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.