Today in the mouse trap

I caught a mouse-sized cockroach. This is getting worse.

peer pressure

My co-worker is very fit and athletic. I am trying to copy her eating habits, which has resulted in smoothies for breakfast, protein bars for lunch, and energetic hoe-wielding in my garden. It's not a perfect system, though.

We have a staff brunch coming up.
"Get the omelette!" says my co-worker. "Bacon is paleo!"
Co-worker #2 pokes her head in the office. "I put pastries in the staff room."
I went and got half a donut. Co-worker trotted away and came back with a plate of roast chicken.

At the staff meeting, boss brought pie. We dished up slices, and co-worker sat happily peeling a boiled egg.

Paleo pie

I don't know how she turns her pastries into meat and eggs, but she has muscles and I have wind socks for arms. 

I ordered the bacon omelette. FITNESS FTW.

Disagreeable animagus

MOUSE. I AM TRYING TO SAVE YOU, MOUSE.

As head of the Rodent Removal Squad, I am in charge of baiting the little cages and releasing the library mice in a humane and sanitary manner. My co-workers are perfectly happy to let me scrub mouse poop out of the traps every day and not have to throw away the struggling little quivering-eyed beasties in glue traps, so this hasn't been a hard sell, but NOW one of the mice has learned how to escape from the traps. For the third day in a row, I'm washing out the poop and trying to hide the fact that Algernon has learned to operate the one-way ramp, because as soon as my system is proven a failure they will be back to slipping glue traps behind the shelves. Maybe if I just stuff the damn thing with cheese and peanut butter, the mouse will spend so long glutting itself that it'll still be in there by the time we open the building. Or I will breed a generation of gargantuan, super-intelligent mice.

Worth a shot, either way.

"If it doesn't look handmade, what's the point?"

My favorite argument for whenever something comes out very badly, coming from a library patron who refused to learn advanced craft skills.

Something was wrong with my feed dogs. My nap time sewing schedule doesn't generally include time for machine diagnostics, so I forced my way through anyway. After mangling the dress and caroming my topstitching all over the damn place, I took one minute to scrutinize the machine thoughtfully and realized that there is a pressure button on the side of the machine. I pushed it down. My feed dogs worked again. So I sewed an entire dress very badly for nothing.

ANYWAY.

Another project from Linen, Wool, Cotton Kids. This one has pockets. And still no zippers!

Also, I planted things. Four gardenia bushes, and a passion fruit vine along the fencepost. Also (not pictured), two English rose bushes, which are tiny and cute and came in a cardboard box from Oregon. I'll have to plant some native Hawaiian plants to make up for introducing the invasive species. Guilt and furtiveness.

Aaaaaah, topstitching like someone hydroplaning.

Toddler hair.

It's ok, despite my horrible sewing machine diagnostic ability.

Not a post about Easter

I haven't been a fan of Easter for some years now. I know I should take the rabbit by its horns and shake as much festivity out of it as I can, but I lack the proper rabbit-throttling enthusiasm. I will note that there was more flat ham, which was fantastic, and roast lamb, which was amazing, and the children were really great. So that's all fine. MOVING ON.

Am getting into minor flame wars on social media over the Mauna Kea telescope. Which I support. Because there's already a telescope up there. And nobody lives there. And there are no endangered species at risk. And it'll be amazing. But Jason Momoa took his shirt off, so EVERYONE UP TO THE SUMMIT TO HUG HIM AND GET ARRESTED. HAWAIIAN BLOOD FOREVAH. You know who also loves pure blood? Voldemort. Expect him up there any time, folks. And hope he keeps his shirt on.

This week I gave a 13 year-old a medal for putting his fist in a cardboard box. He won the storytelling competition with the extra points we gave him for comedic sarcasm.

Week #2 of having no functioning bathtub and having to wash my hair in the laundry sink was made more exciting by having the water shut off completely. We have since resolved the situation, and Leif was disappointed that he still wasn't allowed to catapult around splashing water all over the floor. WHAT GOOD IS A NEW TUB EVEN.

Earlier in the week, for reasons perhaps easy to intuit (hint: free showers), I took the kids to the public pool. We paddled around in three feet of water while hovered over by two surprisingly-vigilant lifeguards. Zenny, who will stand grimly and refuse to sit or play while in the bath, suddenly becomes part-otter in the pool, leaping and splashing and... cracking mollusks. Handles on baby suits, I tell you.

Incidentally, I just searched for "baby swimsuit with handles", just to see if they've been invented yet, and found this thing:

Clearly no further advancements in swimwear are necessary.

Xebo died

1996-2015

We found Xebo when I was 16, on Molokai. He was the very best, up until the cancer made him confused and angry and thrashing at people in pain. He went gently in my mother's arms at the age of almost-20.

Greatest hits:

As a kitten, he stole all our used corn cobs and made a pile under the table, where he sat growling and gnawing until they were nubs.

After we plunked half a frozen chicken into a pot of boiling water to make soup, he jumped up onto the counter while we were not looking, reached into the boiling water, and hooked the chicken out with his claws, and made a daring escape with a piece of meat as large as himself. We wrestled it away from him, rinsed it off, and put it back in the pot. Because we are gross cat lovers.

While my aunt was cleaning the big fish tank, Xebo failed to notice the lid was off, jumped from the dining table, and kangaroo-leaped through the tank, traumatizing all the fish.

"No Xebo, you can't go outside, it's raining." So he went into the bathroom and systematically pulled out all the bathroom louvers like a raccoon.

"No Xebo, you can't come in the bathroom to watch me pee." So he learned to turn doorknobs.

Any time we had guests, there were shrieks from the bathroom, because Xebo HAD to see what was making the noise, and there was a gap between your bottom and the back of the toilet to poke his head down.

Gavin learned to walk by dandling a stick while Xebo tumbled and gnawed on the end of it.

Leif learned to walk by dandling a stick while Xebo hissed and batted at it.

Zenny learned to walk by trying to get away from Xebo before he scratched her. (He was getting old.)


Am sad today.

I sewed a thing

From a library book. A really good one, if you're into simple, timeless/vintage style and NO ZIPPERS YAAAY.

You have to trace out the pattern yourself - the different pieces are drafted over one another like lines on a topographic map, printed in different colors. Not too hard to trace out, except that the spread-out sheets of tissue and pattern paper summon every cat within a 30-foot range.

Japanese batik print linen, with overlapping tie-back and slightly gathered waist.

3 hours, start to finish, excluding time spent slinging cats.

I win, Easter deadline!

The dancing meth addict

"There is a big guy with no shirt on, dancing on the sidewalk."
"Is he still there? He's been doing that since last night."
"He is dancing with his hands down his shorts."
"Oh, dear."

The large semi-naked man was asked to please dance a bit farther away from the walkway.
"I'm hungry," he said.
"You can get food at the gas station," we suggested.
He moon-walked around the corner. Peeking from the back door, we could see him execute some tight spins and an energetic bit of air guitar near the bus stop. Part of his imaginary guitar appeared to be stuffed down the front of his pants.

Some time later, there was the distant sound of sirens. One of our police officers trotted in. "A big naked meth addict was just taken off to the hospital for a heart attack by the gas station!"

Yikes. I hope he got his sandwich first.

DIY HACK - how to shrink your bathroom

The renovation was upon us, and I fled.

I felt guilty about fleeing, but the man and I have a traditional arrangement: I do most of the things-which-keep-children-alive, and he does most of the things-which-endanger-children. This means I'm the one getting red in the face and hauling tantrumming toddlers around, but it also means I'm not the one peeing in a laundry sink while the bathroom gets tiled. The kids and I spent the weekend eating my mother's food, and the man spent the weekend tiling until he damaged the nerve in one of his fingers - possibly undoing the long-term savings of doing this ourselves. Chop it off and replace it with a hook, I always say.

DAY 1: tiles torn up, cheap water-damaged tile ripped from wall (up to the sink, anyway), old tub with its grody underbits exposed.

DAY 2: room emptied, walls primed, backerboard installed, panicky texts sent about how long it is taking.

 

DAY 3:  The bathroom shrank by half. Considering new design theme: Dollhouse Miniature. We can have giant plants and spindly furnishings, so everyone feels as if they have wandered into a pocket of dimensional displacement.

So, there still isn't any grout. Or plumbing. But we haven't crashed into the basement yet, so this counts as a wild success.

Earthy

The youngest cousin turned 8, and festivities were held at my aunt's terrifying apartment above Pearl Harbor. 

The birthday boy was stumped and unexpectedly shorted out when I said that if he wished for something that could happen, it would happen. Sorry, kid. Wish for "unlimited money and wishes" if you want, it's your day.

My mom was all, meh, cake. I clutched the edge of the table, because the window was open a crack, and it goes straight down for about 40 floors. Nope.

I've lived here almost all my life, and still haven't been arsed to figure out who Prince Kuhio was, but we get the day off because of him, so I got to stay home and learn to garden.

Actually, still trying to find the garden. The back yard is going to take a while.

I loaded up the kids and we walked to the hardware store for fertilizer and tools, then turned up all the dirt in the front yard and treated it. My weak pudding arms flapped around and embarrassed themselves, but they did the job. I dumped miracle grow on everything and yelled, "engorgio!" Should probably plant something in the dirt.

Expecting latent gardening super-talent to activate any time now.