blue lace sweater

blue lace sweater
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

What I Did Over Spring Break

1. Cleaned up other people's vomit
2. Finished this really cute and comfy lacy sweater!

This morning I handed the camera to my husband and said, "Here, document my accomplishment." He tried to take a picture of the sweater, but as you can see it's actually a picture of my boobs, and for that I apologize. They were already crabby because it was 7:30 in the morning and they were like, "WTF, man! Flash that shit somewhere else."

But the sweater was really quick and fun, and it only used 3.5 skeins of this yarn, so I might make something similar out of it for Matilda.

Pinwheel

PC050028
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

A few months ago I attempted my first baby blanket for a friend about to enter fatherhood. I thought this pattern was cool, it's called a Pinwheel blanket and it's knit in the round from the center outward with a spiral of increases. There was something very zen about the shape and construction, so I used a really wonderful organic cotton in two natural dyed earth tones.

Round things are just inherently soothing.

A quick note to the esteemed IT professional who will be setting me up with a new Mac tomorrow:

Hi there, fellow!

I know that most days there's no real love lost between us. IT and Creative Services are just about as opposite as two departments can be. While I was studying liberal arts in college, you were reprogramming graphing calculators, and both of us were as happy as clams. I respect our fundamental differences.

Let's just, for a moment, set aside how much easier your life would be if all of us over here moved to PCs. I'll forget all the calls for help you've ignored because you didn't feel like dealing with the Mac farm. I'm even willing to overlook the fact that I haven't been able to print Word documents for close to two weeks now despite the fact that you assure me there's no problem.

On my desktop, you'll notice an 11 GB folder of MP3s called "Important Work-Related Data."

Just move that folder to my new computer, and we'll call everything even.

We can pretend Iggy Pop, Ladytron, Dealership, Black Box Recorder, The Postal Service, and Of Montreal are all names of important contacts.

Or business accounts.

Or top-secret projects. Whatever lets you sleep at night.

See, isn't it fun to share secrets?

Your friend,
Mac-tacular Sue

Since it's Girl Scout Cookie season, let me walk you through the solution to a hypothetical word problem.

Problem:
"Jill" purchased one box of Samoas from a coworker. There are 7 servings of cookies per box, with two cookies per serving, and each serving contains 150 calories. When her coworker delivered the box of Samoas, Jill ate 14 cookies with her morning coffee. How many bacon cheeseburgers could Jill have eaten instead?

Answer: One.

For nearly two months now, my knitting time has been almost exclusively devoted to a certain white acrylic project that I can't even discuss yet because it's a gift. (Although, I suppose if you were really dying to know what it is, you could probably snoop around and find out from my mentions of it at Craftster if you knew where to look.)

Suffice to say that this massive undertaking is now so close to completion that I feel confident starting something new.

Something for me!

Something made of fancy-pants Filatura Di Crosa yarn in a beautiful, robin's egg blue color.

And I think it would really love to be made into this cute wrap-around sweater, don't you?

I could totally dance in that if I were a ballerina. (Sometimes I'm a ballerina.) Doesn't it make you want to wear leg warmers and satiny toe shoes? Or jeans. Whatever.

If I'd remembered to charge my phone last night, I would have posted a picture of me stroking the magically soft, pretty yarn. Perhaps that's for the best.

I'm not going to this conference with my friend Kym this weekend.

I wanted to. I'd say I "can't" go but that's not really true. There are obstacles and complications, but there were probably ways to overcome them. The truth is, I didn't push very hard at all, and that's my own fault.

I approach everything I want to do as if I need the world's permission to do it, and I never actually come right out and say, "This is important to me, and I need to find a way to do it." Instead, I wait and see if it's going to be easy enough for everyone else, and I try and make sure I'm not inconveniencing anyone. I read disapproval or disappointment into every question or comment about it. And then I shrug and give up because it's just some stupid thing for me, so it doesn't matter.

90 percent of what I do on a daily basis is for other people. And I can be very easily talked out of that last 10 percent. Just imply that my enjoyment is impinging on yours (or anyone's). Because everyone else comes first. And I'm incapable of standing up for myself. Because I have a pathological fear of conflict, or something.

But I'm not actually sure what I'm so afraid of. What am I afraid of?

I think I'm going to have to annunciate better. This is why.

Today Gary volunteered to take the kids to school/daycare so I could get to work earlier. So I got ready to go, and as I was putting on my coat I said, "Okay guys, see you later. I'm gonna go to work!"

From across the living room, the dog scrambled frantically to his feet.

I looked at him. "What is it, boy?"

His toenails skittered on the wood floor as he raced over to me, ears perked and eyes expectant.

"Finn, what is it? I'm just going to work."

Finnegan let out a happy bark and opened his mouth in a wide doggy grin. Then he ran over to the back door and nosed his leash that hung from a hook beside it.

Oh.

"Oh, no! Finn! I'm sorry! I've got to go to work."

"I hope you're planning to double-you-ay-el-kay somebody first," said Gary.

"Why does the dee-oh-gee have to be so es-em-ay-are-tee?"

I could be wrong, but I think Finnegan glared at me after that.

Yesterday we spring cleaned the girls' rooms and siphoned off about six tons of dust and toy matter. Then later we capped off our hard work by camping in the living room with Fortel's pizza and a private showing of The Wizard of Oz.

We haven't watched it since Gertrude was much younger before she started reading into things like witches and pretty girls in peril, and lately she's been particularly sensitive to anything scary. Scooby Doo, for example, scares the crap out of her. So we were prepared to stop the movie at the first sign of concern from Gert.

"You know," I said to her at the beginning, "there's a witch in this movie. But it's all just pretend. If it's too scary, we don't have to watch it."

Gert looked disgusted at me. "Mom. I know. I've seen this movie before."

I got yelled at again when Dorothy started to sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and so did I.

"Mom!" snapped the song police. "This is not a sing-along."

"But I--"

"Do you see any words on the screen?"

I was forced to admit that I didn't.

Two seconds later, I heard a small voice coming from Gert's side of the couch. "Some... where... over the rainbow..."

I tapped on her shoulder. "Um, excuse me," I said. "I was under the impression that singing was not allowed here."

"No. You can't sing," said Gert.

Matilda nodded in agreement. "It's true, Mom. You really can't."

And there go my plans for pop-stardom. Poo.

Okay, okay. I haven't seen the insides of anyone's digestive tract for several days, and I'm starting to think it may be safe to come out. The weather is nice and all, for now. We should all be out walking our collective dogs in the sunshine.

I got my Burpee catalog in the mail, which made me start thinking about what to plant, which makes it seem like spring, which makes me feel less saggy and depressed.

One of the seed collections I noticed was the sunflower forest, instantly painting pictures in my head of my happy children playing and peeking among towering, golden blooms, having tea parties on blankets spread out in the shade, marveling at how something so large could grow from a tiny seed they'd helped plant.

The more I think about it, the more I'm anticipating one or more of the following scenarios instead:

• The dog will dig up and trample every fledgling sprout to try and teach me a lesson.


• Any flowers that do manage to grow will attract massive numbers of bees and other insects.


• Children will refuse to play in the yard because A) it's too hot, B) it's too dirty, C) we have satellite, you fool, and D) there are bees everywhere.


• Sunflowers will become an albatross of guilt sitting abandoned in the middle of the yard until Gary makes an executive decision to mow over them and set up a wading pool for the kids instead.

But I'm still going to do it. I figure there might be an 8% chance I'll get a small glimmer of enjoyment from each one of the kids at some point during the growing season, and that's why I ever do anything crazy. I'm optimistic like that.

The Vomit has found us. I don't know who brought it into the house, but it's here, and so far two of us are down. The other two of us are waiting, just knowing it could strike any time it wants.

In fact, I'd encourage you to stop reading this now. It's possible the Vomit has found a way to transmit itself to new victims via words on screen, right through the reader's eyeballs.

Sorry if that's creepy.

Actually, I always think eyeballs are creepy.

I need to go wash my hands again.

Here's a tag from my hon.

Four Jobs I've Had
Retail Monkey
Pharmacy Technician (before the days when you had to be certified, which made me a glorified assistant who got to touch pills.)
Editorial Assistant
Copywriter

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over
Lord of the Rings (Yes, all of them. End to end.)
Amelie
The Big Lebowski
Wings of Desire (the German one)

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch
Project Runway
Gilmore Girls
Six Feet Under
Scrubs

Four Places I’ve Been on Vacation
Kansas City
Lake of the Ozarks
The Smokies
Disney World

Four Favorite Dishes
Sushi
Baked mac & cheese
Shrimp scampi
Lasagna

Four (Two, actually) Websites I Visit Daily
Craftster
You Knit What?

Four Places I’d Rather Be
At home, knitting
At a park in the summer, knitting
At one of my favorite yarn stores
Starbucks

Four Bloggers I am Tagging
Kym
Lori
Red Fish
Yaya

I've somehow stumbled upon the perfect lunch, I deem it worthy of sharing with the blogging world.

Take one flour tortilla and give it a thin spreading of pesto. Layer this base coat with several slices of smoked turkey and provolone cheese. Add a few leaves of crunchy lettuce and roll the whole thing into a tube.

I suggest pairing it with a Braeburn apple and a few homemade chocolate chip cookies for the complete lunch experience.

Or, just do what I did and polish off all the cookies by 9:05 a.m., and then leave the apple sitting all lonely in your lunch bag until 4:12 p.m. when it's either that or a stale package of donuts from the vending machine.

Once (or maybe more than once) my dad brought home one of those gigantic plastic bags of popcorn, the kind that you'd buy at the bulk stores, that are literally as tall as a child of average height and twice as big around. I believe we used it as a pillow, a field goal post, and a blunt-force weapon before finally diving in (literally) and consuming it.

Gertrude and Matilda spotted one such popcorn monstrosity at the grocery store the other day. They laughed at the ridiculous excess, and then carried it between the two of them over to Gary and suggested that he buy it for them.

"Okay!" said Gary.

"WTF?" I said. I intercepted the popcorn and returned it to the shelf. But it didn't end there. Dad and the girls talked about the popcorn for days. It became legendary.

Finally, Superbowl Sunday arrived. In our house, this means turning on the game for everyone to ignore and firing up a crockpot full of Li'l Smokies. And Gary makes these amazing little turkey pinwheel things. I knit. We drink Fat Tire. The kids dance at halftime. All is right with the world.

I came home from the store with the Smokies and beer, plus some chips, dip, and avocados to make into a batch of guacamole that only I would eat. Gary and the girls just looked at me.

"Where's Caroline?" said Matilda.

"Who?"

"Caroline!" said Gert. "Our popcorn!"

I looked at Gary. "You named the popcorn?"

He said, "I asked Gert what we should name it, and she named it Caroline. This is not my fault."

Of course, I had to go back out to the store and get Caroline, lest I risk having the girls sit around moaning and wailing, "Oh, Caroline…noooooooooo…"

Obsession in miniature

miniknit2
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

This is exactly what it looks like - a tiny plastic basket of tiny balls of yarn, with a tiny swatch carefully knit on toothpick needles.

Now aren't you glad you asked what I do with my free time?

At this point, I'd like to look directly into the lens of the camara and wave. Hi, Mom and Dad. Since you're reading this blog, I find myself at a sort of crossroads. What does one do with the knowledge that one's parents are peering over one's shoulder through the expansive online void?

For me, I've decided this means I'll be saying the f-word a lot more, as well as making elegant use of its more creative derivations such as fucktard, fuckwit, and fucktastic.

It's all rumors and lies. The Internets are filled with them.

Science Fair '06 triumph!

sciencefair06
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

That's a first place ribbon and a trophy for outstanding project in the Life Sciences my little genius is holding there.

She must have gotten extra visits from the Brains Fairy or something.

It's Saturday. It's raining. Gert is asleep, covered with an angry, itchy rash that is apparently a reaction to amoxicillin. Gary is napping (we were both up all night with an itchy child). Matilda is out ice skating with biodad. I, after the third unraveled attempt at a braided cable, have decided it's time for a milk and cookies break. And yes, that does make it better.

I'm hanging a fish on my door

fish on door
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Why?

Because I'm mad at you.

For the science fair this year, Matilda has grown little pots of grass.

(Yes, I said pot and grass in the same sentence. Those of you playing may now tip your shot glasses.)

They were supposed to be bean plants, but I have some kind of black karma attached to beans as science fair projects, which I'll explain in a moment. Matilda's experiment was designed to show the benefit of adding compost to regular topsoil, and thank everything that's holy, it worked. Science fair gives me nerves that make me want to throw up.

Sixth grade was one of the years that started in one city and ended up in another. It meant a new shade of plaid, uniform skirt, assessment tests that demonstrated how poorly I could add and subtract, and three short weeks to put together a science fair project at the new school.

Of course it was "optional" for me. In the sense that all graded work is optional. Ha Ha.

My dad determined that we would create the Best Darned Science Fair Project Ever by growing bean plants.

Two and a half weeks later, I remember my dad engineering a last-ditch growth effort with my little pots perched precariously atop a ladder in the garage with at least 400 kilowatts of merciless halogen light pointed directly at them. I think there were also many instances of the f-word.

I managed to get one sad little sprout that flinched from loud noises or quick movements.

"Clearly, it is nothing short of madness," I said in my conclusion, "to try and grow live plants while the earth is cold and dead."

"Isn't it time for remedial math?" replied my teacher

Matilda and I planted bean seeds over Christmas break. The seeds obviously lost their will to live as soon as I touched them. They burrowed deep into the soil and crumpled into moldy pits of rot and decay.

Luckily, there was enough time to try again with fast-growing grass seed, and since I do
not pretend to know what an independent variable is, Gary helped Matilda write up her results into a first-rate project.

I suggested naming it "The Effects of Compost on Grassy Little Miracles: Cha-cha-cha-Chia!"

That's all I've got.

There's a part of me that always looks forward to taking my kids to the pediatrician's office. Have you ever watched the AKC/Eukanuba Dog Championship broadcast?

No, I'm not comparing my healthy, well-bred, excellently behaved children to puppies. Not even championship pedigree puppies. Honest.

I was there with Gert this afternoon to get an ear infection checked out. An ear infection, as I'm sure you know, is in no way a reflection on my care of Gert or Gert's genetics, habits, or general health. It's simply something that kids of her breed – er – age are prone to.

I paraded my excellent little Gert up to the check-in desk and let them know we'd arrived. Then we promenaded back through the waiting room with all the eyes of other parents and children (most of whom were not quite so excellent) upon us. Gert pranced along beside me, smiling and silently exuding superiority.

"Who's a good girl!" I said, ruffling her hair and slipping her an M&M.

Usually, as the doctor enters the examination room, Gert perches on the table with a winning grin. She straightens her back and folds her hands primly in her lap. This is right about the time I can expect for something unfortunate to come out of charming little Gert's mouth.

"How are we doing today?" asks Dr. Jackie, whom Gert adores and idolizes.

"Know what?" says Gert.

"What?" says Dr. Jackie.

"I didn't wear fresh underwear today!"

It's as if Gert saves these juicy little tidbits especially for Dr. Jackie. As the examination progresses (and a double ear infection is confirmed,) Dr. Jackie is informed of the fact that I have boobies, and that I had refused to believe Gert when she complained about her ears hurting. I had once let her go to bed without brushing her teeth. And see this scratch on her cheek? Once, mommy had sprayed Benadryl on a cut instead of Bactine. And Benadryl specifically states that it should not be applied to broken skin. Isn't that right, Dr. Jackie?

"I think we're going to give you the bubblegum medicine for those ears," Dr. Jackie told Gert with a pat on the knee.

"Know what?" Gert said. "Last time I had that medicine, Mommy gave me M&Ms! In the morning!"

I hastily started gathering up our stuff. "Yes – well – tell Dr. Jackie thank you, honey!"

As we were leaving, I could have sworn I heard one of the nurses say to another, "Did you know that woman has boobies?"

Our big, bad clothes dryer is on the fritz, which meant I had no reason to feel inadequate about the backload of laundry just sitting there all weekend.

So what did I do with all that free time? I stared into space some. I started a new knitting project. That brings the total number of works-in-progress to eight (8!). Watched the kids play outside in the unseasonably nice weather and shouted at them repeatedly to stop pointing sharp sticks at each other. The neighbor boy came over with the neighbor dog to play, and Finnegan got to sniff more doggy behind than he has in quite some time.

But by far the most thrilling thing to happen all weekend, at least in the World According to Gert, was the phone call she got from her cousin Valerie.

Valerie is getting married in October. Valerie wanted to know if Gert would be the flower girl!

"Yes, please," answered Gert, all shyness and polite with both hands cradling the receiver. Then, with Valerie still on the line, she lowered the phone and looked at me and shouted, "MOM! COUSIN MALIDIE ASKED ME IF I WILL BE HER FLOWER GIRL! AND I SAID YES!"

She put the phone back to her ear. "Thank you," she said demurely. Then she handed the phone to Gary and started jumping up and down. She squealed and jumped down the hall and back. She bounced around the kitchen. She jumped through the living room.

"A flower girl! A flower girl! A flower girl!" she sang.

It was a day filled with glee and abandon.

The next day, the anxiety set in. I had to repeatedly reassure Gert of the following:

• Valerie was not going to forget that she'd asked Gert to be her flower girl.
  
• No, we hadn't missed the wedding.
  
• No one would be mad at her if she made a mistake.
  
• She wasn't going to trip. And it would be okay if she did trip.
  
• No, I promised we hadn't missed the wedding yet.

Her only disappointment is that she'll have to share the spotlight with a ring bear. Bears are cute, after all. But they cannot be trusted with flower petals.