You should not eat that.

I am high on cold medicine and making poor choices. Things were going so well. My cold lifted long enough for me to run around the kitchen with a spatula and a dinner glass full of chocolate booze, sautéing onions and clipping artichokes and whisking batter. My mother was medicated to the gills and ready to sit upright and eat when the roast was carved. In the evening we dyed eggs, chucked the kids in bed, and the bunny delivered his baskets of candy, toys, bacon hot sauce, and zombie jerky (regular jerky with green flavor powder on it). Leif woke up at 3am and flipped in bed like a trout until we finally stumbled out at daybreak to put on the coffee. Delight and yelps because - as hoped - the rabbit ate the complimentary carrot. As well as the note.

Things began to take a turn after the chocolate. I gathered an armful of boiled eggs for the traditional eggs à la goldenrod, and the oven burst into flame. We watched it flicker through the tinted glass. Jokes about creamed eggs vs. cremated eggs were made. Mike opened the door and puffed it out, which was anticlimactic and disappointing. I got a pair of chopsticks and plucked out a lump of burnt cheese, and the man made a sad face. I think he wanted to eat it. 

It was a two-hour drive to the airport, and everybody wanted to come. I threw back a dose of Robitussin and sat wedged in the back seat between the boys, eyeballing them for absorbency as my stomach began to turn. Leif had a blanket. Gavin had larger clothing. It was a tossup. As I write this, my cold medicine has suddenly kicked in, and I am squinting and failing to remember where I was going with this. I didn't puke. I will not puke now. Probably.

There were bits about Chinese food, and kissing my mother, and waving her off to her terminal, and then finding myself in Walmart staring up at the birds in the rafters. The man deduced that I was high at this point, and tried to ditch me at Pier 1 while he ran off to a friend's house, but he was foiled by the giant "ENJOY EASTER WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY, YOU SELFISH ASSHOLES" sign on the store window. This was too bad, as I had decided I wanted to buy a bunch of overpriced couch pillows, dance in the curtain display, and maybe take a nap under a papasan. We made it halfway home before Leif threw up. He handled it well; an unhappy gurgle, a plea to pull over, a neat hurl on the side of the road, a swish with the dregs of my soda, and a stoic nod that he was ready to get back in the car. As we got underway again, I pulled out a stick of gum, and Leif asked for some. Normally this wouldn't fly, but I was doped up and felt sorry for him, so I tore off a piece and handed it over. A moment later, he said, "Here, done," and extended it back to me. This is when something went very wrong in my brain. I looked at the slimy blue wad as he tipped it into my hand, and was unable to remember what I was supposed to do with it. Instead of flicking it out the window or putting it in the wrapper, I thought, "oooh, sweet minty baby kisses!" and PUT IT IN MY MOUTH. The man stared at me. "Did you just -?" "It is really wet. I don't like this." "You know he just threw up and then chewed on that, right?" For some reason, this was a COMPLETE shock to me, and I started laughing like a lunatic, my head on my knees. And I still forgot to spit it out. At home, everyone ate leftovers for dinner, but I peered suspiciously into the gravy container and decided it tasted like mold. So did the lamb. And the Yorkshire pudding. I put it down as sick-person taste buds and went to get my jammies on. Got my toothbrush. Put toothpaste on it. Stuck it in my mouth. Marveled that my sick-buds made the mint toothpaste taste like cinnamon. Realized that something was wrong. Began to salivate uncontrollably. Spit and rinsed and gagged and licked a towel frenetically. SOMEONE had gotten into my scented bathroom oil diffuser and dipped my toothbrush into the scented oil.

It was a holiday of sensations. Horrible, unforgettable sensations. But nevertheless, the sort of holiday that contained just the mess of horror, food, and family that make them worth looking forward to every year. Now with Chocovine.

Easter 2011

Easter has arrived a day early, in a herald of lung-hacking and blanket-groaning. My mother and I were struck down by the airport virus gods, who demand the madre's return on Sunday evening - so the day of feasting has been bumped up to Saturday. The lamb is being rubbed down with olive oil, rosemary, amoxicillin, and a cherry Robitussin glaze.

A new discovery this year: Chocovine. Chocolate milk, what has booze in it. "It isn't a holiday unless everyone is slightly drunk by the time the meat is carved," I reasoned reasonably.

My doctor loaded my mother's pockets with drugs - sadly not encapsulated in rattling pink plastic eggs - and we are cozied at home against the blustering rain with the smells of pie and yorkshire pudding. 

"I will write a letter to the Easter Bunny and ask him to leave you medicine in your basket," says the boy. "Even though he ate the letter last year. And the year before."
"Yeah, I don't think rabbits can read so good."

"I'll ask him to give you yarn, too."

I don't know when I became the kind of person who would get excited about a basket of yarn on Easter morning, but I got out the paper and crayons.

spinning my wheels

 
The Boyfriend Curse

I've never knitted a man-sweater. Fellow fiber hoars know why: the Curse. If you start a sweater for a man, he will dump you before it is finished. If you finish it, he will not wear it, you will get pissed about it, and you will eventually dump him. The Curse can also be pretty handy if you're looking to end a relationship in the most passive-aggressive means possible, but it doesn't appear to have any effect on husbands. A husband can evidently endure substantial abuse by way of clown barf yarn and reckless pompoms. It is unclear how any of this applies to ex-husbands, however, and I got it into my head to test it. For science.

"I want to knit you a sweater."
"If we lived somewhere that required sweaters, or if I were the kind of person who wore that kind of thing, I would love to wear anything you made for me, because everything you knit is freaking amazing."

And that is the kindest rejection I have ever been dealt. I gave it up and wondered if I could knit a mustang cozy for the renta-monstrosity.

Two days later, a close friend announced his engagement. In New York. In the fall. And the man is in the wedding party. "I GET TO KNIT YOU A SWEATER!" I win. In a manner which creates a lot of work for myself, and which will cost a lot of money.

The plan so far:

My mother doesn't appreciate my sacrifice for science.
"When are you going to make me a sweater? You just made ones for the boys, and you're making one for yourself, and now you'll make one for Mike. I'm always on the bottom of the totem pole."
"I just spent 8 months making you a sweater!"
"Well, it's too hot."
*incoherent whargling*
"I want the one you're making."
"Well, it seems to be growing. You may be in luck."

It doesn't look huge, but it turns out that lace is stretchy. I should have known this - I WOULD have known this if I had swatched, but I never swatch anything, because I like the surprise. And because I am stupid.

It also turns out that long repeats of lace are a complete motherfucker to fix after your child rips out your needles and yanks out a chunk of it while you are in the bathroom. I hunkered on the couch with my knees up like a fence, deflecting small hands while frogging back five rows. One thousand stitches.

One thousand stitches.

I cried a bit, and then poured myself a margarita in a mason jar. Knitting is rough shit.


Mania and cave dwelling

A vague, pervasive sadness had settled over me in the past weeks, and a few days ago I decided to combat it by fiddling with my brain chemistry.

During my bleakest, most heartbroken days in California, my old friend Harris - he of the perpetually dilated eyes - schooled me on the relationship between serotonin and endorphins, pressing a bottle if 5htp into my hand in the CVS vitamin aisle. Within a week, I was laughing up at jet trails. Mike took this as a sign that I was sufficiently impaired to take him back and impregnate, and he was correct. This time, I am on to it. One 5htp pill a day, and no cloud-gazing or leather-clad men. I have been on the stuff for three days now -  and it has worked! My grim sadness has dissipated. Now I have panic attacks and lucid nightmares about losing my children to natural disasters and having sex with the fourth Dr. Who.

 It is possible that my brain does not need my interference.

The resulting mania is good for my productivity, at least. Two months have whipped by in a muppet-flailing frustration of inadequate screen time. I can knit a few rows or run off a few sentences between work and parenting and tub-rat disposal*, but illustration demands long uninterrupted hours in which to reach a state of artistic flow and physical malnutrition. My weekends are spent chasing my family out of the house, and as the last 5 weeks** to my deadline burn by, so too will my eyeballs.

That sunshine outside? It is not for me. 

I get the corner, where it is dim enough to necessitate a lamp at noon 

on a day when everyone else is at the beach.

I'm seeking balance, and inspiration, and self discipline. So far I have pills, dead rats, and a backache. We work with what we have.

* Those rampant vermin I mentioned have all been left dead in my bathtub. The cats are pleased with themselves. I found myself thinking about my illustrations and wondering if I could perform taxidermy with household supplies. I chucked them into the neighbor's bushes, instead.

**FAAAACK 5 WEEKS LEFT!

bored

Work defense system has been upgraded to two baseball bats. I am spoiling for a fight. "You want me to help you upload WHAT, SIR? What do you MEAN, show you the PORT?" Wham.

At home, the beer fermenter spewed all over the inside of the mini fridge, which now smells like a dead thing. In the bedroom. Of course it does.

Annual swarming of vermin. The roaches go into a pheromone frenzy, the cane spiders come out to eat the roaches, the rats come out to chew up the spiders, and I yell at everyone for using library books to smack them all with. That is what cats are for. Smacking vermin.

Started a ridiculously hard project. Because somebody is too busy coding a beer app to get off the computer and let me work on my book illustrations. Have been figuring out lace charts and staring daggers at him from the couch.

BEES

 

Solo weekend and finished object

The man and boy flew off to Oahu for the Highland Games, leaving me waving from an empty driveway with the infink - alone and defenseless for the wolves to feast on.

For two days, we ate cookies and watched early-morning Shaun the Sheep. We set Pandora to classic rock and hung out laundry with the Rolling Stones. We mowed half the lawn - I pushed the rotary mower and he raced ahead as if chased by a combine harvester. We dragged out the lawn chairs, sunning our legs and loading squirt guns. We caught up on icanhascheezburger and cuteoverload, and ate leftover homemade pasta.

For three nights, the child was bathed and read to and tucked into bed with a song by 7:30pm. There is nothing quite as heartbreakingly perfect as a sleeping child in footie pajamas. I kissed his curls and tiptoed out of the bedroom, to spend a few hours working on my illustrations with a small glass of whiskey and a few episodes of the Wire and Dr. Who. I've been trying hard to get sucked into Dr. Who, but it just hasn't hooked me the way Battlestar did. I enjoy David Tennant's bugging eyes and tiny teeth, though.

And while Leif dug in the yard with trucks, or laid his head on my chest to watch Ponyo and My Neighbor Totoro in the evenings, my hands were working.

 (River Forest Gansey) 

A bit of hobbit-wear for cool nights on the misty mountain with the friends.

Dark heather brown cotton, light and washable.

Leif checked on my progress intermittently, and put his arms out to try it on at every stage of construction. When it was done, he ran his hands over it and said, "Wow. Pretty. For me." My chest exploded from gratification.

I knit to distract myself from my thoughts; to channel sadness or shmoopiness or regret and achieve a sort of mindless focus in the repetitive motion. Every item has a feeling worked into it - some I need to give away, some go into a box, some get ripped out and cussed at. This one is the best of what I can do, because it makes my son feel loved, and that is everything I put into it during these days alone with him.

hope, romance, meth, and motor vehicles

On lack of life goals

On Sunday we sat outside on the old canvas rocking chairs, listening to music and watching the baby play with trucks in his litter box full of sudsy water. I've been listening to Otis Redding lately. The cats were sitting by my feet with their ears up, watching the mongooses tiptoe through the grass around the avocado tree, while I enjoyed the view of the pasture, knitting a little Lake George-ish pullover for a small person. The man had a faraway look on his face. "Whatchathinkin?" "About our future. The brewery and whatnot." The 'our' bit surprised me - that I might be in someone's plans when I don't have any of my own. We rocked in the chairs for a bit. The baby splashed, a mongoose startled, the cats perked up. I said, "I don't see the future anymore. When you're young, you plan for school, marriage, a job, kids. After the whole breakup thing, all my goals disappeared. The life I signed up for was gone. I felt like I was walking through fog, there wasn't any point to anything. Now things have come together again. There are the kids, the house, the job, the illustrations. I can't look ahead anymore and see what might be there, because when that time comes it means that this thing is over. And I like this thing, right here, right now." And because I'm afraid. The changes I see are relapses, broken promises; heartbreak and lonely nights and visitation schedules. I can't imagine anything at all into my 40s. "Maybe it's because I'll get myself creamed on the motorcycle. I could crash a tricycle, you know. It's a special skill of mine." "Shut up, you won't crash." Well I will now that I've said it, I thought. Hopefully at low speed, into a bouncy house.

My mother bought a bigger bike this weekend, and the Rebel is now mine if I want it. It makes sense; my commute to work is only 3 miles, and gas has finally tipped over $5.00/gal. This is the bike that drove the man to his seedy rendezvous. In the intervening years, my mother rode most of the drama off of it, but I am not sure I want to make friends with it.



Failed romantic surprises

A hopeful young Romeo arrived at the library just before closing. Evidently he had decided it would be a FANTASTIC idea to get high on meth, put on a dressy outfit, ride his duct-taped moped across winding cliff-side roads for 2 hours, and show up at the library with his sunglasses on at night, hand hidden in his pocket, to ask the librarian, "Is there anything I can buy, or do, to make you open your cash register?" I picked up the wasp spray behind the desk and raised my eyebrows. "Do you need change for the pay phone?" "Yeah, but I don't have any money." "That is not so good." We had two people at the computers, looking up and mentally deciding whether they were about to be heroes. One of our regulars was leaving, and handed the guy two quarters. He went out, screamed into the phone, slammed it down, and demanded more money. A few minutes later he motored away wobbily up the road, dejected. The school athletic director came by to see if we were okay, having run into the guy a few minutes earlier. Seems the young fellow had come out to surprise a girl he was romancing on facebook, who was at home with her family and mortified, hanging up on his calls and probably blocking him from her friends list at that very moment. This squashed any plans I might have had about showing up someplace unannounced to declare my undying love. Or at least not while high on methamphetamine. There goes plan A.


On driving into the wilderness

The man bought a bigger car in part because our friends moved out to the sticks. It was not big enough.

After getting stuck in the mud and assaulted by trees, we ended up leaving it by the dirt road and packing into their vehicle like a clown car to 4-wheel up the mountain, just in time for the day's rain to cascade down the falls by their house and fill up the riverbed.

We sat on the floor in their one-room house and ate quiche and roast beef over cards (I lost) and a bottle of red wine (I don't learn). Just like Laura Ingalls Wilder. With Nickelback and guacamole.

And now we get to drive to town to fix the car. I will spend the afternoon trying on leather jackets at the Harley dealership. All we are is all we are, after all.

cake in a cup

G. sent me this recipe - oh, 3 months ago or something like that, and I have just now gotten around to making it. 

I will never be the same. 

Everything was in the cupboard. The kids were absorbed in things other than me. So I went into the kitchen, dumped the ingredients into my favorite mug, gave it a stir with a fork, stuck the cup in the microwave for 2 minutes, and leaned back to watch it skeptically. I know how to bake, and this is not baking. This is goo in a cup. I expected it to explode or bubble into a greasy lump at the bottom of the cup, but that did not happen. It rose up like a jousting Peep, and the man came skidding in to make greedy fingers as I pulled it out. We dumped some caramel whiskey sauce from our last batch of bread pudding over it and ate it at the counter. CAKE IN A CUP.

Go get a mug and make yourself some cake right now.

G's Microwave Cake In A Coffee Mug

Time 5 minutes
Serves 2

Ingredients

1 large coffee mug
4 tablespoons plain flour (do not use self-rising)
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons baking cocoa
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
dash o' salt
1 egg
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)
Small splash of vanilla
Chocolate syrup (optional)
Whipped topping (optional)

How to make it


Add dry ingredients to mug; mix well .
Add egg; mix thoroughly.
Pour in the milk and oil and mix well.
Add chocolate chips (if using), vanilla, mix again.
Set mug in the microwave; cook for 2½ to 3 min at 1,000 watts.
Cake will rise over the top of the mug, but don't be alarmed!
Some report that 2½ minutes works best. It depends upon your microwave. So, watch carefully to not over do it!
Remove from microwave.
Allow cake to cool a little, then tip out onto a plate, if desired. [or eat with spoon in front of microwave]
Drizzle with chocolate syrup and top with whipped topping, if desired!
This can serve 2 if you care to share!

idle hands are the Devil's nut bowls

Lately I've been having daydreams about Lake George again, and the chilly upstate dawn could do with some small children in hobbit-wear. I'm sorting little piles in my stash cupboard, thinking about earthy stripes, leafy borders, elvish knotwork, and rampant dragons.

Also, I finished my sweater.

I have accumulated a small collection of old, out-of-print books on the history of knitting in the British Isles, causing the child-me to look up from her Piers Anthony paperback and roll her eyes. I have been making it up to her by chucking Life of Pi back into the shipment bin and listening to the new Koontz novel (What the Night Knows), instead. I may not have high literary authority as librarians go, but according to Koontz, I am just a golden retriever and a handcarved chair away from spiritual perfection. I'll take it.

Horrible fabric DEATH MATCH

Blame Robotaday for this, she was the one who found the rainbow fur - which has been floating through thrift stores since they shaved Jeff Goldblum in 1988.

Now, it so happens that there is an entire literary genre devoted to paranormal romance. Red-covered paperbacks filled with busty, wanton vampires getting it on with broody hair-tossing werewolves, producing little were-vampire abominations who grow up to heave their bosoms into the sequels. It is also true that a disproportionate amount of attention goes to the paranormal, while the cryptozoological continues to be shockingly underrepresented. I am still designing concept sketches for "Naked Came the Chupacabra". 

Cryptozoology can be sexy. It isn't all goat-sucking and yeti poo. Unicorns are the indisputable champions of grace and allure. So what would happen if one were to be accosted by a wolfman? 

Probably something very exactly like this: 

"Ohh, an ugly mongoose!" said the infink.

His name is - oh, let's say... Ripper McFluffernuts. And he is on the hunt. 

For luuurve.

Hello, pretty laydee.

But we have only just met! Well, if you -

OHGODMYEYES!

I... I love you.

Head over to Craft Corner DEATH MATCH to see what robotaday, yermits, and sarahapple did with their Goldblum pelts.

Plague hat

What three days sick on the couch looks like. 

The hat, I mean. Also the unshaved man-face, I guess. Mine isn't as noticeable. I dragged myself to work today, throwing down enough orange cold pills to create a comfortable buffer of white noise around myself as I drifted from the circ desk to my office with dilated eyes, watching people's mouths move to form words I couldn't decode. Typed an ill-advised email, deleted it, typed another, deleted it also, wrote a letter of recommendation that I keenly hope did not list "fish burper" or something terrible under their list of duties. Sat with my chin in my hand, looking at the screen with one eye squinched shut and then the other, tapping through my order lists. Pored over the weekly deposit like I was counting money for Baby Ruth bars. Tomorrow is our book signing at Borders. Hoping the brain and lungs reorganize themselves before negotiating that winding road... That is, I hope they clear the muck and get back in working order, and not, you know, switch places. Gross.