MOAR CHICKENS

These things are multiplying.

There is an irresponsible teenage hen carousing with roosters and jettisoning chicks all over the school. My mother (the school librarian) is the official homeless bird caretaker, and in her absence, the kids pile lost chicks on Gavin. In the thirty seconds it took him to walk from his class to the car after school, classmates stuffed two more chicks into his hoodie. I peeled out, leaving a wake of children running and lobbing chickens at the car.

 I am locking up the grain and barring the storage compartments.

eleventy-first anniversary

When I met Mike 17 years ago, I was looking at his bare feet while he lay napping on a dorm room floor, and had a sudden, clear, weary thought:  That's the man I'm going to marry. It was like cresting a hill and seeing that the road you still have to walk stretches on for miles and contains a few arduous uphills and some crumbling footholds on the side of a cliff. Probably worth it for the scenic bits, but exhausting and scary. Some people say that trust is everything in a relationship, and this has not been true for me. I don't have any trust left in me, but I have faith. If I am lost, Mike will come find me. If I am angry, he will bear my wrath. If I've done something stupid and fallen on my face, he will haul me up again. He has remained stubbornly beside me for 17 years, and despite the terrible things, the majority of our daily life together has been just as filled with laughter and adventure and children as I imagined for us as a lovestruck teenager. My brain still sharpens its knives at 3am, and forgiveness isn't something you can just choose to feel, but the meat and bone and blood of me loves the meat and bone and blood of him. Half our lives have mashed together into this story, we know each other as well as two people can by now. 

So last year, on the 10th anniversary of our first marriage, we went and got married again. It wasn't documented, just done quietly under a plastic trellis in front of a judge. "We had our divorce annulled," he told his mother afterward over the phone. 

This year makes 11 and 1, in government document years. So here are some things that I think of when considering my husband. 

This poem, by Ogden Nash, which makes me laugh:

Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove
Of a marriage conducted with economy
In the Twentieth Century Anno Donomy.
We’ll live in a dear little walk-up flat
With practically room to swing a cat
And a potted cactus to give it hauteur
And a bathtub equipped with dark brown water.
We’ll eat, without undue discouragement,
Foods low in cost but high in nouragement
And quaff with pleasure, while chatting wittily,
The peculiar wine of Little Italy.
We’ll remind each other it’s smart to be thrifty
And buy our clothes for something-fifty.
We’ll bus for miles on holidays
For seats at depressing matinees,
And every Sunday we’ll have a lark
And take a walk in Central Park.
And one of these days not too remote
You’ll probably up and cut my throat.

Some romances are played out in song, but ours isn't. I keep my music to myself. If I had to pick a song about us, this one comes to mind:

You just have to plunge ahead in life and hang on to who's on the other end of your arm.

Power of the SEEECRET

I start making quilts when I'm having feelings. 

When I was 10, I made friendship bracelets for the same reason. More accurately, I used friendship bracelet techniques to make rope out of thread, which my barbies then used to rappel down cliffs and truss up Jem and the Holograms. I could have just used kitchen twine, but my characters had survival skills to hone, and all they could scavenge in my bedroom were spools of thread. Yesterday, I taught Gavin how to make bracelets, and he's been walking around with floss pinned to his jeans, weaving maniacally and tying colorful ropes around everyone. It warms my cockles.

Then I went to two more interviews. I tossed the fancy black pencil skirt over my shoulder (at home, not during the meeting) and wore my own jeans skirt, put on a scary bug necklace, drank a cup of fully leaded coffee, and told gross hobo stories. These interviews were much better. Feeling marginally more like myself.

Came home and discovered that we had acquired ANOTHER BIRD OH YAY.

And then I fell in love with it. Stupid adorable fluffy chickens.

Three more interviews, then tenterhooks while I wait to find out if any of them took.

sweaters made and destroyed

I'll just pile these all up right here.

Nothing makes a winter chill feel chillier than a fever. Except a sub-zero ice storm, maybe. We only have the viruses, though, so it's sweater season.

I have been opting out of pink as a general principal, but this first project doesn't count because I made it out of materials on hand. Pink isn't the problem, as I have said - pink is just a color, and plenty of kids like pink, and that's great. The problem is not being given any other goddamn options, and drawing a deep, treacherous line between boys and girls. Every girls' clothing and toy section is a sea of pink and trademarked characters. At my kids' school, every girl marches to the lunch line in their uniform of pink top, pink leggings, pink shoes, punctuated by Dora purple. All of them. I count. When the history books illustrate children's fashions of the early 21st century, it will be head-to-toe Princess Pink stretch cotton for the lower classes. The children who's parents can afford it can wear fancy brands in designer palettes; the crafty backlash has people buying vintage patterns and sewing clothes in earthy hues and vibrant fabrics. But if you shop at a mall or a box store, our culture is clear on this: Girls Wear Pink, Tough Shit. 

I have some feelings on this matter.

So here is the pink cardigan I knitted. I made up the pattern and didn't make a chart, so that's lost to posterity. Sorry, posterity.

And then there is this, in dishwater beige. I didn't even sew buttons on it, because I can't decide how I feel about it.

In a feat of spectacularly shitty sewing, I carved up one of my old moth-eaten slub-knit cardigans and made a little shirt for Zenny. The original cardigan had raw edges, so I left the hems unfinished. It's comfortable and airy, even if it looks like it was sewn together by a drunk person on the inside. Stretchy knit is really hard to handle, and I was just cutting the pieces as I went, with no pattern. She's not naked. I win.

Now, one might look at that last picture and ask, after all my ranting, PINK VALENTINES? And yes, they are kitten tattoo cards, which my 11 year-old son chose. My kids are into Legos, Minecraft, Invader Zim, and KITTENS OMG. Pink isn't the problem. It's choice.

Interview with the porcelain

My first interview went about as well as could be expected. I arrived too early, got wrinkled and covered in crumbs while waiting in the car, said some words backwards, and realized afterward that my skirt still had red thread holding the back shut. Then, as soon as I got home to mentally anguish over all the answers I could have answered more intelligently, my insides suddenly wadded up and I spent the entire night barfing. Mostly into the bathtub. Which I then had to wash at 2am.

So that is not how I would like my next interviews to go. Luckily, one of the librarians asked me to bring a kiddie book to read from. I should be able to manage that without major mishap.

Preshus snoflake sweater - with mod notes!

People don't believe that we get weather in Hawaii, but in deep winter the winds and rain come in, and the temperature drops to an autumnal chill that drives us all into socks and sweaters. I base my kid knitting on what size my offspring will be during January and February of the following year. Finally, FINALLY, I can cram Zenny's little hams into these things that have been hanging in the closet since last year.

This is a baby sweater based on the intertwined cable pattern from Cables Untangled. 

The book is worth buying for all the cable motifs and swatches, but an intrepid knitter can probably figure this one out just by studying the pictures; it's all based on 4x4 ribbing.

The arms are too long, because she is the puniest of my offspring. Except for her head, which her doctor says is huuuuge.

I made saddle shoulders so I wouldn't have to decrease neck stitches into the cable pattern.

HERE THERE BE NOTES

size 12-18 mo, on #7 needles, with knit picks comfy worsted.

Back

CO 66 stitches. Work chart up to armpits (about 8 inches), BO 4 stitches, work for 4 inches in chart. BO all stitches.

Front

Same as for back. 

Sleeves

CO 40 stitches. Work 2 rows 2x4 rib. Row 3 (RS), increase 1 stitch into each purl rib, cabling knit rib according to chart (45 stitches). Work one row even, repeat increases on next row, keeping in chart. 50 stitches. Follow chart, increasing 1 stitch on either side every 6 rows 3 times - 56 stitches. Work evenly in charted pattern until sleeve measures about 9 inches. BO 19 stitches, work to end, BO 19 stitches, leaving only 18 stitches in the center (one repeat of chart cables). Work 18 stitches in chart for 3 inches, BO.

Seam shoulder flaps onto front and back, seam armpits. Seam down sleeves and sides.

Collar

Pick up stitches around neck, work in k1p1 rib for 1 inch, or about 8 rows. BO.

Weave in ends.

Burns Night '14

And so I did not finish the hose in time for the annual Hawaii Scottish Association dinner for Robbie Burns.

But I found a gown with a Madam X neckline and sweeping train, which allowed me to sneak my bosom out to nurse the baby and run around barefoot with my feet hidden. Finery is just a disguise. A lot of my Scottish ancestors were in prison.

The haggis was pasty and bland. The steak was perfect and bloody. The madrigal singers made us cringe into our desserts. My cousin's husband was an idiot and I wanted to stab my fork into his arm, except that she hadn't seen me in years, so it wouldn't have been polite. If she ever wants to divorce him, I will be there if she needs me, with a fork.

We had chucked the boys off with their cousins for a sleepover, and arrived early at the country club ("no tight shorts permitted") for dance rehearsal. The man bought a cocktail ticket. When we got to the bar, Mike looked at the shelves and asked about the gin. "Now, I see you looking at those shelves," said the bartender, "and I'm going to stop you right there. That's the good stuff, and what we have for you folks is the house liquor under the counter here, which isn't expensive, and isn't good." He hoisted a bottle of Gordons like a dead rat, and we recoiled with a hiss. "I know." Mike chose bourbon, and the bartender filled a tumbler to the brim sympathetically.

Luckily, there was 18-year Macallans on the table for the toasts. Which my cousin-in-law insulted, and then bolted down 6 shots of. I polished my fork.

All in all, much better than last year, when I had to wear a giant sparkly tee-shirt stretched over my belly and stop the small cousins from dueling with cutlery (MY JOB) and stealing shortbread.

Throwback Thirsty

That's autocorrect, and I'm going to leave it.

Every week, my feed clogs with old pictures of people. After some consideration, I have decided that I kind of like it. The internet is a time machine. Maybe I can alter the past yet, using the most traditional method: lying with historical documents. In the meantime, here are some things.

1984? My mother coerces university photographer into making me a student ID.

1990. Drawing something. Probably a lady with a sword for a comic book I am still failing to make.

Because of course I was. Too self-conscious to smile, but ok with wearing L. L. Bean loons with a katana.

That sword was treasure. I slept with that sword. I made a belt for it out of bandanas and wore it to breakfast until I sat on it and stabbed myself in the leg. This went on until my mother bought me an archery set and a bale of hay to attack outside, which was great until the wild horses ate it (the hay, not the archery set).

THESE GUYS. I tell you.

My son runs around the yard slashing sticks and roaring sound effects at invisible adversaries. I flap my arms and yell, "WHY DO YOU JUST TRY TO KILL EVERYTHING?" Well, because he's my kid, obviously.

If I were a cat I would have buried it

Being a good Scot and general inhabitor-of-rural-and-hungry-regions, I am not a picky eater. In Newfoundland we ate moose meat pie, and as a decent Newfie kid, I was always delighted to find an egg sack in my fried capelin. On Black Mesa, we stopped at the trading post on snowy days and wolfed down hot grilled mutton wrapped in fry bread, which was only dodgy when you paused to consider you didn't know if it was sheep or goat, or who killed it and under what conditions. Doesn't matter. Greasy and delicious. Here in Hawaii, I've eaten every plate of shredded jelly fish, dried cuttlefish, smoked meat, unidentifiable fish, and pungent produce put in front of me. So I thought I would be adventurous at the Japanese BBQ joint this weekend, and order the liver. Because I have never tried a piece of proper liver, but pate is pretty great, and haggis is the food of the burliest beer-loving gods.

And so I discovered why people grind it up and hide it in other food.

If I didn't even know that creatures had organs, I would have known it intuitively after biting into this. And I would realize, with deep and primal certainty, that this were something that should still be in the animal, and never seen or smelled outside the body.

It should have been a clue when the waitress asked, "Do you want the liver with miso or garlic?" and when I asked, "Which do you recommend?" she sort of bared her teeth in desperation for a long moment before saying, "People usually go with the miso." And then take it home for their dogs, she did not add.

Gavin, who has never seen me not eat something, had to nab it off my plate and nibble a corner. 

We tried lightly searing it, cooking it through, and scorching it into spongy leather. Verdict: liver is for people who are dying of anemia or starvation, and who have somehow gotten to a liver without encountering any meat along the way. 

steps

The winter rain is here. Zenny has started walking. "Good luck keeping up now!" people always, always joke. Don't worry, I have the longer legs. The real problem is Xebo. It's like living with a tiny, arthritic, mostly-toothless and very cranky vampire. He stalks the baby in tightening circles until I pick him up and set him down to wobble in front of his old-man cat paté. The mobile baby makes it more exciting, but I'm mostly just worried she will snap him in two when he finally goes for her throat and she falls on him.