A story

The drowning

On my first day of 9th grade at a new school, I was sitting in the late afternoon at a bench next to the swimming pool, waiting for my mom to pick me up after swim practice. One of my new teammates was keeping the lifeguard company while his younger brother - who was in 8th grade and not yet ready to join the team - did practice laps and tried to hold his breath against the clock in the empty pool. The boy hung on the side and asked me to time him, and I watched him sink down and kick to the surface while his brother and the middle-aged lifeguard played ukulele, sitting on metal folding chairs in the guard room. The enormous clock swept around in circles, I told the boy how long he had been down - 36 seconds, 38, 40, 36.

When he went back under again, I walked across the deck to look out at the parking lot for my mother. When I turned around, he was still under, and the clock was sweeping up past 50 seconds. I looked into the water, and saw him laying on the bottom, his posture not much different than the other times he had been under. He could have popped up while I had my back turned and gone back down. The clock swept past the minute mark, and he didn't move. I yelled, "Either he can hold his breath a REALLY LONG TIME, or HE'S IN TROUBLE." The lifeguard threw the ukulele and ran to dive in, which alarmed me. I watched him swim to the bottom, both ashamed that I had not already jumped in and embarrassed that I might have given a false alarm. Then the man grabbed him, and I saw the boy's head drift as he was yanked up. It took an agonizingly long time for them to reach the surface, I was kneeling at the edge of the pool, waiting for them to be close enough to grab. My teammate was running in tight circles, yelling, "MY BROTHER! OH, MY BROTHER!" The 'oh' stuck with me. Then the boy's head was up, and he was pushed up into my arms. I grabbed him around the armpits and pulled him up, shocked by how much he weighed and worried that I was scraping his skin on the edge of the pool. The lifeguard jumped out and grabbed his legs as I dragged him onto the deck, trying not to let my grip slip. I forgot to hold his head, and it bumped the concrete with a horrible sound. "CALL 911," the lifeguard screamed at his brother, who fumbled the phone and yelled, "Come to the pool, my brother drowned! Oh, my brother!" and I could hear the dispatcher squawking back at him while he rubbed his hair furiously and stared at his brother's body. The lifeguard was administering CPR, and I was still kneeling beside him, feeling useless and wishing I hadn't bumped his head. The clock had gone around again. 2 minutes. In movies, the drowning person jolts to life, hitches in a breath, and starts coughing, but that didn't happen. He was limp as rubber, then foam bubbled out of his mouth and spilled down the side of his face. The EMTs arrived and I moved out of the way. They worked on him and a jet of foam erupted into the air, impossibly high, and splattered down onto him. My teammate was quiet, moving back and forth nervously. My mom arrived in time to see them lift the boy up onto a gurney and rush past, his brother chasing behind. The lifeguard had a towel around his neck and looked exhausted but not upset, which I took to be a good sign. I asked something stupid, like, "What was that?" and he said, "He vomited water, that was the foam you saw. He was breathing when they took him." He watched the vehicles drive away and told me, "You saved his life." You did, I thought. I felt like I had almost killed him.

He was in the hospital for a while. His friends got in my face at school, demanding to know why I hadn't saved him. I said, "I did, I found him and helped pull him out," and kept walking to my next class. In retrospect, I probably could have had a better conversation with them about it. I was only 14.

His mother was a teacher at my mom's school, and she said he couldn't remember anything from that day. I was slightly crushed, because I thought we had been getting along pretty well beforehand, and I didn't have any friends yet. Our mothers joked that they would be in-laws some day, but we never spoke again. I kept an eye out for him for a few weeks, but he had a girlfriend who was in my class and I decided it would be weird if I tried to talk to him. If we crossed paths, he would give a polite nod or hold a door open for me while his friends stood aside looking uncomfortable.

All these many years later, I got a friend request on facebook. He grew into a good man, married his high school sweetheart, had children, and became a musician. Now his first album is in production.

I'm very relieved that he didn't turn out to be an evil dictator or international drug lord. My time machine to-do list is already out of hand.

The one I love - DEATH MATCH

I almost conceded entirely. The challenge was "This is dedicated to the one I love," which, as it turns out, is kind of a personal thing. I couldn't think of anything funny. What would I dedicate, if I could? Words, songs.

So I made miniature letters. Which I don't feel like sharing in their entirety, completely defeating the point of the thing. Fail.

But they are cuuute!

I tend to send tokens in letters.

Black and white and red all over DEATH MATCH

In which I yell, "Hey! Can you grab me one of those squirrels from up on the shelf next to the Virgin Mary?"

The theme was "black and white and red all over", and I knitted a tiny sweatervest for Werehodgman. Because his books are black and white. And I read them all over. 

Here he demonstrates an evil spleen:

 "Four forgotten cocktails - The Old Spotty, CA. 1890's: gin, orange juice, and dalmation blood. You used to be able to get this at the Knickerbocker Club in New York City. Then the dog lovers started to get weepy, and another great New York tradition was killed. JUST LIKE THE HUNDRED AND ONE DALMATION PUPPIES REQUIRED TO MAKE THIS DRINK."

Hmm, I wonder if the firehouse has a dalmation? 

For more black, white, and redness, trot over to Craft Corner DEATH MATCH and see what sarahapple, yermits, and robotaday are up to.

Moon madness continues

In an effort to keep the forest from swallowing the road, crews have been cutting back the treeline, leaving ragged stumps and naked stalks jutting up like broken bones. Someone took inspiration and propped a deer skull atop one of these, like a mile marker from a Cormac McCarthy novel. Such have been the days.

A young patron was trespassed by the police after a fight outside the library doors. We pointed fiercely, sending teenagers sailing away from the glass and back into their seats as if casting spells from our fingertips. The next day, a drunk and angry father paced the floor in front of the desk, his elbows raised like a wild creature. "Cause he's a COP he can tell us we can't come in here?" "Yes. And also because I said so." "Who are YOU." "I'm in charge." I stared at him as he paced, face relaxed and heart slamming, and the moment he banged out the door, my fingers were on the phone. We watched the patrol cars fill up the parking lot, and I said, "This week is stupid. It's kind of awesome."

Key vs. Chevy

The cupboards ran dry after a month without groceries. I laid out a jar of port jelly, a container of rice filled with weevils, and a bag of stale tortilla chips. Couldn't think of an improvisational dinner, so we packed up the kids and made the trek to town.

Winding back home that night, we blew a tire and pulled over on the dirt shoulder as it started to rain. "Sabotaged by axe murderers!" I exclaimed, nose pressed to my window eagerly. "Nope. Evidence points to ninjas," said the man, indicating a piece of metal jutting from the tire. "Well, they didn't think that through all the way. They're probably a mile back, running to catch up."

Upon extraction, the metal in the tire turned out to be this.

Yes, that is a key. I don't even know how that happens, outside of being shot from a crossbow by Adam Savage. Such an act of extreme improbability can only suggest that we are at the beginning of a cascade of events wherein I will wind up in singed leather pants and hanging over a pit of sharktopuses while reaching for the key, which has fallen onto a ledge just out of reach. What a pain in the ass.

Artwork and squirrel tendencies
I ordered plastilina and aluminum wire so that I can start sculpting again, and began hiding $20 bills for a plane ride to faraway who-knows-where. Maybe I will fly to Oahu to pour bronze this fall. Maybe I will ride off to San Francisco or New York or Toronto and eat pastries in a city cafe. Maybe I will have to buy three new tires after we run over a chopstick, a comb, and a nail file. Hope springs eternal.

Dark and slashy murderous mayhem

Theme: dark and slashy. Or squirrel attack. Or murderous mayhem. We got confused.

My problem in these challenges is that I don't have a style. I leap from stuffed animal to sculpey armatures to pillow creatures. It would be a lot easier if I had a signature critter, which I could rig up according to theme like SENSIBLE PEOPLE. Will work on that.

In the meantime, I decided on a freezer paper (ie 'cheater's silkscreen') project, then discovered that all my exacto knives were broken, having been used as screwdrivers. Decided on something else, dropped down on the couch to draw plans, and splashed into cat pee. Stripped the cover and cushions, put them in the washer, and made an axe to skin the cats with.







My mom was unimpressed, and said, "I don't understand why you're doing these things." Well at least I haven't taken up recreational vagazzling, or collecting miniature animals made out of fruit.

Who's that with the face like a smacked ass?

Memory got the better of me. The man walked across the living room to put his hands on my shoulders and I stiffened and burst into tears, left him standing in confusion as the door banged shut and I got in the car. The rational part of my brain drove and listened, embarrassed, while I sobbed at full volume.
 

Got to the library and sat in the car for a minute, suspecting that maybe the Dalai Lama might have done all that differently. Imagined him in his robes and little glasses, bawling into the steering wheel with his eyeliner smearing. It was slow and quiet in the evening at work. I went into the bathroom and made faces in the mirror to see what I looked like crying. Holy Buscemi. Resolved never to cry again without a balaclava.

At night, I hunched over thread and needle, trying to drive away thought with lines of blue stitches. We split a beer and talked. Went to bed and I touched his ear briefly to say that everything was okay. I was worried about falling asleep and seeing it all over again; in my dreams I stayed awake all night, looking for a place to lay down. Exhausting.

Who's that with the face like a slapped arse?

I know better than to look at things. On things. With my eyes. I know that the man had three affairs (give or take a DOZEN or however many I feel like imagining - with maybe a few murders thrown in for good measure) and that they were a long time ago, and everything is over with and probably fine. I know these things. But it still feels like I've swallowed boiling oil when I stumble across evidence that it really did occur. In real life. And with complete and utter twat waffles.

It sort of ruins me for the rest of the day.

Didn't want to tell the man what was bothering me. Instead, I yelled at him when he tried to kiss me goodbye after lunch, burst into tears, and drove away sobbing like a lunatic. Got to work and wondered if maybe the Dalai Lama might have handled things differently. Imagined him in his robes and tiny glasses, bawling into the steering wheel with his eyeliner smearing. Went inside, got in front of the bathroom mirror, and made faces to see what I looked like crying.

Holy Buscemi.

Resolved never to cry again without a balaclava.

I am still trying to decide if this means I can go buy a Diet Coke. I'm completely, completely crap at kicking bad habits.

tweed of disappointment

This is my destash year. The year I have sworn off buying fibery wonderment. So of course, on New Year's Eve, I got the man sloshed and persuaded him to buy me a cartload of knitpicks. My box of shame arrived in the mail yesterday, and I hid the contents in my stash cupboard like a teenage boy with an armful of smutty manga.

To assuage my guilt, I pulled out the rogue balls of tweed I had somehow acquired, and knocked out a little cabled pullover for the infink. Made it up myself! With no pattern! I am the Top Knitter!

And...

He hates it.

Next time I will knit him a sweater made out of glow-in-the-dark yarn and funfur. He will love me forever.

(If anybody has a child in need of an 18-24m[ish] cotton sweater, let me know.)

just super

The nights have been cold, and the blankets get kicked aside by small feet. I dreamed that I was lying embraced in big warm tattooed arms (with a man attached), and woke shivering against the wall in the dark. For a moment I just laid there, wondering what time it was - perhaps 2 or 3am - and suddenly my teeth gritted as a jolt of electricity surged through my head, from the base of my skull upward, in a violent drilling sensation that sounded like a dentist's tool. My eyes snapped open, and I was still flexing my hands and feet, wondering if I had had a stroke or something, when another one shot sideways through my brain, again with a surging, drilling sensation. What the HELL. I have not been endowed with psychic visions or paranormal body-finding skills, and have been unsuccessful in causing the hobos to combust with my mental super-powers. I'm out of explanations.

tl;dr if it stinks, there's something stuck in it

Last summer, the infink stuck a splenda packet up his nose. He clawed at it, grabbed my hands, and slapped at his nose until I got him to hold still. I got a pair of tweezers, picked a little ball of yellow paper out, and saw more farther up. We practiced snorting and blowing like a pair of congested ponies, and finally, just as I was suiting him up for a trip to the doctor's office, he sneezed the damned thing out. Cheers and photographs abounded. The child seemed cured.

Spoiler: he was not.

A few days later, he got a runny nose. It ebbed and flowed as the weeks went by, and we blamed the larger child for bringing home school grossness. We kept getting whiffs of garbage, and blamed the cats for having rank kitty breffs. When I got my poor little moles cut off, the drippy nose and the smell vanished completely. When they came back a few weeks later, we had a Dr. Google epiphany and realized that I had been on antibiotics, and he was still nursing a bit, and that meant that the smell was probably an infection. That fucking Splenda packet!

All of this led us to the Otolaryngologist's office yesterday afternoon.

Leif sat on my lap, trying to hide in my breasts from the doctor, who was wearing one of those big circular mirrors strapped to his head like an old-timey bonesaw.

I tipped his head back, the doctor prised his nostril open with silver pliers, and he said, "Yep, there's something waaay up there." He spritzed a medicated mist up his nose (the infink's) and ran off. Leif champed his teeth and asked for a tissue, certain that he was drooling all over his chin as the medicine leaked down his throat and made his mouth numb. He tucked the tissue to his nose and put his head on my chest while I sang a bit of Sea Wolf to soothe him. Nothing like a song about drowning the woman you love so she won't be shot to death to alleviate the tension in a room.

The doctor sat back down, trepidation all over his face. I pulled Leif's head back, wrapped my fingers over his eyes with one hand, and reached across his body to hold his arms down with my other. The doctor had to use both hands to open the nostril and insert the scary foot-long tweezers, which meant that one arm was smashed right up against my breast. We exchanged an eloquent glance which said, "Boob? What boob? This is science," and then, with a deft movement, he slipped the instrument up the infink's nose. Leif screamed in pain and arched his back, but kept his arms down with visible self-restraint, and then, POP! there was a horrifying grey wad of rotting paper at the end of the tweezers. "That was up your nose," I told the infink. He gave it a hard look. "Eew." And then, "Awesome."

Pulling something out of a toddler's nose and saving the day in under 10 seconds must be the best damned feeling a otolaryngologist can have on a Thursday afternoon. The doctor was really happy.

We pivot-flicky-kick'd to the toy drawer and let the infink pick out a plastic car. Leif sniffed, laughed, and then breakdanced everywhere we went for the rest of the day. Perhaps it wasn't just a Splenda packet he removed; perhaps it was a brain slug, or a nugget of Evil. I'm going to have to send that doctor a gift basket.

via

At the top of the basket: a box of Splenda. And my bra.