Let's acknowledge that happened and then pretend it didn't.

Sorry about posting and deleting, RSS feeders. I looked at a thing that hurt my feelings even though it was none of my business and I knew it was a bad idea. So the next morning I went ahead and impulsively put in a big knitpicks order- which will either comfort and console me or reward me for being a passive internet creep. Distracting me from self-inflicted injury was the whole reason I started knitting furiously in the first place. At least people get hats out of it.

Anyway, I want to report that I like the truck. It has me feeling like The Me I Was Back When I Was Me. Which is not really a great thing, since that Me made some really shitty life decisions. My mother says, "A truck brings out the man in a woman," so maybe what I'm feeling is whatever that means, but I think it just has more to do with having spent my formative years in a Ford Ranger. Maybe she meant that I'll be more confident about vehicle maintenance - probably because it will require more of it.

Trucks bring out the man in a man, too, I am rapidly discovering; there is a particular type of truck-driving man who becomes a complete dickhole when he sees another truck coming. This morning a truck up ahead was coming out of the gas station, saw me signaling, and decided to gun it and straddle two lanes to block the turn lane. I was banging the wheel and going, "RAWR RAWR I FEEL ANGER," because labeling emotions is healthy, and Gavin said, "GRATITUDE, mom. Quick, BE GRATEFUL." This is a neuroscience exercise, which we have been trying to do whenever we feel bad about things, because the act of searching for something to be grateful about (whether or not you find anything) releases happy brain chemicals. "I AM GRATEFUL I HAVE A TRUCK TO RAM HIM WITH."

And you know? I did feel better. Science, people.

knights, trucks, and figs

I will be knitting for survival soon, if the A/C at work continues to drop into the teeth-chattering digits. Today I ran outside to warm myself like a lizard against the warm brick building. There are clouds and a bit of a breeze as another hurricane tries to form itself right on top of us, and the weak tropical heat had a hard time penetrating the layers of leather and blouse and undershirt to warm up the meat of me. Mittens, I need. Arm warmers. A balaclava. I'm going to start wearing my hair in two flaps of braid to cover my ears.

 

In other news

The farmer's market next to the library sells figs. Figs are nostalgic for me; my great-grandmother had a stubborn old fig tree behind her little house in Kingman, Arizona, and I felt really pleased with myself any time I found a living fig on the thing. I can survive the savage heat of the desert! Behold my foraging skills! And I'd sit on the rock wall and eat the figs and read Dean Koontz novels.

So I took some figs home to draw. I was feeling pretty good, driving my truck and listening to loud music and wearing giant sunglasses, and then I got home and realized I hadn't put house keys on my new ring and I was locked the fuck out. But hey, the basement is open, and the kegerator is in the basement, and I set up the figs. 

Then I drank a mason jar full of beer, realized too late that it was really kind of too strong, ate the figs, and laid on the rug listening to Flight of the Conchords.

So that didn't work out. 

And that was Saturday. Well, is Saturday. I'm still locked in the basement.

MINE

I have a truuuuuuck. Brb, buying all the bandannas and torn jeans.

Then a small thing happened. While I was giddy about the truck and clearing dinner dishes, the boys sat down to paint their first D&D figures. These are tiny white plastic things with lots of detail molded into them, and I was pretty sure leif, being 7, would drown the thing in paint and get a lot of it on his face. An hour later he presented this: 

Holy shit, folks, that is shading and mixing and a controlled palette. Good thing these things don't cost much, because we are going to be getting LOTS more for this kid. 

I can't with the evens, as they say.

car chase!

We have a police officer who comes to the library to see if we have coffee and use the bathroom in air conditioning, and today he trudged in looking particularly sweaty. It turns out that all the sirens flying past the library this morning were in pursuit of a stolen car. Which crashed into my kid's school and caused a lock-down. Our coffee-cop chased the car thieves on foot across the campus and into the sugar cane, tackling two of them. Everyone is SUPER EXCITED to have gotten on the news ahead of the high surf advisory and that tree that fell down in Kalihi.

Pau

I have finished the Bloomsthingy, and coaxed the child into it, and now it's done. Except for the ends to be woven in, but meeeeh. 

Folks, I might be down at the thrift store picking out mangy old sweaters to salvage after all. The yarn I want in the quantity I want is $70, and I JUST CAN'T. But the new Brooklyn Tweed collection is up, and I'm all over that Cascade pattern, so a bit of grubbing through sweaters that people have maaaaybe rubbed on their junk is in order, perhaps.

Oh, and there's a tsunami coming. But we live way up high in the middle of the island, instead of down by the ocean where we used to, so I am yawning and stretching elaborately. Which probably means a water spout will drop sharks on my house, but WHATEVER. I have a machete and a bbq. 

sandwiches

Last night I finished the knitting, held it up triumphantly, and yelled, "Hey, kid! Let's try this on! I made you a sweater!" She looked hard at it and said, "Um - no, thanks." Ingrate.

Over the weekend, my mother had the boys and was employing her "gee, it just got so late, I'll have to keep them overnight" grandmother privilege, so we had an evening with just the one kid. Mike shoved us into the car for Vietnamese sandwiches. Zenny patted her legs and chanted, "SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT" all the way there. It was nice.

Bloomsbury- actual knitting content

(dr. update in Grim post)

With all funds diverted to establishing the new household, I've had the satisfying/piteous job of relying on my old stash for all my knitting projects; my stash being made up of three small-ish plastic boxes stored in the pirate trunk we stole from someone's garbage. There's some good stuff in there, but only two balls of anything, so that precludes any winter-wear for myself or the boys. I stood in the thrift store holding up old sweaters, contemplating picking the seams and ripping them apart for yarn, and then huffed dejectedly because I might as well just buy the finished sweaters for the kids and save myself 3 months of knitting with someone else's pit sweat.

After a lot of waffling, I pulled out the luscious Arucania and cast on a baby sweater. The pattern is supposed to be on larger needles with worsted, but all I had was fingering, so I went with the largest size on smaller needles. Without swatching, OF COURSE.

Which is probably why it fits like a sausage casing around the middle (but, you know, loose in the arms). That shit will block out, I tell myself. Lace stretches. She's a skinny child. I DO WHAT I WANT.

Bloomsbury Kids

I'm down to the last 5 inches of the second sleeve, and already eyeing my dwindling stash box with a bit of desperation. I'll be back to knitting fucking doilies if I can't scrape up funds for a knitpicks order. Thanks for not offering free shipping to Hawaii, KNITPICKS. You can send that shit on the boat for the same cost as land shipping, we don't mind waiting 6 weeks. We would just order more, to stagger arrivals. Think about it.

fire, wigs, and trucks

Labor Day: the man tried to bake a pizza on "clean", and set the oven on fire. That is not clean eating, I told him.

Scary Dr. Appt Day: could have gone better. Waiting on lab results. I remarked to a friend that in the very worst case scenario I would shave my head and go full Furiosa, but it was a lie. Libraries are cold, and I would actually wear really remarkably awful wigs, of all colors and historical periods.

beards are wigs, too

It's important to have plans in place.

Other news: found new/better daycare option for the babby, necessitating purchase of a second vehicle (the man is careering around the highway in the rain on a motorcycle right now). Looking for piece of shit truck, to fit budget/home renovation requirements. Having fit of fancifulness about learning auto repair and cruising around in a battered old Ford while listening to the Eagles and wearing bandannas. Becoming my mother, basically. Which is fine, because it'll keep me off the cell phone. She had to use her computer to track her lost phone this weekend, and found it buried in the litter box. So there you go.

We saw a truck abandoned by the drug store that looked like we could afford it. Off to a good start.