today is fired

Childcare woes. Financial surprises. Medical procedures. Now discovering that Leonard Nimoy died. I am crawling under my desk for the rest of the day.

I'm making portraits of produce in ridiculous fancy frames for my kitchen. Here is Tim Ginchin to join General Kale.

He says, "hey, ginger," because the man is also ginger, and only a ginger can call another ginger ginger. Which was funny to me yesterday, but today everything is STUPID AND WRONG.

I like it anyway, though, because Tim is my doppelginger. GET IT. HA. 

Red door, old hardware, and a knitting chair

The tub is caught up in the west coast dock strike, so we didn't get to destroy the bathroom this weekend. Instead, I went into pier 1 for a sippy cup of water and left with a floor model chair stuffed into the front seat of my car. 

We painted the front door and restored the original hardware. I learned to drill holes with a power tool, which took longer than it should have because I had 300 bits to choose from and no experience to base my selections on. I have been collecting vintage drop pulls for a few months, and finally put them on the kitchen drawers. Did not injur self. Did get maudlin listening to Jim Croce. Work harzard.

question du jour

Patron pulls up a chair. "I need to find out about city and county regulations for dog kennels. I received a citation, but I bought the kennel from Costco, so I thought it should be ok."
I tippity-typed. "Hmm, I am not finding anything specific to dog kennels so far..."
"Ok, full disclosure, it's three kennels, hooked together. I wanted my dog to have lots of room to run."
"Then it might qualify as an unattached structure, and that requires a permit."
"The guy said I had to move the tent, too. The kennel is covered in a big tent, like for parties."
"Ah, that might explain it, if it looks like a dwelling. Maybe they think you're storing homeless people in there."
"The guy asked to use the toilet - I know he was just checking the plumbing."
"In the kennel?"
"I'm going to have to take it down. I'll tell the guy I had to shoot my dog."
"Oh shush, you will not shoot the dog!"
"Look there, the regulations say the kennel can only be 3 feet tall. Mine is 6 feet. Now I'll have to crush the dog."
"You're not crushing the dog!"
"Holly, I don't have a dog."
"You don't have a dog?"
"No, I have a tenant I'm trying to evict, so I moved into the yard."
"In the kennels?!"
"They're big kennels."
"And I made a joke about you storing homeless people in it!"
"I know! And it was me the whole time!"

A word on Lent

This year I have given up sugar, alcohol, and passive internet stalking. Leif has given up being a turd about eating his dinners. We are exemplary citizens.

Oh Shetland

My cute end table is painted in stupid matte paint, so every scuff and grody toddler fingerprint shows up on it. It needs a runner, I thought. Maybe something out of that crochet thread that's been in my stash for 7 years. On tiny needles. Using 200 year-old lace patterns written in code we no longer use.

I was so inspired that I grabbed my ball winder and clenched it between my knees in the car, the skein wrapped around my arms, winding until I was snarled into a cocoon and mike needed to extricate me from the passenger seat. He took away the thread, looped it across his hands, and had it wound in about 30 seconds. Show off.

Four days later, I have 4 inches of runner.

I could have just sewn something. 

I forgot to mark my spot and had an error around row 23, but I am calling it a design element. Sorry, ancient Shetland tradition.

VD weekend

Valentines day is not one of the holidays I celebrate actively, despite it also being our anniversary. Anniversaries are also not my thing. These days are occasions to declare your storybook love and take black and white pictures in the park, and it makes me feel weird about this rough, complicated, long story we have. We are better together. We know the plot line. He's kind and supportive and good with tools and brews great beer and looks nice in jeans. I handed off the task of minding the darkness to a very clever therapist, and together they do a diligent job of it. I'm still sad about some things, and curiously indifferent to things I wouldn't think I should be, and that's fine I guess. That's life.

There were slashing rains and flying branches on this valentines day, so we hunkered inside and ate brownies. We painted and nailed and installed hardware, enjoying a weekend of small projects before the hard work of tiling and cutting holes in the floor and re-routing plumbing begins. This is the week we either fix the bathroom or ruin the house. Lots of reading to do.

First family picture in the new house. 

Got a table in a color which will be out of style in half an hour.

And sewed coasters for it with the Japanese beer fabric in my stash.

Leif picked a hook for his backpack.

Doors were painted and the hardware restored.

I'm ok with paint and home repair becoming the new tradition. Eat your candy and get to work, kids!

Wherein I talk about my mother's guts

"Oh, so you know how my stomach has been uncomfortable for a few weeks?" said my mother.
"Uh huh," said I.
"So I got a scan, and my doctor saw something unusual, so they sent me in for another one."
"That's not good."
"And it turns out I have appendicitis."
"WHAT."
"I had to talk to a surgeon. I tried to put it off until this weekend, but they said no."
"Well, that's good."
"So the surgeon said they found something else that also needs to come out, so I get to see another surgeon, and then they'll pick a day and do it together."
"Like a relay race."
"Exactly."
"Do you need help? Are you going to dance class? Can I drive you?"
"Nah, I'm fine."
"You are not fine!"
"Meh."

So my mother is literally dancing jigs while her appendix threatens to explode. This is why she will never have a career in nitroglycerin portage.

Coffee cozy

I just can't drink two cups fast enough. So I knit my pot a sweater.

Pattern: 

Worsted yarn, size 7 circular needles (16 inch)

CO 64, join in round 

K2 P1 to end 

Continue in rib pattern for 1 inch

Cable 2 on every other knit rib

When almost tall enough for pot, decrease across every other knit rib. Work even one round. Decrease on the other knit ribs. Work even. Bind off loosely.

Basically, it's a hat with a hole in the top. Ta da.

Just don't look in the bathroom

Weekend progress. Floors! Curtains! Cat nipples!

The kitchen, living room, and hallway all connect to form a circuitous route, and Zenny has decided this is an ideal athletic track. She charges through the house in circles, and I sit on the couch watching her patter by on her little toddler muppet-legs, wondering if I will ever relax about her head injury. Maybe I won't remember when I stopped fretting. Maybe I will be forever banning her from contact sports and embarrassing her at the ice rink with her friends by skating around after her with protective padding. I was thinking about this yesterday as I buckled on her helmet, helped her climb the slide at the playground, and then ran headlong into a steel ledge. 

The gods will have their due. 

But exactly which gods are out for our brain pans? Research into responsible head-injury deities points to Czernobog (specifically, Neil Gaiman's representation); Slavic tradition says you can keep him at bay by swearing into a bowl on feast days. This is easy, I already do that practically every day (although clearly NOT ENOUGH). And just to play it safe, I can make an appeal to John Licci, Patron Saint of traumatic brain injuries. He appears to have been fond of building walls, and then healing people who fell off of them. He was also good at the bread and wine trick. So I will eat lots of bread and wine, and cuss into them, and that should cover our bases.

This is why libraries are important, people.

Settle

Empty-fridge quickfire challenge: what can you make with eggs, milk, a packet of veggie dip mix, sour cream, and frozen pie crust? Quiche! Or, you know, an eggy dip souffle thing. Close enough.

Good thing we had a Christmas cookie mix to round it out.

Nailed it.

The old oven was a wreck of layered filth, rusted-out burners, and weird blue greasy bits. While replacing parts and cleaning it, I realized that the blue film was actual blue film - the kind that comes on new appliances to protect the finish. We peeled the oven like picking skin off a sunburn. It was horrible and wonderful.

It is kitcheny! Don't look at the floor. I hung General Kale on the wall there, and declared the house officially decorated.

The neighbors have been very quiet and subdued. The marine base helped out by holding artillery drills all week. After tucking the kids into bed, I sat on the couch with my knitting and watched the Shipping News while the house trembled gently with the explosions. It was oddly soothing, in the manner of distant thunder, and I got all shmoopy about Newfoundland, sitting there with no chips & gravy in my little house on an island in the wrong ocean.

 

If you like your ocean foot-traversable, that is.

So there's nothing to eat, and boxes all over, but order is gaining a foothold.

 

Gross finger-printed-mirror picture of my kids failing to pose with me for a group shot, in favor of playing pigs-in-a-blanket.

And I still kept the best part of my commute. The part with mountains and pineapple fields and sweeping curtains of rain.

The outlets work. The internet is up. Next: floors in the bathroom and kitchen OH BOY YOU ARE SO EXCITED.

update on garbage disposal car

"Good news! I made an appointment with a mechanic for tomorrow morning."
Ten minutes later, there was rummaging and banging and ratcheting. The man came in, covered in grease. "There. I changed the brake pads. It works again!"

And that is how you fix a car in 3 weeks or less.

Although I could still do with working outlets

Moving during Super Bowl is a terrific, terrible, and expedient measure of your neighbors' character. The folks on Side 1 are quiet and elderly and fine, with a fluffy little old dog who totters after them on walks. The folks on Side 2 are the stuff to inspire sitcom neighbor-revenge strategies. At around 7pm, the driveway filled up with giant vehicles, and the increasingly drunk sports fans made their team of choice known at top volume: loyal supporters of team FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. They re-played the brawl about eight times, with escalating chants and frenetic screams. Then, as a weaving herd, they drove drunkenly off into the neighborhood, the remaining neighbors passed out, and quietude reasserted itself by 10pm. I was not in a mood to appreciate it, though, because my idiot cat had peed on the bed and I was shivering on a sheet in inadequate pajamas while the clean bedding dried on the line outside. I had the baby wrapped in the Sherlock couch blanket and was using her as a bed warmer, staring hollow-eyed at the window and wondering what I had done. A cabin in the Adirondacks with the equity, I promised myself. Which I will neglect until squatters claim it, because 55 degrees is already too fucking cold.

But in the morning there was my little pour-over coffee maker, and my little dining room, and a rooster crowing in the early light, and everything was ok.

It's going to be. From here out.

I should be watching Super Bowl

Instead I am eating cheddar brats alone with the infink in the new house, with no cable or wifi. Using data to complain here - am that committed.

The neighbors were watching the game in the garage and I was spying, but someone claimed to have more food and the party moved elsewhere. Damn it.

I don't watch football, but I enjoy sportsing as a holiday, with cheering and foodstuffs and high spirits. 

Sad face.