boots and the wtf cardi

Rewind to last weekend. The man was on Oahu with my mother and a crow bar. I was at home with the boys, suddenly inspired to do stuff. Resulting from this was the premier of Extreme Bikini Rotary Mowing, in which, as the only contestant, I won. Kitchen was cleaned, stuff was sewn, playdoh animals were constructed, plans to trap and skin our avocado thief were made, brownies were baked, and pooping cats were chased from my tomato garden. By Monday, we were all stir-crazy, so I dragged a chair into the yard, set the kids loose with bubbles and kickballs, and knit AN ENTIRE CARDIGAN in one sitting, without checking to make sure it would fit first. Somehow, it did. 

And it even looks pretty good with the new boots. Despite the bad disco inferno. 

I said I was cut off. I also said I was a filthy liar. 

The man came home, fished in his backpack, and threw a bag at me. I live with a shameless enabler. 

Promise I will take a break from this fibery stuff and have some adventures soon.

learned librarian

"I am a walking library of learning - bound in comely leather and suitable for stroking - at your service, should you fancy a bit of culture to go with your lack of breeding, or vice versa, of course." -Christopher Moore, who will not shut up lately 

 

Went to town on a solo mission for professional development and sexy boots. Hit the road at 5:45 am. Was thumbing through the ipod when the sun came up behind me, igniting the misty ocean rain - and my rear view mirror - with blinding orange. I swerved wildly, thinking I was about to be run down by a semi or a crashing spacecraft. Imagined the view from the neighboring cliff: my little car snapping through the guard rail, sailing silently off the mountainside, and plunking into the water. An ignominious end to a long and stupid story. 

 

Politicians were lined up along the cane fields, waving frenetically. A man in a blue aloha shirt and slacks, holding a picture of himself. A long line of red-shirted fans, flapping glossy campaign posters. A man sitting on the tailgate of his truck, playing ukulele next to a hand-painted cardboard sign with his name on it. It may have also said "will be Mayor 4 food".

 

I parked by the court house across from the Wailuku library and shook a warning finger at the car, whose front window is still stuck open, tempting stray cats/vagrants/mayoral candidates. As soon as I stepped in, the other librarians turned and yelled, "WE DIDN'T KNOW YOU'RE AN ILLUSTRATOR!" and I froze in a defensive semi-crouch. They were adorable, owling up at me (I am a towering giant in the land of librarians), but I never know what to say when people want to talk about art. I like doing it, but I don't actually think I'm very good at it. I grin and nod like a big dumb nodding thing and then pretend to have something in my eye and run away. Which is why I will never be rich and powerful and crush that Plumeria Princess guy, who still doesn't know he's my nemesis. In this case, I chose to yawn, exclaim, "oh man, I have to PEE," and then book it for the restroom. Smooth. 

Two hours later, we had all learned how to click things on the internet, and I ran out to discover that the car had a yellow ticket stuck under its wiper. The pigeons didn't laugh at my yelps of, "Help, help! I'm being repressed!" so I threw the ticket onto the floor, drove over to throw some delivery boxes out at the main branch, ran some official-type errands, and finally found myself sitting in the food court at the mall with a bowl of mushroom chicken. Decided this was the perfect time to explore the new iPhone. Didn't like the tiny buttons. Didn't like the tiny screen. Took a bunch of blurry pictures of my hands and knees. Didn't have anything I wanted to do on the internet. Became very sad. This would have been the sort of thing I'd have done handstands for at one time, but no texts have buzzed my hip for more than 3 years, and somewhere along the line I lost my phone and didn't realize it for about a month. It's the end of an era, and the beginning of a new, higher-waisted, reading-at-arm's-length one.

 

Why I crop my head out of most of my pictures. More from me when the week stops kicking my ass.

Invisible!

After a month and about a mile of splitty silk thread, it is done. And it weighs about a hundred pounds. Silk is really hard to work with - it snags and splits and slithers away and attracts cats - but the drape is amazing. I can let it dangle, or pin it up, or run around flapping it like a cape. 

The back hangs really nicely, and you can't even tell I completely messed up the lace. 

"Um, mom, apparently I can still see you." Well, crap. 

pattern: Dramatic Lace Cardigan, by Sweaterbabe. yarn: ColourMart Silk 32/120NM DK weight

one more

A board book! With my pictures in it! I am boardy and delicious! 

first page: some random page: I realized, looking at it, that my library bosses don't know I do this illustration stuff. Maybe it's something I should mention. I'm not sure how to do that without looking like I'm asking for pats. Really, I'm just hoping nobody notices and I don't get chewed out for putting horns on a pterosaur. My prehistoric-era chronology is all crap, too. There are going to be mobs of angry paleontologist parents after me.

graff

Sunday was bottling day, and I was reverently presented with a towering beaker of amber liquid. Normally, I sniff the stuff thoughtfully, take a delicate sip, and roll the flavors around my mouth for a moment before pronouncing it a success. But this was not beer. This was hard cider, and it was so crisp and tart that I took a mouthful, stared at the beaker, cursed, and then drank the entire thing. The man was happy and started preparing the bottles for capping and carbonation. 

I took the picture and frowned at the camera. "Geez. Come take a flattering picture of me bending over my quilt blocks, or I'll look ridiculous on the same page as you." 

Very natural. 

Leif likes the lines on the batting. 

Our House played in the livingroom, the boys messed with play doh and lego, the cats sat like meatloafs, we went about our quiet industry, and everything was kind of perfect. My skinless hand is recovering, although the life line has tried to fuse over. Gypsies will scrutinize my palm and inform me of my impending death and resurrection, then go check the ammo in their zombie kits.

look what I got today

Look at the books. Look at your bookshelf. Look back at the books. I'm in a font. 

Look at my chickens! They are so glossy! 

Looks like quality literature to me. 

This one looks nice, too. More on availability soon. Natural food plan will have to pause today, as my liver demands a margarita.

Two

Two years ago this morning, I was standing in a waiting room with my butt hanging out of a hospital gown, scarfing down a take-out box of scrambled eggs and bacon before the wrist-flapping nurses could catch me, push me back into L&D, and strap me into bed again. I fell asleep between contractions, and they slowed enough to send my doctor tutting in to inform me that I was not in labor and my baby was going to get an infection and DIE if I didn't start on pitocen.  A) I was, too, in labor. I kind of noticed. B) I had only been in active labor for 6 hours. C) asshole. Three hours later, Leif was clipped free of the cords around his neck and dropped onto me, limp and blue and unmoving. The nurse whisked him to the oxygen mask above the examination basinet, and the room was silent for long seconds while my arms hung outstretched in the air, waiting urgently. He solidified, screamed, flushed pink. Mike cried. Happy Birthday, Leif, my viking baby. I love you so much it hurts. 

buff bods and poo of all sorts

After four days of hauling boxes, walking up and down stairs, dragging ankle-children, and moving furniture, I felt as if I had been beaten head-to-toe with The Big Book of Beating. Got on the scale, and cheered a bit. "I lost a pound!" Mike pulled off his shirt. "Oh, look at that, I'm buff again." Jerk. The hamcat returned, appearing suddenly behind me as I was flexing in the closet mirror and making me jump out of pose with her pissy "RAWR". Then she went and pooped in the tub. Gee, I am so glad she is back. 

It has been determined that our porch is just about the greatest hang-out place in the world. The view at night The view at dawn I keep making heavenly-chorus "Aahhhhh!" noises whenever I see that. (The sunrise)  

 

Have decided not to do the Master Cleanse. Mostly because you have to drink about a gallon of salt water and spend 4-6 hours pooping, and I would end up having to do it with an audience of cats and a toddler - all of whom think it is their directive in life to pry me off the toilet and see what's going on in there. While having a cat's head suddenly jam down between your butt and the toilet seat is kind of funny at first, it is also alarming and absolutely horrifying. But then you can lean backward and pin their head in the toilet, and it is funny again - until it is scratchy and painful. So instead of purging the toxins with foul liquids, I will attempt something much more difficult: real food. No artificial color, sweetener, corn syrup, refined sugar, bleached flour, red meat, booze, caffeine, or massive quantities of salt. For, say, 2 weeks. You'd think this would be easy, living somewhere with no fast food or grocery stores. No, it is not. So far today: coffee with agave and milk (good. Except for, you know, the caffeine) hash browns and scrambled eggs (good) 2 sour cream and onion Ritz pretzel-crackers (fail) Kashi natural-whatsit snack bar (good) black tea with splenda and old milkshake as creamer (fail) Anticipating higher success rate after buying groceries/banning forced cracker feedings by co-worker. (Forced!) Also there is this: 

Dubbed the Invisibility Cloak, owing to its complete lack of color and therefore INVISIBILITY. No more getting caught by co-workers and being forced to do paperwork for me!

notes from the house of emptiness

Moving is nearly done. We are rippling with mover-type muscles, living like pioneer people up in the cottage with no internets or phone.

The old house is a mess of rolling dust balls, single shoes, broken lego, and to-be-donated junk (including the beer checkers. It is terrible to get tipsy and then find yourself with 26 shot glasses to wash).



The hamcat tore out a hamcat-shaped hole in the screen and ran away. Leif has been helping by working my cardio as an ankle-weight. Gavin has been helping by sneaking things out of the garbage piles and into his toy bins. Mike nearly fell out of the storage loft under a 50 lb trunk. But then the rain swept over the fields behind the house, the sun rose out of the ocean like a fiery plum, and our friends lent us their truck-packing services and eased our aching shoulders with a night of cards and homemade pizza and the new mango homebrew. Everything is kind of good.

DO NOT WANT

TMI. Men and grandparents should skip ahead.

Sometimes I don't feel like writing because I am tired out from hauling shipment boxes or writing reports or arguing with hobos. Sometimes I am too sad to post anything except song lyrics and poetry about what an asshole the moon is. And sometimes it's because I get back to work after a root canal and flip open my desk calendar and discover that my period is a week late. Then I can't write anything, because it all comes out like, "AAUUGH! AUUGHH! AUUGHHH!" which nobody wants to read unless there are illustrations and someone is getting eaten by something. So I end up driving all over town before work the next day, and neither of the general stores have pregnancy tests because the teenagers keep stealing them, so I buy a chocolate bar instead and eat it all as I am pulling into the health center, where I walk past a bunch of patrons I know, who wave and say, "Hey, Miss Librarian!" and then pretend to be furiously reading magazines while I am forced to yell over the air conditioning to the cute receptionists about my need for a stick to pee on. They give me an appointment for next week, instead. Then I drive back home, anguishing over how I just bought smaller jeans, and how I just had a month filled with enough booze and x-rays and face-numbing drugs and prescription medication to grow a baby with legs instead of arms. Shut self in bathroom and discovered that the public humiliation had been enough to remind my body what it was supposed to be doing. FALSE ALARM. Felt a rush of enchiladas - ok, I was writing 'exhilaration' and that is what came out, so I am leaving it - and vague disappointment as my hypothetical girl-baby disappeared in a wisp. Looked at myself in the mirror, head tilting a bit. Like a dog thinking, "Enchiladas?" I am done thinking for the day. And feeling. And yearning. No more anything. I'm going to play Sea Wolf and go do some mindless barcode beeping for - oh - the next 15 years or so.


Sooo, aside from all that, my normal post for this week should have looked like this:


* Did not get a tooth pulled, as oral surgeon was revealed to be a new-agey tooth-extraction-cures-all man, and root canal dentist was revealed to be an eye-rolling drill-and-ridiculous-goggles man. Man with the drill won.

* Started knitting a child-sized version of the Modern Garden for the girlie on smaller needles.




* Put the girl-child on a plane and returned her to her family, who would poke through her suitcase full of nori snacks and Japanese candies as if she were bringing home a bag of witchetti grubs. Kiddo cried to see her go, while I patted him and chatted with the airport security goon I went to the prom with.

* Bought a nice new pair of boyfriend-cut jeans in a comfy size 8 (cut from real boyfriends, I am assuming).



They look slightly better when I don't have my shirt accidentally tucked into them.

* Got home, took my antibiotics and vicoden, thought grumpy thoughts about the 5 x-rays I've had in the past few weeks. Was feeling like a toxic barrel of toxicness. Made plans to go on a Master Cleanse (for real this time, not substituting Crystal Light and pop tarts for the lemon-cayenne-maple drink).

countdown: 7 days until the big move. Off to find some enchiladas.