moose stink and pumpkin Jack

Performance day. I helped drag furniture out of the children's section, then stopped and sniffed; something smelled like Newfoundland. Here approached the Canadian storyteller, who wore bushy white eyebrows and an inuit jacket made of smoked moose hide. This turned out to be the magical memory trigger; my childhood smells like dead moose.

I ruined his authentic get-up with a nut lei.

He made a passable bear-with-head-stuck-in-bucket, despite this.

Then I tried to fit myself in the bucket and stowaway back to the Yukon. Shooed out, I gave his wife an avocado from my "oh please just take them" box, which she sniffed at and tried to peel like an orange. I was both charmed by her polite struggling and mortified that I had put her on the spot with a mutant fruit. But it had to be done. The produce situation in our kitchen is getting out of hand. I have been wandering the yard, wailing for the avocado thief. I promised not to make a jacket out of him this time, but no hungry face appeared in the shrubbery. To help deal with this crisis of bounty, the cohorts arrived for chicken and dumplings, the new Fest Bier, caramel apples, and some pumpkin butchery.

Another masterpiece of chilling innovation and execution. The men wielded the knives, so Jack was nearly sawed in half when it was time to take his top off and gut him. 

The kids burned off their sugar highs and collapsed in front of Tim Burton while we hid on the porch behind cards. Losing spectacularly at rummy is a special skill of mine. Like my 69 bowling average. Am built for surviving childbirth and ice ages; not playing games that involve points or skill or luck. 

Grey, blustery weather, with sweeping curtains of rain. The newspapers are grim, the ghost has been amusing itself with readjusting my driver's seat so that I smack my head off the door when I get in, and we are hunkering indoors to bake the chills away.

sentimental sentiments

Last night I pulled up to the house, flicked off my audio book, and walked back through the dark to shut the gate. As I hooked the chain, I turned around and had one of those moments where you discover that time has stopped and turned to look at you. The moon, almost full, was bright enough to cast my shadow on the grass. There were no street lights, no sounds of traffic, just the stars and crickets and my little house; its windows the only lights in the night. There was the smell of dinner, faint music, and the sound of Leif laughing in the bath. The moon and I regarded each other. This was one of those moments I would reach back through time for. Some day, when my boys are grown and gone, and I am alone, I might think about the golden days of young adulthood, small children, and our little home on Maui, and wish I could have them all again for just a moment. I gave it to myself, pretended I had just been transported back in time - not only to visit, but to stay and live all over again. Now a sprightly old time traveler, I ran back to the house on renewed legs to kiss my babies, tuck them in bed, and curl up on the couch with the man for a nightcap and quiet kisses with the cat on our laps. There are a handful of moonlit nights I would reach back through time for, but things being as they are, this is the only one I have.

I rummaged through my colors and fibers, thinking about the holidays. I don't have very many possessions I attach a lot of sentiment to, but one of these is my hand-knit Christmas stocking, made by someone long-gone and never-known, who cared enough about this pink little infant in Newfoundland to knit a stocking to match the ones made for my mother and aunts when they were babies in the 50s and 60s. The man also had someone who carefully knit his name into a stocking that year. My aunt knit one for Gavin, and I knit one for Leif. I have all the materials and means to make them now, but I'm not sure who might want one. The balls of wool can wait until I get a clue.



I have the patterns for these two stockings; mine is like the first.

I bite my tongue at work a lot, since making angry people angrier doesn't help me do my job, and October inexplicably spawns lots of "blogtober" people who dig deep and share things I don't feel like explaining to the world, but I will share this:

A few months ago I got back from the dentist, took one of the Percocet he prescribed, got online [BAD IDEA], and bought a small, fully-functioning compass pendant for myself. A few times a day, if/when I am feeling sappy, I pick it up, turn until it faces North, and tilt it to the East so that, laid flat, it points at my heart. So I can find my way back home, I think, and then duck to make sure nobody overheard my brain.



It's sappy, but I do it anyway, because it is my brain, and my heart, and it's just the way things are.

but I don't have 9 balls

The boy walked with his Tae Kwon Do class in the Aloha Week Parade again this year (scavenger hunt: find us in the crowd scene. I'm the glowing white dot by - where else? - the food booth). They marched the main street and stopped every few yards to do their routine of kicks and punches in unison.

Followed by synchronized belt-twiddling.

We sat in the grass to wave at the fancy vehicles, and be-decked flatbeds full of overheated children pelted candy at us. We stuffed ourselves with lau lau and Korean chicken, bought a useless balloon animal, and had a lazy sun-tired evening of bbq, wine, and a movie with the friend-types. On Sunday, we borrowed their eldest girl-child, and had one of those charmed days of music and baking and yard-kids that make the weekends worth getting onto the library roof and pulling saplings out of the gutter for.

I say that, but I actually love climbing up to the roof. Going through the dark, humming machinery to scrabble up the metal ladder and pop the ceiling hatch makes me feel like I'm in a sci-fi horror flick, and I always pretend I am wearing gritty-yet-alluring space pants and leap off the last few rungs into a defensive posture. Will eventually break a heel and kill myself in there.

more:

than:



(While I am at work, anyway. Sigourney there pretty much sums up my home-defense system.) /end tangent

When it comes to festivities, I am not so much a participates-in-fun-activities person as a hides-in-kitchen-with-a-ham-and-a-bottle-of-moscato person. But of all the assorted tortures that go along with Aloha Week, this one managed to pique my interest:

Friday, October 22
Cross Country Golf: 12:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.
Tee Time 12:00 and 3:00 p.m. Shot gun start.
Bring three clubs (one needs to be homemade) and nine junk golf balls for this fun-filled event.

Did you catch that? Bring three clubs - ONE NEEDS TO BE HOMEMADE (oh yeah, and "shot gun start". Hello, officer). This promises to be, essentially, a bunch of semi-sober people hitting balls with baseball bats and, I don't know, stuffed swordfish - across some undefined course to some unknown goal, for no other reason than to run amock swinging unconventional implements of ball whackery. That is some action I could get behind. I could even knit some golf cozies by Friday, and appropriate the boy's light saber. The "voom voom" noises and flashing light could distract the competition. And if they get ahead of me, I can hit them with it. Foolproof.



There were no events for fish slapping or self defense against fresh fruit. I might apply to be on the committee next year.

spangled

I drove by the fields on the way to the post office, and all the cows were lumped lazily beneath the trees as if they had been pressed from a cookie spritzer. One was completely covered in birds; only a pair of sad eyes staring from between them as if to say, "Not this shit again." Bird-spangled cow.

It is banana time again. They have been mashed and bagged and frozen. Banana-spangled kitchen.

 

The house smells like banana bread. Which is good, because some idiot chemistry-happy person decided that the best, darkest, most secure place to breed enormous beakers of beer yeast was IN THE CLOSET WITH ALL MY WORK CLOTHES. Degree and Monistat haven't yet partnered to create a product for this type of situation, so I am casting my vote for a new incubation spot. Like his underwear drawer.

I smell like a donut. I am shopping for a sprinkle hoodie.

yeast-spangled

And I am making things, in the evenings when the kids are asleep and the man is out throwing darts at the other dads.

Things in alpaca, for when I need to flounce in a flouncy manner.

 

And things in tweed, for when I feel like tucking my hands into my sleeves and hiding.



Should knit the man a yeast-cozy. And then make him wear it as a hat.

we can go a'waltzing just so you can kick my head in

The bad mood persists. Heavy breathers on the phone, unsolicited gropings, lurking lurkers at closing time. Last night, the hiss and burble of the beer fermentor permeated the insulation of the pillow jammed over my head, and the re-captured gargoyle cat used the sound as cover for her manic screen-ripping. In the early morning, I staggered out of bed with the muzzy determination to lob the cat at the fermentor, and discovered that it was about to blow up (the beer, not the cat). Located the man, who had fallen asleep under the Order of the Phoenix in the boy's room, and resigned myself to the coffee pot while he ran by with syphoning hoses and towels. Have not slept more than 5 hours a night for over a week. Have begun trembling slightly, and yesterday my heart stopped beating for just a moment. Thumped my chest a bit to get it going again. Disconcerting.

On the plus side, the boy has returned from Granny's house, longer of leg and richer of useless magnetic plastic toys! And the infink has conquered the potty! The couch clears its throat tersely, having a slightly different opinion on the matter. Shut up, couch, we are diaper-free now, and that is very nearly the same thing as potty-trained.

squirrel poles and guacamole

A class of kindergartners came to the library. As they checked out, I told them which of their books were still at home. Many of them are living with only one parent by this age, but I try to be fair and include both in my spiel. "So when you go home, ask mom or dad to help you find the book, ok?" One little girl beamed. "My dad works in WASHINGTON! We don't see him anymore!" Well, shit. A boy hurried to the desk and hopped eagerly with his card held out. I checked his account, told him which book he had to return, and said it again. He grinned and said, "My dad's DEAD!" "Oh... Well, I guess you'll have to ask your mom, then." Tragedy wears Garanimals trousers.

To catch an avocado poacher

"If we're allowed to shoot trespassers," I said to the man, "Can we skin them and make a leather jacket from them, too?"
"I don't think so. I think legally, you'd have to skin them first, and then shoot them for trespassing. Then you could just say that they were like that when you shot them."
He is very dark for someone knitting a tree skirt.

Our avocados are falling. They are fantastic.

A few weeks ago, a young man came to hang on our front gate, eyeing our avocado tree and demanding (not asking) to pick them all for his own profit. We said, "Um, no." The next day, someone had climbed the gate and stolen all our lowest avocados. I began designing squirrel poles and deadfall devices.

Just need to find a rock big enough to cover the tree.

Yesterday, the same backpacked figure skirtched his bicycle at the gate and hung on it again. "How are those avos, man?" Mike went out to turn him away. The guy incessantly cased the tree with greedy eyes as they talked. "I have a buyer lined up, dollar a pound, man." I stood by the door, trying to figure out if the iphone had a zoom function. It did not, and the man rode away before I could charge out and snap his picture, yelling, "FUCK OFF, AVOCADO JUNKIE!" Now we wait to see if he comes back in the night with a wheelbarrow and a ladder, having already cleaned off the branches within arm's reach. There are perhaps 200 lbs of avocados on the entire tree. $200 doesn't buy a whole lot of meth, but hey, maybe our belongings and children and organs might. I didn't see if he had any tattoos. They would look nice on the back of my jacket.

knit me some disappointment

Finished the entire back, front right, sleeve, and half of the other front of my mother's cardigan. Ran out of yarn. Went to grab my last two balls (leave it). Discovered this:

Oh, and the color I need is discontinued.

In other news

The boy was sent off to Oahu to spend fall break with his grandma. Both children have been basking in only-child-ness. One individual who is not enjoying any of it is Maura, the man's evil throat-ripping cat. She has been running away ever since we moved, and the man has been walking back down to the old house to retrieve her. This weekend he put his foot down and locked her in, and the litter box has been moved from the patio to the bathroom during her quarantine. The only space for a litter box is in front of the toilet. Sookie heard me in the bathroom, bowled open the door, waddled into the litter box, failed to fit her massive bottom completely over the litter, and peed on my feet. I am disenchanted with this arrangement.

Stuff it down with food, always a good idea

I've been anxious for days. Forehead pressed to the wall at night, pillow hugged against the belly wolves. Perhaps it's the onset of fall, which comes with a rattle of thoughts like old bullet holes in a road sign. Posted right in front of October: YIELD.

Or perhaps:



But definitely not:



It could be that. Or I could be poisoned by the new packets of Splenda with "fiber". There's fiber in all kinds of things you shouldn't put in sweetener. Like belladonna. And cardboard. Should probably go read the box.

When I was 21, I opened up a friend's cupboard and saw that his mom had an entire shelf full of marshmallow cream. Naturally, I made fun of it at the time ("Apocalypse fudge!"), but it had actually charmed me a great deal, and now every fall I privately squirrel away jars of fluff. Feeling mean after grumping at everyone and flapping un-transfered wet laundry from the washer, I got into the bottom cupboard. Leif stood on his step ladder, nimbly plucking up chunks of chopped chocolate from the cutting board as he helped stir with a wooden spoon.



And I am forgiven.

boots and the wtf cardi

Rewind to last weekend. The man was on Oahu with my mother and a crow bar. I was at home with the boys, suddenly inspired to do stuff. Resulting from this was the premier of Extreme Bikini Rotary Mowing, in which, as the only contestant, I won. Kitchen was cleaned, stuff was sewn, playdoh animals were constructed, plans to trap and skin our avocado thief were made, brownies were baked, and pooping cats were chased from my tomato garden. By Monday, we were all stir-crazy, so I dragged a chair into the yard, set the kids loose with bubbles and kickballs, and knit AN ENTIRE CARDIGAN in one sitting, without checking to make sure it would fit first. Somehow, it did. 

And it even looks pretty good with the new boots. Despite the bad disco inferno. 

I said I was cut off. I also said I was a filthy liar. 

The man came home, fished in his backpack, and threw a bag at me. I live with a shameless enabler. 

Promise I will take a break from this fibery stuff and have some adventures soon.

learned librarian

"I am a walking library of learning - bound in comely leather and suitable for stroking - at your service, should you fancy a bit of culture to go with your lack of breeding, or vice versa, of course." -Christopher Moore, who will not shut up lately 

 

Went to town on a solo mission for professional development and sexy boots. Hit the road at 5:45 am. Was thumbing through the ipod when the sun came up behind me, igniting the misty ocean rain - and my rear view mirror - with blinding orange. I swerved wildly, thinking I was about to be run down by a semi or a crashing spacecraft. Imagined the view from the neighboring cliff: my little car snapping through the guard rail, sailing silently off the mountainside, and plunking into the water. An ignominious end to a long and stupid story. 

 

Politicians were lined up along the cane fields, waving frenetically. A man in a blue aloha shirt and slacks, holding a picture of himself. A long line of red-shirted fans, flapping glossy campaign posters. A man sitting on the tailgate of his truck, playing ukulele next to a hand-painted cardboard sign with his name on it. It may have also said "will be Mayor 4 food".

 

I parked by the court house across from the Wailuku library and shook a warning finger at the car, whose front window is still stuck open, tempting stray cats/vagrants/mayoral candidates. As soon as I stepped in, the other librarians turned and yelled, "WE DIDN'T KNOW YOU'RE AN ILLUSTRATOR!" and I froze in a defensive semi-crouch. They were adorable, owling up at me (I am a towering giant in the land of librarians), but I never know what to say when people want to talk about art. I like doing it, but I don't actually think I'm very good at it. I grin and nod like a big dumb nodding thing and then pretend to have something in my eye and run away. Which is why I will never be rich and powerful and crush that Plumeria Princess guy, who still doesn't know he's my nemesis. In this case, I chose to yawn, exclaim, "oh man, I have to PEE," and then book it for the restroom. Smooth. 

Two hours later, we had all learned how to click things on the internet, and I ran out to discover that the car had a yellow ticket stuck under its wiper. The pigeons didn't laugh at my yelps of, "Help, help! I'm being repressed!" so I threw the ticket onto the floor, drove over to throw some delivery boxes out at the main branch, ran some official-type errands, and finally found myself sitting in the food court at the mall with a bowl of mushroom chicken. Decided this was the perfect time to explore the new iPhone. Didn't like the tiny buttons. Didn't like the tiny screen. Took a bunch of blurry pictures of my hands and knees. Didn't have anything I wanted to do on the internet. Became very sad. This would have been the sort of thing I'd have done handstands for at one time, but no texts have buzzed my hip for more than 3 years, and somewhere along the line I lost my phone and didn't realize it for about a month. It's the end of an era, and the beginning of a new, higher-waisted, reading-at-arm's-length one.

 

Why I crop my head out of most of my pictures. More from me when the week stops kicking my ass.

Invisible!

After a month and about a mile of splitty silk thread, it is done. And it weighs about a hundred pounds. Silk is really hard to work with - it snags and splits and slithers away and attracts cats - but the drape is amazing. I can let it dangle, or pin it up, or run around flapping it like a cape. 

The back hangs really nicely, and you can't even tell I completely messed up the lace. 

"Um, mom, apparently I can still see you." Well, crap. 

pattern: Dramatic Lace Cardigan, by Sweaterbabe. yarn: ColourMart Silk 32/120NM DK weight