The Siren Song of Geekdom

I am a fangirl. I have spent a pretty large segment of my life being a fangirl. My fandoms are many. I am a card-carrying Buffyphile. (Figuratively speaking, I mean. There isn't an actual card. Is there? Because if there's a card, I'll get one!) I watched every single episode of Firefly when it was originally on Fox and then again when it was on SyFy (that just hurts to type). I adore Harry Potter, Twilight, Sookie Stackhouse and Harry Dresden. I watch Supernatural rabidly. I am waiting with bated breath for the new season of Doctor Who.

The only thing that I have thusfar avoided is Battlestar Galactica. Then, this weekend, I watched a marathon of Caprica and got totally hooked. (By the way, faithful readers, why didn't anyone tell me that, oh, I don't know... SPIKE!! I would have been all over this months ago if I knew that James Marsters was being a crazy religious nut in it. The only better than James Marsters is crazy James Marsters. I am not kidding.) About halfway through, I took note of the use of "frak" and then toward the end, finally heard the evil word: Cylon. So, it's a BSG thing. Prequel? I don't know, but I feel the landslide.

I can't explain, for those who aren't fandom obsessed, what this means. It's like being a part of a very small, very silent club. But, like the ancient Christians and the icthus in the sand, we have our ways of calling one another out.

Sometimes, it's a simple quote. "Dawn's in trouble. Must be Tuesday," is my go-to. If someone asks who Dawn is, I simply shrug and move on. If they get it, they get it and I have a new friend. "Never could get the hang of Thursdays," is a good one, too. They should be conversational. Quoting the Chinese curses in Firefly would rock, but I have never managed to memorize any.

Sometimes, you have to get fancy, though. Today, as I was dropping Brynna off in car line, I had the Buffy musical soundtrack on. "Where do we Go from Here" was playing when the teacher came to the car. There was a fleeting moment when the one teacher I have just never clicked with stuck her head in the car and looked around that I thought, just for a moment that maybe, just maybe, I would get that look. That excited, found a friend look.

"I thought for a minute that you were listening to something I knew," she said.

And that's the thing. The club, it is what it is. Sometimes you have those moments and sometimes you don't. And the people who aren't in the club, they aren't just not in the club, they look down on the club. They roll their eyes and shrug their shoulders and start to look at you like a killer tomato.

You can't push it. You can't say, "Oh, it's Buffy," because you don't know what'll come of that. And you can't predict. You can't look at the super-fashionable Coach bag and figure that they're just probably not that geeky. You also can't look at the lanky guy in the Star Trek shirt and figure that they must know all about Joss.

It's a motley club. Filled with soccer moms and astrophysicists and writers and dj's and teenagers and middle aged women. We probably wouldn't ever get along otherwise. It's a shared secret. A center to our universe. A neverending source of conversation and a haven from stress.

I secretly believe that world peace could finally be achieved through a shared fandom.

What's In My Crochet Bag - Doily Edition

I would like to hereby recommend to the yarn crafting community of the entire world, that we do away, permanently with the term: doily. I mean, first of all, it's a horrible sounding word. Doily. It makes me want to spit. And in the second place, is there a person in all of creation that doesn't think immediately of a little old lady and teacups you're not allowed to use when they hear the word doily? Hmm... Is there.

Personally, I love doilies, or, as I will further refer to them, Whatsits.

Whatsits are all about the math, baby. They are an exact science. There is no fudging in a whatsit. No, "Hm, I don't understand that part, so I'm just going to do this and get past it." No making stuff up. I mean, conceivably some people make up doily patterns, I assume. People better than me who enjoy all the freakin' math. Not me. I don't like the math, I just like to look at the math.

I have never before altered a whatsit pattern. At all. In the least. So, understand when I tell you what I am about to tell you, what it took from me, emotionally. I was nervous, nay, a nervous wreck. It could have gone badly, very badly.

Suze sent me this lovely yarn. It's Bamboo by South West Trading Company and the color is Fiery Red. It's lovely. Absolutely a dream to work. So soft and smooth and shows every little stitch perfectly. (Which is sometimes absolutely not what you want, but sometimes you want the world to see just how amazingly skilled you are. No, I'm not bragging, why do you ask?) Anyway, I was so happy to get this lovely yarn, I had no idea what to make with it, but I wanted to get started right away! So, I made something for Suze. Something I still haven't sent her, because I am a horrible blogger and friend.

Anyway, when the newness wore off and I really started to think about what I would like to do with it, I began to think about this chair I have. I began to think about how well the color of this yarn coordinates with said chair and how the cat loves to sharpen her claws on the top of the chair and has made a place that I cannot fix right on the arch of the wingback. I started to think about how a doily would fix that. I mean a whatsit.

So, I got out my thread crochet book. And I found this one. I really love it. The pattern is "Delicate Doily" and it is designed for #20 crochet thread. Which I didn't want. I wanted bamboo sock weight yarn. I cogitated. After a while, I decided to give it a go. First of all, I wanted the doily much bigger than the pattern called for, so using a heavier weight yarn and a larger hook made perfect sense. Secondly, I wanted it to have a slightly chunkier, significant look than most doilies. The pattern says delicate, but I didn't want delicate. I wanted weighty. I wanted something that didn't look like it was about to float away.

And, here it is. It definitely doesn't look like it's about to float away. The good news is it worked perfectly. There was a tiny bit of puckering around those pineapple looking parts, but I thought they would probably come out with blocking.

Unfortunately, I never block anything but whatsits and I have never made a whatsit this big, so I had nothing to block it on. So, I just washed it and hung it up. Which could have been disastrous, but I figured I could always re-block. I hoped. But, it wasn't disastrous and the the puckering came right out.

The size is perfect. Just perfect. Exactly the size I imagined, when I dared to imagine this thing completed. The cat hasn't bothered it, yet, but my hope is that it will freak her out and she'll just move on. If not, I'm pretty sure I'll have to kill her.

*Please forgive the photography today. I was in a hurry and it was early in the morning and there was NO natural light to be had. Also, just ignore the Christmas wrapping paper propped in my corner, I had no idea that was there. Also, whatever that red thing in floor next to the chair is. Furthermore, I had never noticed how dirty that arm is. I may have to crochet something to cover the arms.

Conversations with a Five Year Old

Brynna: Screams in agony
Me: Are we ready to eat?
The Husband: Yep.
Brynna: Why aren't you doing what you normally do when I cry?
TH: We are, we're ignoring you.
Brynna: That's what you normally do. Mommy, why aren't you doing what you normally do?
Me: Well, I don't know. What do I normally do?
Brynna: Say, "What's wrong sweetie?"
Me: What's wrong sweetie?
Brynna: Daddy said I could be the chef and then he took the food to the table. And it's not fair because I wanted to be the chef and take the food to the table.
Me: Well, you know, it's not usually the chef who brings the food to the table. It's the waiter or waitress. So, maybe daddy was confused about what you wanted to do.
TH: Yeah, I didn't realize you wanted to bring it to the table. I totally would have let you. The chef cooks the food.
Brynna: Did I cook the food? NO. So you should have known that I wanted to do something and asked what it was. But, I'll forgive you, this time, and come and eat. Pass the sprinkly cheese.
________________________

Brynna: Suddenly wailing incomprehensibly. Out of nowhere.
Me: What's wrong?
Brynna: Uncle D can't have a monster truck!
Me: What?
Brynna: Uncle D was going to make the ford into a monster truck and NiNi won't let him.
Me: Uncle D doesn't have a Ford, he has a Dodge.
Brynna: No, the other Ford, at Papaw's house.
Me: Well, sweetie. It isn't his truck.
Brynna: But Uncle D said that if he got a monster truck, he'd take me for a riiiide.
Me: Well, okay. Confusedly shakes head.
[Ed note: This was last week. Uncle D bought a monster truck this week. It is vair cool according to Brynna and she should know, Uncle D took her mudding. No, you read that right. It's really a verb.]
__________________________

Brynna: This is Sticky. I love her.
Me: I thought Sticky was the big stick in my car.
Brynna: This is Sticky. I love her.
Me: So I can throw the stick in my car out. Because I'd love my car to be a stick free zone.
Brynna: No, you can't throw Sticky out.
Me: But you said that's Sticky and so the stick in my car can't be Sticky.
Brynna: They are both Sticky and I love her. Hers. Them.
__________________________

And, for the first time ever! Conversation with a One Year Old:

Me: Maren, do you want milk or juice?
Maren: Blank stare.
Me: Puts down cup and does the sign language. Milk or juice?
Maren: Joo.
Me: Juice. Okay. Pours cup.
Maren: Non. Joo.
Me: Juice? Holds out cup.
Maren: Non. Joo.
Me: Juice?
Maren: Non. Joo. JOOOOOO. Joo.
Me: What? Possible panic welling up
Maren: Walks to door and picks up shoe. Joooooo.
Me: Oh.

Analysis of a Portrait

So, my kid happens to go to school with the kid of a very popular local photographer. And, because she's a parent and loves the school, she does the school pictures for us. Fall and Spring, we have pictures made. We, the parents, buy a CD of images (usually 2 or 3 of your kid and 1 or 2 of the whole class). She charges the school a price that pretty much only covers her materials and the school charges us a completely different price and Voila! Fundraiser.

It's pretty perfect. Simple. Necessary. Plus, we'll all pretty much buy pictures of our kids until the cows come home, right? I have some awesome ones. Really, there is one where Brynna is hanging out in a cherry tree and the tree is all in bloom with pink blossoms and Oh, I can't tell you the perfection and beauty.

This one is pretty great, too. I just want to take a moment to analyze the wonderfulness of this portrait.

First of all, it has a very academic feel to it, despite being outside because of the nice wooden chair and the building in the back. That building, by the way, is not *actually* my kid's school. It's the building that sits directly in front of my kid's school. My kid's school is not all that pretty on the outside. But still. Love it.

Secondly, I did a pretty good job with the ensemble if I do say so myself. Brynna won't do a picture in something too simple and she always wants to be in a dress. The color on this is great and the stripes could have been overwhelming but aren't and the thing I was most worried about, the weird flowers on the top, doesn't hardly show up. So, good for me.

Thirdly, check out that bokeh! Do you read Pioneer Woman? Bokeh is apparently when things are out of focus. On purpose, not out of focus like all of my Santa pictures from Maren's first Christmas. Anyway, it's good in backgrounds and PW is in L-O-V-E with it. Seriously. This picture has great bokeh. Pretty much Brynn and the chair are the only things in focus. Which is nice. You know right where to look.

Fourthly, I love the pose. It's hard to get Brynna to not look weird when she's posing. She gets suddenly stiff. Or she goes all Madonna, And Vogue! on you. Her hands are especially pretty much always doing something weird. There are probably 732 pictures of her as a baby where she is playing with something and seems to be flipping off the camera. Those are some nice, calm hands.

Fifthly, look at that smile. Man, that smile is a relief. She usually has this fake, pasted on smile in every picture for the past year. It's rare to be able to catch her in a moment of real smile. This isn't her greatest, you know, she can really light up a room when your camera battery is dead or the whole kit and kaboodle is in a different room. But, all in all, not a bad smile. Nice, even.

Sixthly... Oh, who am I kidding, it's time to address the elephant in the room. Ack! The hair! I'm sorry, when did my kid become Cousin It? Where are her eyes? You cannot see them at all! Her nose is half missing! How did I not realize how bad it was? How did I let it get this way? Why did I ever think I could handle bangs? I get my hair cut once a year, if that, for the love of all that's good and holy, I cannot be trusted with bangs. I once went 18 months without so much as a trim. And the last time I had it done was in June. JUNE! Which, coincidentally, was the last time she had hers done. That's right, June! (Well, I did trim her bangs once in the interim, but I did such a disastrous job, I swore I'd never touch scissors again. Which was short lived because of well, packaging and crochet and whatever, I don't have to defend my scissor usage to you.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, where else would I be? On the freakin' hair! What was I thinking? I mean, come on. Is that really even my kid? She could be in witness protection with that hair. What kind of monster am I? Really? Really?

And what am I going to do with this picture. I mean, I'm going to buy it, because, as previously mentioned, I'll buy pictures of my kid until the sheep dogs come home, and also, Voila! Fundraiser! But seriously, I can't frame this photographic evidence of neglect. This travesty, this monument to parental laziness. Can that child even see?

Gah. Fail.

We will be visiting a salon this weekend. Probably of the walk-in, $10 haircut variety, but still. There will be cutting. Snipping, layering and trimming. She will emerge with eyes. Unfortunately, this is our last Montessori picture, so next year, we will have the same crappy blue tarp background as everyone else in the country.

Oh, also, since I couldn't figure out how to get rid of that logo (that's kinda the point, Jessi) I thought I'd go ahead and link to Keepsakes Photography's site. They are good people over there. Very good with kids and all-around lovely. They just can't do anything about neglectful parents who refuse to cut their kid's hair. You'd think photoshop would have a tool for that.

Politics and Religion

I don't talk too much around here about what I believe. I think I've maybe explained why. It's not that I'm afraid to discuss the hard questions. I love to discuss the hard questions. It's because I have very limited tolerance for those who want to rant and rave instead of discuss.

I think, really, we'd all be a little better off if we didn't avoid politics and religion so much. If we would all just shut up and listen to each other a little more. We worry too much (I think) about offending each other. Maybe we could just, you know, talk nicely. Agree to disagree. And stuff.

That said, I have been a little amazed over the last few months by the way people "talk" about politics and religion online. It started, for me, with the Presidential election last fall. I'm not going to go into detail about my political beliefs right here right now, but I will say that this was my first election where I was on the side of a winner. It was pretty exciting for me.

And, okay, I made a slew of moving to Canada jokes among my very close friends during the last Bush election. But, this time, I was on Facebook, watching people post comment after comment about moving away, assassination, bloody coups, etc. At first, I thought I was amazed at the vitriol. The hatred seemed so out of proportion. I also thought that maybe I was being sensitive that someone was harshing my liberal buzz.

But, instead of easing since the election, it's gotten worse. And it's spread. I've seen people who normally post status updates about loving God and Christianity start posting updates about hating Muslims. I've seen those assassination jokes expand to no longer just cover the President, but Congressmen and even just liberal citizens.

I've seen "ads" portraying Obama as the joker from Batman, as Hitler and as various animals. I've seen racial slurs and hate speech. And then, when someone dares to disagree with one of those people, I've seen rage, absolute rage.

Now, I'm not talking about anonymity. I'm not talking about a world where kittenmitten662 and lovelybuddy16 are debating the pros and cons of health care through name calling. I'm talking about Facebook, a world where the names are real and your kid's pictures are linked forever to your comment saying how worthless you believe the lives of others to be, as long as those others are elected officials that don't agree with you.

These are also people that I know. People that I like. I am not one of those people who accepts every friend request I get. My friends are genuinely my friends, or at least acquaintances. These are good people. Kind people. People who would not walk up to you and spew this kind of vicious rhetoric.

Some people (like one college friend of mine who I really admire) wear their politics on their sleeve. They share their beliefs in a calm, rational and tolerant way and they don't back down, standing tall without feeling the need to lay anyone else low. But others, well, others are nasty. Hateful. Cruel. Violent.

What usually hurts my feelings are the liberal and democrat bashers, because, well, that's sort of where I live, but I'm not saying that my team never acts like jerks. It's universal.

And, frankly, I don't understand it. I don't understand why people think this kind of language is ever okay, but if it were anonymous, I would at least understand how people become drunk on that feeling and forget to act like people. But, knowing that everyone really knows who you are. Knowing that you are potentially hurting, really hurting those you love and still making those
choices... It's amazing.

Do you know, for sure, that your kid's teacher shares your political beliefs. Or that your best friend from elementary school isn't going to take your bashing personally. I doubt it. I doubt anyone does.

And this, this is why we can't talk about religion and politics. Because we can't be trusted to remain civilized. And that is truly sad.

Things that Annoy the Mommy in Me - Edited

I totally had more to say. I meant to upload the pictures, save it and go home and write about how much I hate, HATE, hate those exponential mom shirts. And how I find the idea of plastering stick figures of our family on the back of my minivan pretty horrific. Then, I was going to find a video of the Bing commercial with the pregnant woman at yoga class and complain about how she is 10 and half months pregnant and if she hasn't figured out yet what you can't eat when you're pregnant, she's pretty screwed.

Apparently, though, instead of hitting save, I hit post. Which sucks.

Although, apparently, some of you are annoyed enough at this stuff that I didn't have to write anything at all. Which rocks.

Cause, you know, I love it, LOVE IT, when someone agrees with me about the absurdity of something. And I can just say, "I know. Right?"

I may come back tomorrow and talk about how those "I'm an exponentially better mom than you" shirts run all over me. Who knows.

A Return to Hats

I have a confession to make. Are you ready? I don't care if I never make another hat. Seriously.

This week, I return to my church hat-making group. We've expanded and we're doing hats for the homeless, too. Which is awesome. In fact, we're really just making hats for anyone who needs a hat. Which has led me to think that maybe I should make hats for preemies. Because if there's anything I love it's a bitty baby. And because I was incredibly blessed to have ginormobabies. Seriously, they could make SciFi movies about my huge babies.

Monster Babies on Mars

The Baby that Nibbled on and Slobbered on Manhattan

Attack of the Man-Racking Babies from Outer Space

I know how lucky I am, is what I'm gettin' at here.

However, I am a little bit burnt out on hats. I mean, I have a fabulous hat book that I have only made one tiny hat out of. And I didn't even make that many hats. I mostly made flowers for hats, but still. I am so un-charged up for hats.

Is there a Doilies for the Homeless project I can get involved with? No. Of course not.

So, please, if you have any exciting hat patterns, send them to me. Because I'm a little tired of grinding out the hattiness. Also, I'm still trying to figure out the whole knitting thing. I currently need help with reading patterns and also need help with figuring out why my first and last stitch in each row are way tighter than the rest.

One of Those Kids

I was totally one of those kids.

• One of those kids whose graduating GPA was over 4.0 and still did extra credit work.
• One of those kids who hated bad grades worse than anything else.
• One of those kids who never dated much or partied much or anything else in high school much partially because of my schoolwork. (Also, in all fairness, partially due to the fact that I was not really asked much.)
• One of those kids who stayed after school and hung out with teachers.
• One of those kids who did extra reading.
• One of those kids who was always two pages over the page the limit for papers.
• One of those kids who really enjoyed every minute of school.

In fact, I was one of those kids before I even began school. I know a little girl who has always been a "baby doll girl." You could give her the choice of any toy in the universe and she would choose a baby any day of the week. Without hesitation. My cousin was a "Barbie" girl. We had Barbies coming out of our ears. My own daughter is a "dress up" kind of girl. Although she seems to be moving away from it ever so slightly, even when she plays with other toys, she's typically doing it dolled up as a nurse or a ballerina or Snow White.

I tried really hard to remember what kind of kid I was. I had baby dolls and I loved them, but I didn't obsess over them. I played dress up with my grandma's old clothes from the 50's and my mom's old bridesmaid dresses, but not all that much. I played Barbies, but mostly only when my cousin was around. I remember myself mostly as a "book" kind of girl. Given a book and a corner, decent light and preferably some lemonade I was good to go. Possibly for the whole day. But what did I love to play? The only thing I really remember loving to play was school. I loved playing school. Sometimes I was the teacher, sometimes I was the student, but I loved the whole deal. The desk, the books, the paper and pencils and rules and reading and writing and yes, even rithmatic.

So, it's no wonder that I became one of those kids. One of the kids that everyone hates in high school because of how hard they work. I tried to be pretty low profile in my hard work. Often finishing up in home room, so it would look like I had done my homework completely there. Sometimes researching for weeks and writing a paper the night before it was due, just so I could say, "Oh, I wrote it last night." Those who were more open with their over-achievereyness were met with my withering gaze and derisive tone.

In my off-time, I was on the Academic Team (yeah, really), the speech team (I know) and involved in every play our school performed. I read compulsively and had finished off large chunks of our school library by graduation. I did normal high school kid stuff, like go to movies, sit for hours in coffee shops and eat too much pizza. I had slumber parties and went to at least one school dance. I loved sporting events and went to a ton of football and basketball games. Although I paid very little attention to the people in uniforms playing the games.

I went to college with stars in my eyes and love in my heart. I immediately loved everything about college. Okay, I went a little crazy and I did a lot more dating and partying. I also did a lot more discussing books and movies and politics and religion until three a.m. and a lot more analyzing anything that would stand still.

I still wrote my papers too long, unless I thought I'd get a lower grade for it. And I still worked hard and pretended I didn't. It took some adjustment. My grades were lower in college than in high school because it's harder to look like you don't care while caring desperately.

When graduation time came, I was stymied by what next. I wanted to go to grad school. I really wanted to go to grad school. More than I wanted to continue breathing. But I had no direction. No focus. I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. In the meantime, I had a wedding to plan and a life to live and the simplest solution seemed to be to just graduate. Work for a while. Find my passion.

I lucked into nonprofit. And I've been happy here. I love feeling like what I do matters. More than revenue streams or economic impact, but real impact. On people. On lives.

But I've continued to feel torn about the grad school decision. I still don't know quite what I want to be when I grow up and more and more I feel like it doesn't matter. Like people just end up doing things that they never intended to do and that's the way of the world.

Last night, I wrote a paper. For the fun. On Shakespeare. I reread one of my favorite works and wrote a position statement about it. And I remembered my love. My first love.

I loved writing that. I was frustrated by it and challenged by it and I had so much fun I nearly cried.

I've been thinking pretty seriously about going back for a library science degree. I've been thinking about studying with a focus on children. I've been thinking about the impact I could make. Teaching kids to read. Teaching kids to love to read. Helping with homework and suggesting books. Making books real for kids who can't see past the paper. I've been thinking about investing a lot of money to make almost the exact same amount I make now. I've been thinking about kids and books and classics and teen reading groups and summer reading camps and arts and crafts and silly songs and biographies for kids and the unfettered joy of a fresh new book.

At first, I was thrilled last night to discover that I still love playing school. That I still love writing the papers and researching and critically thinking. But then I began to realize something scary. Something disturbing. What if that's my passion? Not books or literature or teaching or inspiring, but being a student? What if I just want to go back to school because I want to be in school? What if this is going to be my whole life? Feeling unfulfilled unless I'm studying.

I don't know where I go from here. I don't know if this is just more of the same kind of doubt about whether or not to make a move. Or if this is something I should pay attention to.

All I know is that last night was one of my best nights in a long time.

What's In My Crochet Bag - National Crochet Month

Did you know that March is National Crochet Month? Neither did I.

I read it today and I thought, "Wow. I have a month. Except, I'm halfway through it and have no plan and what can I do to celebrate and wow, they just give anything a month now." Which is how I think. In run-on sentences that include a lot of ands.

So, I've decided that in honor of National Crochet month, I'm going to try to finish all my half-completed projects. Which may take awhile. Here is my list, in order of priority.

1. Suze's gift I was supposed to have mailed by the end of last year. It needs a button. I swear. How freakin' lazy am I that I haven't put a freakin' button it yet.

2. My doily. I started this doily, ran out of yarn, ordered more, realized that half of it was done wrong, ripped it and then put it in a bag. It really is halfway done, though and it's going to rock. I'm not much of a doily person (as in I don't love them) but I love to do them because they are so elegant and precise and mathematical.

3. My sweater. It's a motif sweater and I always crap out about halfway through those projects. It's the counting, I think. Or the not losing motifs. Anyway, I have all the yarn I need, and about a quarter of the motifs are finished. It's very nice and a good traveling piece because I don't have to take the whole thing with me. I haven't made myself a sweater in years and I can't wait to wear it.

4. A shawl. I'm not sure I have all the yarn I need, but I started it a couple of weeks ago and put it aside.

5. The white baby blanket. This thing should have it's own bedroom, it's been with me so long. I started this blanket for Ethan. Over 6 years ago. I worked on it again for my friend's son Connor. I worked on it for Brynna. Then my friend's daughter Ava and finally for Maren. It's still only about halfway done. If I ever finish it, it will be beautiful. And it'll have so many hours in it, I'd have to charge a million dollars to make up for it. So, I best give it as a gift. To Brynna, when she has her first child at 45.

Five is a lot of projects to have going, but it's not unusual in my house. Sometimes there are more, but not often. 4 or 5 is sort of my limit. How many projects do you keep going at a time? What's your upper limit? Or are you one of those amazing people who doesn't start one thing until they've finished the last one.

Consigning the Stone

This week, I've been preparing for, volunteering for and pulling my hair out due to my semiannual consignment sale that I am involved with. If I had slept within that week, I would have rephrased that sentence so it didn't end with a preposition. But, whatever. I'm not going to.

This sale is exhausting. In the first place, there are a ton of rules for how things have to be hung, what kind of hangers you have to use, how to label, what size safety pins are acceptable, etc, etc. I follow the rules and jump through the hoops, because everyone does and that ensures that I won't get home with something with only one button. It's happened to me before.

But, anytime that I am unhappy with the way things are going in my world, I start fantasizing about opening a business. I don't know why. Maybe it's the American dream. Maybe I'm really just a glutton for punishment. But one of my favorite parts of that daydreaming is naming my fictional business.

Last night, on the drive home where I was struggling to stay awake and drinking water like a man in the desert, I decided on the name of fictional children's consignment shop: Consigning the Stone. You know, like the movie? Romancing the Stone? With the writer? Man, I love that movie.

And then it occurred to me that this, this right here, is why I don't run a small business. Because I would name it something weird and go completely broke. So, for posterity and amusement, here are a few of the businesses I have considered opening and the names I have given them in my mind:

1. Miss Havisham's Books and Oddities: This is my favorite. I go back to this one a lot. It's a children's book store, but oh so much more. With activities and camps and festivals and book clubs, it's a place for kids to grow to love literature. And I'm going to dress in a dirty, torn wedding dress every day and we'll also sell weird stuff that strikes my fancy. Things that all the trendy shops in town wouldn't even look twice at, like raven bookends and Hamlet skulls.

2. Table for Town: My homestyle restaurant in the world's smallest town. I would specialize in family style meals that can be eaten in at my large, scarred wooden kitchen tables or carried out to eat at your own. (I should note here that Brynna has a completely different business plan for her restaurant, Princess Brynna's Really Good Cuisine, that would probably get more traffic than mine.)

3. The Elusive Owl: My English style pub, famous for it's Guiness on tap and fish and chips. Pictures of the queen everywhere and a wall of books by dead Brits. Oh, and darts. Darts are important.

4. Tarty Arts and Cracked Crafts: My consignment gallery for local artists, crafters and artisans. Everything from handstamped cards to sculpture.

5. In Stitches with my Bitches: This is another of my favorites. At it's core, it's a needlecraft shop, with everything you need for knit, crochet, embroidery, tatting, crewel, cross stitch, whatever. But it's oh so much more. It's a learning center where the best and the brightest teach. It's a sit and stitch where you can come to get out of the house and work. It's friendships waiting to happen and art about to be made. I'd live there.

So, there you have it. All more stores that no one would ever go to. And now we can add Consigning the Stone, which I would have to explain to everyone who came in. Yeah, that would be great.

I've Been Thwarted by the Oscars and By Bathing

I've spent my last couple of days being thwarted. First, let me tell you about the Oscars. I love the Oscars. I love to watch the show. Listen to commentary. Make fun of the dresses and the acceptance speeches. Talk about how lame the host is. Cry over the "died this year" montage. Root for the underdog. It's sort of my Superbowl.

So, here's a little timeline of my Sunday Night Oscar Night Glory:
6:00 - Settle in front of the TV, laptop in my lap and start watching the E! Red Carpet coverage.
6:35 - Make a comment on the MamaPop Red Carpet Open Thread that Queen Latifah would look good in slime and entrails.
6:40 - Apparently, no one got the Buffy reference and I cry a little.
6:55 - The Husband and Brynna get home from church and I take a little break to eat some family supper. I made roast. I don't usually make roast.
7:15 - Take Maren for a quick dunk in the bath and settle her into bed.
7:35 - Convince Brynna that what she really wants is to watch a movie in bed and skip the bedtime story.
7:50 - Sprint downstairs to get a load of laundry in before giving up on productivity for the night.
8:00 - Ah. My bedroom. TV. Oscars. No one else in the room.
8:05 - Squee a little of Neil Patrick Harris, who I lurve.
8:15 - Get a little kick out of Woody Harrelson. Who ever thought he'd be nominated for anything other than High Times Stoner of the Year.
8:16 - Take advantage of a commercial break to throw some butter in the over for Hot Cheerios.
8:17 - Go into Brynna's room to find out what's making her scream.
8:18 - TOTALLY agree to letting her read me a book.
8:19 - Check how many pages are in Go. Dog. Go. and cry a little.
8:50 - Finish Go. Dog. Go.
8:51 - Run to the kitchen to check on my now burnt butter.
8:53 - Scrub out cake pan and start over with Hot Cheerios.
8:59 - Back to the bedroom. Watch an acceptance speech and the death toll.
9:13 - Head to the kitchen to stir the Hot Cheerios.
9:15 - Return to the bedroom to find that DirecTV has temporarily lost all my local channels.
9:16 - Give up and watch 28 Days Later on SyFy.

Then tonight, I tried to give Maren a bath and I was thwarted all over again.
Back story: Maren is potty training. Now, before you give me lecture about how 15 months is waaay too young to potty train and I have to wait for her to be ready and yadda, yadda, yadda, let me say this. Right? 15 months is young right? Because Brynna was pushing three and I thought she was normal.

Maren shows absolutely no signs of readiness, except for a grim determination. She uses the potty between 3 and 5 times a day and will get really mad if you don't let her try.

So, bathtime.

We headed into the bathroom and I flipped the switch to make the water stay in the tub (stopper?), turn on the hot water to heat up and started stripping her down. And then, realized that she was dirty. Grabbed a roll of toilet paper and wiped with all I had. Finally got her all ready and turned to put her in the water. Noticed the steam coming off the water. Remembered that I never turned on the cold tap.

Put her back on the floor. Turned the water on super cold. Let it run for a few minutes. Noticed her peeing on the bath mat. Put her on the potty before laughing at her very pleased face. Finally put her in the bath. Where she cried until I took her out. It was quite the bath time debacle. I could have lived without it.

I Know, I Know

I have been a terrible blogger this week. I have only posted every other day and it's barely even worth it at 7:00 on a Friday. I mean, apparently nobody reads on the weekends, whether I write or not. But, anyway, I thought I would offer up my excuse.

This week, I have not blogged as I should because I've felt good.

I know how that sounds. Really, it's like calling in well. Only worse. It's like calling in well to a happy hour with your friends. And that sucks.

But, really. It's been so long. I've been tired this week. Croupy babies will do that to you. But otherwise, I've felt well. Fresh. I've felt like the blah alien left my body and I'm myself again.

The other night, I tripped The Husband out because I was in such a good mood. He kept waiting for some kind of news and the only news I had, was "Hey, I'm in a pretty good mood." Which is enough some days.

I've written. Not much, barely a paragraph, but it's the first non-blog writing I've done since failing at NaNoWriMo, and no, I failed at the 365 thing, but I've decided to wait until Spring has really sprung and start over.

It's weird to wake up and be normal and happy when you didn't even really know you were sick. I didn't know how bad I felt until I stopped feeling bad. I'm not sure what was wrong with me. Maybe this is a delayed reaction to my "cured" diagnosis. Maybe now in my thirties, I am suffering from SAD, like my mom. Maybe I was depressed. Maybe it was something else.

I don't quite know if I should just celebrate or if I should worry about it coming back.

In the meantime, here is the list of things I intend to do while I feel good:

• Walk - a lot. I'm in training after all for 2011. I'm going to walk 60 miles for breast cancer. Totally.
• Sing with the radio. Loud. Even while Brynna is screaming at me to stop. Who am I kidding, especially while Brynna is screaming at me to stop.
• Drive with all the windows down.
• Clean out my car.
• Shop. Even if it's just on line and I close out the window before I order anything.
• Bake.
• Make lemonade. From concentrate. From powder. From lemons. I've frankly never met a lemonade I didn't like. Well, except for Crystal Light. Which is not lemonade so much as lemon flavored fake sugar water.
• Dance. Around my living room.
• Watch Dr. Who online.
• And blog. Because, honestly, taking a break to feel good aside, I love it here. This place is my cyber home. You guys are my cyber family and there's no place like cyber home.

Conversations with a Five Year Old

Brynna: Help me, Moooommmmmeeeeeee!
Me: Not right now. After church is over.
Brynna: Pleeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaasssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Me: Listen, church is almost over. We're going to finish singing this song, they are going to ask for last minute announcements and then we're going to pray and DONE! As soon as DONE, I'll help.
Brynna: NO! I don't want church to be over. I'm not done with my picture. I need to finish my picture.
Me: It's okay. I'm going to have a meeting after church is over and you can finish then.
Brynna: Oh. Where? Here at church?
Me: Yes.
Brynna: Where?
Me: Up there, in the front.
Brynna: Oh. So that's what those pews up at the front are for.
____________________________

Brynna: I'm dripted. Dripted, I say.
My mom: What?
Brynna: It's just a joke.
____________________________

Brynna: On the planet House, there are tornadoes every day so people live in their basements and never come upstairs.
Me: Why don't they just build underground houses?
Brynna: Because they have basements!

What's In My Crochet Bag - Obsession Edition

I have to admit, I have an obsession. With wristlets. I don't know why. I don't have any. I collect patterns for them like I collect bad habits.

Here's the thing. I like the idea of wristlets. They're kinda rock and roll, in a funky old lady sort of way. Also, I hate gloves. I hate not being able to move my hands.

So, I collect the patterns, but I kinda can't see myself wearing them, so I just collect the patterns. You know how that is. Right? Right? Oh, well, whatever.

So, Jenn mentioned one time how it was cold sometimes in her office and she couldn't type in gloves and I thought "Preach it sister." Cause I've been there. And then I though, wow, I have a whole section of my pattern notebook dedicated to the solution of this problem.

I picked this pattern because along with my wristlet obsession, I am obsessed with cables.

So, I would love to post a link to it, but I've lost it. So instead, I will just point out some stuff about them that I like and don't like.

Like: this was an awesome cable pattern. For those who don't know, cabling isn't easy in crochet. It's kinda a knit thing and crochet cables usually look crappy. This is probably the best one I've ever done. I will totally use it again, adapt it, whatever it.

Like: I like the shape. They pinch in nicely at wrists and the thumb hole is perfect, and lets the top of the glove ride a little higher.

Like: Perfect for self striping yarn (I used Bernat Baby Jacquards in "I'm a Big Boy." (Sorry about the color name, but I love the softness of the yarn and I'm just not down with too much pink in my life.) The stripes came out soooo nicely.

Dislike: See the pulling around the cables. This is because there was no sizing. I hope Jenn's hands are smaller than mine.

Dislike: It was worked in the round, but in such a way that left a seam right up the middle of the palm. I would have liked it to be seamless.

Dislike - My creepy, vampiric pale hand in that picture.

I had a whole lot of yarn left over. So, I figured I'd take advantage of my fabulous new cabling technique and knock out a scarf. I really like it better than the wristlets. I made it skinny and long because I wanted it to not be too warm. Hopefully, she can wear it with her wristlets in her office and not be hot.

So, that's it for the ones that have been mailed and now I am really in trouble. I'll have to finish Suze's tomorrow and deliver Tina's this weekend. I'd do it tonight, but Maren has croup and I didn't sleep at all last night and I am about to drop. I hate croup.

By the way, I'm working on the learning to knit thing. And I have a question for my knitters.
Why is my first and last stitch on every row always tighter than the rest. I'm not trying to make them tight, but they are almost so tight I can't get the needle in.

I'm sure I'll have more, but this is what's bothering me right now. I've done the tutorials on knitting, purling and casting on (not in that order :) and I am getting ready to do some of the "stitch" tutorials this weekend (stockinette, ribbing, etc.) and then I'm going to do the casting off tutorial and try my first pattern. Wish me luck!