More fighting!

A few weeks ago, while walking with the stroller, our neighbor slammed out the front door and walked to his red truck, too fast, avoiding eye contact. I ran with the stroller, narrowly avoiding him as he roared backwards and sped out of the lot. "Was he drunk, or trying to hit us?" Both, maybe. After the fight on Tuesday, my mother went to talk with her biker friend across the driveway from the brawlers, and the clues are these:

• Red Truck Guy doesn't live here; his elderly parents do.

• Nobody likes Red Truck Guy, and there is a restraining order against him.

• Guy Who Looks Like Inflatable Shark is trying to drive him away. Poorly.

Yesterday, the kids got out of school early, and were spreading the limbs of hapless Lego Hero Factory figures all over the floor to construct MEGA HERO (a monstrosity with feet for shoulders and so much armor it would collapse under its own weight) when the screaming and banging started again. Pool Shark and Red Truck were circling each other with fists up. They lumbered around grinning nervously so it looked like they were playing. When the punching started, I called 911. They broke apart, Pool Shark went inside, and Red Truck Guy walked casually to the back of his truck. I was about to tell the operator that it was a false alarm, when Pool Shark lunged outside with a golf club and bashed out the truck windshield. A cop pulled up, and they started punching each other quickly, to get a few hits in before they could be broken up. The cop jumped out, yelling, and I decided I would not be a cop for very long if I tried that career path, because I would be shooting every giant shark-shaped person who charged at me. 

In the evening, we went out with the stroller for our walk. The broken glass was cleaned up, the neighborhood quiet. Across the street, something shiny was in the bushes. I grabbed it. "What are you doing? We don't need that!" said Mike. "Need? This is not about need. Any crap detective or video game player knows to pick up clues when you find them."

I came home, very pleased with myself. I had found criminal golf club.

The cat was impressed, anyway. Some may argue that you only need clues when there is a mystery to solve, and there isn't any real mystery involved here, since we know who the jerks are and what they want, but still. Evidence! Of something! Maybe it will be vital to some twist development, or maybe it will possess me to bash out someone's windshield. Will I get chased down by an angry man for stealing his golf club? THAT is the mystery.

fight!

I am smitten with a pressure cooker. Dinnertime is a nightly experiment in how many things I can put into the pressure cooker. Ribs. Pot roast. Sausages. BBQ chicken. Last night I made ham hocks and beans, and decided that they needed cheese biscuits to go with them. I've never put cheese in biscuits, so I sought out Paula Deen to tell me how to make delicious (hopefully non-racist) breadstuff. Paula Deen just puts cheese in biscuit mix, as it turns out. I did not have biscuit mix, and I wasn't sure if waffle mix was an acceptable substitute, so I just made regular cream biscuits and put cheese in them. Felt like a genius as I pulled them out of the toaster oven, hot and golden and cheesy.

At just that moment, things went apeshit. People were screaming, doors were slamming, and we ran to the windows to watch three of our neighbors tumble out into the parking lot, yelling and kicking and punching at each other while a woman with no pants on cussed at them in operatic volume. A man shaped like an inflatable pool shark in a t-shirt started dancing around on his toes, "One on one! Come on, one on one!" His opponent threw a golf club at him. They ran to opposite sides of a truck, reaching into the bed to throw things at each other. An empty tool box. An aluminum baseball bat. A putter. Pool shark grabbed a shovel and chased the other men in circles. He threw the shovel down, started dancing on his toes again, and one of the other men picked it up and put it back in the truck while the big guy took fake swings at him. By this time everyone on the block was at their door with 911 on the phone - including us. I stood at the screen door and took video with my phone. When the sirens started blaring, the men all leaned casually on the truck and waited for them, while the woman ran to put pants on. A cruiser pulled up and an officer leaned out. "Was somebody fighting over here?" "NO. FUCK YOU." Very convincing. 5 cop cars stuffed into the lot. As soon as there were badges between them, they all started screaming at each other again, feinting forward as if the cops were restraining them. Girlfriend ran across the street and took up her screaming from a safe distance. The cops ignored her, but she almost got hit by a bus while trotting backwards into the street.

Then I remembered my cheese biscuits. Which were now cold. UNACCEPTABLE. I chased everyone to the table and made them eat, eyes straying to the windows.

And so it was that my biscuits were upstaged by hambeasts with garden tools on a Tuesday night. My nosy footage is on its way to the court house with the fed-up father of one of the brawlers. Will be locking the doors tonight.

babies as dumbbells

After a few months of carrying your baby, you may spot yourself in a mirror and notice a difference.

Two-timed by weather

Woke up to torrential rain, and checked news to find a tropical depression and ALSO a small hurricane on top of us. 

And where are the boys this fine day? Why yes, they are camping! Feeling both relieved for refusing to sleep in a tent with a baby, and appalled that I sent my older offspring off to get washed away by a hurricane. An active start to storm season this year. We may need to put more than canned wieners in the hurricane kit.

Pinstress

"Some poll showed that people spend time stressing over their Pinterest boards and feeling like failures because they aren't making enough gorgeous food things," said my mother. "That is ridiculous, it's just a cork board," I said. 

And then I had to ask the boy what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday.

"CREEPERS."

"That is not a flavor."

"PORTAL."

"Also not a flavor."

The other child chimed in, "HARRY POTTER. And also Portal. HARRY PORTAL."

My mother shook her head. "That sounds obscene. You should cover your Harry Portal so nobody sees it."

In the end, we went with creepers. Taking to Pinterest, I found these things:

creeper cupcakes from Candy Bar Cupcakes

Fine. I can make bronze sculptures and knit sweaters, I can make cupcakes for the kid to take to school.

So I pulled out the Kitchen Aid, sprayed and floured the pans, baked them carefully, and lovingly turned them out onto racks. And the cake broke up and flopped out in chunks, because it was not a sweater or a sculpture.

Well, the joke is on you, cake - there are only 6 kids in Leif's class because they split into groups on the first week of kindergarten. Carved 6 squares out of the chunks that were big enough. I win.

The faces are made out of fruit leather. I remember fruit leather being pretty disgusting, but when it's the only candy you can wheedle out of your mother at the health food store, it's still pretty exciting. As it happens, fruit leather technology has improved over the years, and Target sells one that you might even want to finish, instead of licking and sticking to the walls at 3'-high intervals around the living room.

Tip: cut each one into thirds, cut the top off each section for the eyes, and nip bits out of the bottom piece for the mouthy part. Eat the remnants.

There was no spray color to be had, so I thinned down food coloring in a teaspoon of vodka and painted the pixels on.

VICTORY.

Uneven, blotchy victory, but enough to keep me off of pinterest fail, at least.

Next: 5 year-old birthday party at Korean bbq place with fires built into the table. What could go wrong?

Moar sewing

The itch to draw means it's time to start a new book project. And I just...

So I'm sewing things again. My aunt took the boys away for beachy cousin activities, and my brain ground to a halt. The baby went down for a nap, I vacuumed, did dishes, and sat on the couch bobbing my knees, trying to remember what I used to do when I had a brain that functioned. Put on Pandora, trusting the internet to know what to do (because guess what is still stuck in my head? JOLENE. AUGH), and found an old shirt of mine with the elastic blown on the sleeves.

I cut it up, shook cats off it, pinned pinned pinned, laid my hands on my machine in silent prayer - work, motherfucker, or I'm trading you in for a bedazzler - and made a little gathered dress.

IT WORKED!

Every time I dress the kid in clothes I like, people ask, "Ooh, did you make that?" which kind of makes me question my taste in garments, but at least it gives me a reason to just go ahead and make the damn things.

Dresses are the best thing ever, because you can fit SO MUCH of them into your mouth. 

High-five, self.

I did not yet make the underpants to go with it, but someone gave us a pair of baby skinny jeans, so I gave those a try. Getting a baby into skinny jeans is like getting a pig into a pair of skinny jeans. Adult hands are too big to fit up the leg holes to grab the fat little feet, so you have to squinch them up over their hams like pantyhose. But the end effect?

Totally not worth it.

Flossie

It is still and muggy, with low clouds passing overhead. Our people on Maui have all fallen silent as cable and Internet and power have gone out. "We can hear thunder, and branches breaking," was the last report. The last big storm in Hana tore away the preschool and broke apart the bridge, so they are a bit nervous. We aren't too worried, here - not being on a beach or under big trees - but the anticipation has kept us indoors on a day we would have been out at Gordon Biersch toasting the man's birthday. We have filled oil lamps, topped off the water purifiers, charged our readers, and eaten pot roast with cheesecake, instead.

It will be a stormy night, and we might have a lot of cake to eat in the morning if the power goes out again. 

We can handle.

flame suit doesn't fit well

The baby is sleeping and happy again after a few days of fever and crying from her 4 month shots. After I mentioned it, a friend of mine posted a passive-aggressive article about autism and immunization on facecrack; an article without any citations to actual research, starring the scientist who was discredited for faking his data. I will believe in a link if a link is established - that is how science works. In the meantime, I will accept the hypothetical risk of a percentage of autistic children with the shots, against the known percentage of dead babies without them. I'm not going to get into a wank-fest with someone I like - not on medicine, food, politics, or money. I once offended a good friend by saying that photos printed on canvas were tacky and stupid. I still think they are, but I kind of like having friends. And to support these people I care about, I'm making an effort to be more vocal when confronted by sexism, homophobia, and racism. I turn purple and look like Marty Feldman when this happens, but I'm working on it.

This is one of the duties of the no-longer-idiot-20-something-year-old. Along with wearing big earrings and drinking expensive scotch.

eff you, too, sewing machine

My cousin was in the hospital for breathing issues. The power went out for 18 hours. The car battery died. I cashed out all the coins in the house for $60 but then had to spend it on food and diapers. It was a harsh week. But the thing that chewed my biscuit was my sewing machine.

Most of the damage sustained by sewing machines is probably hammer-related. Repair shops very likely have garages in the back for body work. When I take my machine in, I want it back with sparkle paint and flames.

YES

The damned thing snarled up my sewing into a big rat's nest, gnawed the fabric into pulp in spots, and made pissy clunking noises, rocking back and forth like an old Ford Ranger. I took it apart, cleaned it, rethreaded everything, and it rewarded me with silent, perfect, gliding stitches - causing a surge of wonderment and joy - and then GNAW GNAW CLUNK, it was a clattering mess of balled up thread again.

My main purpose in sewing is to achieve that mental in-the-nowness that results from concentration on a skilled task. And this still managed to fulfill that goal. I was wholly present in the moment, and the moment was wholly filled with growling and banging and fleeing cats.

After a general appeal to my betters on facecrack, I got the cussed thing to work long enough to finish my projects, which I here present in the manner of serene mom-blogger. Oh this little thing? I just sewed it up while she was napping, lalala.

BEHOLD MY SEWING PROWESS

My first attempt at smocking went pretty well. Except when I was done, someone said something about how neat it was that I did it without a "pleater", leading me to suspect I have once again learned something by doing it the unnecessarily hard way. Research? Pfft, I am a librarian. I can look it up when I am mid-way through completely fucking it up. 

McCalls 3573

The best thing about this design is that it will fit for YEARS. The long sleeves turn to half sleeves, and the hem lets out 3". I love you, practical-children's-clothing era.

I have a problem with sewing clothes out of non-garment fabric. Pillowcase dresses look like pillowcases to me. Quilt fabric screams OH HI I'M HOMEMADE (not that it's stopped me). But gauze is cheap and airy and looks good. I bought a lot of it. So I made a little sundress out of my remnants from the smock-top.

Simplicity 1921

In a fit of broke-assedness, I bought the digital pattern and then had to print it out. I used my mother's printer. Now it is out of ink. Nobody tell her.

I didn't make the bloomers. Was too mad at my machine by then.

While all this trying-on was going on, I tested Zenny's annoyance levels with the knitting I made for her last fall.

stop now

I just need a u-pick and some refurbished thrift store furniture, and I'll be on my way.

Deft hands of smockery

I am doing it! I am smocking things!

Contemplating practical applications of new skill. Smocked motorcycle nets. Smocked jelly bags. Smocked... beards. I'm working on it.

Summer rain and a rattling cough for the middle child have driven us inside. I am not the sort of mother built for science activities and kid's craft projects. I set up tables for board games and clear areas for lego play while juggling the baby, doing laundry, and making fudge pops. Gavin lays and reads and listens to music, Leif makes incessant sound effects and follows me around looking for snacks while blasting apart the kitchen with imaginary fireballs.

Sometimes they come together on Minecraft while the baby naps and I work on my stitching. Then they start stealing each other's sheep and yelling, "OW" at jarring intervals, and I make them go scoop kitty litter and vacuum, instead. We will get along, or we will clean, damn it.

Zenny has escaped this, so far, owing to her terrible coordination and pleasant disposition.

The foggy depression I had been struggling with lifted at some point, and the scale ticks down half a pound at a time. Regaining my sense of self, and enjoying the long days of kiddie pools and frozen treats and early sunrises. Leif and I have been trolling Pinterest for birthday ideas, because he has decided he must have creeper confections to mark his 5th year. With three birthdays spread through the months, summers are made of cake in this house.