she's just saying...

Fireflies (rerun)

 

Bug courtesy of my big bro Steve. Photo mine.

One thing I like about the East: fireflies.

We always called them lightning bugs. Nothing brings back the summers of my childhood like a lawn at late dusk, sprinkled with lightning bugs twinkling in their lovesick short buggy lives.

There don't seem to be fireflies in the West. I think it's a humidity thing. Maybe the only good thing about this East Coast humidity, other than my cuticles looking more presentable.

What are your childhood summer memories?

Bug courtesy of my big bro Steve. Photo mine.

One thing I like about the East: fireflies.

We always called them lightning bugs. Nothing brings back the summers of my childhood like a lawn at late dusk, sprinkled with lightning bugs twinkling in their lovesick short buggy lives.

There don't seem to be fireflies in the West. I think it's a humidity thing. Maybe the only good thing about this East Coast humidity, other than my cuticles looking more presentable.

What are your childhood summer memories?

When bikes attack

Well, summer has finally arrived here -- it's been two nights since we've had to turn the heat on. The local visitor bureau has determined that cyclists are the niche of choice for its marketing efforts and the streets are jammed with fiercely lycra-clad racers as well as a more casual wheeling crowd. There also seem to be a lot more young adults on little bitty bikes in my neighborhood as well, which was recently explained by my neighbor as being due to a rash of DUI's at the end of the school year. At least they're only behind two wheels now vs. four.

I have a bike. I bike downtown, to the store, to concerts etc. I don't do it a lot, but I can. I've mentioned my deficient cycling skills here previously, which I blame on the geography of my childhood home, growing up at the top of a long, narrow, winding hill with poison ivy in the ditches, ducking out-of-control suburban station wagons driven by moms hopped up on caffeine and late to the PTA meeting.

However, I've gradually realized that something more nefarious is going on.

Bikes don't like me. They sense my fear and it turns them mean.

When I'm around them they tend to jump out and attack my legs, leaving scrapes and bruises even when I haven't tried to ride them.

I'm not exaggerating. This was recently witnessed at the farm stand when a strange bike bit my shin. I had my hand out for it to sniff and everything. I hadn't even made eye contact.

My current bike is a gentle old nag who is pretty kind, though it's been known to throw me at intersections. And when it smells alcohol on my breath (say, after concerts), it likes to buck and rear, then stand by and snicker. I can show you the scars.

Much more interesting question

To follow up on yesterday's post, a more comment- (and thought-) provoking question:

When do you feel most creative?

"I don't have to prove... I am creative"

 - Talking Heads, Artists Only, 1977 

What does it mean to be creative? And can we answer it in this blog post?

Several people have called me creative lately, referring to a knitting project, cooking experiment or blog writing.

But I wouldn't call those things creative. Maybe crafty, or handy, or glib. Though I suppose if you mean I'm creating something, well, then, yes, I can turn yarn and needles into an apple cozy. I didn't design the thing though -- I'm just good at following instructions (most of the time). And my blog writing is not art. (No, really, it isn't. But thank you for saying so. Oh, you didn't?) I admit I'm good with words, an adaptive skill for the youngest of four overly verbal siblings. But it's not litrachur.

When I think of creativity, I think of art, writing, music, dance, sculpture, design... inspired expression.

Quote on my bulletin board:

"Any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about doing it right, or doing it better." - John Updike

I like to think that's true. Sometimes I like to do things right, and better. Then other times I just want to get the damn thing done. Is that the difference in being creative or not?  Hmm.

I have no idea what this chart is trying to say about creativity.

Five words knitters fear most

"...while at the same time..."

Most sweater patterns involve a lot of shaping of each piece to achieve the most flattering fit (as most of us are not square cubes, hopefully). To shape a piece, you have to get rid of or add on stitches to a row to make it curve in or jut out etc. to form a v-neck, shape an underarm or taper down a sleeve.

(Bored yet? Hang on.)

So, one side of a sweater (say the left side of a cardigan front) has to accommodate waist shaping, an underarm and sleeve hole; while the other side of that piece has to make a rounded neck and maybe a flared waist. In order to do this on one piece, you have to be shaping the beginning of each row WHILE AT THE SAME TIME shaping the other end. And rarely symmetrically. Not to mention that if there's a pattern in the sweater, say, cabling, there are three different things going on in every row that don't repeat regularly. Like rubbing your stomach and patting your head with pointy sticks and string. And whistling "Ode to Joy."

So the instructions may say, "decrease two stitches every fifth row six times then one stitch every third row five times while at the same time increase [at the other end] every seven rows four times, then every six rows three times, then increase two stitches the next four rows," etc. And do all this while watching "Law and Order," letting the dog and cats in and out and putting Henry to bed.

This either involves several stitch counters, pencil and paper notations, counting and re-counting, swearing and ripping out repeatedly; or you can take on the initially laborious task of writing out every row by hand and following each one. (A few patterns do this for you, but most don't.) For me it's worth the three hours designing an excel chart at the beginning of the project for the sake of my sanity and the finished object.

Anyway, that's how I spent my morning. Good thing it's cool and rainy out or I'd never get going on this thing.

Here's someone else's diagram of the sweater I'm starting, from another Ravelry knitter, MoniqueQc. Her blog post is very helpful if you speak French. As she puts it: "Bon, une photo vaut mille mots qui, je l'espère, vous enlèvera mille maux. ;-)"

Oh, I'm sorry, you don't speak French? Quel dommage.

porky frylet

TGIF

It's been a rough week.

a flyby food post

A blog is the ultimate opportunity to brag, right? Well, we just had a casual Thursday meal that may not be replicated in the finest spots in LA/NY. A salade composee of:

• Rare london broil
• fresh salad greens
• sauteed morels
• crispy fried shallots
• homemade buttermilk bread toast points

I've impressed myself.

Meanwhile, Henry says: "Lettuce with cold meat? I don't get it."

We're all cry cry around here

Seriously, I wasn't crying. It was allergies.

Henry graduated from elementary school today. Three different fifth grades lined up and celebrated the occasion with an anthem, valedictorians, diplomas, and of course the requisite music video.

I got there in time to thank the administrators and Henry's special ed counselor, check the lost and found bin and get a seat in the gym. Tina and I were a little taken aback by the usual overly-involved parents who pushed in front of the rest of the audience to get the critical photos, encouraging their kids to grandstand and pose. It's the fifth grade. Really. Kinda setting these kids up to be really obnoxious later on.

Though I'll admit I'm overly emotional these days, it was this weekend's late-blooming pollen that caused my red, drippy eyes. We're all sniffling, sneezing, itching and rubbing our eyes around here. Calling Dr. Benedryl.

Henry won "most improved student" in his class. Voted on by the other students and teachers. I'm kind of  proud, but it's kind of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? Anyway, on to the next phase. Puberty and middle school. Can't wait!

Did your principal play the electric guitar? No, mine neither.

Multi-tasking while doing nothing

Our school year was just cut by two days as of immediately, and it just hit me that I need to produce year-end gifts for Henry's wonderful teachers by Tuesday a.m. The great Mr. G. will probably get a giftcard with a personal note. Miss T., who's been Henry's advocate, cheerleader, biggest fan and confidante, needs something extra-special. So of course I picked up the needles and cast on. Goal: finish a market string bag in the next two days.

I picked pattern, yarn and needles already on hand and am knitting furiously while watching the World Cup.  That background whining horn sound during the game is driving me crazy though, so I'm watching the game on mute and listening to the Phillies/Red Sox game on the computer while knitting a lace pattern at the same time. I can't attest to the final result.

(It's a vuvuzela and according to Wikopedia is "associated with permanent noise-induced hearing loss, cited as a possible safety risk when spectators can't hear evacuation announcements, and potentially spreads colds and flu germs on a greater scale than coughing or shouting.") Not the pleasant summer murmur of baseball, for sure. More like an approaching swarm of killer bees.

Anyway, everything's on hold while I finish this project. Parents out there, weigh in on year-end teacher gifts: pro or con?  Suggestions?  Favorites? Discuss, while I knit on.

 

Loose morels

Morels are a type of wild mushroom that grow in the Northwest in the spring. Their flavor is deep and mysterious and substantial, and they look really cool too, like little alien coneheads.

There's an underground culture of mushroom pickers here in Central Oregon who jealously guard their picking spots, so really it's easier to pick them down at our local farmstand. Adam gets them from a picker on his way back into town every day, and sells them dirt cheap. 

For some odd reason most morel recipes online involve saltine crackers, bread crumbs, or even corn flakes. All you need to do is saute them in butter or olive oil. You can add some shallots, parsley, garlic and lemon juice, a splash of white wine, serve them on toast or whatever. Or eat them with a fork right out of the pan.

The morels of the story

(Puns: the last refuge of lame writers.)

In which I prepare to get ready to start

To paraphrase an old boating saying: "The two best moments of a knitting project are when you cast on and when you cast off."

The steps to planning the next major sweater undertaking:

1. Which comes first, the pattern or the yarn?
2. Endless hours on Ravelry clicking through search parameters, individual projects, pattern comments, yarns, yardage, weight, modifications, blog posts, forum discussions, etc.
3. Debating choices: back and forth, dreams of fit and drape, maybe even buying a few patterns or skeins...
4. Enough! a decision is made.
5. Gauge wars: fitting yarn to pattern to needle by "swatching," an incredibly boring process of trying needle sizes, washing and drying little swatch squares, counting stitches, fudging a bit, then, finally:
6. Casting on! Oops. Casting on again! Oh, hell. One more time!  And we're off...

So, I've now picked a pattern and yarn, bought yet another needle (because I clearly don't have enough) and am preparing to start.

Summer Solstice pattern

However, I first have to finish the last damn Skew sock, which has inexplicably taken me two more months after finishing the first one in two weeks. If I cast on the new project without finishing it, I'll never pick it up again and will have forgotten the whole pattern and rhythm of it. Ask me how I know. For an ADD multitasking pro like myself, this is where discipline really counts.

Skew you, sock!

Ignoring the inevitable

Three friends of mine have lost their pet dogs lately and they've been grieving deeply. Meanwhile, my dog Flash just turned 13 and is clearly showing his age.

Flash and I have been together since he was eight weeks old, through camping, boyfriends, skunks, raising Henry, a lot of adventures and innumerable cats. 

These days his neck vertebrae are shot and starting to affect his back legs. In the morning and night he's slow and stiff and trips on stairs. But then he'll start to act like the silly puppy that he was, jumping around, taunting us with the frisbee and begging to play. But only for a couple of minutes before he lays down again and pants.

Daily steroids seem to be keeping him going. The worst effect is that it makes him crazy hungry all the time. He used to be a dog who ate to live; now he lives to eat. He tries to steal food, begs constantly, and sneaks the cats' food whenever we leave the back hall gate open. It's hard to deny him the one thing he seems to get so much enjoyment from, but it doesn't help his joints to get heavy, so it's a constant source of guilt for us.

He's gradually become a grumpy(er) old man, snapping at those darn kids who run through the house, baring his teeth at me when I grab his collar, growling and barking at neighbors he knows well. He may well be in constant pain, but as the vet says, "his kind are stoic." Probably in his genetic heritage from being kicked by sheep and cows all the time.

We're giving him extra love these days, and Henry takes petting him seriously. They have always loved playing the "table game": Flash grabs the frisbee or balloon and goes around and around the dining room table with Henry in pursuit. The chairs are pulled away so Flash can cut through under the table and reverse direction. Henry lunges and changes course while Flash implacably keeps weaving around and through, staying just ahead of him. They still do it these days but at a walk. It's just as intense in slo-mo.

Each time I contemplate losing a pet I say I'll never lay my heart out to be broken again, but then another furry being works his or her way in. They're all boddhisatvas, here to help us reach enlightenment before they move on. And all they ask for is love and some canned food.

I've planted catnap

I think I figured out why my herbs aren't growing this year.

 

It's A Gnome Run!

(This is actually a baseball post)

Back when Henry went to the local Waldorf preschool, they seemed to be weirdly fixated on gnomes. I've since learned that that's a typical Waldorf tradition, along with believing that children can't learn the alphabet until their first permanent teeth come in, which is a topic for another post. Anyway.

They built gnome houses, went on gnome-spotting walks, teachers had "Gnome-Powered" bumper stickers on their cars; the whole thing seemed odd and a bit twee, as they say across the pond.

So, what does this have to do with baseball?  Well, hang on. I had a bet going with a Phillies fan last week when the Red Sox and Phils faced each other during interleague play. I must admit I wasn't hopeful of my chances, but the payoff was good either way: whoever lost had to buy the other person a winning-team-logoed item of about $30. So either I got something Bosox-related or I got to buy something outrageous for my winning friend.

So, when the Sox won the series 2-1, I was looking forward to receiving my Red Sox nightie, towel set, bobblehead dashboard decoration or whatever.

So here's what showed up today in the mail.

gnome sweet gnome

I'm not sure where in the yard I'll put the little guy. Somewhere where I can see him whenever I look out my window, or maybe where he can stun the neighbors and passersby.  He'll look good anywhere, I reckon, because after all, there's no place like gnome.

Lost: mobility. Gained: understanding.

Yes, I'm still in LA. Or as I call it, HeLL A. No, really, it's a wonderful place, especially when you're facing away from it standing on the sand looking out to sea. But I'm really done with this trip, and am having a hard time getting home. It wasn't the terrible migraine last night that did it, it was falling and twisting my ankle at the hotel this morning. As my friend put it: I think I've overstayed my trip.

The ankle was bearable this morning and I got through my morning meetings and lunch ok, though hobbling fetchingly. By the time I was getting back in the rental car, it was clear I wasn't going to be walking much. I decided to get to the airport early and throw myself on the mercy of Alaska Air.

A very helpful ticket agent actually met me at the entrance of the terminal and sat me down, took all my info and tried to get me on an earlier flight. No go (hmm, is it a holiday weekend, maybe?) but she called a wheelchair and got me someone to help me through security. Security is not set up for someone in a wheelchair, by the way. Neither is the terminal waiting area. I was dumped in a chair near my gate and abandoned, though they did leave me the wheelchair. Not having ever negotiated one before, I've been bumping into doors, people, bags, etc. People are pretty friendly and helpful, actually. I find myself saying over and over, "I just twisted my ankle this morning!" as if needing to explain why I'm temporarily not one of the "normal" mobile. Very interesting and eye-opening experience.

Going to the bathroom, finding a plug for my computer, buying water, everything is cumbersome and awkward. Not to mention I'm in pain. I got ice at Starbucks but there isn't a first aid station in the terminal area. I would love to go get a drink but I don't think I should wheel under the influence. Plus I have my overstuffed carry-on as well as a tote bag that I can't maneuver. So I'm stuck here for hours waiting for my flight. What else to do but write it all down and try to get some sympathy?

Thank goodness I'm on the way home and someone's meeting me at the airport. What if I had three more days of travel? One second can change everything, and it's good to remember that anything could happen to any of us. I'm sitting here thankful for the good luck I've had so far in life. But I wish someone would bring me a beer.

(No photo under the circumstances. It's too pitiful anyway.)

LA at night

Goldilocks and the hotel beds.

Here's a shot of our room. That's Dana attempting to emerge from the closet. This post title refers to the bed sizes, btw.

Hi from LA, if that's where I am

I'm in one of those time/space disconnects called business conferences. Endless hours inside a vast conference center under fluorescent lights, sitting in small rooms and trudging through miles of exhibit booths. What time is it? Where in the hemisphere am I? And where's the bathroom?

Occasionally I do get outside to walk back and forth across the wasteland that is downtown LA between our hotel and the conference center. Our hotel is very interesting; not normally an adjective you want to associate with a hotel, really. It's a Moroccan/Mexican fantasy on the first floor, a little romantic in good light alternating with kinda seedy. The room: no romance, just seedy. The room is funky and the bathroom is tiny, even by old hotel standards, and I'm sharing it with a colleague. Luckily we're close. If we weren't, we would be by the end of the week. We're sharing so we can go to the parties every night and not bankrupt the museum.

After 15 years in Bend, it's as if I never lived here before. We're definitely the out-of-town yokels, goggle-eyed at menu prices, the width of the streets and the weirdness of our surroundings. We haven't gotten out to the beach yet where I'll feel more at home, though I'm sure Venice has changed a bit in the ten years since I was last here.

As usual when I travel, I don't find the time to blog, so bear with me and you'll hear more when I return.

Why is leaving so hard?

To those of you hoping for a relationship update, sorry - this is about traveling.

I'm headed to LA for a week (aww, poor me) for a museum conference, which should be a lot more fun than it sounds. Lots of big parties after-hours at various museums, we're staying in a fabulous hotel,  and hopefully have some time off to enjoy ourselves. The only obstacle is that I have to leave town.

For a single mom with pets, traveling is a pain in the patootie. Organizing myself is hard enough, not to mention being gone from the office for a week while continuing to manage projects. But organizing an 11-year old, two cats and a geriatric dog for a week on their own is like planning a military invasion.

I know. Very little sympathy from you all. So I'll move on from whining to packing.

We have five work days including a fairly important meeting, three big parties plus relaxing time. All in a carry-on. I've been fascinated by a slide show on the NYT website in which a flight attendant demonstrates how she packs. It's all about rolling. You tightly roll everything you can, and you fit much more in a bag. She supposedly fits the following in one carry-on for a 10-day trip:

"...three pairs of shorts, three pairs of dress pants, one skirt, three pairs of casual pants or jeans, three nightgowns, three bathing suits, one sarong, three lightweight sweaters, four dresses, 10 casual shirts, six dress shirts, a clutch, toiletries and two pairs of shoes. She’ll wear the third pair of shoes, as well as jeans and a longer sweater."

Hmm. First, I don't think I own that many clothes. Second, she must be a size 0. Third, I frankly don't believe it. And who needs three swimsuits, three nightgowns, 11 pairs of pants, four dresses and 20 shirts/sweaters for 10 days? Are you kidding me?

But I've been carefully watching her technique and am going to try it. Here's my meager collection so far. I just can't find room for the sarong. Maybe I'll wear it on the plane.

finally Friday

It's Friday! Frylet, anyone?

From Mybigbro, but really from I can has cheezburger:

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