasternak changed his voice and carriage for the role.) J. Todd Adams (who has been in every production in the Festival Glen I've had the privilege of seeing) played a soulful and (occasionally) tortured Aramis. Kit Wilder plays a delightfully lecherous Porthos, and Allen Gilmore plays Athos with command of the stage, and presents the major plot twist towards the end of the show with sincerity.

I thought that Katie MacNichol could have played the Countess de Winter as more of a villain, but to be honest, after seeing Rebecca DeMornay's performance, it's hard to out-villain her. (Side note: Does DeMornay EVER *not* play a villain?)

Leigh Nichols Miller played the young and enthusiastic D'Artagnan well, my only complaint was his *incredibly* distracting hair. Among all the wigs, here was D'Artagnan with what was either a poorly done bleach job, but looked more like an experiment with Sun-In gone wrong. If the lighter hair was an intentional costume part (to represent youth, light, all that is good), I wish they had done a better job. Or covered that hot mess up.

The interpretation of the book - which I'll admit, is no easy task - was entertaining, but choppy and disjointed at parts. It felt like the folks adapting the novel were just trying to include *too* much. There were quite a few 30 second scenes that could have accomplished the same amount of exposition with an explanatory line instead of a scene change and an incredibly short scene.

I would have traded all of the shortie scenes for more development of the characters- like how D'Artagnan kills a man, and only seems troubled over it for the few moments between then and then end of the scene. Not only did they completely disregard any real conflict he may have felt, but it mostly left me feeling cheated out of any real exposition there.

Was it better than a movie adaptation? It was different. Despite what I felt were adaptive shortcomings, I still really enjoyed the production, and I would recommend attending. If you're a slave to the original, this might not be the play for you. If you're up for a fun show with sword fights and camaraderie, go for it. Purists, re-read the book and NEVER see an adaptation of a book, they'll always leave you cold.

Probably not a shark

2011-07-29T11:44:00.000-07:00

If you're not a friend of mine on Facebook (or if you don't follow the podcast on Facebook or Twitter), chances are good that you haven't heard the news.

Ultrasound from 6/17/2011, Baby's ETA 2/2/2012

I'm growing a person. While we are EXTRA excited with Thrilled Sauce on the side, the actual growing of the person has been more or less uneventful. It's tedious to complain about the side effects of pregnancy, so I'll spare you. You're welcome.

I did have the following discussion with one of the nurses the day of the ultrasound:

Me: I don't understand why I'm feeling so LOUSY. I do yoga four times a week, I eat nutritious, homemade food that I cook MYSELF from scratch. I should feel AMAZING.
NurseMotherofFour: Yeah... It's good that you're excercising and eating well. It just doesn't work like that.
Me: Well, it should.
NurseMotherofFour: [Uproarious laughter.]

Shortly after that, we went into the room where the movie magic was going to happen. I had this idea, again, that it would be this incredibly special appointment- and it *is*, because there is PROOF that we MADE A PERSON- but it was really just a more public pelvic exam. With extra toys. And a short film at the end.

So, they show us the "baby" with the heartbeat, and really, it just looked like a flickering kidney bean to me. With a yolk sac. I wasn't really expecting little fingers and toes, but I also wasn't expecting... a legume.

Dr. Stirrups (my OB) pointed out that the flickering was a strong heartbeat, and oh look, there's the yolk sac. Yolk sac. As in chickens, rays, and SHARKS have yolk sacs. I nodded at the appropriate times, but in my head, all I could think was "YOLK SAC. BABY SHARK."

Andrew and I left, and over lunch we had the "which gender are you hoping for?" discussion. Andrew pointed out the benefits of having a girl, the benefits of having a boy, and then concluded that he was just excited we were having a baby.

When he asked what my gender preference was, I answered, "As long as it's not a shark, I'll be happy. I'm not prepared to parent a shark."

Bonus protein- apple edition

2011-07-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

I may have mentioned in a previous post that our yard is positively rich with fruit trees- we have more than a dozen various trees/bushes, all of which produce fruit. Considering the tiny plot of land we have, it's pretty excellent.

Among the trees, we have two varieties of apples growing, which are starting to ripen now. On Tuesday, all I wanted was an apple. I wanted an apple in that crazy, obsessive way that I have always craved *specific* foods. So, I ventured out into my yard in the heat, and picked two apples. One for me, one for Mom (who was making lunch).

We don't use pesticides in our yard, and other than some homemade compost to supplement the dirt, we don't use any fertilizer. (By "we", I am assuming the royal "we". I don't do any work in the yard, other than the occasional fruit-picking task.) You could consider our fruit organic, I suppose.

Being that we don't use pesticides, our fruit is occasionally does not have the most pristine appearance. It sometimes has been taste tested by a bird, a squirrel, or a worm. For quality control, of course. The trees produce a LOT of fruit, and I am not petty enough to begrudge the local fauna a nibble here and there.

(Don't get Andrew started on the battle with the squirrels for the loquats. Last year, I caught him in the yard hurriedly eating loquats off of the tree, and laughing in triumph at the squirrels whom he had finally bested after two years of not getting a single loquat off of our tree. I don't judge.)

I brought the apples in, washed them in the sink, and took a paring knife to the "pre-tasted" section of each apple, and carved out the tunneling. Nobody poked their head out, so I took my apple to the couch where I fired up The Secret Life of the American Teenager on the TiVo (because there is something deeply, deeply wrong with me), and cheerfully munch away on my apple.

Towards the end of the apple, as I went to take a big bite, I saw movement. As I glanced down, I saw the former occupant of my apple frantically protesting his eviction. In a very wormy way, of course.

I shrieked in a way that is normally reserved for horror movies- when the monster (predictably) jumps out and grabs a character, that shriek. Niki, ever my diligent protector, climbed onto my lap to try to figure out what I had shrieked about. (Fun fact: If I watch a movie that makes me shriek, he'll growl at the TV until I tell him everything is okay. He's a good dog.)

Someone who is more woman than I am would have simply tossed the Very Hungry Ex-Occupant of the apple into the compost and soldiered on, but alas, I am only a weak woman. I can't hunt my own food, and frankly, while I can cope with an ex-creepy crawly on my apple, I don't want food that has been walked all over in front of me. It's a real shortcoming of character on my part, I know.

After assuring Niki that I wasn't in any imminent danger from my apple, I walked it over to the compost bin, worm-and-all, and dropped it in. Since I normally eat everything on the apple (but the stem), I got a strange look from Mom when I tossed what appeared to be a perfectly good couple of bites in the compost bucket.

"There was ... unexpected protein in my apple," I explained. "Still kicking. Eat yours carefully."

The Comedy of Errors - A review

2011-07-27T06:28:00.000-07:00

Event: The Comedy of Errors, Shakespeare Santa Cruz

Cost: Our tickets were comp'ed, but you can buy yours here (Tickets range from $14-$50)

Antipholus of Ephesus (Mike Ryan, left) bestows orders on his servant, Dromio of Ephesus (Brad DePlanche, right) in Shakespeare Santa Cruz's 2011 production of "The Comedy of Errors."

The review:

I'm going to start this review by saying that this isn't a play I've read or seen before. I would like to thank my high school AP English teacher for pointing out that Shakespeare's work isn't meant to be read, it was meant to be watched. So there.

The play starts with a one-man-band (Jonathan Shue) providing ambient music, and Carly Cioffi playing an Adelaide-esque director, scrambling to put together a skeleton cast for this play- seven players playing twenty roles. Totally do-able.

Most of the initial exposition is brilliantly accomplished using an overhead projector, which is ridiculously funny and incredibly effective. All of the cast-stretching methods were equally funny and effective- using glasses to differentiate between twins, quick (and occasionally incomplete) costume changes- it was all comic gold. Especially if - like me - you have the sense of humor of a (not very sophisticated) 12-year-old boy.

Without giving too much away, if you like slapstick, absurdist humor, or dudes in dresses, you'll enjoy this show. The *one* slight issue I had with the play was Susan Engbrecht's performance (who played Adriana). It felt like she wasn't familiar enough with the script to do more than really yell her lines and beat her castmates with a purse. I'm not saying that I could have done a better job, but the caliber of her castmates was pretty high, and she stood out as a considerably weaker performer.

The only other *slight* disappointment is that this isn't being performed in the Festival Glen. (I would attend a reading of the phone book in the Glen, for the record.)

Despite my love of the Glen, this play is still totally worth attending. If you're in the mood for a good date play, this is a great way of spending an evening- especially if you grab a nice dinner first.

(To get your Festival Glen fix, you'll have to attend another show. Fortunately for you, I'll be reviewing all the shows this season.)

Green with avocado envy

2011-06-14T06:08:00.000-07:00

As part of my Valentine's Day gift, Andrew set up raised beds for an herb garden for me.

Cilantro. It's over 5 feet tall now.

I love my herb garden. When I'm cooking, I can wander out to my garden, trim what I need, wash it, and throw it in my food. It's more flavorful than it's overpriced, store-bought counterparts, too, so that's an extra bonus.

I should also mention that I do ZERO upkeep on this garden. Not my department, folks. I'm just the little woman, doing the cooking. I don't know anything about watering, weeding, and whatnot.

As part of the "garden upgrade" (which also included 4 different breeds of tomatoes), I had requested a pair of avocado trees, since Summer Winds has mature ones and we could have avocados in two years. Or less. TWO YEARS.

Raised beds were assembled, herbs were planted, tomatoes were caged. Alas, where were my avocados? I assumed that Andrew would plant them later, since the raised beds were a weekend-long project, start-to-finish.

Weeks passed, and no avocados were planted. The word "avocado" never passed Andrew's lips. Had he forgotten?!

A friend of mine posted on Facebook that her little avocado tree was going to have a small yield this year. A tree that they got from Summer Winds. You could say that it brought out my inner green-eyed-and-avocado-flavored jealous side.

Last night, I turned to Andrew and was subtle. You know, like I'm known for.

"What's the story with my avocado trees?" I asked him, straight out.

"Where do you want to put them?" Andrew asked.

(It's worth mentioning that on our small plot of land, our little piece of suburbia, we have a dozen fruit trees, all which came included with our house.)

"I don't know. What about taking out the tree that doesn't have fruit and put them there?" I suggested.

"You want to put avocado trees, which need a LOT OF direct sunlight, in the part of the yard that gets basically NO sunlight," Andrew pointed out.

"Hm, " I thought for a moment, "How about we rip out the stupid mimosa tree and put the avocados there?"

"What?! What's wrong with the mimosa tree?" Andrew asked.

"It's messy. And it doesn't actually produce any mimosas," I answered.

"Maybe it needs another mimosa tree to make mimosas," Andrew suggested.

Just another night in our house.

A formal "thank you"

2011-05-19T06:28:00.000-07:00

I am incredibly fortunate to have awesome people in my life, whom I am even more fortunate to call my friends. I know that they're my friends, because they do things like weave scarves for me, wave them around all weekend while I'm lusting away after them. This forces me to fight the urge to knock them to the floor and steal the aforementioned scarf off of their bodies until they are done teasing me and bestow Things of Beauty upon my completely undeserving self.

Like this one.

Scarf woven out of Abstract Fiber Matisse on a Schacht Flip Loom

The picture doesn't come close to doing the scarf justice, but it's the first picture I've taken of a scarf I've had for over a year. I've been wearing it at every opportunity, and I loveloveLOVE it. I love it so much that I match my eyeshadow to it. (You can't really tell in the photo.)

I'm ashamed to say that I simply forgot to send a "Thank You" card to the charming and talented creator of my favorite scarf. I was remiss in my manners, and for that, I am utterly mortified at my own boorishness. I blame the bright colors for distracting me, you know how I am.

Dear Evil Jasmine,

Thank you for my beautiful scarf. I love it and wear it all the time.

Love,
Wicked Jasmin

Coexist

2011-05-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

My friend Laura, The Joy of Cooking Fairy, is hosting her first blog contest. You should enter. There are lots of reasons why- but the most important is the trying. You can't win if you don't put yourself out there.

I'm not a creative person, but I am a great editor. I can adjust things and make them juuuuuuust right. Laura says that's okay, and insists that it *is* creative to make fixes. I'm still not sure I entirely agree, but that's neither here nor there. This is my contribution to her contest.

Because I'm me, I think there's nothing better than homemade ice cream for dinner, *especially* on my good china. Let's face it, it doesn't really matter what you eat for dinner anyway if you have a spectacular dessert; a phenomenal dessert can completely eclipse a merely "eh" meal.

We all this flavor "Coexist":

Coexist is based on an ice cream we had ten years ago at a place called Urban Ice Cream in Campbell. Urban Ice Cream was solely responsible for my 40 lb weight gain at the end of 2001, most of which I still carry around with me. They had a small range of exceptional, original flavors, and when they closed, it was a loss I felt deeply.

Since I am both brave and have the tools, I decided to make an attempt at making Andrew's favorite flavor, one that they called "Diversity".

I take the Ben & Jerry's sweet cream base, follow the directions exactly, and then I add a little flair.

Once the mixture has cooled, I pour the ice cream into the machine (I have this one), and let it run for 25 minutes.

During those 25 minutes, I chop 1/4 cup each: semi-sweet chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate. I use good chocolate because you don't need very much, and also? Good ingredients make for a most excellent finished product. That is a total of 3/4 cups of chopped chocolate. I recommend tasting them, to make sure that the chocolate is adequately delicious.

Of the 1/4 cup of each, I chop 2/3rds finely, and leave that last 1/3 coarse. (Did that just make your math brain explode?) You can eyeball it, I promise nothing bad will happen.

When the 25 minutes are up, slowly add the chocolate to the mixture, and let the machine run for about five more minutes. Scoop it into an container to be frozen, and make sure to get every last bit out of the ice cream bowl. Preferably with your fingers, because it tastes better that way.

Scoop into beautiful china, and share with your loved ones.

32

2011-05-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

Thirty-two years ago today, someone incredible was born. He was two weeks (or so) early, but that's just the kind of guy he is. Prompt. Timely. Reliable.

Have a birthday scone!

I'm going to be honest, he's kind of my favorite person ever. When we first were married and I declared that I NEEDED a dog, he agreed. When our dog (Niki) needed a dog, we got Elphie. (It bears mentioning that Andrew was a Cat Person when we met.)

Someone once told me that in every relationship there was a Nice One and there was a Mean One, which she punctuated with, "and Jasmin, YOU are the Mean One."

She was, and still is, right.

He reaches things on high shelves, opens jars, and builds me things. He laughs at my jokes, does the heavy lifting, and tastes my culinary experiments. He is enthusiastic when they turn out well and tactful when they turn out... not so well.

He listens to my complaints, agrees to my Official Proclamations and Decrees, and sometimes brings me coffee while I'm in the shower. He leaves me roses from our yard to brighten my day. When I'm unhappy, he does his best to make me smile; if I can't smile, he rubs my shoulders and feet.

He is funny, charming, smart, and so, so good with people. He has an infectious chuckle, he is passionate about the environment, and he is a good sport. When my crazy is dialed all the way up, he makes sure to accommodate whatever it is that I need- no matter how weird, no questions asked.

He is also a great dancer. His good qualities are endless. I would keep listing them, but then you'd all realize that he was the best husband in the whole world and my life would be in danger. For my own safety, the list stops here. So, I'll share a story or two.

Around my 23rd birthday, I got a new driver's license.

"Why am I getting a new license?" I asked Andrew, confused.
"Because your old one is expiring," he answered.
"It's a five-year license," I said.
"When did you get it?" Andrew asked.
"When I was 18."
"Yeah. And how old are you now?" he asked.
"21."
"Try again," Andrew says.
"21," now I'm getting agitated.
"Nope," Andrew says. "23."
"What? Oh. Right," I answer, the math being obvious.

Fast forward to last year, Andrew hit what I'll refer to as a Career Milestone. In conversation, Andrew mentioned how blown away he was when this happened, because he NEVER thought he'd hit this particular Career Milestone by the time he turned 30.

"Thirty, huh?" I said, smiling.
"I know!" he was very excited.
"Not to burst your bubble, but you're thirty-one, dude," I pointed out.
"Oh. Still awesome."

I may have pointed out that I, too, can't keep track of my age, and reminded him of the "I am 21!" incident, lo those many years ago.

I love you like the wind, Monkey. Happy birthday.

Quality time with a master

2011-05-10T07:48:00.000-07:00

I like to be prepared.

I'm a list-maker. A dry-runner. It keeps things orderly, and that's how I like them. It also means that when The Time comes, I'll know what I'm doing, whatever that time might be. In this case, it's the Tall and Handsome Man's birthday coming up on the horizon, and he requested s'mores in lieu of a birthday cake.

What's an adventurous cook to do? Find a couple of recipes for marshmallows and try them out. For science. So, I pulled the ingredients together and I spent some quality time with an old friend:

Readers, meet Mixmaster K

We've been together quite a few years, but he didn't really earn his spot on the countertop until recently, when I started baking like the zombie apocalypse was on the horizon. (It might very well be. Won't you be sorry that you didn't partake in butter and cream when you had the chance?)

Mixmaster K has been whipping cream, kneading dough, and generally beating the living daylights out of everything I've thrown in his path. We had a slight disagreement about incorporating frozen butter into dough, but I recognized the error of my ways, and have since changed. There is a lot of give and take in relationships, you know.

Yesterday was a day where I was especially grateful for Mixmaster K. I made two different marshmallow recipes- one from The Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz, one from Smitten Kitchen. I think making marshmallows is impossible without some sort of mechanical intervention, be it a stand mixer or a hand mixer- I know that my yoga muscles aren't enough to whip up marshmallows.

(My yoga muscles, for the record, *are* enough for things like lifting bed frames, hauling luggage, and flexing in the mirror.)

Let's face it, I get sweaty and exhausted whipping egg whites into stiff peaks by hand with a whisk, nevermind the sugar/corn syrup/gelatin mixture that's burns like Napalm if it hits your skin. This is all moot for me, since I have Mixmaster K in my life.

The recipe for the first batch was intended for use in ice cream, and I can see why. They aren't fluffy, but they are dense and taste better than commercial marshmallows. I was frustrated because they didn't turn out the way I had imagined. In fairness, I have an unusually fertile imagination, and things generally don't turn out the way I imagine them. Usually. I'm also blaming this on the music I was listening to- the Sweeney Todd soundtrack is a little dark and heavy.

The second batch, using the Smitten Kitchen directions, and made listening to the light and fluffy soundtrack from "Zanna, Don't!", turned out much better. There was the addition of whipped egg whites (which are plentiful, since I made goat milk ice cream last week), and what I affectionately refer to as "the Napalm component" is added to the gelatin/water mixture a little differently. Instead of wrestling with the proto-marshmallow goop like I had with batch #1, it pleasantly oozed into the oiled and sugared pan.

Here's the catch: I hate being sticky.

I can deal with mud, dust, damp, but not sticky. It just drives me crazy. I had worried that making marshmallows would end with both me and my kitchen looking like the closing scenes from Ghostbusters, but really, there was a minimum of marshmallow on my person, and the kitchen cleanup was a breeze. (The secret is hot water. A lot of hot water.)

For my next trick? We'll see how batch #2 measures up, and how they do in some test s'mores. Because being prepared can be fun *and* delicious.

Then and now

2011-05-09T09:36:00.000-07:00

KidBrother Sam is the funniest person I know. (Sorry, 'Feff.) His humor is dry, his wit is quick, and he has a knack for taking things six steps too far.

He called me in December with a great idea- to do a photo album for Mom where we re-shoot old photos, and do a "then and now" photo album for her. Time was at a premium, and there was no way that way that we could have managed it for Christmas. Mother's Day was a totally different story.

Our Mother's Day tradition is to try to make Mom cry. We have a good track record, but it has upped the ante over the years. That's the problem with being awesome; flowers and chocolate just won't do it anymore.

Sam and I plotted, planned, and did this project in a couple of days. I recommend sitting down, and swallowing your sip of coffee/tea/whatever before you scroll down.

For safety, here is the breakfast that Andrew and I made. It's our variation on Eggs Benedict- Andrew's special hash browns, poached eggs, and Hollandaise sauce. (We're doing it with bacon next time.) Sam would have helped but we have a One Butt kitchen (meaning, it's too small for more than one person at a time).

Sam told me this was called a "Dutch angle".

Are you ready?

Sam had to squeeze into one of my shirts for that one. He's barrel-chested, like our dad. I am not.

When Sam was little, he loved Matchbox cars. Mom, with the aid of Matchbox cars, could get Sam to do pretty much anything. When Sam was little, he could point at any car on the street and tell you what it was. He could do the same with dinosaurs, but we didn't see many of those on the street.

It is remarkably hard to get tomatoes to stick to facial hair. Notice the artful tomatoes-down-the-shirt.

This is one of my parents' favorite stories, we were taking care of a cat and I was completely enamored with it. In this photo, it is alleged that I was saying "Kiiiiiiitty, I miiiiiiissed you so much!" as I squeezed the living daylights out of the poor cat. We tried to get Elphie to sit in for this shot, but she knew that something was amiss, so she refused to cooperate. Niki, on the other hand, loves to be squeezed and squished. There also might have been cookies.

Me versus the laundry basket. I think this is a picture that everyone has one of, you know, the one where your parents leave you in MORTAL PERIL and laugh while they photograph your shame before they rescue you from your own foolishness. For the record, I am still too heavy for a laundry basket.

Dr. Sol, our pediatrician, told Mom that I would be ready for solid foods when I started stealing them off of her plate.

Ah, Sam's old preschool. We were going to try and shoot it at the original spot using Sam's alumni status. Notice how different the "now" shot is? They've taken down all the wood-and-metal play structures and replaced them with safe and modern ones. Pfft.

After going through the photo albums preparing for this, I'm honestly surprised that my parents kept us. Sam and I spent the better part of our documented childhoods being crazy. Mostly me, actually. There are a lot of pictures with a Small and Demented looking Jasmin. A Lot. (Again, not much has changed.) It's a little terrifying, to be honest, but a testament to loving parents, and the nurturing home that Sam and I grew up in.

Oh, and Mom? She laughed so hard that she cried.

Mission accomplished.

Plate-lickin' good

2011-05-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

I love good food. I don't know many people who say, "I love bad food." But I'm sure that those people exist.

To be fair, sometimes I sometimes indulge in bad food. I love mixing a can of Hormel chili with mac and cheese from a box. We call it "chili mac" and I insist that I invented it in college. I am not perfect.

When I'm planning my meals, I think about what I'm in the mood to eat, go buy the ingredients, and then I make it. I usually pick a cookbook to work through for the week, and decide what I'm in the mood to make. I'll occasionally take requests, but they need to be placed at a reasonable time.

This last week, I worked through this one, which I bought at Recycle Books in Campbell:

That's the bottom of my Seneca sweater. I sit on the couch and read cookbooks.

This is a really good cookbook. Historically, I wasn't a fan of either Julia Child *or* Jacques Pepin. My childhood, while enriched and loving, was one where we didn't watch a lot of TV. Every Saturday, KidBrother Sam and I would get up and get to watch cartoons until 10am, and then Mommy Dearest would change the channel and it was time to watch Julia Child, Martin Yan, or Jacques Pepin. KidBrother Sam and I hated cooking shows for YEARS because they meant the end of cartoons.

I'm sure in retrospect, this was partly because Mommy Dearest (which is what Mom prefers to be called, and yes, I know the reference) wanted us to get up and go play, which we did, and partly because she wanted to watch her cooking shows. Since KidBrother Sam and I are (mostly) healthy and balanced adults, I have found it in my heart to forgive Julia, Jacques, and Martin. I can't speak for KidBrother Sam.

Anyway, back to the book. I looked at the contents, and it was all fancy schmancy foods, but the directions made it seem... easy. And it is. I poached a chicken for the first time. I made my own chicken stock out of the leftover bits (that was from Mastering the Art of French Cooking). I made a list of foods that I love to eat but I've never made at home, and now I'm making them.

It smells heavenly, if Heaven is full of fresh salmon. Mine is.

Like Salmon Tartare. If it's Tartare, I love it. Before this, I had never prepared fish at home. I would walk past the fish counter at Whole Foods and gaze longingly at all the beautiful fish, and then think to myself, "I can't do that yet, but someday I will. Someday."

Jasmin 2009 made an appearance, and she and I went to Whole Foods last Tuesday and bought a beautiful piece of salmon.

Guess what? This thing that I've wanted to do for years? Not so hard.

I had to take the skin off of the beeeeeautiful cut of salmon myself, and I got some direction from my friend Uschi. The beginning wasn't pretty, but halfway through I Got It. Fortunately, this is cut into tiny parts, so my initial job was covered up by the small cuts. I also learned how to pull bones out of fish, which is - in my opinion- the best use for a pair of tweezers that have lost their oomph. It's also oddly satisfying to do.

I normally don't fool around with garnish, but since Jacques has yet to lead me astray, I made the cucumber ribbons, too, and those added an extra bit of freshness and texture to the dish. (Also, following Jacques' directions, I ended up with a rather interesting looking cucumber when I was done. Use your imagination.)

The results were delicious, and we paired it with a nice white wine, by Little Black Dress Wines. Since we're all friends here, my mother liked the salmon tartare so much that she licked her plate. For effect, of course. (It seems to have become the signal for "this is really good" in our house.)

Things I have learned:

- Fancy food requires a lot of lemon zest. My kitchen looks like a scene from Silence of the Lemons.
- Garnish isn't always frou-frou or a waste of time. Sometimes it adds a necessary note to the dish.
- Cucumbers are always funny. That is both science and a fact.

Tiny enthusiastic velociraptors

2011-04-30T09:20:00.000-07:00

On Easter, I taught Boo to knit. I broke my cardinal rule of "no knitting lessons until you're six" for her, partly because she is an unusually bright child, but mostly because I had promised her I would. She might have tricked me into it, since she is velociraptor-opening-doors bright. I never stood a chance.

Boo and her knitting

In no time, she was knitting on her own. And talking while she was doing it. (For the non-knitters, most people don't knit and talk simultaneously for a while. Velciraptor clever.)

LittleJ saw that we were knitting and DASHED over to her purse, where her Looped Loop cowl in progress was hiding. It's beautiful, and I couldn't be prouder. Here's the picture of her Harry Potter scarf, but she said I could only post it with the proviso that she was eight years old when she started knitting it.

LittleJ is also a budding photographer

What I expected to happen was that Boo would be enthusiastic while she was learning, but that something more exciting would come up and she would come back to her knitting later in life. Or at the next family function when I pulled my knitting out. This is ain't my first time at the rodeo.

What actually happened was something that a knitting Auntie only dreams. I had to tell her that we had to stop knitting and eat dinner. Between courses, she would bound over to my seat and ask me if it was time for more knitting. Finally, after dessert, it was time for more knitting.

I might be an opportunist, but given her enthusiasm, I decided to get some audio from her for the podcast. (Boo is around the 30:00 mark. It's worth giving her a listen.) We knit together for a little while, but it was eventually time for us to go home.

Two hours later, I got a text from Boo's mother, which read "She can't stop. She's hooked," with a photo of Boo knitting next to a lamp.

I couldn't be prouder.

An apology

2011-04-29T22:29:00.001-07:00

Dear Janet Jackson;

I am sorry that I ever doubted the authenticity of your legendary wardrobe malfunction. Until a similar event transpired in my car today, I never thought that such a thing could spontaneously and accidentally happen. But it does, and people should know.

Were it not for my engineered-by-NASA foundation garment, I would have been in the same boat as you. As it was, I was merely a little embarrassed and inconvenienced, as opposed to fined by the FCC. Pot-ay-to, po-tah-to.

Yours in malfunctioning straps,

Jasmin

Playing with fire

2011-04-29T07:11:00.000-07:00

Once, there was a girl named Jasmin who loved to play with fire. She told her Clever Mother that she wanted a blowtorch, but never told her Clever Mother why. She just wanted one, okay?

Since Jasmin was really a grown woman, her Clever Mother thoughtfully gave her a creme brûlée kit. Partly because Jasmin wanted a blowtorch, but mostly because her Clever Mother loved creme brûlée more than any other dessert in the world. Jasmin was thrilled by the gift of the blowtorch, but found the kit to be excessive since she had no real desire to make the creme brûlée.Then Jasmin moved. Twice.

A few years passed, and Jasmin went on a dessert bender, going through cream, flour and butter like a junkie, and decided that she would give creme brûlée a shot. The only problem was that she had no clue where the kit had gone.

Jasmin enlisted the help of the Tall Handsome Man to locate the missing brûlée kit, but their hunt was to no avail. It was 8PM, and Jasmin was bound and determined to make this creme brûlée happen. She channeled the Jasminian Devil, gutted a pantry, and there, in the furthest, darkest corner was the kit.

Success!

Jasmin, with the aid of some trusty cookbooks, got started and realized that creme brûlée is not so hard. But she lacked the correct ramekins, and the hour was late.

She improvised, with the help of her Clever Mother.

Tart dish, sent to me labeled as a pie dish. I <3 pink Pyrex.

Once the creme brûlée had set, her loving Clever Mother was eager to have a taste, so the two of them sprinkled the dish with the sugar.

Then set it on fire with the torch, nearly setting a kitchen towel on fire in the process. Jasmin learned that there are more safety mechanisms on a blowtorch than there are on a firearm.

You know you want to tap this. With a spoon.

Her Clever Mother offered to test the creme brûlée, even though it was a First Time.

She liked it!

Jasmin learned many things that day, but mostly that it's fun (and delicious!) to play with fire.

(PHEW! Third person is exhausting. Back to the usual crazy next time.)

Shark logic

2011-04-28T07:38:00.000-07:00

I've been spending more time with my Auntie Wolf recently. The circumstances aren't ideal, but it's been really nice to get to see more of her.

Auntie Wolf has taught me many things over the years, and two things float to the top of my memory. The first is the importance of financial independence. The second is about sharks.

I was *maybe* six years old, and I had seen the first few minutes of JAWS on our 10" television. Those few, sharkless minutes, were all I needed to know that I was TERRIFIED of sharks, and that sharks will get you and you'll never see them coming. For six months, I refused to use the toilet unsupervised because I was *utterly convinced* that a shark was going to swim up the pipes and that would be the end of me.

[For the record, I know for a FACT that this wasn't just my unique issue. I know someone who has a similar story, but it was the shower that he was afraid of, not the toilet.]

Try as they might, my parents could do *nothing* to convince me that I was safe, that sharks (no matter how clever) couldn't fit through pipes, and that JAWS was just make-believe.

I was a very trusting child, but I was pretty sure that my parents were just saying that in order to serve me up to a shark as a curly-headed hors d'œuvre on a porcelain seat. So, for six months, I required supervision, for my own safety.

I got to spend a few days with my Auntie Wolf two or three times a year, and I LOVED it. Auntie Wolf never had children of her own, and she loved me like you wouldn't believe, in the Auntie way. She fed me whatever I wanted to eat, taught me important life lessons, but most importantly, I got to spend time with my super-cool Auntie Wolf. [I sincerely hope that I am even a *fraction* as awesome an Auntie as she is.]

When I arrived at Auntie Wolf's house, and informed her of the Shark Situation, Auntie Wolf reacted the way *any* childless adult would.

"Why would a shark want to swim all this way just to bite your stinky ass?" she asked, frankly.

The logic was impenetrable. I was no longer afraid of toilet sharks, and all thanks to Auntie Wolf.

Off-book

2011-04-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

When it comes to cooking, I don't go off-book. I leave writing the directions to the experts, and all I do is execute. This is how I do things because I am *terrified* of failure, and I rely on the expertise of the More Experienced to guide me. No matter what I'm doing, first, I follow directions until I've become comfortable with X, then make small changes for a while, THEN make big changes.

With my knitting, I was a hard-and-fast directions-follower for a long, long time. The difference between knitting and cooking is simple: short of a mis-cut steek, you can't waste yarn or ruin your knitting, 99.9% of knitting can be ripped out and redone. Food can be ruined, and while I hate wasting food, life is too short to eat bad food.

With knitting, a lot of the logic and "secret sauce" came to me fairly naturally; probably because I was doing a lot of on-the-job problem solving. Cooking is still part alchemy as far as I'm concerned. Laura'nge, the Joy of Cooking Fairy, has taken me under her wing as her apprentice, and she has been greatly contributing to (and lovingly guiding) my culinary education. This has been a lot of fun for both of us, but has also been the source of Great Anxiety for Yours Truly.

Call it OCD, call it fear of failure, call it cowardice. I don't go off-book, and I might have had to restrain myself from FREAKING OUT and getting my crazy all over Laura'nge the other night when she went off-book while making the marinade/dressing for dinner. It was a small - but important - part of the meal, but sweet holy Deity-(or-Not)-of-Your-Choice, I had to actively restrain myself from following my misguided, terrified, reactionary instincts.

With her usual flair, she took a glance at the recipe, started there, and then it was more like this:

Laura'nge: [Throwing together all manner of ingredients, non-chalantly, while carrying on a conversation about ... something.] *buzz of talking*, right?
Me: [Eyes wide in terror, OH MY GOD. That isn't in the recipe! What is she DOOOOOING?] Yeah, totally. [Don't panic. You'll only look like a crazy person. Crazier person.]
Laura'nge: [Tastes, then does something else off-book] *buzz of talking* Butter, butter, butter.
Me: [Stop freaking out. She's good at this. She knows what she's doing. Oh no, I'm totally not listening. I need to stop freaking out.] Mmmm... Butter. [Phew, good cover!]
Laura'nge: Here, taste. [Gives me a taste of the marinade/dressing.]

Hm. it was delicious.

Flank steak salad with roasted shallots and goat cheese, from the Bon Apetít "Fast Easy Fresh" cookbook. Go and buy it now, you'll thank me.

Things I have learned:

- Trust Laura'nge, always.
- Going off-book doesn't always end in disaster.
- Sometimes a little emotional discomfort is okay, but if and only if it ends in a delicious meal.

Yoga and Dogs

2011-04-25T09:42:00.000-07:00

Doing yoga at home can be a challenge. Sometimes, it's motivation; sometimes, it's a space issue. Mostly it's a space issue. Our house wasn't really laid out for any type of movement-based activity indoors. That's fine, but it means that every time we want to do any type of working out, we have to move around the furniture in the living room. And also, drop the blinds. (We have our own Gladys Kravitz living across the street.)

There are two more obstacles to doing yoga in the house. Two sweet, furry, opportunistic obstacles. As soon as I roll out my yoga mat, it's open season for wrestling on the floor. So, we wrestle on the floor (because the stay-put-while-snuggling policy also applies to active playtime), and then I can do my yoga.

"Yoga" might translate to "watching TV while propped on pillows" sometimes.

Maybe.

As you'll notice, Niki is smack-dab in the middle of my yoga mat, comfortably snuggled between bolsters. The best way that I've found of dealing with this is to first take pictures, then to snuggle up next to him, give him a few belly rubs, and wait a few minutes until he gets bored with my neediness and changes location.

He calls this pose "sad and unloved dog". Don't be fooled by those big, brown eyes.

[Yes, I know this trains both of the dogs to continue to do what they're doing, but taking a few minutes to snuggle my dogs is good for everyone.]

Lest you think that once Niki has been sufficiently snuggled, the obstacles to practicing yoga at home are over, that's only half of the issue. I have *two* dogs, if you remember. Two dogs who have learned to work cooperatively.

Once I start warming up and going through poses, I have Elphie walking across my mat, underneath me in downward dog, weaving around my feet in squatted poses, and my personal favorite, curling up in the open area when I do supta baddha konasana. I call this "agility yoga", where I am the agility course.

It's mostly funny, but it means that if I were *able* to do handstands, I couldn't do it in the house for fear of falling on or accidentally kicking one of the dogs. I'm mostly afraid that I'll just break my neck doing it, and I doubt they'll call 911. Crow pose is also out of the question, if you were curious. Too much temptation for dog-style identity verification. They're good dogs, and they've been taught the "polite nose" command, but they're not made of stone.

Elphie, ever the precocious dog, also likes to compete. I do downward dog, Elphie sighs a deeply disappointed sigh and does downward dog, presumably to show me the correct way of doing it. Same thing for upward dog. To be totally fair, she's way better at yoga than I am. But I'm working on that.

Eventually, they get bored with the agility portion of the floor show, and wait for me to do something extended and uncomfortable (like hold plank), and that's when it's time for kisses. It's hard to keep your core strong while someone is licking your nose. Or elbow. Try it.

I could put them out in the yard, or behind the dog gate; I just don't want to. That's reserved for when they really need to be out of the way, for their own safety. Yoga is just cooperative playtime.

Plus, they've known not to walk on my knitting while it's blocking since they were puppies. They've got their priorities straight.

Five projects

2011-04-24T08:11:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, there was a Loom Incident. One which involved an estate sale, a huge floor loom, and an Overly Ambitious Fiberartist (OAF for short). We don't speak of it anymore, not since the unnamed OAF found a new home for the HUGE floor loom and obtained a more reasonably sized table loom to learn on.

With the help of my fantastic BFF, I got my table loom warped, and a few months later (again with the help of my fantastic BFF) I started weaving. Andrew declared that I needed to finish five projects before I could invest in a bigger/better loom.

The warp is Kauni. Not optimal for warp yarn, but pretty.

Once I started weaving, I was totally enamored of it. The problem was my loom. It wasn't in great shape when I bought it, and weaving on it wasn't quiet or soothing. There was actually quite a bit of banging and swearing involved.

KillerGuns Kelli picked up a Cricket Loom, and I watched her work on it. Quiet. Small. Light. Brilliant engineering. No swearing. In a podcast-related email to the amazing folks over at Schacht, I mentioned that I had seen a Cricket in person, and that I really needed to get my hands on one to play.

Jane, an incredible enabler herself, included one in my box so that I could give it a whirl. For love of fiber, podcast, and SCIENCE! it was built, I followed the brilliant directions on how to direct-warp, and I was warped and weaving in under an hour. In two evenings, I made this:

Finished project #1: Claudia Handpaints, Navy Olive and Gold

Rustic, yes. Definitely a first project, but Andrew strutted around the house wearing it, proud as a peacock.

But it was boring, plain tabby, and I felt like the little loom was limited, since all it could do was tabby. I was at Purlescence, where I mentioned being bored with Tabby, and needing more to do on my loom.

"You can do Houndstooth on your Cricket," Sandi told me, handing me a copy of The Handweaver's Pattern Directory.

Lo and behold! The options for my little loom were vast! I quickly wove up an incredible Houndstooth scarf for myself, out of cashmere I had in my stash.

Finished Project #2: Jade Sapphire 2-ply cashmere

I have never loved anything that I've finished as much as this. Proof:

Perfection!

Can you tell I'm in love? Book in hand, I dove into my stash for the next thing, Gingham.

Finished Project #3: Grignasco Bambi

This one had some problems.

Missed warp threads make me a sad panda.

See? I didn't catch it until I was pulling the scarf off the loom, and all I see is the error. I'll wear it, and I'll fix it when I learn how. But it bugs me.

I didn't let a few missed warp threads spoil my fun, so I dove into my stash, and made a retina-searing scarf in a 3 color tabby:

Finished Project #4: A Verb for Keeping Warm, Creative base.

There seems to be some sort of counter-intuitive-algebra-inspired thing at play here, where three retina-searing colors kind of wash each other out when combined. Very weird. I still love how cheerful it is.

In light of all the other projects I was finishing, I went back to the Slam-and-Swear table loom, and finally finished the project that I started first. This might have been partially inspired by Andrew promising to fix it's quirks once my weaving was off of it.

Finished Project #5: Rainbow Kauni, twill weave.

It has problems. Missed warp threads, mis-thrown passes, tension issues. The errors are many and glaring. While I was busy hating my poor handwork, Mom pointed out that it was technically a First.

"So WHAT if it isn't perfect?" Mom said, being totally reasonable, "It's a learning piece."

I still don't love it, but there is value to learning, and practice, and not being good at something right away, right? The best thing, other than having made a few beeeeeeautiful scarves, is that the concepts from the Cricket translate to larger looms! Once I had gotten a project or two under my belt on the Cricket, I could see the warping issues on my table loom and I could read my weaving (a little).

I'm not perfect at it, but you know what? I'm enjoying the process immensely.

Knit Knit Bang Bang

2011-04-22T18:57:00.000-07:00

(Title brought to you with special thanks to KidBrother Sam for exposing me to that work of cinematic brilliance.)

Last Sunday, I managed to (a) live out a lifelong dream while (b) knitting in the most unusual locale I have yet to manage.

Not my shells. But you get the point.

I've always wanted to go to the gun range and learn to shoot. You see, in my imagination, when I think about what I want to be When I Grow Up, it's always a job that requires a gun. And a tango. Also, possibly costumes and some undercover work. FBI, CIA, CSI, that type of stuff. Let me re-iterate, there is always a tango.

Now when I say, "FBI, CIA, CSI, that type of stuff", I don't mean the *actual* FBI/CIA/CSI, because it's 99% paperwork and bureaucracy, no Tango-ing, and probably less than 1% running around, shooting at bad guys, and generally being sexy. And it's usually not the people who sit back and do the paperwork that get to run around and be awesome. What I'm looking for is the Criminal Minds, Chuck, Mr. & Mrs. Smith type of work. The kind that only seems to exist in the movies and on TV.

[Side note: Have you noted that even the Government Geeks have sexy jobs on TV?** It's all data gathering from mysterious sources that collect completely bizarre data. Yes, I'm looking at you, Numb3rs. I am suspicious of your incredibly convenient and never-ending sources of data. Your deductive reasoning is also questionable most of the time.]

So, KidBrother Sam and Bromantic Brandon invited me to join them at the shooting range. With the level of enthusiasm they had about taking me shooting for the first time, I half expected them to make me put a bright red lipstick "V" on my forehead.

I beat the guys to the range because I had driven separately, since I had obligations later in the day. I sat in my car and worked on my Daybreak, which is so brightly colored it can raise the dead. (That was one of the selling points from the dyer. This yarn comes with built-in necromancy!)

The guys eventually got there, we paid, and headed down to the range, where I was exposed to Range Culture.

There are lots of safety rules, and well there should be.

Guns are loud, scary, and incredibly dangerous.

In my imagination, where I'm a sexy crimefighter (taller, too, for those who are curious), guns aren't a Big Deal. Bullets only hit Bad Guys, and if a Good Guy gets clipped, it's minimal and easily fixed with a few stitches, leaving you with a minimal scar and a great story. (No, I don't subscribe to the BBC mentality, where anyone is game. Yes, MI-5, I'm talking about you.)

In reality, I jumped like a rabbit every time someone fired a gun. The sound of the shot would resonate in my chest it was so loud. I changed my mind, quietly.

I'll think of a graceful way of ducking out, I thought. This is scaring the living daylights out of me. I am not a badass.

Then, Jasmin 2009, the Jasmin who grabs opportunity squarely by the shoulders and embraces new experiences shouted down Cowardly Jasmin.

No. I have ALWAYS wanted to do this, and now I'm finally getting the chance to, said Jasmin 2009. You're safe, you're with people who will make sure you're doing it correctly, and you're wearing appropriate shoes. Buck up and take your turn.

We had to wait for a Cease Fire, which is part of Range Culture, before we could start, so out came my knitting, and I cheerfully sat down and settled my nerves by putting a row or two on my Daybreak shawl. There were about 300 people there; of those 300, 3 were women, and only one of us was knitting. I have never gotten such strange looks in my whole life.

I have learned that with guns and gun ranges, it's an optimal arrangement for an alternative knitting opportunity. There is some shooting, some set up, and a lot of waiting. Only KidBrother Sam and Bromantic Brandon thought this was as funny as I did, once I pointed it out. My humor is deep like that.

The guys decided that I should go second, after Bromantic Brandon, since I had never fired a gun before. He helped me load the clip (for gun enthusiasts, I fired a Kimber Custom TLE II .45ACP M1911A1), walked me through how to stand, breathe, brace my wrists, and how to use the sight. I fired my rounds, and I'll be damned if they didn't all hit the target. Some in the center, even!

I finished my turn, and handed Bromantic Brandon the gun. I was shaking from the adrenaline, my chest ached from the kickback, and I felt sick to my stomach. I decided that I was probably not cut out for a job that requires the handling of firearms. I let the guys know that I appreciated being brought along, thank-you-for-inviting-me, and that I really needed to be going.

Bromantic Brandon headed back up the hill with me, and was thoughtfully making sure that I had a good time, and that I wasn't upset.

"Guns are loud," I told him, "And heavy. And I think it bit me."

He agreed on the first two statements, and suggested that next time I try a lighter gun. And you know what? If I am invited again, I just might. We'll see.

While I don't think I'll ever be an agent of any TLA agency, I still have my imagination, and I will have my tango.

**Shout-outs to sexy movie Government Geeks: Garcia from Criminal Minds, Untraceable, Abby Sciuto from NCIS, and let's not forget Adam Kaufman from 24. As Willow aptly pointed out, "It's the computer age. Nerds are in." (BtVS, Season 1, episode 12, "Prophecy Girl")

Love turned sour

2011-04-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

I first discovered Knitty in 2004, and Mariah was the pattern that introduced me to the incredible resource that *is* Knitty. Before Knitty, there were some sources for free knitting patterns on the internet, but fewer than half had photos, and even fewer were enticing enough to knit. Mariah had me at "Hello".

I saw it at my [then] boyfriend's cottage, because he was oh-so-cool enough to have DSL, and I printed out the pattern because I knew I *had* to knit it. I might have carried the pattern around with me, and every worsted weight yarn was a potential candidate for My Mariah.

Maybe it was all the anticipation, how could any pattern hold up to almost SEVEN years of dreaming about knitting it. Mariah was my magnum opus**, my "someday I'll be a good enough knitter and I will make this" sweater. I bought hot pink cashmere on sale, and it marinated in my stash WAITING for the day when I decided I was finally ready.

This January, partly because of Jasmin 2011 (but also a little Jasmin 2009). Jasmin 2011 is all about productivity- knitting what I'm inspired to work on, when I'm inspired to work on it. Combined with my Jasmin 2009 goal of using the good stuff now, it seemed like exactly the right time for Mariah to stop being a dream and start being a zippered cardigan.

I blasted through knitting the body

I knit the body in one piece, instead of three.

Highlighted the chart with NO MERCY

I <3 these highlighters

And sleeves, which are normally my kryptonite? Not a chance with a chart this interesting

This sweater was brought to you without a cable needle.

It's a yoke sweater, so the get-Chloe-to-set-my-sleeves-in time delay didn't apply here. I attached the sleeves and after the first few awkward rows (which they are, at first), my beautiful yoke sweater actually looked like a beautiful yoke sweater.

The hood slowed me down, but I kept at it. Finally, it came time to add the zipper, and I was going to do it myself. Three trips to the fabric store later, and four zippers later, with the aid of Caro Sheridan's brilliant tutorial, I applied my first zipper.

The zipper install is hardly my best work, and really, my backstitching looks more like highway 17 than a beautiful, straight row of stitches, but it's my first one. I'm going to re-do it when I get the perfect zipper, and my next zipper install will be better, because now that I've done it by myself, it's okay for Mom to help me. You understand.

I wove in all my own ends, and despite the fact that it was 78ºF (25.5ºC) and humid (for California) I put it on proudly and bounded over to my mirror to admire my handwork.

I hate it. It's boxy and shapeless, and the neckline is AWFUL. You can't see it from this shot, but where the hood grows out of the sweater is weird and floppy, leaving the awful straight-across neckline in a place that doesn't agree with normal t-shirts (I tried two different shirts, no success). The phrase "waste of cashmere" may have crossed my lips.

I blinked back the tears of a woman who finally got what she wanted, and realized that it wasn't, quite. "Disappointed" doesn't seem to quite cover it and "devastated" seems a bit melodramatic. However, I had plans with Guido, the charming host of the It's a Purl, Man podcast, and he was not deserving of my bad mood, so I pushed the misadventures of Mariah to the back of my mind, giving it only a brief mention when with a fellow knitter. He could relate.

After dinner, where Guido and I discussed the finer points of the difference between a knitting guild and a knitting group, where knitting is going, and whether or not weaving and spinning are the next knitting, he invited me to the Where 2.0 conference, where they were having Ignite sessions. Guido knows how to show a geek girl a good time, let me tell you. The sessions we saw were interesting, engaging, funny, and enlightening.

(It also made me want to unplug my whole life and live as off-grid as possible, but that is usually how I respond to the whole "everyone knows what you're googling" side of the internet.)

Where 2.0 is at the Santa Clara Convention Center, where Stitches West is held. The SCCC is notoriously over air-conditioned, and I didn't notice. I was wearing my Mariah, and I was comfortable.

Maybe we'll come to some sort of agreement. Maybe (with the help of my friends) I'll find a way to make Mariah more fabulous. After all, who *isn't* improved with a few minor nips and tucks?

Maybe this was my fault, hyping up Mariah so no matter how great it turned out, I would be disappointed.

Nope. Definitely not that. But we'll figure out a way to fix her, or a way to amicably co-exist, because after all, we wouldn't want her to be a waste of good cashmere.

**To be fair, it really seems like every successive sweater that I knit is the best/most challenging thing I've ever knit. I'm a little proud of that.

For Meghan, with a little help from my friends

2011-04-19T09:50:00.000-07:00

Last year, Meghan knit a beautiful sweater for herself. Unfortunately, it was Way Too Small for her. It happens.

When she mentioned on her podcast that it was Way Too Small and was debating a course of action for her (basically) finished sweater, I pinged her and asked if she thought it would fit me. After a brief moment, she said, "Yes," and I offered to knit her a sweater in exchange for the one that didn't fit her.

She sent me a gorgeous sweater, which is very Meghan. Meghan has the kind of style where she can throw clothes together and look stylish. If I do that, I just look homeless and usually colorblind. But look at this gorgeous thing!

Gorgeous, right?

It's fun, and matches a TON of stuff in my wardrobe.

After some discussion, Meghan chose the Twist cardigan (by Bonne Marie Burns, who is a genius) in a heathered hunter green.

First, I started by sending her a a photo of the yarn, to confirm the color:

Cascade 220, out of my stash

Then, the swatch:

Swatching in the car

Then began the sweater. And the taunting.

As I made progress on the sweater, I learned a few things. The first was how to drop down and fix a cable without ripping back on the sweater. The second was a reminder on how much I LOATHE sewing in sleeves. But you know what I do love? Knitting ribbing and cables.

This shade of green makes me think of the drive up to Oregon. Woodsy.

This sweater traveled all over creation with me while I worked on it, and I LOVED knitting the body.


Terrible color. I'm blaming the piano, where I chose to photograph it.

I can't even tell you how pleased I was to finish the body, and how proud I was when I pinned it to the bust. I might have left it there for a while and admired it whenever I walked by it.

This picture makes me think of a figurehead. For the SS Kay.

The body of the sweater felt like it was FLYING off my needles I was working it so fast. The sleeves? Not so much.

It's not that knitting sleeves is hard. I think it's mostly that the bloom is off of the rose with the garment at that point**. There is also the needing to knit two-ness of it. I usually knit my sleeves two at a time using the magic loop technique, but I didn't for this sweater. Mostly.

I started them two at a time, but between the tangling of the yarn, the turning the cables without a cable needles, and the general ennui caused by the knitting of sleeves, I decided to take a couple of the (possibly emotional) roadblocks out of knitting sleeves.

You know I don't like knitting sleeves because there are ZERO photos of the sleeves in progress.

The sweater sat and sat and sat, pieces all knit, waiting to have the sleeves set in. I kept putting it on my to-do list, and *somehow* I managed to forget, or run out of time, or pretend that I had forgotten and ran out of time.

Chloe knew about the sweater, knew that the pieces were done, and has always knows how much I *loathe* finishing work. I had fresh cookies at the house, and Chloe informed me that she would be coming over and setting in the blasted sleeves. T-minus one week to Camp KIP.

And then, the finishing FLEW. I knit the buttonband, found a volunteer with Meghan's bust size so that I could place the non-negotiable buttons, Mom sewed in the grosgrain ribbon while I did our laundry and got prepared for Camp. I sewed on the buttons, which I bought at the Button Emporium, and used buttons that looked like little pewter balls of yarn for backing buttons, and one lone sheep.

I redid the buttonholes four times. Each fancy buttonhole I tried was too much for the perfect little buttons. With great regret, I fell back on the YO, K2tog buttonhole that I learned so many years ago, when I was knitting my first sweater. It was a perfect fit for the sweater.

It just needed *one* more thing.

My finishing touch

I sighed a huge sigh of relief, tossed it in my backpack, and the sweater joined us on our adventure to Camp KIP.

There was a little more taunting before delivery, but my faaaaaaaaavorite thing was when I finally gave it to Meghan:

She likes it! Meghan likes it!

**One exception: unless the sleeves are the interesting part of the sweater. See: Mariah hoodie.

The Finger

2011-04-12T09:35:00.000-07:00

I know you're all chomping at the bit to hear about my adventures in St. Louis, and you will my preciousssssssses. (Actually, if you really are, you can hear the recap here.) But first I must tell you about my Magic Finger.

I was leaving yoga, and I was planning to hit the Farmer's Market. I usually hit the one by my house, but I was in the mood for some variety, so I called Andrew up to see if he wanted to join me for a trip out to the Mountain View Farmer's Market. It's twice the size of ours and has loads of good stuff. (I used to go to that one when I was doing yoga in Mountain View.)

As we pulled in to park, I saw the mayhem in the first aisle. Cars were stopped, bumper-to-bumper, hoping to get into a spot. The next aisle was as clear as a summer's day, and so, I calmly turned there.

CHAOS!!!

At that moment, a car overheated, so I calmly stepped on my brakes. What happened - in nanoseconds- took my idyllic aisle and turned it into what felt like a major intersection in the Middle East. People were driving on the wrong side of the road, doing three point turns at Warp 9, and OH! the road rage.

I kept my cool, and saw a guy walking up by my car, to get into a car next to me. I hit my turn signal like it was an adrenaline shot to the heart and patiently waited for him to pull out of the parking spot. As soon as my near and dear friend had cleared out, I slowly scooted up to calmly turn into my spot.

At that very moment, an Opportunist squealed around the corner with the express purpose of nabbing my spot. Mind you, my signal had been on and I had been waiting patiently. It was precisely that scene from Fried Green Tomatoes, and I was Kathy Bates. I *might* have felt a Towanda moment coming on.

As I saw it happening, I stepped on my brakes, shook my index finger at them and yelled "NO! NO! NO!" as if they were a small child and I was their sweet-but-strict British nanny. (In my imagination, sometimes I'm British.)

They stopped cold.

I couldn't believe it. That had worked! My finger had a superpower!

While Andrew laughed himself silly, repeating, "I can't believe that worked!" I calmly pulled into the spot and parked.

... and also *might* have - with the windows rolled up - yelled "TOWANDA!" triumphantly. Just maybe.

Beauty, love, and dual fuel

2011-03-30T12:51:00.000-07:00

I have a weakness for beauty.

A well-made piece of clothing, a stylish shoe, a stunning skein of handpainted yarn. My wardrobe - and my stash - did not end up the size they are on accident. This goes doubly for food.

I'm sure you're not surprised- do a search on Flickr for food, and you'll find enough glamour shots of food to make the most moderate eaters feel like gluttons. Check a foodie blog and you'll be drooling and gaining weight just *looking* at all the goodies.

This last week, everything I bought at the farmer's market was beautiful. Slender asparagus, perfectly round and cheerfully colored turnips, and multicolored potatoes.

I know. The potato is a humble vegetable, and the object of much anathema, given the carb-negative feelings people have these days. I love me some carbs, so how could I resist a bag of these beauties:

Purple, red, gold

I didn't have an idea of what I would use them for, but I HAD to have them. The gal in the booth thought I had LOST MY MIND. They were perfect and tiny - fitting comfortably in the palm of my hand, and SO beautiful. This picture doesn't do them justice, but my enthusiasm wouldn't allow me to photograph them one second earlier.

Speaking of beauty, I should introduce you to the newest ~~man~~ appliance in my life, Richard Blaze. But first you need to know what happened with Luke.

For those of you who were Luke fans, here's what happened. Luke was ailing. His temperature sensor had gone, and his timer was going. It was time. We called our home warranty folks to see if he could be fixed, but he was so old.

They suggested we send Luke to go live on a farm. A farm where old ovens can live out their days burning food without fear of reprisal. It was really what was best, hard as it may have been.

So, at the suggestion of the contractor, we made a pilgrimage to Airport Appliance, and lo and behold, there was the range and oven I have been waiting for my whole life.

Readers, meet Richard Blaze.

It was love at first sight. We saw each other across a crowded room, and that was that. It was meant to be.

He is named for my favorite Top Chef, Richard Blais [WARNING, noisy site]. In fact, the finale is tonight, and I'm rooting for Richard.

Permit me to wax poetic for a moment. I LOVE when people are good sports on shows that are effectively creative competition. Richard (the namesake) is affectionately referred to as "The Professor" or "Professor Blais" in the Top Chef kitchen, mostly because he's willing to help out his competitors when they need it. This means that everyone is competing at the top of their game, and that's more interesting for everyone.

He's totally brilliant, his dishes are inspired, and he is completely adorable. AND! He's going to have his own show on the Science Channel, Blais Off, which is the answer to the trainwreck that is Marcel's Quantum Kitchen. (Time for the tinfoil hat- I was complaining that Blais should be doing a show on molecular gastronomy, not Marcel.)

But back to *my* Blaze. He's a dual-fuel range and oven, and I love him. We have spent a lot of time getting to know one another. I read his manual and he delivers on all his promises, Itellyouwhut.

And see that drawer on the bottom? It's a BAKING DRAWER. I can bake one tray of cookies or biscuits without heating the whole big oven!!! And convection baking! I can't tell you how cool it is to bake three sheets of cookies or cupcakes at once. (The neighbors can vouch for it's coolness, since I've been sharing the cookie and cupcake love.)

Now, for the next frontier in earning my kitchen savvy merit badge: molecular gastronomy!

Tomfoolery and foolishness

2011-03-20T18:19:00.000-07:00

The year is 2011. I have been working primarily in tech since 2000, and I am just now, today, figuring out how to use a feed reader to read my blogs.

I think my main issue was that I thought a feed reader is unnecessary. I had a folder in my bookmarks for blogs, would open them all up in tabs, and check my blogs daily that way. Verne, the 90-year-old man who lives in my head, thought that feed readers were fancy and pretentious.

Verne is the voice in my head that uses words like "foolishness", "tomfoolery", and "nonsense". Verne comes out - mostly - when there is something that offends my good sense. Like paying $4 for a hand-poured cup of coffee (which takes 15 minutes). Verne thinks that for $4, that cup of coffee should vacuum my car while I drink it. (He thinks other things along those lines, but the car vacuuming was the most polite, if you get my meaning.)

Don't even get Verne started on pre-chopped vegetables at the grocery store, or yoga clothes that cost more than work clothes. He is gruff and completely unapologetic about his opinions.

Verne doesn't like taking pictures with cell phones at dinner.

Verne is also the first to admit when something is a Really Good Idea. Like the green plastic doohickeys at Starbucks, that keep your coffee from spilling out of the drinking hole while you drive. He's also a big fan of the Cricket loom, cooking on a gas range, and TiVo. (He LOVES the TiVo. He's 90 years old and he doesn't have time for commercials. Nonsense and foolishness.)

I read the directions on how to use Google Reader, and Verne and I agree that it's genius. It's clean, easy to use, and best of all? A Really Good Idea.

Goodbye, bookmarks. Hello, Google Reader!

The Jasminian Devil

2011-03-14T10:49:00.000-07:00

At some point in the last week, my grey cashmere Looped Loop cowl went AWOL. It might still turn up, but I've already gone through the five stages of grief, and at this point I'm assuming it's gone. Forever.

The problem is that this cowl has essentially been part of my neck on every day where there was even the slightest chill in the air, and due to it's fabulousness, I can't imagine life without my precioussssss Looped Loop cowl. Even now, I clutch at my neck and feel the absence of a Looped Loop.

Last night, as I determinedly moved through the phases of my grief at Warp 9, I decided to deal with this loss the way any healthy knitter would.

I would knit a rebound cowl. This cowl would be *more* fabulous than the original cowl. This cowl would *really* show the Old Cowl what it was missing by being gone. The Old Cowl would see me in a crowd with my New Cowl and desperately wish it had never left me. This New Cowl would help me get over the Old Cowl, and would be BETTER.

I went stashdiving, into my Bag of Cashmere. I pulled out the two contenders that I had envisioned for the New Cowl, and checked the color in the mirror. (I bought most of the cashmere pre-pink hair. Matching color can be an iffy proposition, sometimes.)

They looked AWFUL. With my natural hair they would look spectacular, but until that point, they clashed something fierce. The whole point of the New Cowl was to look spectacular. This would not do.

I contemplated my options. I remembered some bulky Debbie Bliss yarn that I bought from WEBS in 2005- deep teal Merino Chunky, to be specific. I had given a friend of mine half the bag to finish her Cleaves, so I knew that what I was going to make needed to be smallish. (As opposed to a sweater.)

Teal is one of those colors that I've always worn very well. I wouldn't necessarily call it a neutral color in my wardrobe, but it matches a good cross-section. I love teal, and I don't wear it nearly enough.

I dove into the depths of my stash, and found the yarn pretty quickly. Five balls of the Merino Chunky. Perfect! I grabbed a set of 10 1/2 needles, did a little quick match, grabbed my skein of Fugly Acrylic for the provisional cast-on, and got in bed.

For those of you playing the home game, it's now 10:15 PM. Andrew has - very patiently - said NOTHING about the impersonation of the Tasmanian Devil I have been doing for the last hour and a half - running around the house, leaving messes and angry smoke in my wake. Perhaps "Jasminian Devil" is more apropos. For your safety, this is what the Jasminian Devil looks like, avoid her at all costs:

You'll know the Jasminian Devil by the crazed look in her eyes. Also, note the bared teeth.

I climbed into bed, Elphie sprawled across my lap, Niki laid down on my feet, and I turned on an episode of Battlestar Galactica. Lest you think all Elphie does is bring me fabulous gifts, she is also a wicked snuggler - but there's a catch. Once Elphie is snuggling you, she usually decides (at some point) that she is done snuggling, gets up, and lays down elsewhere. We have a policy of staying put for snuggles.

I start trying to do the provisional cast-on, which I have done no fewer than one million times, and something is wrong. I can't get it. I have a dog sleeping across my lap and feet, and if I get up I will RUIN EVERYTHING. Seventy-plus pounds of dogs will be displaced, and the chaos of bedtime politics will ensue. After one episode, I finally figure it out, and get the New Cowl started. The dogs are still there, sleeping soundly on my feet and lap.

At this point, I fire up the next episode (I <3 Netflix Instant Watch!) and start knitting. In one episode, my cowl grew TEN inches. Bulky yarn and big needles are awesome. It is now Very Late, I am Very Tired, and neither of the dogs has gotten up to shift or get more comfortable. I am also out of yarn, since I only brought one into the bedroom.

Doing my best impression of an earthworm, I slowly wiggle myself down into bed, without displacing or disturbing either dog, give my New Cowl a longing glance, and turn out the light.

There is nothing like waking up to a beautiful new project on your nightstand. Take that, Old Cowl.**

**Old Cowl? I don't mean it. Come back. I love you.

Bourdain, beets and bed

2011-03-05T12:41:00.000-08:00

Since Monday night, I have been doing a fabulous impression of a zombie. I came down with the flu, and like every other time I get sick, I *might* have been a little melodramatic.

I *might* have told Andrew, "This is the one that kills me. I just know it," to which he lovingly responded (while rubbing my back and fetching and carrying for me) with something like, "That's okay, go into the light. I'll catch a new wife with your stash."

In any case, when I'm sleeping, I'm incredibly suggestible. Meaning, if I fall asleep watching The West Wing, I dream I'm working for President Bartlet. This goes doubly for when I'm sick. If I'm watching the Food Network, I dream about cooking, and if the stupid TiVo flips over to a show with zombies in it, I have wicked awful zombie nightmares.

Recently, I've been watching a fair bit of Food Network, mostly because of Laura'nge, the Joy of Cooking Fairy. Good Eats, Chopped, Cupcake Wars, Ace of Cakes, and No Reservations are all on the TiVo. Mom happened to be watching No Reservations, which is a great show, whether you're lucid or not.

In my case, I have been falling asleep to a No Reservations marathon (thanks, Netflix Instant Watch!) - which is not a comment on Mr. Bourdain's charisma or content, more a comment on how utterly wiped out I have been. I have had dreams of incredible foods in incredible places I have yet to go, usually with Tony. This is odd, since my chef of choice would ALWAYS be Richard Blais. (I *heart* his mohawk! And his mad skillz in the kitchen. Molecular gastronomy is the next thing I try.)

In one of my fever dreams, I was in Eugene, Oregon (one of my favorite places in the whole world), picking beets off of trees next to a stream with Anthony Bourdain. I know that this is a deeply flawed dream, the first issue being that beets don't grow on trees. Chances are also good that they don't grow by streams. And that Anthony Bourdain wouldn't be using kitchen shears to cut them down, even if they DID grow on trees.

But who knows? Maybe in a world where beets grow on trees, I'll be cutting them down with Anthony Bourdain. In my dreams, at least.

Elphie's Gift

2011-02-22T06:03:00.000-08:00

This post is two weeks old, mostly because Stitches managed to take over the better part of two weeks.

Two weeks ago, I sat down at my computer with my cup of coffee, and proceeded to start my day the way everyone should. I drink my cup of coffee, download podcasts, check Ravelry, and then go get dressed and start my day. It's a very civilized way to begin your day, and I highly recommend it. That goes doubly for knitters.

It's not uncommon for the dogs to come and go through the dog door as they please; that's why we installed it. It's also not unusual for them to take a toy (or five) out to the patio to play on a nice day. That's just how our house works- and they also usually bring their toys in and put them away. (They put them under the table instead of the shelf, but I'm not about to complain.)

We have one TERRIBLE dog toy, which I'm 99% sure Andrew picked out. It's an elephant, and it's supposed to sound like an elephant trumpeting, but it really sounds like someone screaming like they're being put through a wood chipper, feet first. It's loud, startling, and naturally, the dogs love it. (I'm not saying that the dogs deserve to be limited to squeaky toys, but I'm also not keen on jumping out of my skin for their entertainment. Selfish, I know.) The elephant is small and grey, and is an important part of this story.

As I was enjoying my Civilized Morning Routine, Elphie went out the dog door with the elephant toy, and shortly after, came back in with something in her mouth. At first glance, it looked like the elephant toy. Then she turned towards me, and there was an eight inch tail.

Tail? My brain processed slowly. She proudly dropped it next to me. In my kitchen, at my feet.

RAT.

I screamed. I don't think I've ever screamed like this in my whole life, mostly because I've never been so startled.

I didn't stop screaming. I pointed at the dog gate (which they got behind) and continued to shriek at a pitch and volume that threatened to shatter every window in the neighborhood.

I took a deep breath, stopped screaming, and thought about packing up the dogs and going elsewhere with them until Andrew became available for body disposal. This was a BIG rat.

It might still be alive, said a voice in my head. You need to get it out. Now. Before it wakes up.

The thought of an R.O.U.S. loose in my home was enough to help me screw up the courage to put on my grown-up pants and do it myself, right away. I refused to spend one extra second with this thing, so I ran through the kitchen and garage, opening every door (and the lid to the trash can) in order to create a speed course (which is the opposite of an obstacle course, and I might have invented it).

I grabbed my biggest dustpan and it's accompanying broom, and I was ready. I took a deep breath, ran around my table to get to my maximum speed, swooped down to grab the (stiff) body, then proceeded to scream as I ran through the last leg of the kitchen, the garage, the side yard, dumped the body in the trash can, and slammed two doors behind me.

I'll admit that this wasn't my proudest moment as an adult. I felt stupid for being so grossed out, and more stupid for the uncontrollable shrieking. I let the dogs out from behind the gate, and as I did, I realized that my feeling stupid wasn't the worst thing.

Elphie went and laid in her dog bed, ears down, tail down, shame in her eyes, and laid down with her back to the room. She put herself in time out. Niki just did his thing, completely unmoved by the events that had just transpired before his doggie eyes.

Cat owners will tell you that you should never behave like I did when your cat brings you a trophy. You are supposed to say "Thank you", praise the cat for their supreme hunting prowess, then deal with the body calmly. You do *not* shriek like a harpy, set up a speed course, and unceremoniously dispose of the ~~dead body~~ extremely thoughtful gift. This lapse in etiquette may have caused Emily Post to turn in her grave.

I had to act quickly. I called Andrew up to appraise him of the situation, and told him what an EXCELLENT hunter our Elphie is, in the most cheerful and proud voice. I also told him how THOUGHTFUL it was of her to bring me such a WONDERFUL trophy, and how *I* behaved abominably.

As I told Andrew the story, he laughed himself silly. Elphie was listening, too, and both ears and the tail came up, and eventually I got a smile out of my girl. (There's an idiom I learned as a teenager for this; it's talking to the doorframe so that the door will hear you.)

Could you really deny a smile like this?

I really do believe that having dogs in my life has made me a better person, mostly because they've taught me about love. Love is, apparently (for those of you playing the home game), apologizing even when you're *not* wrong and graciously accepting a gift that has been given with love.

Even if it *is* a dead rat.

Sympathy for the chicken

2011-02-07T06:56:00.000-08:00

I'd like to start his post by saying that I don't like chickens. I don't like that they peck or flap, and to be completely honest, I don't even really care for the flavor or texture of their meat. I may also suffer from a bit of alektorophobia. I am, however, a huge fan of chicken stock/broth and eggs. (Not together.)

I would also like to make it clear, that this is NOT a political statement; it is just a personal epiphany that I'm sharing.

While at knitting on Saturday, somehow the subject of chickens, eggs, and the treatment of animals in industrialized food came up. (We have a very deep and knowledgeable knitting group.) I think that the subject came up because of an episode of Bones, where there was a murder connected to a cage-free chicken facility.

Andrew and I had watched the episode together ("The Tough Man in the Tender Chicken") not long after we had ~~an argument~~ a civilized discussion about why we were paying twice as much for free-range eggs as we were for cage-free eggs. And for that matter, why we were paying twice as much for cage-free eggs as we were for regular eggs.

Free range eggs cost 5 times as much as regular eggs, for those of you who are comparison shoppers. I do not share the Cordelia Chase philosophy of "I don't want it because it's more expensive, I want it because it costs more." There needs to be a good reason to pay more.

I couldn't tell any difference in the flavor or quality of the eggs, and I felt like it was a waste of money. (After all, I eat a lot of eggs.) Andrew, who was in charge of egg-collecting for his mother's hen house lo those many years ago, felt differently. For the record, Andrew has no love of chickens, either.

Andrew ~~argued~~ asserted that it is wrong to keep chickens in cages, and I have come to agree. Unlike with dogs and crates, where a crate isn't considered to fit unless the dog can easily turn around in in and lay down comfortably, there is no such standard for chickens.

While I don't care for chickens, I do love dogs, and the idea of stuffing an animal in a crate to live out it's life until slaughter is abominable. Especially a crate that is too small.

A chicken, free-ranging around the Retzlaff Winery. It's probably a wino, but I would be, too, if I lived there.

Back to Bones. They showed cage-free chickens, and it was chickens moseying around (as best as a chicken can mosey when kept wall-to-wall). I pointed out that while this wasn't ideal, it also wasn't terrible. (It's a gross episode, and in a Fast Food Nation kind of way.) That's when Andrew pointed out the difference between cage-free and free-range.

To be honest, I didn't really think about it after that. When we were talking about industrialized chickens, Laura'nge talked in depth about the conditions. It made me ill.

Usually, I just move on and think about other things, but the conversation stuck with me. I thought about it all night, and into Sunday.

So, here is my (albeit predictable) decision: we will be buying free-range eggs. Not because they taste better, not because they're more economical, but because it's the right thing to do.

...And I don't want to keep chickens. Just like how I have agreed to not bring home dirty fleeces, Andrew has declared that we will never keep chickens. It may have been in our vows.

Give novelty a whirl

2011-02-02T06:48:00.000-08:00

Spinning novelty yarns is challenging.

I know that when people start spinning, it's really common for someone to say, "Wow! Your first time and you're spinning novelty yarn already!"

All right, I'm cool with the encouragement side of it; in fact, that's a much better approach than ripping someone's first spinning off the wheel and deeming it sub-standard. (Though, it would make a really funny SNL sketch. Niche, but still funny.)

I picked up the Sit and Spin DVD last year, and co-erced a friend (and the podcast intern) into giving novelty yarns a spin. The intern (K, the Wünderteen) was stellar at it. British Mary and I were... not so much.

Mary had the Bulky Plyer Flyer, and decided that she hated spinning novelty yarn. I decided that it must have been an equipment issue, because all I knew is that I MUST HAVE COILS. (In fact, if the DVD had nothing *but* coils on it, I would still have thought it was a good deal. They are SO FREAKING COOL!)

So, when Kevin over at HansenCrafts sent me a MiniSpinner to review, I spun sock yarn on it. I spun woolen fluffy yarn on it.

I spun coils on it.

I didn't say that they were *good* coils.

I'll be the first to admit, they're not amazing. Or created evenly. But I did it.

It was challenging to do. Based on the numbness in my lip afterward, I had my "concentrating" face on the whole time. You know what coils are? Fun.

How could you look at this and NOT want to [at least] try it?

Shame on you for not labeling your stuff, Mystery Etsy dyer! NO SOUP FOR YOU!

In any case, while my next coils might be less epic, I will love them just the same. I'll just have to wait until I get a MiniSpinner of My Very Own, since the review one is going back to Kevin this week.

Also, for those of you in the Blizzard-y states? I hope the groundhog declares Winter over. I also hope he's wearing day-glo, otherwise you might miss him.

Dr. Jasmin is In

2011-02-01T06:19:00.000-08:00

We all have Days. (You know, the kind Mama told you there'd be?) It's not fun or interesting to talk about those, so let's talk about something that never ceases to make me feel better.

Cashmere.

Do I have your attention?

Working with cashmere has scientifically been proven to lower your blood pressure. Even sitting in traffic, simply stroking a ball of cashmere is enough to soothe the ragiest of road ragers, and can get you out of a moving violation. ("I'm sorry officer, before you write that ticket, you should pet my ball of cashmere.")**

As we all know, stress is a killer. It's responsible for sleepless nights, weight gain, bad skin, and poor decision-making. (When was the last time you made a really *great* decision, stressed out of your skull? Think about it.) Also? I've never heard anyone say, "I really am regretting this cashmere _____."

Why? Because cashmere is never a regrettable purchase. I've never seen someone do the walk of shame back to the store after buying a cashmere garment. You know why? Because it never happens, unless it's to exchange it for the right size. Which is totally different.

I have some cashmere in my stash (all of which I've bought on sale) and I've knit a little bit of it here and there. During the Social Pressure Experiment, Chloe talked me into some hot pink cashmere (which wasn't hard to do at 50% off), and I have been waiting and waiting to cast it on.

After a day full of exciting, enriching, and character building challenges, I dove headfirst into my stash and cast on my Mariah. And then I knit a whole bunch, while reading my buddy Elizabeth "The Blizzard" Zimmermann, and then re-reading How to Knit a Love Song. (You should read it, especially if you're a fan of romance novels.)

Looks good, right?

I knit the body in about five seconds. (Up to the armholes anyway.) Time twists, bends, and loses it's meaning when you're working with cashmere. You don't need a sonic screwdriver, or a Doctor. Just some cashmere.

When I got to the armholes, I discovered something delightful. This is a yoke sweater! Before fall of 2009, I had never knit a yoke sweater before, and it turns out? I LOVE THEM. I love that you knit like 2/3s of each of the wretched sleeves, you join them to the body, et voilá!

The sweater you're knitting? Looks like a sweater is flowing off of your needles. It bears repeating, especially given how much of a thrill it gives me.

Speaking of wretched sleeves, Mariah's sleeves are still utterly charming. Clearly, either she is good at what she does, or we're still in the honeymoon phase because I simply can not get enough of these cables:

Yes, the color is accurate. Retina-searing pink!

They are truly potato chip knitting, in the purest sense. (When I was 16 years old, my mother first used the term "potato chip knitting" to describe turning cables.) I must be running a fever, because I am looking *forward* to the second sleeve. (These sleeves really have too much going on for me to knit them simultaneously. Also, I'm watching TV while I do it.)

The really amazing thing is that I have two sweaters worth of beautiful, luscious, soft handspun wool that are ready to cast on, and I can't be bothered to put down the cashmere and cast those on. I can hear you weeping for my predicament.

Please, don't weep for me. Just think, the next time you have the chance to buy cashmere on sale, "I'm prolonging my life."

** This is not true at all. It's science that I just made up. Feel free to post it to Wikipedia and cite me as your source. None of it is true, and you should never do anything you read about on the internet, especially my blog.

Mini and yet, mighty!

2011-01-26T06:50:00.000-08:00

Wow, you all went nuts for the meatloaf muffins! How rude of me not to offer my blog is taste-o-vision. (Please post your taste-o-vision requests here.) What I like best about meatloaf is that it's high in protein, and even higher in deliciousness.

If you're short on time, or like your food portioned out for easy party-eating (or lunch packing), the muffins are the way to go. I'm going to ~~steal~~ borrow Mom's mini loaf pan and try it in that next, but I have a feeling that the muffins will win the day.

For those of you who requested the recipe (waaaaaay more than I expected) here you go:

Start with The Joy of Cooking; go buy it now if you don't already have it, and buy it locally if you can. Recycle Bookstore in Campbell is where I go for buying my cookbooks, when Laura isn't giving them to me, that is.

(Full disclosure: I'm friends with the owners, and actually helped move the Campbell location. I still pay for my books, and I would still shop there even if I didn't know and love the owners.)

I'm not going to rip off Ms. Rombauer or either of the Beckers, and if you don't already own this book, you'll be glad you got it. So, here are my changes, since learning how to cook involves changing stuff:

- Ground beef instead of the meat they suggest. (I like the texture better.) I'll also get the meatloaf meat blend from Lunardi's (pork, beef, and lamb) if I'm sure that Sam isn't eating with us because it's less expensive and there was no noticeable taste, moisture, or quality difference. (Sam doesn't do pork, for those of you who were curious.)
- I mix it all together with bare, freshly washed hands. I feel that you can better taste the love that way, and we all know that love is the secret ingredient.
- Cupcake tin instead of greased loaf pan. I use paper liners, and an ice cream scoop to measure out the meatloaf into the cups.
- Cook time: about 25 minutes, until the middles are 160ºF (71ºC, you're welcome metric people)
- Let them rest and cool for 15 minutes (900 seconds, only because there is no metric measurement for time, and that's a shortcoming in my eyes), and enjoy. (Enjoyment is required.)
- If you're doing side dishes, start them when you pull the meatloaf out to cool. The timing will be perfect.

Last but not least, the other awesome thing about meatloaf is that it takes 10 minutes to throw together and then you have the whole time it's in the oven to knit. The bonus is the virtuous feeling you get when you know that your dinner is cooking away and you have nothing to do but wait for it to be done.

My meatloaf knitting? My cashmere Mariah:

Knitty, Winter 2004. My Mariah.

(Now I have a feeling that Blogger will be getting "feel-o-vision" requests. I just ask that you wash your hands first.)

Betrayal tastes Italian

2011-01-25T13:00:00.000-08:00

Andrew and I have been together for a long time. At the beginning of our relationship, we went out for Italian food a few times, and when Andrew asked me what kind of food I like, I told him that I don't really like Italian food.

Now, before I have the Italian contingent of my readership get up in arms, I don't like going out for *most* Italian food. I can make my own pasta and sauce at home, easily and inexpensively. What I do like to go out for are things like gnocchi, which are fiddly and deeeeeeelicious.

Andrew took my statement to mean that I absolutely, positively, never-ever-EVER would EVER want to go to an Italian restaurant. EV-VER.

While we were in Long Beach for TNNA, we went to a PHENOMENAL Italian restaurant, La Parolaccia, and I had the most incredible saffron gnocchi. Here, have a bite:

Mmmmm, tasty!

Of course, I've never had anything like this at home, but I thought I should revisit all of the Italian restaurants in my area, just in case. For science.

This train of thought led to the idea of buying pre-prepared gnocchi and making the sauce myself, and other tasty (and simple to make) dishes, including lasagna.

With that thought in mind, I called Andrew from the hotel, and said, "Hey, what would you think of me making some lasagna?"

"Lasagna! I would LOVE it! It's my favorite food ever!" Andrew exclaimed, and then went on for TEN minutes about his love of lasagna, which he never breathed a word of previously.

The information was staggering. It was like I found out that I married a Cylon. Who loves lasagna.

"I... I don't even KNOW you!" I sputtered in a silly way, but still feeling a little upset that he never told me. What kind of monster am I?

"You said you hated Italian food. I didn't think it was a dealbreaker. I have Stouffer's lasagna when you go out of town," he told me.

"Stouffer's?! Why don't you just stick a knife in my HEART?" I said, owning my melodrama.

He paused for a moment, and I said, "Ok. So, I'll check the Joy of Cooking for a recipe for lasagna."

"All right! I'm looking forward to it," Andrew said.

So, fast forward to this last week. I checked my trusty copy of Joy of Cooking, and I made the Tomato sauce with meatballs recipe (variation 2). I did the whole thing, shaped the meatballs, the whole megillah:

Homemade meatballs! Eat your heart out. Or until you're full.

Those meatballs are nasty little things. They taste delicious, but the oil pops and spatters, and while they were well-behaved for the photograph, they were NOT well-behaved in the pan. At a certain point, I screamed a few choice words at them, and then decided that browned, season ground beef would be just fine in my sauce, and that the Kitchen Police would not come and get me.

I prepped the lasagna for Sunday Game Night (a new tradition in our house, inspired by Meghan from the Stitch It! Podcast), and realized that a lot of the ingredients were the same as for meatloaf.

To show that I really and truly am earning my grown-up merit badge, I did the prep and got the meatloaf muffins (Emy corrected my referring to them as "meatloaf cupcakes") baked while LukeWarm was already working, the way he does. Barely any extra prep, and zero extra dirty dishes.

Whaddya think?

One cupcake, one serving. Tidy!

Oh, and for those of you who were wondering? The lasagna turned out awesome; I saw some leaving the house this morning in Andrew's Star Trek lunchbox. Ignore me, I'll be busy high-fiving myself over here.

To my Momsicle

2011-01-21T00:16:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, Mom! I'm so glad you made it.

Let's be honest, things were a little touch-and-go before your last birthday, and I'm not the only one who was worried. But we are *so* past that.

Thank you for teaching me. You've taught me all sorts of things, from how to fold an egg (which I think is still a misleading term), read, knit. You taught me how to be fabulous, by your fabulous example:

You taught me to have fun, and not take myself too seriously, and to make a face when someone points a camera at me, because our faces *won't* stick that way:

By example, again.

You taught me to always try new things:

Costello's, Sock Summit 2009

From kiwi to micro-brew, we always try three bites (or sips) of everything, and we never summarily dismiss anything as gross before really giving it a try. Especially if it's the "weird stuff". You also taught me that sometimes a recipe can't be salvaged, and getting pizza is always an option.

Mostly, you taught me to have confidence in myself. Not the "Check out these groovy hotpants!" confidence, where I automatically assume that all of my ideas are the best, but the confidence to think things through, then say, "This is what I'm going to do. Get on board or get out of my way."

You're my biggest supporter, and my favorite co-pilot on a road trip. Nobody can peel the wrapper off a burger like you can, or make the best of a gross situation.

You always go along with my crazy ideas, like when I called you in the middle of the night to tell you that we should do a podcast, and you said, "Ok... What's a podcast?"

You're the heart and the brains of the podcast. You tell everyone that you're "just the co-host", but that's totally not true. You're the talent, I just run the equipment and fill the empty spaces.

I always tell people that I have the best mom, and it's true. There are so many people who couldn't imagine living so close to their families, and I couldn't imagine living anywhere but. I'm so lucky to have a mom who loves me, and likes me as a person. I'm glad that we're friends now that I'm an adult, and that you still pull rank when I need a little motherly direction.

Happy birthday, Mom. I hope that there are whole bunch more that we can share.

Knit like a Zimmermann

2011-01-20T06:20:00.000-08:00

(To the tune of "Walk Like An Egyptian", preferably the version by the Puppini Sisters. Go listen, you'll love it.)

I'm ashamed to admit that though I co-host a knitting podcast, I've never written about the podcasts that I listen to- which is why we podcast. Because we love listening to them!

One of the new shows that has popped up in the last year is Knitting Pipeline, hosted by the charming Paula, who also is a bagpiper. (Also, how great is it that there's a niche for bagpiping and knitting?!)

Paula knew Elizabeth Zimmermann personally, and they corresponded by mail. For those of you not in the know, Elizabeth is considered by many to be the mother of modern knitting, such as it is. I knew *about* Elizabeth's books, and I have owned all of them for quite a number of years, but I never deigned to read them- I just collected them for the patterns.

Two years ago, I knit a baby surprise sweater and complained that Elizabeth's directions weren't breathe-here-blink-here clear. You'll forgive me, right? I was young, and it was the impetuousness of youth speaking. I am Much Older and More Worldly now. Also, I just flipped to the pattern, I didn't read the book, and as everyone knows you should read directions All the Way through.

Given that earlier this year, Elizabeth's patterns and books were described to me to be more like recipes than strictly knitting patterns, this makes much more sense. However, if you're used to The Joy of Cooking and you get a family recipe that says "a pinch here" or "a dash there", (or my favorite, "cook until done") and you happen to be a child who thrives on structure and exact measures to feel comfortable initially, it's enough to reduce your normally composed self to tears.

So, I'll say it.

I was wrong.

What? You couldn't hear me?

I was wrong. WROOOOOOOOOOOOONG.

Elizabeth is brilliant and personable in her books. (Nod if you already knew that; this is my fresh discovery, please share the enthusiasm of novelty.) I don't normally care for people chatting with me in my literature, but it seems that Elizabeth and I have a lot in common. She has a lot of tips and tricks (and my beloved math, in the form of percentages!), and I'm eating it up faster than dessert at Marché.

The only thing that could make me feel closer is if she reached out and asked if she could have the last glass of Syrah- after all, we've been sharing the bottle while I read.

The Blizzard (my nickname for her, since we're good friends now) makes me want to go dig in my back room and start a percentage-based yoke sweater. She makes me want to sing "The Blizzard and I" at the top of my lungs.

Her writing has inspired some of my favorite writers, most notably Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. It's like seeing 10 Things I Hate About You then seeing Taming of the Shrew (preferably performed live, if you're lucky enough it's at Shakespeare Santa Cruz). It's so similar, but the original is what has inspired (now 3) generations of knitters. Good quality and sensible thinking will always outlast the test of time.

Now if only I could get her books on my Kindle. Then, I could have my buddy The Blizzard with me all the time, and not have to weigh down the corners with my lazy Kate and not break the spine.

How Laura saved Christmas

2010-12-28T06:20:00.000-08:00

Ever since going to Off the Waffle, I have been obsessed with the idea of making Liege waffles at home. (Mostly because driving eight hours for breakfast is ridiculous. But if you start by aiming to drive eight hours for dinner at Marché, stay the night, THEN have breakfast at Off the Waffle, it's totally reasonable.)

So. I found a recipe, I ordered the special sugar, and I had planned to make them Christmas morning. I had glanced through the recipe, and read some stuff online that said that they needed to rise for an hour. My plan was to pull my ingredients the night before, get up an hour before the rest of the family, prep the waffles, and let them rise while we open gifts.

While I was busily paving the road to Hell with all my good intentions, I printed out the recipe, and really looked at it. This recipe had better curl my toes for how much work it is. Read for yourself, I'll stay here.

1 1/2 hours to rise, do some stuff, let it rise for 4 hours, fridge for 30 mins, do some stuff, fridge it overnight, do some stuff, let it rise 90 minutes, THEN throw it on the waffle iron.

(For those of you doing the math, that's 6 hours of waiting the day before, then - let's assume that overnight is another 8 hours, then another 1 1/2 hours. That's 15 1/2 hours of prep.)

Naturally, I was disappointed that I had RUINED CHRISTMAS by promising the family fancy Belgian waffles, and now they were going to get boring old scrambled eggs. Laura had been busily texting me while she was getting ready, making sure we had all necessary provisions in place.

When I dramatically announced that the waffles weren't happening, due a complete and utter failure to plan on my part, she directed me to a cookbook (practically to the page) so that we could still have delicious waffles, minus the 15 1/2 hours of prep. See?

That is a cow waffle. Mmm! (You can find the waffle iron here; you'll never have ho-hum waffles!)

And that is how Laura saved Christmas.

Better Than Yarn

Genevieve, enter stage left

With a little help from my friends

Slipped deadlines

Mama's watchin' her stories

Some R & R

Jasmin 2012

Lighting the way

Cashmere is not a carcinogen

Two dog night

A holiday plea

Operation Home Beautification

Orangutans and Canadian Geese

Selective Memory

Kosher

Jasmin 1997

Excitement Stew

Snipe hunt

Failing already

Tiny cows, jellyfish, and tradition

Disorganized sounds

Prioritizing

Dessert first

Dyeing to start

99 days

Thought Goulash

Disintegration

Taking initiative

Smug cometh before the fall

Beauty is pain

The Stay-At -Home Survival Guide: A review

Dueling haiku

In mid-May, I posted a haiku to Facebook, which prompted what can only be described as a haiku duel between KidBrother Sam and me. I've posted about how clever he is, and for some reason, I keep thinking about this exchange, which all took place over the course of a twenty minute window.

Mostly, I'm impressed that Sam and I can argue, regardless of the format. Fun fact: as children, Mom told us we couldn't argue unless we did it in song. I attribute much of our creativity to that.

Me:

I have a long list No desire to do it Procrastination.

KidBrother Sam:

Equal protection- Circumcision paper due; Browse reddit instead.

[Explanation: KidBrother Sam was a poli sci major. That should explain the haiku above.]

Me:

Graduation day Approaching imminently Get it done sooner.

KidBrother Sam:

Senioritis has Absconded all give-a-damn Will-power absent.

Me:

Not graduating Means spending more time down south I love you lil bro.

Inverse proportionality

Playing (o)Possum

Heart, spine, and lenses

Too small

Measure in wool

Family stories

Direction and management

Henry IV, Part I - A Review

Impulse control and interpretation

Math

Frankly, Scarlet

Research is power

A reconciliation

The Three Musketeers - A review

Probably not a shark

Bonus protein- apple edition

The Comedy of Errors - A review

Green with avocado envy

A formal "thank you"

Dear Evil Jasmine,Thank you for my beautiful scarf. I love it and wear it all the time. Love,Wicked Jasmin

Coexist

32

Quality time with a master

Then and now

Plate-lickin' good

Tiny enthusiastic velociraptors

An apology

Playing with fire

Shark logic

Off-book

Flank steak salad with roasted shallots and goat cheese, from the Bon Apetít "Fast Easy Fresh" cookbook. Go and buy it now, you'll thank me.

Yoga and Dogs

Five projects

Knit Knit Bang Bang

Love turned sour

I have a long list
No desire to do it
Procrastination.

Equal protection-
Circumcision paper due;
Browse reddit instead.

Graduation day
Approaching imminently
Get it done sooner.

Senioritis has
Absconded all give-a-damn
Will-power absent.

Not graduating
Means spending more time down south
I love you lil bro.

Dear Evil Jasmine,

Thank you for my beautiful scarf. I love it and wear it all the time.

Love,
Wicked Jasmin