I showed this to my class on Friday, and I heard a voice pipe up, "ooh! xkcd! I love that strip!"

To which I, of course responded, "you're such a nerd. [pause] Have you seen the video?"

I'm pretty sure that I'm using the wrong needles for my Knitting Olympics event. Yeah. This realization comes after 1. realizing that I needed to learn a new and complicated cast-on, and deciding to go with the old standard cable CO instead, and 2. realizing that I had the wrong size needles for the cuff and 3. realizing that crowdsourcing the colour combo gave me the wrong one, and then ripping back 4 rows.

I feel like I showed up at the arena during the ice dancing event with my skates over my shoulder, and saying "yeah, I can probably do that. I can skate."

Is it worth it to rip back? Let's see how well the second one turns out. I figure I can compete and fail. Thousands do.

"What time is it? It's Valentimes!" – tgs

Today was pretty low-key, what with the small people and the church and all. Mason made a wonderful dinner for the four of us, which we ate in candle-lit style. I finished two Vamlumtines project (one for Blake, one for Mason) and continued to move stuff around to accommodate what started as a simple time- and money-saving project (i.e. let's get a unique space for Sage so we don't have to haul a playpen up the stairs every weekend he sleeps over, and let's move the 6 items out of the storage locker) and has turned into a massive re-organization of my house. Office furniture has migrated downwards, while couches have migrated upwards. Hand-me-down furniture has gone on to the next kharmic cycle at the Goodwill, there to be some one else's (literal) pain in the ass. Bookshelves are waiting to receive the crated treasures of the crawlspace. Blake's drumset is continually on the move.

The current state of affairs is baskets of office supplies everywhere, interspersed with extra furniture. One day I will reclaim my dining room, which currently holds all of my massive circa 1970's dining set and an 8 foot couch. But today I just concentrated on the love.*

* And on reducing the yelping and screaming with joy. Two small boys + extra couch = shenanigans.

Labels: blake, comics, drunken knitters, house rich, knit, mason

Sitting next to the stereo, listening to the second side of Feel Good Lost vinyl backed with the birdsong out the window. Knitting a classic Zimmerman design with Socks That Rock yarn, yarn so good that every stitch is a joy. Every time I knit StR, it's on a deadline. I don't care; I'm loving my big ribbed slab of leg. Blake is at his last morning of summer Nature Camp and I'm taking the morning off after a week of housecleaning and errand running.

If I could bottle this kind of contentment, I would give myself tiny sips during the winter and ration it until the new summer.

Labels: house rich, relax, vacation

Who would have thought that it would be harder to find writing time during summer vacation than when I was immersed in my job? It's a curious fact about teachers that we save up our tasks for what others consider our abundant leisure, storing jobs to last us through the slack time. Truth is, I've been busier in the last two weeks than I ever am at work. I work all day now, from the time I get up until I drop, exhausted & sore, into bed. I don't take my evenings off like I used with school on. The only difference is that if I want to spend the day in my cut offs, or if I want to spend a scant few minutes on knitting, I can. I'm happier.

I'm also much more sore. I've been struggling with my weight this year, and it got a lot worse this spring. I investigated the summer boot camp classes, figuring I could use the time off to reinvent myself (c. Burn After Reading), but they're all booked. I suppose I'm not the first teacher to have this idea. During our Canada Day bbq of the last entry, I looked at my brother, newly returned from tree planting in BC.

"Hey Nic. You're a personal trainer. Want to do a boot camp with me next week?"

"Sure. Fifty bones an hour."

Eep. There was some bargaining, some mention of the truck I rented on his behalf Easter Monday and the rental fee owed. The family card was played. I got him down to a hundred bucks for the week, and forgiveness of the U-Haul debt. Sweet. I wasn't sure that it would work, and there's something creepy about employing my brother as my trainer, but it's the cheapest option going while I'm between gyms.

I flaked out on Monday's session, as a visit to Palaver in the hospital entailed a 45 minute wait before we could bust him off the floor. (It was a wait both boring and funny: Schereazade, Mason & I played six games of Connect Four, we experimented with a Battleship game that was missing an astounding number of pieces, and we were in the middle of an inept dominoes tourney when Palaver was given permission to leave. Also, Scherezade & I were hit on by another patient. Good times.) Tuesday was my first session at O Brother, Where Art Thou Boot Camp.

It. Hurt.

It hurt to do, and it hurt to recover. My brother believes in old school Russian style exercises that use free weights to purge the decadence. The two things working in my favour are I enjoy spending time in my backyard, and I've been cleaning my house for three days in preparation for tonight* and thus I haven't had time to sit down and seize up. Yesterday hurt less, but it was more extreme and I sweat more. Today I got a reprieve when Nic called in sick. I sort of miss the endorphins.

Blake has been spending the week at the Humber Arboretum, a nature camp both my brother and I attended when we were the age for day camp. It's a pretty fantastic place to go, learn about Nature, sing songs, water fight and get incredibly, spectacularly dirty. Blake is already giving me the guilt trip about not having him in for longer than a week. I'm pretty sure that he likes camp better than school, and I can't say I blame him. It looks so fun from the outside that I'm wondering if I should exploit my Dorian Grey-like appearance of youth and sign up to be a teenaged camp counselor. I'm pretty sure that my cynicism will lead to my unmasking, but it will be a good ride while it lasts.

My brother also has positive memories of the place. We took him with us yesterday to pick up Blake, and the two of them ended up jogging through the woods like a couple of size-mismatched dogs while Mason & I picked our way gingerly through the paths, cursing our impractical/disintegrating footware. Those two dogs have a ridiculous amount of fun together.

And Blake has never been so happy, so tired, or returned to me so filthy, in his life. Yesterday his shirt, a casualty of raspberry snacks, looked eerily like the t-shirt his Uncle Nic wore to the GWAR show in the early nineties. Gross and triumphant, all at the same time.

Speaking of ridiculous amounts of fun, I started my Sock Museum contribution yesterday after picking up the pattern and yarn from Lettuce Knit. Ususally 2x2 ribbing rots my nuts after awhile, but this yarn (Socks that Rock, Treehugger) is so beautiful that I'm kept happy by the colour changes. That, and I don't get a lot of time to sit down with it, so it's always fresh to me. Can I finish two socks in two weeks? Maybe. I choose not to do the math to find out what I have to accomplish each day. Instead, I'm just giving'r. Zimmerman would be proud.

* Tonight I will be billeting high school students from Texas, who are coming to my church to perform Godspell. I figure that with my spare bed and working familiarity with today's modern teenager, I would have been a cad not to volunteer. This is why I've been cleaning the house for days, doing the deep down scrubbing that I've been avoiding since the change of the year. My house is/was messy. And now it's less so.

Labels: blake, church, family, health, house rich, knit

"If I stumble, they're gonna eat me alive…" – metric

I'm having one of those claustrophobic weekends I used to have so often when the Boy was here. I would drag myself through the work week, cutting corners wherever I could, and surface into the weekend still tired and suddenly overwhelmed by the amount of chores facing me. Then I'd get frustrated and cranky and look for big solutions.

The state of my living room alone made me crazy this afternoon, but it all worked out. Blake and Mason & I spent 4 songs* cleaning up, and there is significantly less crap tumbling across the wood floors and clogging up the couch. I've hung a few more beautiful pictures in my bedroom, although not where I'd wanted to (stupid concrete dividing wall). I've even figured out the steps I need to take to finally use the orange paint I bought two summers ago.

Step 1: clean up study and get rid of newspaper clippings I've been moving from place to place since teacher's college.
Step 2: paint it orange.
Step 3: move my sewing machine onto the spare desk.
Step 4: use this sewing machine to make excellent fruity curtains.
Step 5: Hang said curtains.
Step 6: ??
Step 7: Profit.

Whenever my own life makes me claustrophobic, I turn to interior decorating.

* A song is an excellent unit of chore measurement.

And no, it wasn't VD that made me freak out. My VD was fine, thanks for asking. We made it out to the Drunken Knitters the night before, where I managed to finish Blake's knight helmet and two heart ornaments (one of which I lost in Fresh Collective the following day, but let's not judge.) The day itself was mainly taken up with errands in town: Blake's first trip to Wychwood market and subsequent cupcakes, picking up Blake's awesome new sweater and splurging on a gorgeous winter dress for me, purchasing sandwiches in the Distillery District, and home for a late lunch before Mason began the elaborate VD supper.

It's not just that I love him, and that being with him makes me happy; he also puts on a good meal. It was like a Christmas log cake, only with steak instead of cake and mushroom stuffing instead of icing. Plus, an apple-carrot-cabbage-pickled turnip coleslaw that I'm still thinking about today. After dinner, I made lowfat brownies ('cause that's how I roll) and Blake licked the bowl. It was a good day for us all.

I'm just tired. Thank heaven for Family Day. I get to spend an afternoon marking, which sounds sucky but will greatly improve my return to work. Guilt does nothing for my complexion.

Labels: blake, house rich, mason

Hey, all y'all. Bet you thought I wasn't coming back till 2009. I hope we've all set up our RSS readers, 'cause I don't think I'm going to be posting any less erratically in the new year. (Or any more erotically. You can get that elsewhere on the Internet, or so I've heard.)

Dudes, I actually have to look up what was happened when last I wrote…

Oh yeah. Blake's birthday.

My whole strategy this December has been to focus only on the next goal. First it was Blake's birthday, which, despite the lack of party, was kind of a big hoohaw. After that, I was spending the week making my costume for my (major) student recital debut. And when I say "making," I'm talking about hemming the places where I turned a sleeveless velour turtleneck into a v-neck choli (almost like turning a sandwich into a banquet), stitching up my troupe armband by hand in the midst of a wildcat sewing machine strike, knotting lengths of novelty yarn onto an elastic waistband, and assembling all the makeup I've accumulated in my life. Also: I painted my nails for the first time in about 7 years, and tried to convince Blake that I was turning into a cyborg. He remained suspicious. "It's just paint, Mommy." Jessamyn painted henna on my arm, a design that's lasted till now in certain parts. I was ready.

The big day was…well, perfect. We were the only group to collectively choreograph our own dance – the rest were teacher-led classes and improv performances. We all looked AMAZING, and I even stopped minding The World seeing the belly I've been hiding since I came out of my mother's. We developed a new catchphrase ("It's okay, we're belly dancers") and spontaneously flashed our gang signal at each other before the dance started. We even had a miracle: Souzan does not perform in front of strangers, but she did, perfectly. (We all pretended not to notice, so's not to call her attention to her death-defying feat. She was our Coyote, but she got herself safely to the other side of the canyon.) I didn't screw up the improv verse under my leadership. It was so good.

With the dance debut done, I had a scant 12 hours to make ready for Mo & Brand's housewarming/xmas party. Fortunately, I didn't have to do anything but bake cookies and show up with the Blake. We had to miss Sarah & Leo's yearly do to dance, so this was our chance to sit and relax with the gamer geeks and geeklings. I miss those guys since I moved to B-ton. It just doesn't get any easier with time. But the party was nice, and the food was excellent and Blake accumulated many interesting new bruises and abrasions whilst playing in the basement.

After the weekend was done, it was just a matter of charging through my last week at school. I'm behind the 8-ball with two of my classes, so there was one period on the last day spent in tests with no fun at all. The others were treated to cartoons, although my 11 Faiths are apparently too sophisticated to enjoy the Tick. I didn't know there was such a pitiable condition.

The only other event of note in this week was when I scraped another car on Wednesday morning, resulting in a $500 cheque to some very nice people. Ho ho ho. It was totally my fault: I was trying to get through a gap in stopped cars, and I misjudged the distance. So in a week when everyone else in the GTA was skidding around in the winter wonderland, I just lack discernment. (Obviously.)

On Saturday I hosted a troupe tea to celebrate our successful debut and fight over Secret Santa stuff. Such a good way to end the year with the women who have changed my life forever. Sayward even give me a drop-spindle, a craft I was purposefully avoiding so that I could have the semblance of a social life. I can kiss that idea goodbye. Get ready for 2009: the year of the roving stash.

On Monday, Mason, Blake & I headed up to his parents' house for an Xmas sleepover. For people with four grandsons already, I'm continually surprised that they are so enthusiastic about seeing an honourary fifth. For me, the highlight was not the heated, late-night discussion of shifty Catholic priests, but rather the WWF wrestling ring of Mason's youth, unearthed for Blake's enjoyment. My boy had them all, including a ref. So we had the traditional Christmas smackdown, in miniature.

And then, on the way home, my transmission went on vacation. We were towed from the Kawarthas on the day before Christmas Eve, and the shop tells me that I'll be carless for a week into 2009 as well as on the hook for a 2 grand transmission. Ho ho ho…Santa, is there a mechanic in your family? Two repair bills in a week? Ho ho oh well. I've had a good run to this point.

Mason & I spent the time leading up to Christmas in an orgy…(wait for it…) of crafting. By the time Decemberween dawned, we had reduced the basement to a jumble of clean laundry, crafting supplies and a few unfortunate toys that got caught in the friendly fire. We spent almost all of the 'ween knitting, sewing and finishing things. And the best part was that it was fun. Blake was excited and happy, we were excited and happy, and there was a "Christmas in the trenches" feel to our final countdown of craftiness. Everything on my list was crossed off, with the exception of my mom's scarf that still needs an hour or two, but which I'd intended to finish on Christmas day (note to self: when hosting the family dinner for 10, don't expect a lot of time to sit n' knit).

I brought Mason to church on the 'ween, keeping him as far from my mom as possible. It worked, too: there was no apocalypse scenario, no fires to be doused. And I got to bring my sweetie to the big swirling chaotic mass of spirituality and grandparent-indulgery that is Xmas Eve. Also, for the second time in a lot of years, I didn't have the yearly "we are not going to your Mom's on the spur of the moment!" Decemberween fight that I've had with the Boy since we got married. Best Decemberween in a long time.

Yesterday I hosted my family for Christmas dinner. It was pretty good, right up until the point when the hat I'd made for my dad was widely mocked and I felt the need to retreat to the laundry room with my glass of wine before I burst into tears. I got over it. I had to. And everything else was excellent. My first turkey was juicy, completely cooked and, well, still had the giblets inside, but that wasn't a huge deal. The only snag was my spectacular lack of drinks, leading us to forage through the liquor cabinet for half-forgotten bottles of novelty whiskey. Even that was sort of fun, in retrospect.

And with the spectacular exception of my dad, all my other presents were well-received. It was a good Christmas. Of course, this one had no marital trauma, but it wasn't that that made me the happiest: it was putting my Blake to bed in his new pj's and then going to snuggle Mason while he finished reading "World's End." It was talking to Preacher on the phone. It was knowing that I had lots to do and many new things to be this year, and most of them were wonderful tasks and interesting identities. I'm happy. Merry Christmas, my peeps.

Labels: blake, crafty, dancing, family, friends, house rich, mason, outings

Still trying to scrounge some space to write. I really should be marking right now, but I have a lot of practice making that particular nagging voice shut up. Last night I stayed home from knit night because Mason was sick and it gave me an excellent reason to hang out in my house for a change. Still didn't get my laundry folded, but what's another day to the scuttly things that burrow into the layers of clean sheets heaped haphazardly in my basement? I could probably hang the sheets outside my house for a cheap Hallowe'en decoration, considering all the leggy little bugs that like to call my basement home and which are probably enjoying my laundry as we speak.

We have a few decorations up, a product of Blake's sporadic desire to "do crafts." He lost interest in the last session when I refused to draw and cut out a skeleton for him, and made him participate by drawing a face on a minimalist skull. There's also a tissue paper ghost hanging from my light that got a lot spookier when it rained and his inky eyes ran down his face. Oooh! Damp.

I'm still trying to figure out what to be tomorrow. I was going to cheese out and be a "witch" or a "vampire" (in other words, I was going to put on my Garden clothes and pretend I put some effort into it), but I'm thinking about being a zombie librarian. I have a houndstooth skirt, glasses and blouses to wear, and I can do the makeup fairly easily as smearing it around plays to my strengths. This time I'm getting some blood, though. I won't have the option of mashing my face up against a bistro window, rubbing some other zombie's bloody handprint into my cheeks. Well, I might have the option, but I sure as hell can't count on it.

I was also thinking about being an ex-con, but Mason might be using those props instead. I'm trying to convince him to be a drone bee, an unshaven male kicked out of the hive as soon as winter comes as he's fulfilled his life's purpose. He thinks that might be a little "high concept." He may be right...but it would definitely be funny. And I have a thing about making everyone dress up as a bee.

Work has been hard lately, as a student began bullying me after I returned some tests. It took me days to fully accept that this wasn't a straightforward case of intimidation or ordinary antisocial behaviour. She isolates me, she refuses to consider logical solutions, she refuses to deal with anyone other than me, she uses anger to intimidate. I hate being in this position, but I'm very glad that I happen to work in a field that makes an active study of bullying and pays at lease lip-service to the idea that it can be dealt with in a way that doesn't re-victimize the target. We'll see.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, house rich, outfits

When we bought this house last year, my mom quietly began to plant things in our gardens. She and her mother have gardened ever since I knew them, and although I was around gardens my whole life, I never bothered to do much or learn much about growing plants. I’m not completely apathetic; one of my favourite books from last year was Down & Dirty, a hip book of gardening projects for every level of engagement. Using this book, I planned my gardens for this year. Strawberries in the front, blueberries in the back, a trumpet vine up the back of the house, a dinosaur garden for Blake near his sandbox, containers full of vegetables…oh yeah, I was ambitious. But when it was looking like I’d be gone for a full month this summer, my ardour cooled. Vacation plans plus a typically hellish June with an extra helping of stress and depression finished off my ambition neatly.

And still, my mom and her mom quietly planted my garden for me. Tulips, mums, a hosta, day lilies, two rose bushes, foxgloves. A lot of the perennials from last year came back, and Grandma made a point of filling up the two swans in the front with some annuals. (The swans keep Beryl the houseplant company in the summer, when I move her to the middle of the lawn to cover a stump.) Last fall we seeded the back with grass seed, which had completely died out in that yard at some point before we bought the house, and this spring lots of grass poked up. It was a nice little plot. But it wasn’t mine. I watered it when I remembered, which wasn’t often, and I let the weeds expand. Mom & Blake planted beans along the back which were quickly eaten by bugs.

Last week everything changed. I’m not sure what changed: if I became more determined, or if my plans had become more than vague musing. Maybe my parents just decided to help, and that was the push I needed. In any case, they came over last week and started digging out beds. Mom, Blake & I went to the garden centre and came back with three ferns, two vines, a packet of sunflower seeds for Blake, three bags of dirt and a soil testing kit. For the first time in my adult life, I picked out the plant and the place. For the first time in my adult life, I put a young root ball in the earth myself. I was (and am) inordinately proud of myself.

Now when I get up in the morning, my first job after breakfast is watering the plants. I water the front gardens that my mom planted in the hopes that I would someday take a natural interest in gardening, and pay special attention to the place where Blake planted his seeds despite the late season. I go to the centre of the lawn and water Beryl, my faithful houseplant who lived long after any weaker plant would have withered away, and the two swans full of flowers who swim along with her each summer. I water Spidey the spiderplant who chums with Beryl in the winter and hangs aloof on the fence in the summer. I water the pot of perennials that my mom bought last year, that still struggles gamely onward after quite a lot of neglect. I water Blake’s dinosaur garden and the little plastic dinosaurs that stalk between the fronds. I go around the corner and water the trumpet vine that’s already reaching for the wall and demanding a trellis. I water the Boston ivy between the windows that I hope will make my house more and more like a library. I water the few beans in the back that have, against all expectations, survived their sisters and have shot out vines that require me to improvise with bamboo shish kebob skewers and string. And then I weed. I love the weeding. I often can’t stop weeding once I start, even if I know I need to be somewhere else and even if Blake is calling to me. God, I love the weeding. And luckily, there are lots of weeds to pull.

This morning the Boy came to pick up Blake, and I discovered that the frustration I feel around him could be profitably channeled into my gardening. It only took an hour of weeding to lose the anger, and I would have weeded longer if I hadn’t become dizzy. How did I get into gardening? Simple: I bought a house and lost a husband. Don’t try this at home.

I have been super busy the whole week that Blake’s been home. There have been a lot of outings, a few parties, and a lot of cooking, laundry and cleaning. The pureed food experiment is going well, although my success rate is still a lot lower than when I cook with other books. Blake has started eating peeled cucumbers and tomato slices as an appetizer, which is awesome.

As much as I’ve enjoyed this week, I’m looking forward to these next few days. I need the sleep, for one thing. For another, I’ll get the chance to do a few things that require solitary concentration, like writing this journal and setting down the Strong Bad crochet pattern for those who have asked. Maybe I’ll even get to eat something that Blake wouldn’t touch with a pole. Good times.

Labels: blake, family, garden, house rich

Trying to gather my thoughts. I’ve been painting for 2 days and it’s taking a toll on my coherence. It's not just the fumes; it's also the fact that I listen to the same CD over and over until the painting is done. Last summer my album was “The Else” by TMBG (I still can’t listen to “The Bee of the Bird of the Moth” without thinking about edging my kitchen). This year it’s “In Our Bedrooms After the War” by Stars. Yes, I still manage to be electrified by bands everyone else has known about for years. At this point it’s a lifestyle choice.

So! Painting. The good news is that the second coat is drying in Blake’s room, and it is BLUE, baby. The bad news is that now I really, really want to make him some curtains. With some appliqué stars and planets and a rocketship. I think I need someone to talk sense into me before I go to Fabricland and set up my new-to-me sewing machine and spend days cursing about my seam ripper.

Speaking of crafting obsessions, here are some photos of the projects I was yammering on about last time:

As always, click through for more.

This Friday I got a haircut, which I immortalized at the same time Strong Bad was trying to get into Scherezade’s email.

This isn’t so much a photo of my hair as it is a photo of me and Scherezade in the park near the flatiron building. We tried to get a photo of my hair, but the results weren’t that striking. Suffice it to say that I walked into Destiny’s salon with serviceable but boring shoulder-length hair* and walked out with a bob. I even let her give me a fringe, as it’s summertime and it’s not critical that hair stays out of my face. It makes me feel like a flapper. And so damn cute besides, especially when I wear one of the few baby doll dresses that hide in my wardrobe, and I’m not speckled with blue paint. Cosmic Pluto was inspired to ruffle up the back without warning. It’s that kind of hair.

* Tomorrow is my eleventh anniversary of this journal. I’m pretty sure that when I woke up on Friday morning, I had the same hair as I had when I banged out that first semi-coherent entry. Plus ca change, etc.

Labels: crafty, friends, hair, house rich, on-line diaries

The best part about living on my own is that on mornings like this morning, when I go to do a load of Blake's pee-smirched bedding and find that the dryer and the washer are full of loads I can't remember putting in, there's nowhere for that frustration to go. So it just goes away. Having made the mistake myself, I deal with it and move on. There's a lot to be said for shared chores, but I'm really starting to prefer this total responsibility model.

The worst part about living on my own is that on nights like Thursday, when I'm completely exhausted and want nothing more than to go to sleep early, there is no one to take care of Blake if he doesn't feel like quietly going to bed hours before his bed time. That was a bad night, and not just because he pooped his pants at 5 and peed the bed at 2. I made it worse than it had to be, simply because I was at the end of my tether. He is one of the chores of which it is good to be relieved once in awhile. But I love him madly, and I know that our time together is better simply because I don't have the option of ignoring him. We rub along pretty well most days. I only wish he could be sent out to the movies once or twice a month. At most.

Juuki has decided to take a sabbatical from teaching, so my lesson nights are suddenly free. They wanted to transfer me to another belly dance class, but I don't really want to screw myself up at this stage in the game by trying to absorb another style of bellydance. So I think I'll try to transfer to African dance or Bhangra or something like that. It can only help and totally not confuse, right?

Also, I'm still crafting like mad. I'm trying to figure out a way to consolidate my knitblog with this one so that I can give it the mercy killing it deserves (poor neglected knitblog) (poor audience members who don't like hearing about knitting!). Any ideas are welcome. Especially ideas that involve creating imaginary punk nights with band names that Mason & I made up. Although that might not be helpful with this particular problem, it's still fun!

rocking word 97 like a girl from the suburbs

Labels: blake, dancing, house rich, imaginary bands, on-line diaries

Spider Update, because I know you're keeping track of my kill-rate at home: as of last night, 55. The last one was a gift from another spider, who rushed the poor unfortunate on the ceiling, causing it to tumble down to the floor, where I stepped on it. I told Blake that it was an accident, but it wasn't an accident. At that point, watching 5 spiders on my bathroom ceiling try to figure out how best to kill each other, I would have killed them by any means necessary. I even broke my vacuum protocol and sucked up three victims yesterday, after cleaning up the baking soda on Blake's bed. Choke on pee-impregnated dust, spider bitches!

On Saturday I took Blake to Queen West for some shopping and frolicing in place of the official DKC yarn frolic. We hit Mac Fab (where he refused to get out of his stroller), Fresh Collective (where I picked up my new cupcake t-shirt and exchanged friendly greetings with the clerk, who has seen me every weekend for the past three), Magic Pony (which we had to leave, as Blake couldn't be trusted to stay out of the window display), Kol Kid (where Blake had to be coaxed out of the stroller to play with the jacks-in-the-box), Romni (where Blake refused to leave his stroller), and finally Trinity-Bellwoods Park (where Blake got sandy for the better part of an hour). I made things awkward by toting around my new gorgeous cast iron tea pot, which I needed for my first stop but which quickly became a ghastly millstone as Blake tried to escape and we wore out every welcome we were given. By the time we met Mason at La Ha for dinner, I couldn't speak without gasping and clutching at my shoulder. Since he was the one to give me the teapot, I don't suppose that I looked all that grateful. But I remain in love with it, especially now that it's safely on my bookshelf awaiting a crop of accessories. Like the rug in the Big Lebowski, it's going to tie my whole room together.

After chasing Blake around all of the tables for almost two hours, we loaded him into the car and went to Lettuce Knit for the Big Girl Knit 2 Book Launch (or, as I typed in my photo files, the "Bi Girls Knit Launch." We don't judge). I would have been there anyway, but I was extra excited because

1. my name is on the acknowledgements page
2. there were tiny cupcakes
3. I had a chance to use up the last bottle of my wedding champagne
4. I'm always proud of my knitsibs' outstanding achievements in the field of authorship
5. cupcakes? Did I mention cupcakes?
6. door-prizes! I won Soak.
7. Blake reuniting with Meghan's kids, whom he loved at Christmas
8. the chance to use the assembled knittas as models of Mason's completed wrap sweater

And that was just what I was looking forward to before I got there. Once I got there, I discovered the all-lady folk band, sushi, cool knittas previously unknown to me, and, well, everything. Mason & I took turns chasing Blake, which gave each of us a few minutes to have fun before going back to warning him away from messes and dangers. He had three cupcakes, which is one more than I did, and I suppose I should have been happy that there was no property damage, yarn damage or friendship damage thanks to my sugared-up wildling.

click through for the whole set, including everybody in the world modelling mason's completed wrap sweater

When it was finally time to go home, I said my goodbyes, took Blake's hand, and walked away from the light toward our car. It was only when we were next to the Blue Ruin that I realized I couldn't find my keys. I sat down on the dark curb and emptied out my bag to no avail. There was only one thing for it: take up Blake's hand and lead him back to the party. I could only hope that Michelle had Mason's cell number, as I figured he'd pocketed the keys when he went to the car to get the champagne. When we got back to Lettuce, we were greeted with the expected, "didn't you leave?" I asked if anyone had found keys, and was totally floored when someone described my Wolfvegas key fob. A Big Girl Knits miracle! I went home happy.

Next day I realized that sometime during that long wandery Saturday I had lost a new ball of yarn, the last one I need to finish a striped vest. I checked every place I could think of, but when I remembered the eccentric path we'd followed up and down Queen Street, I despaired of ever finding my last ball. Realizing that I had the same colourway knit up in my stash, I immediately unravelled it and soaked out the kinks, thinking that I was going to finish this damned vest one way or another. Yesterday I decided to check with Lettuce, and was rewarded beyond measure when Meghan confirmed that yes, they had my yarn. A knitter had picked it up from the sidewalk in the dark, and brought it back to the store. She was all ready to keep it, but Meghan decided to hang on to it and give it a chance to be found. So there we have the second Big Girl Knits Miracle! One more and I can break ground on the chapel.

The only other thing of note was my Church Fashion Show. It wasn't as embarassing as I'd feared (although I almost ran away when I saw that Mason had made good on his promise to capture my modeling debut). No, there will be no pictures, as even if I'd liked the way they turned out, they are far too blurry to share. You'll just have to wait for my dance troupe to start performing to see my exhibitionist side.

Labels: blake, friends, house rich, knit, outings

Spider Update: I killed two more before going to bed last night, and six more this morning (including two that tried kamakazes run on Blake in the bath and ended up floating in the water). I did battle with a further three while Blake was in the bath, but they proved wily adversaries and all three escaped. When Blake got out of the tub and flushed the spiders in the toilet, I saw three there, which is one more than I remember. So I'm going to say that my new total score is 20, with a possible but unconfirmed 21st kill. The war continues.

Apparently today was my day for being asked personal questions. Every time I tried to draw an analogy to a common experience, one kid would ask me if that happened to me. The first example was date rape, and the second was retail therapy. Gah. Like I need to experience something to know about it...although I must say that I have done a full course of retail therapy in my time. Anyone remember last spring's TTC knitalong? My credit card company sure does.

Conversation last night:

Blake: Nic has a conference.
Me: What?
B: Nic has a conference.
Me: Honey, I have no idea what you're talking about.
B: Nic has a conference. Like Daddy has a B---- Conference.*
M: Um. I think you mean girlfriend. Nic has a girlfriend.
B: Conference!
M: If you say so.
B: (jumping up and down on the couch) B---- Conference! B---- Conference!

* According to Blake, a "B---- Conference" happens on the computer, so it's either a video phone call or B---- is an AI. I'm not sure which I'd prefer.

Labels: bat masterson, house rich, knit, separation

Today my peace accord with the spiders came to an abrupt end. I walked into the bathroom this morning and felt a filament brush my face. It's my hair, I thought frantically, but it wasn't my hair. That's it, sisters. It is on.

I kept count: I squished 12 in my bathroom alone. I left the ones in the hall alone, because I can't reach them and they don't bother me as much. I figure the one spider left in the bathroom can stretch out and enjoy herself. I'm pretty sure they don't dig competition.

Today after school I picked up my mom and went to a boutique to get fitted for the church fashion show. This is the first time I have been volunteered as a model, and my mother is discovering how much she wanted to be a beauty pageant mum. (Actually, she's just helping me with the zippers and picking outfits. Not Gypsy at all.)

I tried on clothes for two hours. Two hours of elegant pants, clingy tops, and brightly-patterned blazers. By the end of it I was longing for my Owl Dress…but at least we found some good clothes, and when I walk down the catwalk I won't look like a little girl let loose in her grandmother's closet. And no, you can't come see me. That is a promise.

This weekend I was supposed to finish my report cards, so being me, I was entirely domestic on Saturday as I recovered from my cold and entirely social on Sunday as I celebrated Sandi Purl's upcoming baby. The report cards were finished after 8 p.m. on Sunday, and I had to cheat to get the last class done. Fixed it this morning, and no one was the wiser. (Except Mason, who I was compelled to warn before I went to sleep. 'If I drop dead,' I wrote, 'all of the comments on one class are exactly the same. Pass it off as a glitch. Wait, I'll be dead. Who cares?')

Tomorrow: the power of Sandi's dandy shower, plus pictures that will make you want to eat Fenner with a spoon. And no more rhyming. That's another promise.

Labels: bat masterson, church, house rich, outfits, outings

I don't want you to think that I'm saying this because I've been marking essays for 3 ½ hours, but. The spiders are taking over my bathroom. This winter my project has been to treat the spiders with respect, so that my house may be free of other, grosser pests like silverfish. This mainly consists of avoiding them, shaking them off my stuff instead of killing them and encouraging Blake to watch rather than touch. But in the last few warm days, their population has exploded again, and I'm kind of squicked out. I reached for my toothbrush yesterday morning – there was a spider on it. This morning I picked up the soap to wash my hands after applying Blake's ointment and inadvertently crushed a spider. Another one was hanging out under the soap tonight. There was one on my towel when I got out of the shower this morning. I've had to deke around a hanging spider to get into my shower in the morning. You get the picture. I just feel that after 4 months of mostly peaceful co-existence, it would be wrong to go all Raid on my sisters. And yet, if I have to shake off my toothbrush one more time, we may have to have a showdown. I'm just saying.

Labels: house rich

something nice

I paid for yesterday's storm day of leisure with the worst case of cabin fever I've ever experienced. As soon as I got home from church, I was certain that if I didn't get out of the house again that I might die. I was vibrating so fast that I could barely think straight. Unfortunately, all of my regulars were busy or we have a date so soon in the future that me rushing over right now would be pretty silly. Even Dirk, my soi-dit lazy friend, was very resistant to inviting me up to his parents' place. (I think I'll have to stop being a brat for the next little while, because Dirk's current incarnation just isn't finding my shit funny. Unsettling.)

So I called Preacher, and found him at the airport with the family, on their way to Palm Beach. Good thing I hadn't gone through with my plan to just drive to his house, Dirk or no, which was my original plan two months ago.

We've been talking today about the small still voice of God, and I figured that if it was this hard to find something to do, then I must need to do something here to make myself settled. I sat in the study, thinking, and I suddenly noticed something: of all the rooms in the house, the only place still haunted by the Boy is this room. Every other room, from the living room to the basement to the bedroom has been reorganized, altered, shifted so that the holes are no longer obvious and wounding. This is the only room that still has piles of his shit on the shelves, in the closet, under the desk.

Today I purged.

It's all sitting in piles by the door, and the Boy has promised to pick it up tomorrow. He didn't sound to pleased with my "pick it up or I'm throwing it out tonight" message, but I don't actually care. As I was packing it up for him into nice, convenient crates from my dad's company, I had second thoughts. What if I blow it because I won't be nice to him now? And then I realized that it didn't matter. This week I asked him twice if he would reconcile, once with a joking tone in the driveway of Casa Nova and then privately in my doorway. Both times he was more than happy to refuse. If he's going to point to this latest ultimatum as proof positive that I'm unreasonable, well. Actually being nice never goes to my credit, so why not play the bitch?

At least I'm not borrowing a trebuchet from Team Sundridge to fling flaming JUMP workbooks at his apartment windows, which was my first plan last month.

cosmic pluto's socks pose with the boy's crap

Labels: angst, house rich, the boy

The only thing more boring than reading someone's diary is hearing about their dreams. Lucky you! You get both! (Don't even try to click away…)

I remember some of my dreams, others are gone upon waking. One thing I have noticed lately is that when I dream about the Boy, we are still together. Last night was the first post-separation dream I can remember. In it, the Boy & I had a screaming, nasty fight. Oddly enough, when I saw him today to pick up Blake, we had a nasty fight. Who would have guessed?

The only difference is that last night I screamed, "did you enjoy fucking our adopted daughter?" (it made sense in the dream, I swear) and this afternoon my last word was, "keep polishing your halo, jackass."

Today I was home to mark, but a certain someone felt ill enough to stay home from school as well, and instead of marking abysmal senior essays I was a big hot couch for most of the day.

And to make up for a month without a camera, here are some visual aids to help with my rambling entries:

the barometric bamboo

my old houseplant, Beryl & her roommate Spidey

I think Beryl might bloom soon, which would be only the second time since all her original flowers fell off

I am a pony-tailed monster!

Labels: blake, house rich, the boy

Ugh. I've been feeling crummy all day long, but I'm blessed in that it's not emotional but rather the kind of physical holiday crud that has so far eluded me. I'm sure that my delayed illness was the universe's way of paying me back for the Boy's defection, much like finding a parking spot in less than a minute on Boxing Day and my wallet being returned with all the plastic and a $20 bill still inside. Thanks, impartial sense of justice.

And yet, despite feeling run down I braved the cold cold air to toboggan with the Blake & my dad at a local park. Three times down the hill was enough for us, and we spent the rest of the day putzing around. Mommy likes her lie-downs on days like today. Mommy also likes her new rabbit ears, the ones that allow her to pick up half a dozen UHF channels after a teevee fast of seven months. Somehow feeling like this is more palatable when you can distract the little one with a Reading Rainbow episode.

It's weird how much of my time has been freed up by the Boy's defection. With all of the time that I'm not spending trying to communicate with him, I can spend 2 extra hours in bed in the morning, have a lie down in the afternoon sun, read for almost 2 hours and yet still be reasonably productive. Today was about closets. Blake's room swap is now in the final stages, and I have a pretty cozy craft room. I might just keep the Buzz Lightyear decals, if he lets me.

Labels: blake, health, house rich

This has been a very difficult week, and I'm starting to think that if I don't try to write about it now then I won't ever work up the courage.

Wednesday the Boy took me to Lettuce Knit so that we could celebrate Clara's 1st birthday with everyone, and within minutes, he was walking away. One stupid remark from a knitter and he shrunk in on himself & vanished, humiliated. He came back for me, of course, but there was so much crying (me) and free-floating anger (him) on the way home that it sapped all of my energy and I stayed home the next day. (To put that in perspective, I'd been flagging already. I left yoga class in the middle of the third sun salutation because I was afraid I would fall down, and two hours in the pits of despair took the last of my ability to pretend wellness.)

Thursday was recovery, and therefore better. We all went to a big ol' church Thanksgiving dinner that night. A most excellent time was had by all, and I began to hope that my run of luck was over.

The first two days of this weekend have been filled with work. Not professionally (which would have been smart) but domestically (which is still pretty smart, I guess). Saturday was indoors. Sunday was yard work. And we all worked together for the most part, and very happily on Sunday at least. Then on Sunday night, after we'd gone to bed, a little argument got bigger and bigger and bigger, well past the point at which we used to be able to let it go. So I asked him the question that he'd avoided for two months, and this time the answer was yes. Yes, he didn't love me. Yes, he wanted to leave.

Last night was one of the longest of my life. There was much more conversation after that, and he's agreed to wait until we can see our counsellor on Thursday, but I don't know if this is a retrial or merely a delay in execution. All I know for sure is that last night was the first night that I knew for sure that I was sharing my life with someone who didn't love me. And last night was the first night that I sincerely prayed for this cup to be taken from me.

fall keeps going, heartbreak or not

Labels: angst, house rich, the boy

I didn't get a lot done today, although I made various attempts to get it together. My grocery shopping turned into an oddly-elongated 2-hour odyssey in which I became oddly compelled to Think Ahead – like Labour Day is a freak snowstorm, and if I don't get Blake the right snacks for the first week they'll kick him out of school. (Not after I ironed labels onto his fucking sweatshirt, they won't.) My dental hygienist – who has spent a combined total of 12 years as a Montessori Mom – told me at my scaling not to expect Blake to eat any food at all during the first week. She said that eventually he'll get the hang of packed lunches, but until then make sure to cook a good dinner.

I'm also irrationally afraid that his teachers, much like his teenaged swim instructors of this past summer, will be unable to handle The Blake Experience^tm. I like to remind myself that they chose to deal with 25 3-4 year olds over a number of other exciting career options, and they will surely survive a brush with the Blake.

And it's not so much that I fear for them, because despite my tendency to focus on the gruesome aspects of The Blake Experience^tm in my storytelling, he's not all that bad. I worry about him…because I spend a fair amount of energy trying to keep him happy and fed and hydrated and safe, and the thought of his tender heart out naked in the world makes me dangerously hormonal.

But all of this was about groceries, and my need to make sure that next week runs on auto-pilot because I will have nothing in the tanks for domesticity. Nothing. The first week of school flattens the fit, the experienced, the childless and the happy; imagine what it's going to do to US. It's like the Angel of Death is passing over and because we didn't daub the lintel, all three of us get to die at the same time. Which, as Michelle pointed out in July, might not be so bad.

Other than that, I read 13 months of Pound all in one go (infrequent posting and my unwillingness to use a subscribey service means that I forget to check things), helped the Boy clear out our brushy back yard and start a low-investment compost pile (just leaves, no food), washed my new hair (always traumatic), started a new scarf (out of housewarming yarn), read some more of the Medici book Scherezade lent me (usury = art), and saw the Simpson's movie by myself (contrary to my mother's lifelong warnings, I was not bothered by any creep in particular). A scattered Saturday, but not without its joys. Maybe I'll live to see the next one.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, family, house rich

What the hell day is it? I'm having a bit of trouble adjusting to my post-party life, as in comparison to my pre-party life I have nothing whatsoever to do. Not only did we spend four and a half days in a painting vortex of despair, but Friday, the day I was supposed to be cleaning and cooking, turned into an 8-hour kitchen marathon, leaving the cleaning for the morning of the party. (And when I say 8-hours of cooking, I'm not being my usual over-exaggerating self. I started making marinades at 2:30 and was putting a banana and chocolate chip cake in the oven at 11:10. I did three full loads of dishes throughout the marathon and all the spoons were used up by 9:30.) The house came together beautifully, and I even had a free half-hour to take care of the study, which has been overflowing with boxes and books since we moved in. (Unfortunately, that meant that the Boy's future studio/study closet is now really out of commission rather than just being probably out of commission. Still, nothing will fall down if you open the door. I think I did well.)

The greatest part about having a housewarming in B-ton is that only the people who really like you will make the effort to show up. There are no casual drop-ins when that means a 50-minute bus ride. Once again, my knittas came through for me. They arrived on time in well-dressed and mighty ranks, brought gifts and consorts and babies (both born and yet-to-be), complimented the place extravagantly, helped in the kitchen, and set up a knitting circle in the living room. They took the extended tour as many times as I felt like giving it, they allowed themselves to be drawn into Blake's odd conversations, and they spontaneously formed the Greater Brampton Downstairs Accordion Recital Society while listening to the Boy jam. (Credit to David for the name!) Thank heaven for Lisa, Nadia, Michelle, Joyce, Sophie, Jacquie, Paul, Emily, David & Clara (the most delicious party snack I could have ever served).

the dazzling light comes from the knitters, not my picture window

I'm kind of sad this pic turned out so blurry, because I love Sophie's expression. The image is a cross between a Rembrant and a digitally-enhanced security camera still. Sophie is responsible for the fine art element; I'm the one with the grainy technique.

Michelle kicks off the yarn tasting segment

Nad was so pretty in her white sun dress and strappy sandals, and this is the best picture I could produce. Also, she's working on my crocheted welcome mat. Yee!

Other than the overwhelming force of the SNAY Team (Special Needles And Yarn) contingent, we were also blessed with:

• my grandparents (who brought a cheese plate, flowers and a magnificent old-school egg salad)
• my parents (who brought flowers and conducted information sessions on the fence and toolshed)
• Scout (who stayed all day and helped clean up)
• Nic (who arrived after the party ended and stayed to chat as everyone left)
• Exodus and Levitica (who also helped clean up, plus took the Boy out to see the Simpsons movie when the party officially ended),
• Cheryl and her whole family (Cheryl is a knitter, but with two kids, she had to be a mommy most of the time. Blake had a freaking BLAST running, climbing, jumping, yelling and digging around with K3nt0n!), and
• St. Jack & Sr. Maria (who engaged Blake in long fascinating conversations about rocks and insects)

What a cliché to say that I love them all, but it's true. I am so happy they came to warm our house, and that people who wanted to come out but couldn't sent their warm thoughts as well.

Swag pics! Sorry about some of the blurriness; I think I have a) more talent and b) better photographic equipment than facts will bear out.

drool-worthy yarn from Sophie, nestled in the Boy's accordion case

sheep salt n' pepper shakers from Lisa came nestled in a sewing pattern form and grammatically-incorrect gift bag. hee! massive candelabra from Nad that could be used as a menorah and currently snuggles my wonderful yarn from Sophie.

good luck bamboo from Joyce; 39-year calendar from Michelle; stripey thermos and yummy-smelling coffee from Emily, David & yummy Clara

a sheep's-eye view of the table

blurry but fun aerial shot of it all. not pictured: classy French wine from Jacquie & Paul and desperately-needed baking stone from Cheryl et. al.
I. Love. My. Friends.

I'm waiting for other pictures from other guests, including the delicious Clara and the delightful Pax, the rough n' tumble antics of two rough n' tumble boys, and the basement accordion jam that created a Society. Oh yes, fun was had.

Labels: blake, family, friends, gifties, house rich, pictures, the boy, triumph