I am a gratuitous ballerina

I made this! And it doesn't suck!



Admittedly this is much more complicated and fitted than I'd intended my first* dress to be. I should have started with a skirt. This was hard. But I love it. I love it so much that it makes me want spin around and get all dizzy.





I know. I'm silly.

*Okay, okay. I made a dress with my mom's help when I was 13. And the thrill I got from that tiny bit of bust shaping should have been my first clue that I'd grow up to be a fiber addict.

They're not Tagalongs, but...

...speaking of Cookies. Have you seen Cookie's new sock collection?

Holy God! Look at them. LOOK AT THEM!

I'll just add a little vacant space here to breath while we both wait for our pulse rates to come down.

And by the way, did you know that Eunny Jang of See Eunny Knit is the new editor of Interweave Knits magazine? This is fantastic news! Eunny is just the person to give IK the young, brilliant, talented kick in the pants it so desperately needs. Not that I don't love it now. Actually I don't. I think most of their patterns are sort of "meh," but I am making two things from the current issue (the Tea Rose halter and the Petunia bag). And while we're weighing in on Interweave, can I just let it be known that I PREFER THE NEW LAYOUT. I also do not enjoy the boxy, boring cardigans you seem so hell-bent on publishing, so please. Stop being so safe. Do you really want to be the Woman's World of knitting mags? You're better than that, IK.

Also, today is my brother Dan's birthday, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAN! I hope you were wishing for a new pair of handknit socks!

Hello, Samoas

I was going to write something smart today and tell you things. And show you stuff. And be interesting.

Instead, I'm going to probably eat my weight in Girl Scout cookies.

Would it shock you to learn I'm not a fan of Thin Mints? But put a Tagalong in my hand and I'm quickly ask you for another.

I deserve this. I took the dog rollerblading yesterday, and a neighbor laughed at me. Though admittedly, he did look pretty silly with those skates strapped to his paws.

Skirts and 'blades

Matilda and I went up to school last night to pick up her straight-A's report card and gaze admiringly at a few of her paintings hanging around school in the school art show.

After the requisite gazing time, I announced, "Come on, sister. Let's go buy you an "A" Present!"

The "A" Present in our house is a little educational incentive that is sometimes paid out in cash per A, or plunked down as a lump purchase on a toy or gizmo. PS, I know there's debate about whether paying for grades is correct parenting or not, but when you have a child who happily does homework on Saturday mornings and busily works ahead through all her extra challenge work, you've really got to show your approval of that somehow.

For us, last night, that meant rollerblades.

And as Matilda was trying on every single pair in the local Sports Authority, she told me she thought it was funny that I called her "sister."

Because, she went on, the other day her teacher had asked Matilda if I was her mother... or her sister.

And so that is why I spontaneously purchased a pair of youthful, though somewhat unreasonably expensive, roller blades for myself, as well.

And it also explains why I went out at lunch today and brought home an armload of youthful, ivory cotton gauze with which I will sew myself breezy, youthful skirts and sundresses.

I might just rollerblade past you in a gauzy sundress! Because that makes no sense!

Saturday morning trainer ride

Dad set Gert up on a trainer next to his this morning.



She immediately began taunting him.



She then slipped these on, kicked into her biggest chain ring, and called out, "See you later, sucker!"

Recipe for a Friend

The other day, Matilda and Gert walked past me, each carrying a teaspoon of something white and granular.

"What, are we freebasing now?" I said.

Matilda explained, "It's sugar. I'm going to help Gert make an imaginary friend."

So this intrigued me, and I followed them to the hall bathroom where Gert's older sister told her to stand in the corner and pay attention.

Matilda began the demonstration.

"The first thing you have to do," she said in her teacher voice, "is stand in front of the mirror and close your eyes, and imagine what you want your friend to look like." She squeezed her own eyes shut and imagined for a moment. "Really see her, what color her eyes are, what color hair she has, what she's wearing."

I glanced over at Gert in the corner, holding her spoon tightly and grinning excitedly, her eyes glued to her sister.

"Then," said Matilda, her eyes popping open, "you cast your sugar into the sink!" She sprinkled the contents of the spoon into the basin. "Then you spin around three times and say your friend's name to summon her!"

Too much Harry Potter in my house? Never.

"Then," said Matilda when she'd finished whirling, "turn on the water, and when the sugar's all washed away, you look into the mirror, and there you'll see her! But only you can see her. And only if you believe."

"OH!" shouted Gert with profound delight. "My turn!" She all but shoved Matilda away from the sink, scattering sugar over the bathroom tile.

Some time later, I looked up from my knitting to see Gert parading past, clearly leading an army of the imaginary behind her.

"We're going to go play school," Gert told me.

"Oh, okay," I said. "Who is?"

"Me and Emily and Mylie."

If this was Matilda's way of shrugging off her little five-year-old shadow for a few hours and having some personal Gameboy time, that girl is freaking brilliant.

Antique chic

Every month the knitting forums at Craftster have a "knitting challenge," and February's was What Would Marple Knit - vintage knitting patterns in a modern context.

If you were to click over there out of curiosity, you'd see a whole board full of mindblowing, original designs people have submitted. These are the kinds of projects that started cropped up mid-month, and I quickly realized I had not a shot in hell of winning this challenge.

But I did actually kind of want to knit some antique lace. That's just the kind of girl I am.



This is a lace pattern from a book published in 1891 called "Home Work: A Choice Collection of Useful Designs for the Crochet and Knitting Needle: Also, Valuable Recipes for the Toilet".

Note that I did not make any of the toilet recipes. I don't even know where to go with that.

The pattern I used is the Kendal Insertion.





You can also wear it as a hat, a brooch, a pteradactyl...

Re-capecho-lation!

Q: What do you get when you take a capecho down into your basement and poke it with a stick until it relents?

A: Minicardi!





And NOW I'm in love with it!

A new hope?

Okay.

I don't mean to get your hopes up or anything.

But I've just put the finishing seam on my fully reengineered and modified-within-an-inch-of-its-life capecho.

And I don't mind saying... It. Is. Cute. It's cute! It's actually cute!

I can't wait to get home and take pictures.

I need a distraction

Addi Turbo lace needles?

Yes! With sharper points and a grabby finish!

Please buy them for me. If I immerse myself in a new and complicated lace project, I might forget about the chamber of horrors that is my sewing room. It might help me block out the screams of the capecho that I've left contorted and pinned to a dress model.

And now I promise I'll stop talking about it.

I'm going to make a million pairs of these to wear cycling this summer.

Speechless and head over heels

I'm so not worthy of this, in fact I have no words, just a stupid smile on my face. But I am, by far, the luckiest.

Come on, you know me better than that.

After blocking the living shit out of it (as Sacchi suggested), this is where we were (artistic photo composition and shots, courtesy of Gert the budding photog):





There's no getting around it. The capecho, in its current form, flatters no one. Therefore I won't be trying to gift it to any of my fuller figured friends (sorry, Bambi).

But you know I couldn't just walk away.

Capecho Modification #1: The "Cape"-echo



I ripped back the ribbing on the sleeves to finish off those pentagons as regular pentagons, resulting in a poofy, cabled caplet.

Then I was found myself faced with the harsh reality that I will no more wear a caplet than I'll wear, well, a capecho.

Stay tuned for Mod #2, in which scissors may play a starring role.

Norah Gaughan Capecho: Final Decent into Madness

Vogue Gaughan Capecho, finished
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

At least I like the cables on the back. At least it was fun to make.

And at least it's finished.

And... at least I didn't waste good money on expensive yarn.

If you need photographic proof of the complete ridiculousness and disappointment that is this garment, you'll have to find your way to my flickr account.

I'm closing the book on this one.

My bike is proud of me

My bike is proud of my capecho progress
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Pearl (my lovely Fuji) wanted you to know that all I have left to knit on the Norah Gaughan capecho is one long piece of cabled collar, and then I'll probably quit thinking about it the whole time I'm riding.

The Gertrude Sweater: Embossed argyle cardigan in pink (of course)

Size:
children's 6-8

Materials:
Bernat Satin (100% acrylic, 166 yds), 3 skeins
Size 6 needles
Size 8 needles
Size J crochet hook
tapestry needle
8-10 small buttons
needle and thread

Stitches:
1x1 rib: *k1, p1; rep to end of row. In all subsequent rows, knit the knit sts and purl the purl sts.

Garter Stitch Diamonds (from "The Harmony Guides: 450 Knitting Stitches, Vol. 2"):
1st row (RS): Knit
2nd row: p4, *keeping yarn at front slip 2 purlwise, p6; rep from * to last 6 sts, sl 2 purlwise, p4
3rd row: k3, *C2F, C2B, k4; rep from * to last 7 sts, C2F, C2B, k3
4th row: p3, *keeping yarn at front sl 1 purlwise, yb, k2, yf, sl 1 purlwise, p4; rep from * to last 7 sts, sl 1 purlwise, yb, k2, yf, sl 1 purlwise, p3
5th row: k2, *C2F, k2, C2B, k2; rep from * to end
6th row: p2, *keeping yarn at fron sl 1 purlwise, yb, k4, yf, sl 1 purlwise, p2; rep from * to end
7th row: k1, *C2F, k4, C2B; rep from * to last st, k1
8th row: p1, keeping yarn at fron sl 1 purlwise, yb *k6, yf, sl 2 purlwise, yb; rep from * to last 8 sts, k6, yf, sl 1 purlwise, p1
9th row: knit
10th row: as 8th row
11th row: k1, *C2B, k4, C2F; rep from * to last st, k1
12th row: as 6th row
13th row: k2, *C2B, k2, C2F, k2; rep from * to end
14th row: as 4th row
15th row: k3, *C2B, C2F, k4; rep from * to last 7 sts, C2B, C2F, k3
16th row: as 2nd row
Repeat these 16 rows.

Single crochet: insert hook into a stitch, wrap yarn around hook and pull up a loop. Wrap yarn and pull through loop. After last stitch in row, chain 1 (wrap yarn and pull through loop 1 additional time).

BACK:
CO 60 sts with smaller needles. Work 1x1 rib for 1.5 inches, ending with a WS row. Switch to larger needles.

Slip 1 edge stitch, begin Garter Stitch Diamond pattern to last stitch, k1 edge stitch. Always keep 1 edge stitch on each side of the diamond stitch pattern (k on RS, p on WS) – this edge stitch is NOT mentioned in the pattern above. Work until piece measures 11" total length.

Begin armhole shaping: at the beginning of each row, dec 3 sts twice, 2 sts 4 times, and 1 st 4 times (42 sts). Continue in pattern as established.

When piece measures 18", BO center 8 sts and work each side separately. At neck edge, dec 3 sts twice, then BO rem 11 sts.

LEFT FRONT:
With smaller needles, CO 28 sts and work 1x1 rib for 1.5 inches, ending with a WS row. Switch to larger needles. Slip 1 edge st, work Garter Stitch Diamond pattern, k1 edge st. Work until piece measures 11", then begin armhole shaping: at the beginning of next RS row, dec 3 sts. Then dec 2 sts at beg of next 2 rows, and dec 1 st beg next 2 rows (19 sts). Continue in pattern as established until piece measures 17". On next WS row (at neck edge), BO 4. Then dec 2 sts at beg of next 2 WS rows (11 sts). Work to 19" in established pattern. BO rem 11 sts.

RIGHT FRONT:
Work as for left front, but reverse shaping (work armhole shaping on WS and neck shaping on RS).

SLEEVES (make 2):
CO 30 sts with smaller needles and work 1x1 rib for 1 inch. Switch to larger needles and k6, place marker, k18, pm, k6.
Next row (row 2): p6, (keeping yarn at front slip 2 purlwise, p6) 3 times.
Continue Garter Diamond Stitch pattern above beginning with Row 3 as established, adding 2 edge stitches on each side.

On Row 8, inc 1 stitch at the beginning and end of row (32 sts total, 3 edge sts each side).
Continue in pattern and continue to increase 2 sts every 8th row 9 times (48 sts).

When sleeve measures 16", begin shoulder shaping: BO 3 sts at beginning of next 2 rows, 2 sts next 4 rows, and 1 st next 4 rows (30 sts). Continue in pattern as established until piece measures 18". Dec 1 st at beginning of each row 7 times (16 sts). BO remaining 16 sts.

Finishing:
Seam all pieces together.

Pick up an even number of sts around neck edge and work 1x1 rib for 1 inch. BO loosely.

Button band: Work 3 rows single crochet along front edge of Left Front. On Right Front, work 1 row single crochet, then on row 2, chain 1 and skip 1 st at evenly spaced intervals to allow desired number of button holes. Then work a 3rd row of sc.

Line up buttons with holes and sew into place.

Weave in ends.

Fun with preschoolers

Gertrude woke up this morning and announced that today was opposite day.

First, she lost the logic battle to her older sister.

Gert: "Today is opposite day!"

Matilda: "So, by telling me this you're actually saying that it's not opposite day?"

Then she played it with me for a while, announcing that she didn't love me, didn't want to eat breakfast, and definitely was not wearing clothes to school. When that got old, she informed me that it wasn't opposite day anymore.

I said, "So... you mean it is?"

"Please," Gary said to me. "Stop the madness."

Inappropriate

Inevitably, when I take out my knitting in a public place, the person next to me will say, "I've always wanted to learn to knit!"

I have no response to that. Here are a few of the things I've said in the past that I don't think are quite right:

"That's nice."

"You should! It's fun."

"I did too, so I learned."

"I love it. Once I got started I couldn't stop."

"Beats smoking crack."

I'm not trying to be deliberately antisocial, but it's hard to have a conversation about something when the other person has a limited frame of reference. I have the same problem when someone comments on a book I'm reading.

They'll ask what I'm reading, I'll tell them, and they might say, "Oh! I've always wanted to read that."

Um, okay. Then... do it?

Do I just not understand how to carry on my side of that conversation?

My favorite non-exchange is when someone asks me what I'm making. I'm not sure if they expect a complete knitted sweater to drip off the needles, cartoon-style, or what. But if I say it's a sweater, they'll spend the next fifteen minutes squinting at it sideways –- is that the neck? Is it a sleeve? Is it a sweater for a manta ray?

I really need to start knitting nutsacks.

No! These! What is wrong with you?

Norah Gaughan capecho in progress

Norah Gaughan capecho in progress
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

This is what I've been working on... and I have to say I LOVE this pattern. It's probably the most fun I've had knitting in a long time. It's a little challenging but instantly gratifying as each little cabled pentagon forms to join its neighbors. I have one motif left on the back, then it's just sleeves and collar.

And then I'll have to shave my eyelashes and drain the blood from my face so I can be a Vogue cover model, too!

Goddess of love, beauty, and public humiliation

I don't think we've ever kept it a secret from our children that they are the girl kind, but I guess we neglected to clue Gert in on one of the most specific differentiating features.

Gert goes to daycare with a lot of boys. Her best friend is a boy. She's a self-professed, tutu-wearing princess, but she's still one of the guys. So I'm sure you can guess where this is leading.

Friday night, we decided to get dinner at Bandana's. It's not a super fancy place or anything, but it does involve sitting in a booth, which to us means we try to act proper parents who enforce etiquette rules at home.

After the waitress had taken our order, Gert got squirmy. She stood up, she perched on her knees, she crawled under the table, she did a backbend into the booth behind us. I felt like my stop-its and please-sit-rights were getting louder and louder, and Gert was attracting more and more attention from people who were trying not to look like they were looking at us.

I leaned across the table and tried to level with the five-year-old. "Gert," I said firmly. "Why are you acting like this?"

Gertrude said, plainly and unmistakably in her clearest voice, "My penis hurts!"

Gary and I looked at each other.

Everyone in the entire restaurant looked at us, as did everyone with a several mile radius.

I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. If I explained to her that she was a girl and girls don't have penises, that would inevitably lead to a conversation about what girls did have. If I shushed her and explained that we don't talk about things like that at the dinner table, it would confirm that she did have a penis to be quiet about.

Gary cleared his throat and leaned over to whisper something in Gert's ear.

"Oh!" said Gert.

The entire place seemed to exhale and gladly resume its business.

Later that night, Gert was lounging on the floor in front of the television watching her usual run of Disney Channel shows.

"Mom," she announced casually, "guess what?"

"What?" I said.

"My Venus is still bothering me."

Pimped my blog!

I know, change is scary...

Bear with me a second here while I shake the bugs out!

Lace fingerless office gloves for the people

Here's a pattern! If you find any errors or have any questions about it, just let me know.

Snowflake Lace Office Gloves



Needed:
1 ball (196 yds) King Color Baby, fingering weight stretch merino wool
Set of double pointed needles, size 1
Stitch holders or waste yarn
Stitch markers

Sizing:
Stretches to fit all hands up to an 8" wrist circumference

Stitches:
Snowflake lace (instructions and chart here)
CORRECTION! the PDF of Snowflake Lace Socks in which this chart was published is now available for download via this link.

Work cuff
CO 40 st, join and work K1, P1 ribbing for about 1 inch. The cuff you're knitting will seem alarmingly small, but don't worry. It's stretchy. Decrease 1 stitch and divide stitches over 3 needles. Work in Snowflake lace pattern with one repeat per needle until cuff measures 3.5 inches total length. End with an even (knit) row.

Shape thumb gusset
Row 1 (pattern round), increase 1 stitch by knitting into the front and back of the first stitch (40 stitches). Place marker after the created stitch. Continue round in pattern.
Row 2, knit all stitches.
Row 3, increase 1 st by knitting in the front and back of the first stitch. You should now have 15 stitches on your first needle -- two plain knit stitches before the marker, and 13 pattern stitches. You're going to use these two knit stitches to form the thumb of your glove.
Row 4, knit all stitches.
Row 5, when you come back to the two knit stitches, increase by knitting into the front and back of both stitches. Now you'll have four knit stitches and 13 pattern stitches on your first needle.
Continue to increase by 2 stitches on every other round by knitting into the front and back of the first and last stitch of the marked group until you have 17 knit stitches before the marker (56 st. total).

Work even until thumb gusset measures 3 inches. Knit the thumb stitches, then slip these stitches to a stitch marker or waste yarn. Work the rest of the round in pattern, reconnect pattern stitches above the thumb gusset, and continue in pattern 1 more inch.

Work fingers
Right glove: Divide stitches evenly onto two needles (19 on one, 20 on the other) so the thumb is positioned on the right side of the hand, slightly forward.

Little finger: Move 9 stitches farthest from the thumb to a separate needle (take 4 from the front, 5 from the back). Place remaining stitches on waste yarn. Knit 9, CO 5, join. Knit in the round to desired length. Bind off loosely.

Slip all stitches from waste yarn back to needles, pick up 4 stitches from base of little finger, and continue in lace pattern for an additional .25 inch. Then work ring finger as follows.

Ring finger: Keep 5 stitches from both the front and back of glove on needles on either side of little finger. Slip all other stitches to waste yarn. K14, CO 4. Join and work in round to desired length. BO.

Middle finger: Slip 5 held stitches from front and back of glove onto needles. K5, pick up 5, k5, CO 5. Join and work in round to desired length. BO.

Pointer finger: Slip remaining 10 stitches to needles. Pick up 6, K10. Work in round to desired length. BO.

Thumb: Slip 17 stitches from waste yarn or holder onto needles. Work in round to desired length. BO.

Left glove: Work as for right glove until you are ready to knit the fingers. Divide stitches evenly onto two needles (19 on one, 20 on the other) so the thumb is positioned on the LEFT side of the hand. Knit fingers in the same way as outlined above, beginning with the little finger.

Eee! Now we both have gloves!

test swatchin'

I've been knitting!

I made a test swatch of the orange and pink, which silly youngest daughter volunteered to model for me. The pink, as you can see, makes a passable hat, but the orange is far more pose-worthy.



And then there were four.



Meanwhile, I've been in search of the perfect solution to cold keyboarding hands, and I believe these are the answer. They are the Perfect Office Gloves:



I have about a million pairs of fingerless gloves, but none accomplish the objective quite as well as these. They're slim and lightweight but warm. They're pretty without drawing undo attention to themselves, and they blend right in under any sleeves or jacket. They travel effortlessly from typing to filing to jotting down notes in meetings. Best of all, I can forget I have them on and they don't bother me in the least while I'm typing.

If anyone's interested in a pattern, I think I could put one together from the notes I kept. The lace is Melanie Berney's interpretation of the stitch for her Snowflake socks which are themselves so perfect and graceful I could cry.

I have two exciting and perhaps equally dorky things to tell you!

One, I got a new women's specific seat for my bike, and let me tell you, my "sensitive tissues" are beside themselves with thanks.

I was reluctant to make that leap up until now because I didn't want to be the kind of girl who trades in a super sleek, cool-looking Fuji seat for something that sells itself as extra-wide and padded. I found a good compromise in the Serfas Women's RX, which has cushy gel and curvaceous, womanly shaping but won't make me feel like the boys are laughing at me.

I rode with it last night, and holy rear-end revolution! I can't accurately describe how wonderful this seat is. If you are a female and you continue to ride on a boy's seat after reading this PSA, well, you must enjoy that kind of pain, because that's the only excuse you have now for putting up with it.

The other exciting thing is that we're now leaning toward driving instead of flying down to Disneyworld this summer for our second Once-In-A-Lifetime family Disney adventure blowout. That means we'd easily be able to drive down to the coast for a brief glimpse at all the cool space stuff.

Ride, Sally Ride!

This is me...



And these are the three lucky yarns from my stash who are Still In The Running toward becoming Norah Gaughan's cover sweater on this issue of Vogue Knitting.



But which one? The dark chocolate brown would be very classic and versatile and warm. The salmon pink is so sweet and feminine. But the pumpkin orange is so spicy and playful. Which one most deserves to be made into this fantastic piece of sweater art?

I can't decide. What would you do?

Gertrude is a child who adores being cuddled. Her idea of a perfect weekend would be to spend 48 hours in continual, uninterrupted contact with Mom and/or Dad. Last night she broke into tears because it was starting to get dark outside and she hadn't gotten in nearly enough cuddling.

This morning she dragged herself out of bed and came into the kitchen where I was digging through lunchmeat packages (and discovering that the ham I'd had on my sandwich Saturday was at least two weeks older than it had a right to be). She grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the couch, I assumed in need of early morning cuddles before facing the week ahead.

"I need to talk to you about something," she said seriously, as I nuzzled her on my lap.

"Okay," I said.

"Do you like Daddy?" she asked.

Oh crap, so she heard us "loudly debating" the timeframe for projected home improvements yesterday...?

"Of course I like Daddy!" I said.

She got a sappy smile on her face. "Did you marry him because you like him?"

"That's right," I said. "Daddy and I go together like peas and carrots."

This was an ironic thing to say to Gert, who openly despises both peas and carrots.

"I'm glad you married him... because he's my best Daddy I ever had in the whole world."

Then Matilda came prancing into the living room, pushed her hair back and proclaimed, "They stayed in!"

We all congratulated her.

I should explain. Matilda finally worked up the courage and resolve to get her ears pierced yesterday, and went to bed with the fearful conviction that somehow her gleaming new cubic zirconian studs would work their way out of her lobes while she slept. No amount of reassuring her would convince her otherwise. When I tucked her in last night, she was fast asleep with her hands cupped protectively over her ears.

2007 resolutions, courtesy of Wilco and Bill Fay ("Be Not So Fearful"):

1. Be not so nervous

• Be friendlier.
• Smile more often.
• Seek to make eye contact with other humans.
• Initiate conversations.

2. Be not so frail

• Get on the bike at least 3 times per week (four would be better).
• Walk the dog more, or at least encourage him to chase a ball or two.
• Consider rollerblading.
• Avoid whining.

Gertrude has a complicated relationship with Santa. On one hand, she has an inherent fondness for any kind, old man who routinely brings her presents and tells her what a good girl she is. On the other hand, she's terrified of him.

When we told the kids that we were going to go visit Santa at the mall, Gert spent the entire afternoon and evening wavering between one extreme and the other.

Gert at 5:00 p.m.: "I'm going to bring this snowflake that I made in school to show Santa! It's the best snowflake I ever made. Santa will love it. I want to sit on Santa's lap and show it to him!"

Gert at 5:03 p.m.: "I DON'T WANT TO SIT ON SANTA'S LAP!"

Gert at 5:05 p.m.: "I love Santa. Can I tell Santa I love him?"

Luckily, by the time we were actually standing in line, Gert had swung over to the pro-Santa camp and was eagerly bouncing on her tiptoes with her prized paper snowflake clutched in both hands.

Santa motioned to Matilda and Gert, and I saw Gert hold up the snowflake and tell him all about it.

"That's beautiful!" said Santa, taking and admiring the snowflake with his white-gloved hands. "Is this for me?"

Oh crap.

Gert smiled and nodded and watched Santa tuck the snowflake next to him into the cushion of his oversized Santa-couch.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap! This was going to end badly.

But Gert was all smiles as she told Santa what she wanted and how helpful she was to mother and how nice she was to her sister, etc. She hopped off his lap and trotted back to Gary and me without so much as a backward glance.

If you look closely here, behind the superimposed snowman's head, you'll see a folded piece of purple construction paper. There, the snowflake remained with Santa, and we cheerfully headed for home.



I still had a nagging sense that we hadn't heard the last of the snowflake. Sure enough, as I was helping Gert get into her jammies that night, her lower lip started to quiver.

"My snowflake...!" she whimpered. "I didn't mean to give it to Santa! I couldn't tell what he was saying because he has that old beard on his face."

And that, according to Gert, is the story of how a sneaky, bearded old poser tricked her out of her most-perfect snowflake that she ever made, and how Mommy promised her extra toys on Christmas morning (although it's unclear how Mommy is qualified to make that promise).

You can go ahead and consider this my "oh well, I'm not going to finish my nano novel again this year" post.

And I'll go ahead and continue a little tradition of my loserdom that I started last year. When it became clear last year that I wasn't going to finish it, I consoled myself with a yarn purchase and cast on for a new sweater. I affectionately called it the Loser Sweater:



As you can see, it's simple and clean and uncomplicated. Clearly, this was a sweater that I could knit quickly and easily while sniffing back tears of failure. My heart was still in the writing, not the knitting.

By contrast, may I present Loser Sweater #2:



There is nothing uncomplicated about this sweater. The yarn wasn't purchased, it was recycled silk/angora which I reclaimed from a gigantic cabled pullover. The pattern is actually knit from the center outward in a giant, lacy circle with arms grafted in at just the right point. It's ridiculous in its complexity. But I loved making it. This is a sweater that screams at the top of its lungs, "Screw you, Nano! I'm a knitter, not a novelist!"

Next year I may need to devote November to something more along the lines of NaKniSweMo just so I'll have a Winner Sweater to add to the collection.

Here is an expression of how much I love my husband.

During the Tour de France, I got the idea to knit him a sweater modeled after a retro-looking wool jersey. Yes, there is such a thing as a wool cycling jersey. Don't you know wool fabric is a much more efficient regulator of body temperature than any synthetic material? It's true. So this is not as far-fetched as it sounds.

I spent months and months knitting it, months finishing it, and more months with it sitting halfway finished on my shelf because I KNEW it wasn't quite right but I wasn't ready to admit it yet.

So finally I finished it. I gave it to my husband.

And I immediately excused him from any obligation to wear it. Is that not love?







By the way, remember when I told you about how I goofed up the measurements and wrote this pattern without any ease? Well, in the time it took me to construct it, Mr. Compulsive Cyclist dropped off enough weight to account for his own ease. He loves me that much.

Okay, since I haven't been doing much writing this month outside of work and the nano novel, I might as well show you something constructive:



These are gloves that started out as Broadripple Socks but confided to me that they'd rather be worn as arm adornments than live life hidden under bootleg jeans.

I glove them so.

Still feeling a bit gloomy and under the weather this morning, I packed my inner child a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and a bag of chips for lunch.

(I stopped just short of filling a thermos with chocolate milk, mainly because I cannot be trusted to promptly rinse out a thermos, and have you ever experienced anything more disgusting than old milk in a thermos? I don’t believe I have.)

When I zipped open the lunchbox just now, it smelled like Lunch! There’s some kind of chemical reaction that occurs whenever this particular combination of food sits together in a confined space for several hours, and it has the power to reach deep into your brain and transport you back to elementary school.

On gloomy days like today, though, my mom would sometimes pack me a thermos of vegetable beef soup.

(I'm realizing now how repulsive THAT must have been to clean out. I can't help but feel even more loved.)

It's 8:15 a.m., I've been at work for over an hour, and can I please go back to bed?

Between the rain pounding on the side of the house, the dog whining, and the phone ringing, none of us got any sleep. Except the kids. Unless they're the ones waking us up with vomit and whatnot, they usually sleep through whining dogs.

I don't know what was wrong with him. For six hours straight last night he paced from one end of the house to the other, with his nails clattering loudly on the wood floors. I imagine this is the same sound you'd hear if you trapped a miniature but highly enthusiastic horse inside the world's largest snare drum.

I suspected he riding a sugar rush from the pre-Halloween candy he stole out of Gert's room earlier in the day.

Then the whining started. It was raining hard by this time, but he's not normally bothered by rain, other than his refusal to go outside and relieve himself when it's wet outside. Okay, so maybe he had to go.

Letting the dog out at our house is a process that involves walking out through the garage to get to the only door that leads to the backyard. So I pulled on a robe and skipped on my freezing cold tiptoes over the freezing cold garage floor through the freezing cold garage and opened the door to a wall of rain outside.

Finnegan looked up at me.

"Go potty," I said.

He hunkered and stepped gingerly outside. I closed the door behind him and stood bouncing on my cold toes. He waited, absolutely motionless, inches from the door, looking back at me through the window.

For six full minutes, we stared each other down.

Finally, I threw open the door and he rushed back through the garage, shaking himself with indignance.

I called the dog several rude names and went back to bed. In fifteen minutes, he was whining again.

All night long, Gary and I took turns checking on, comforting, and finally threatening the little rat bastard. I have no idea what his problem was. All I know is that when the phone rang at 4 a.m., I half expected it to be the producer of a reality show on sleep deprivation congratulating us for making it to the Final Two.

As I was getting ready to walk out the door for work, I noticed Finnegan napping contentedly in the living room. I walked over, and he opened one drowsy eye.

"The cat has instructions to meow at you every time you graze REM sleep," I said.

And then he rolled onto his back so I could scritch his belly. Sometimes cute is the best defense against crabby. Dogs know this.

Did you see the episode of The Office where Michael hears a joke about updawg and spends an inordinate amount of time trying to lure someone else into the joke so he can deliver the punchline?

(If not, you're probably asking yourself... what's updawg? Nothin' dawg, what's up with you.)

When someone finally does walk into it, Michael gets so excited he blows the whole thing. And we laugh, because that's how pathetic the poor guy is.

So Matilda and I were at the grocery store last night picking up cereal and ground turkey, and I mentioned to Matilda that while we were here we should get some updawg.

"Huh?" said Matilda.

"Updawg!" I said. "You know. We've gotten updawg before."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. Updawg. You told me you liked updawg."

"What?"

"UPDAWG!"

"I have no idea what that is."

I stopped the cart in a huff in the middle of the aisle and looked at Matilda with complete seriousness. "We need," I said, "to find out where they keep the updawg."

"What," said Matilda, "is updawg?"

"Ah HAH!" I shouted.

And then I completely forgot what I was talking about.

Evidence of a sweater's success

Exhibit:





Point A:

The first thing you'll notice in this exhibit is that subject is actually wearing the sweater. She is not in the act of tugging it off or squirming in it. Her face is not contorted into a spasm of displeasure, itching, or irritation. In fact, subject appears to be quite accepting of the sweater's presence upon her person.

Point B:

Upon further inspection, we see that the sweater's arms appropriately match the length and girth of subject's arms, and the body of the sweater contours to subject's torso without excessive bulking or stretching. We can conclude from this evidence that the fit is, in fact, "solid jackson."

Point C:

Finally, allow me to submit that the color and stitch design of the sweater do physically enhance the overall cuteness of the subject. Given the subject's inherent cuteness and the implied difficulty of that task, I feel that it is safe to conclude that this sweater does qualify as a successful Gertrude sweater.

Mission accomplished! I'm working on the pattern and I'll have that up "soon" -- or sooner if anyone really wants to knit one.

The real reason I'm so tempted to have a go at Nanowrimo again this year?

It's not because I enjoyed adding to the year's busiest month (sales meeting, birthdays, holidays, etc.) with the self-imposed deadlines and unnecessary stress of writing a novel in 30 days.

I actually did not enjoy that. If I can force myself to think past the magical first few pages into the murky depths of what that reality was like, trudging through paragraph after paragraph of uninspired exposition just to meet each day's word count requirement, I actually have no desire to do any of that again.

But, oh. The beginning! The metaphorical casting-on of words. It's so simple just to begin, to entertain possibilities, open doors, pick up story lines that have not yet begun to suck. Characters exist as only a wisp of exciting potential and haven't yet been corrupted by ineffective fleshing-out or thinking-through.

I'm incurably addicted to starting things.

Now if someone were to join me... that would be all the convincing I need. Can't you just imagine a month of evenings spent camped out together with a pot of coffee and two computers crackling away between us? I would call out, "Toss me a plot line, honey! I'm drowning over here!" And he would reply, "Your main character finds evidence that a civilization of miniature, technologically sophisticated lemmings is flourishing in his/her vegetable drawer. Go!"

That's romance, is what that is. That's effing true love.

Allow me to be vague for a moment.

Something happened at work and I'm unhappy about it.

It keeps playing as a scene from Joe Versus the Volcano where the boss keeps repeating into the phone: "I know he can get the job, but can he DO the job?"

I'm unhappy. Other people are unhappy. Someone who deserved a chance wasn't given one, and I'm not sure I completely understand why.

So that feels like crap.

How much of parenting is overcorrecting things gone wrong in your own psyche?

Yesterday Gertrude spent the better part of the afternoon walking down the street to ask if her friend could play, pausing with her finger poised to ring the doorbell as she wrestled with her shyness, and then walking back home.

She has asked her friend to play many times before, but she's always had her big sister at her side. This time, Matilda was at her dad's house. And Gertrude was bored, so I told her to go see if her friend could play.

I watched her from the kitchen window. I told myself, don't enable. Don't enable! She needed to do it herself to know she could do it herself.

This was me I saw, walking back and forth between the houses, or holding a phone receiver in one hand with my finger poised to dial a friend's number, my heart pounding and my confidence wavering. This was me, sitting on the porch step alone watching a group of kids across the street because I couldn't find the words to say, "Can I play?"

This was me staying home instead of going out. It was me with a single ticket to a play.

Back and forth Gertrude went, each time starting out from home with determination, armed with what I'd told her over and over: "Just say, 'Can Kylie play?'" Each time she dragged her feet back home without her friend and begged me to come with her.

I watched her out the window and argued with myself the entire time. She's still so little! And she's shy! No, she's old enough to walk over and ring the doorbell. She's perfectly able to communicate with other people. She knows what to do.

For the hundredth time, Gertrude marched down the sidewalk toward her friend's house. I heard a screen door screech open. And then I heard the little neighbor girl’s voice ring out, "Hi, Gertie!"

Even from my window in the kitchen, I could see the broad smile break out on Gert's face.

It was nothing compared to the smile on mine.

Seven years ago I married this person, who also happens to be my strength, support, love, and lifetime companion.

About eight years ago he offered me a diamond and asked what almost seemed to be a rhetorical question.

Six months before, I was working away at a mindless cubicle job when I looked up and saw the man I was meant to marry. When we met, I recognized him. That's the only way I can explain it. It was like rediscovering something I'd lost so long ago I'd almost forgotten I was looking for it.

We dated less than six months, which is a ridiculously short amount of time to get to know a person. But we already knew each other. The six months we did wait was just to prove to our families that we weren't entirely rushing into things. Two weeks might have seemed a little abrupt.

So seven years have passed since the day we officially made that commitment, and eight years plus 196 days since I was lucky enough to find the one I'd been missing since the last time we found each other.

And counting.

Do you ever wonder about the narrative your grocery cart tells? Yesterday I found myself standing in the checkout line with three gigantic packages of triple-roll toilet paper, frozen egg rolls, diaper wipes, and beer.

"I'm going to get smashed while binging on prepackaged Chinese food that will ultimately cause me to crap myself to the extent that I might need soothing, moist intervention!" it seemed like I was broadcasting to my fellow Schnucks patrons.

This was the perfect follow-up to me being unintentionally pantsed by my overexcited preschooler in front of the entire parent pick-up lane. Her rubber sandal caught in the hem of my skirt as she rushed at me for a hug, and before I realized it my elastic waistband was hugging my knees.

It's amazing how long it actually seems to take to untangle yourself from a hug, put down a squirming child, and yank your skirt back into place when everyone's trying really hard not to notice what color drawers you're sporting.

A series of uninteresting updates...

Gertrude's sweater? Finished knitting while on retreat with my department yesterday (yes, it is a fantastic retreat when one can knit through most of the activities). I have some reknitting of the sleeves to do, which shouldn't take more than a few days. And it's okay, because I've just purchased The Knitter's Handy Book of Sweater Patterns which is pretty much the most useful book ever, and I should never have to reknit too-tight sleeves again.

Gary's cycling sweater? It's finished and blocked, and all I have left to do is a little detailing, but I keep putting it off because that part is neither fun and immediately gratifying nor mindless and relaxing. I like all things knitting to fall into either of those categories. Actually, all things in life should be that way.

Our anniversary roadtrip? It's almost here, and I couldn't be more excited. Seriously, I keep thinking about how much fun it's going to be to ride our bikes down to a cute little cottage in the heart of winery country where we'll spend the evening holding hands and making silly faces at each other (that's because of the fatigue and alcohol, of course).

Once upon a time (nearly a year ago, in fact), you all helped me pick out some Mermaid-colored yarn for the 2nd Mystery Shawl knitalong:



I started knitting it on some priceless handmade wooden needles crafted by yaya. Here's the little guy just starting to spread out:



After this point it was pretty slow going:



And many, many months later, after lots of giving up and modifications of the original edge pattern, the Modified Mermaid Mystery Shawl broke free of the needles and climbed up into the sun to stretch and spread its lace in repose.



And see? It works like I assume a shawl is supposed to!

Here's an unexpected turn of events.

The boy who asked Matilda to the dance is the boy I know many of the girls last year giggled about. He's the one with the pretty eyes. He's Mister Popularity.

Matilda turned him down!

She apparently told him flat out over the phone that she didn't want to go to the dance with him. She and three of her girlfriends are planning to go together instead.

By the way, we have Gary to thank for this clever bit of parental sleuthing. All I could get out her last night was that yes, that was a boy on the phone and yes, he'd asked her to the dance.

Gary got her talking. He asked if she liked this particular boy, and she said no, not really.

"Does he know you don't like him?" asked Gary.

"He does now!" Matilda shrugged.

I think I love that kid.

I am declaring an official State of Emergency.

Matilda has been asked to the 6th grade dance. By a boy.

And so it begins.

I have a problem. My wrists hurt. And I blame the acrylic.

See, the other day Gertrude came home from preschool and pulled a piece of construction paper out of her My Little Pony backpack. On this piece of paper, she had carefully inscribed a string of crudely formed letters.

I looked at it. It appeared to be written in Russian.

"This is wonderful writing!" I exclaimed.

"It's a note," Gert said. "I had to write it to myself so I wouldn't forget."

"Oh? What does it say?"

Gert pointed and read, "Bring... sweater."

I don't know why, but I found this to be unbearably precious. The idea of little Gert sitting in a chilly preschool classroom and being prompted to take pencil to construction paper, asking a nearby grownup how to spell these two key words that would remind her to bring a sweater on the next day of preschool... that's too adorable!

This instantly reminded me that I have yet to knit Gert a mommy-made sweater that A) fits her and B) is not itchy.

The first sweater I ever attempted for Gert was neither A nor B:



This sweater taught me an important lesson about gauge. I bet you can guess what that lesson was.

The second sweater I made for Gert was such a failure that I never even attempted to photograph it. It was a green, white, and blue striped top-down raglan. In addition to the colors being all wrong, the sleeves were too short, the body was too wide, and worst of all it was itchy.

In sharp contrast, the sweater I made for Matilda was a complete success. It's just that now she's a middle schooler who is too fashion-forward to wear a handknit sweater that wasn't handknit by underpaid Guatemalans for a runway show.



Gert's note to herself renewed my desire to make her a successful sweater. Together, we went downstairs to the yarn studio. I showed her all the viable sweater yarns and we narrowed it down to two pinks -- one option was a stretchy pink wool blend, and the other was pastel pink acrylic. I will say one thing for acrylic: it's soft. And that's exactly what Gert fell for. She held it against her cheek. She rubbed it on her arm. She declared it soft, fluffy, pink, and perfect.

We tucked an intermediary store-bought sweater into her backpack and I got to work on designing and knitting the perfect Gert sweater.

You know. Because I can't ever do anything easy like use an existing pattern. This one has to be Gert-perfect.

And that means Cables.

Cables + Acrylic = Dammit, my wrists hurt.

I should really take a break from it, but the classroom is chilly...

Gertrude is the victim of unrequited love:



Gert loves the cat with every fiber of her being in ways that make her want to rush at the cat, scoop her up into her arms, and carry her throughout the house. The cat, while tolerant of Gert most of the time, does not like to be picked up and loved quite that hard.

No matter how many times the cat runs from her, Gert continues to try and pick her up. Sometimes I find Gert crouching beside my bed and peering under it, saying, "Kismet! Come on out to me, sweetie! I'm just going to love you…" It's heartbreaking, really.

The other day, she asked Gary if we could get a new cat. He asked her why, and she wailed, "Kismet doesn't love me!"

The kid needed a cat of her own.

This is not usually how cats are born:



But this is no usual cat:



And this Kismet lets Gert pick her up whenever she wants:

Part of Matilda's new 6th-grade curriculum includes learning to play an instrument in the band or orchestra. Matilda fell in love with the cello.

The cello is a huge-ass piece of instrumentation. This thing is as tall as my daughter and probably weighs more.

But she's very excited about it, and as Gary and I are both hardcore band nerds* we are excited right along with her.

As you'll see by the asterisk down below, we're all about the woodwinds and brass, but we're in full support of the cello. I told Matilda she was the first member of her family to play a stringed instrument, which is kind of like being the first person to go to college. Full speed ahead, we're with you all the way, but we don't have the first clue about anything you're doing!

After school yesterday, I took Matilda up to the local music store and asked about renting a cello. She can play the school cellos in class, but she needs one at home to practice with. They fitted her for one, tuned it, and handed me some paperwork to sign. It costs $200 to rent a cello for the school year. That's a lot of cannoli, but okay. Then they asked me if we wanted the $25 service policy which protects against blah, blah, and blah.

I have a policy of saying no to service policies.

No thanks, I said. We're just going to use this one at home. It'll be fine.

Those of you English majors paying close attention here will pick up on that subtle instance of foreshadowing.

On the way home, Matilda decided the cello was a girl cello and named her Chellie.

She couldn't wait to start experimenting, and as soon as we pulled into the garage, Matilda leapt out and lugged Chellie off to the den. She popped in the instructional DVD that came with her essentials book.

Gertrude was extremely interested in all this. She parked herself on the sofa to watch as Matilda perched on the edge of a dining room chair, balancing the cello between her knees and practicing her posture as the DVD instructed.

I checked to be sure she was all set up, then I went out into the kitchen to chat with Gary. I still had the yellow receipt copy in my hand, and I plunked it down on the counter to show him.

I said, "Wow. Two hundred and--" I glanced down at the total. "WHAT?"

"What?" said Gary.

"I told them we DIDN'T want the service policy, and here it is checked 'service policy' and they charged me the extra $25!"

"Well, what’s the service policy?"

"Oh, I don’t know. Something that protects against things like—"

CRASH.

I am not even kidding. At that exact moment we heard the horrible sound of large, soft-wooded instrument meeting hardwood flooring.

We both sprinted.

Matilda was standing beside her chair, righting the instrument. Gertrude was kneeling on the couch looking worried. "It fell!" Matilda wailed. "Gert touched it!"

"She just touched it, and it fell?" I asked, not buying it.

"I was just..."

The parental band nerds both knew what had happened. "Did you lean it against your chair?" I asked.

Rule number one of playing an instrument: NEVER LEAN IT. IT WILL FALL. Leaners never learn and learners never lean. We had neglected to mention this at the onset, and now the cello's strings were flapping against its neck, limp and flaccid. And I, player of woodwind and brass, had no idea what to do about it.

Split a reed and I'll pat you on the shoulder and hand you a new one. Break a string and I'll completely flip out.

"Oh my god, we broke it! In the first fifteen minutes of having it in our house, we broke it! How can we take this back to them and admit that we broke it within the first fifteen minutes? Can we get a new string? Will we know how to attach it? And how do we tune it? We don't know anything about tuning a cello! Where's the tuner? Crap, crap, crap!"

Gary, player of strummable strings, was entirely rational. He reassured me that there was nothing wrong with the cello itself (and P.S. we have the service policy if there is), he would pick up a new set of strings, Matilda would learn how to tune it in class (because P.P.S., the reason you take a class is to learn things like that), and everything would be fine.

And it will. And it is. And we're going to have to start Gertrude on piano lessons ASAP or something because she's way too fascinated by expensive stringed instruments, even when she's not supposedly sending them crashing to the floor as her sister would have you believe.

*Gary has played the clarinet, guitar, and ukulele. I've played the piano, sax, trumpet, and various percussives.

Back to School

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Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Today one of these got on the bus to middle school filled with confidence and excitement. And the other one is starting her second year of Early "Hildchood".

Me, I'm going to go ride off some of this first-day-of-school anxiety on my bike.

Aren't they cute? I think I'll keep them.

Okay, it's two days before my oldest starts middle school. Maybe I am freaking out a little on the inside. Maybe I am indulging in a little compensatory yarn purchasing.

But it's yarn in the form of thrift store sweaters. So it's cheaper than a one-legged Dairy Queen hooker!

I've just gotten back from perhaps THE most satisfying sweatering excursion ever. I have an entire bagload of alpaca, silk, angora, lambswool, ribbon, and other fantastic fibers that are practically begging to be ripped free from the confines of outdated sweater styles.

This is the best one: A huge angora/wool argyle sweater with a cowl neck (i.e. lots more yarn to reclaim). What makes me so giddy over it? I had my eye on making a certain Fair Isle sweater from Fall ‘06 Vogue Knitting. The argyle is made up of exactly these colors! And it's so, so, so, so, so, so soft!

I'd post pictures, but you really have to pet the yarn-to-be to appreciate it. Just take my word for it.