she's just saying...

What you do in Texas

back from the land of meat

Well, we can safely say I'll never be one of those bloggers who write long boring fascinating travelogues while on the road. I took a blogging, no, actually a computer break for the week. Ironic as I was surrounded by computers in a tech-rich environment.

Here's one shot that gives you a taste of Texas.

BigBro at Upper Crust

This is what we do every day in Austin.

Deep-fried

Avocado taco, from deep in the heart of Texas.

Eastward Ho, the wagons...

One of Henry's more entertaining homework projects last year was to plan out what he'd pack in a covered wagon to cross the Oregon Trail. Each kid was assigned a character, with or without family in tow, and told how many pounds they could carry. There were a few mandatories and the rest they had to figure out based on a list of random items and weights. We had a good time debating how many boots and axes and bedrolls to stuff in. Henry's pig ended up riding in the wagon with the family and he had to ditch the grandfather clock at the last minute to fit in a side of beef, I recall. Tough choices, really.

Today we're back at it, packing up the [station] wagon and setting out for the southeast in the morning. First we head north over the mountain passes to Portland town, then onto the big silver bird to Austin, Texas, to visit MyBigBro, known to this blog's readers as YrBigBro.

Preparing for an expedition is always an ordeal around here. As usual, it all starts with laundry. Organizing Flash, cats, fish, mail and Henry somehow always falls to me, with Henry in charge of  movies, Hot Wheels and snacks. Kennels and neighbors are lined up, litter boxes are cleaned, plants watered, a variety of electrical gadgets are charged and loaded, and of course there are the knitting projects to plan out. My standard method is to pack everything, take half of it out then stuff most of it back in while dragging the bags to the car.

Along with missives by Pony Express and the Wells Fargo wagon, I'll be blogging, tweeting, texting and foursquaring as we go. Wish us godspeed and pray that we don't fall afoul of injuns, typhus, runaway oxen or the one-pound Cinnabons in the San Jose airport. We're hitting the trail. Yee-haw!

Room Service? Lemme have a Mormon, with some Buddha on the side

If you've been to a swanky hotel in the last few years, you may have been given your menu options of pillows, like this:

How many people do you think actually order up body pillows? Or, you might be like one of the people I used to travel with on business and you already packed your own pillow and comforter (you know who you are...).

But at this last haute spot I stayed in, we were given further options:

I'm curious about that "Help Me" button - do they send up a spiritual adviser?

I ordered both the Quran and the Torah, just to confuse them. Now I'm on a watch list at Homeland Security.

So maybe I'm obsessed, but I'm not alone.

Ravelympics stats:

• total # projects tagged with ravelympics2010: 24,284
• total # projects tagged with ravelympics2010 and finished: 12,878
• total # Ravelers that finished: 6,296 (out of 9,538 participating)
• total # countries participating: 65
• total # of people posting into a Finish Line: 5,186
• total yardage used: 8,068,000 (yes…this is 8+ million!)
• total yardarge spun/dyed: 448,000

OK, I'll stop talking about this now, because I'm beginning to annoy my readers.

What's your state nut?

Why I enjoy living in Oregon

1. No valet parking in the entire state.
2. It's got ocean, mountains, desert, lakes, rivers and a cool city. And Bend, of course.
3. Tumbleweeds still roll through our airport parking lot.
4. The state schools' mascots are a Duck and a Beaver. Isn't that cute?
5. State motto: "She flies with her own wings." (Way better than WA: "Bye and bye.")
6. People are really chatty here (something that annoyed both sisters on visits).
7. It's the home of the hazelnut.
8. Only state with a trail named after it. Ever heard of the Ohio Trail?
9. No sales tax.
10. You don't have to pump your own gas:  it's actually illegal. 'Nuff said.

The Official State Nut. The only state with an official nut, actually.

Socks-o-matic

(with apologies to the Pointer Sisters)

When the apocalypse comes and we have to start knitting our own socks, there are a few things you should know.

First, there is nothing more comfy than a homemade sock.

Just like a side of beef, there are distinct sections to a sock, each of which is handled differently. (See chart at right)

Socks are normally knitted starting at the cuff and down through the toe.

Some people knit them the other way around for a variety of obscure reasons. I did it this time because I like a challenge. And sock-knitting can get really boring otherwise.

(I didn't knit this and I don't know who did)

Here's my first toe-up sock. It was touch-and-go there during the heel gusset, but I powered through with only a few mistakes that I won't point out.

Once they're washed and dried they'll fit perfectly and I'll re-post a shot of them then, because you all share my fascination with hand-knitted socks, right?

Those inscrutable south asians

Remember this post? No, of course you don't - I think only three of you were reading this blog back then.

Anyway, Henry is now deep into his voice-over career, or as much as he can be in Bend. He's been recording an ongoing series for an Indian physical fitness computer course, or something like that. The script is being provided by an unnamed client directly from India.

Here are some random lines from today's script:

"This is nice grass, but I would like to go swimming to improve my muscular endurance."

"Hey kid, I can help you make some fitness equipment. All you need is this one gallon bottle of bleach."

"There is nothing like the element of dangerous toxins."

"There is nothing like the smell of chemicals in the morning."

I am not kidding you. What exactly are they teaching those kids?

The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth

this seems a little dirty somehow, but maybe it's just me

I went to my dentist's today for a routine cleaning and enjoyed the opportunity to lie back and meditate on dentistry while a young lady gouged my gums.

When we were little, we'd drive to a nearby town to visit the dentist (didn't they have any in our suburbs? dunno). After the cleaning, they'd give us a certificate for an ice-cream cone. Ensuring future business, I guess. But it's exactly what you want after a trip to the dentist. I should have gotten one today, really.

My dentist is all computerized. Plus they no longer have the little sink next to the chair where the water is running the whole time to spit in. It's all done with hoses and suction.

I've always gotten compliments from dentists on my teeth. "You have a fantastic bite!" I remember one of them saying. (One of my many attributes.) I didn't get a cavity til my 20's and only have three. I attribute that to the commies fluoridating our municipal water supply to to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids. (See Dr. Strangelove.) What doesn't kill you makes your teeth stronger, or something.

Of course, here in the wild west, we don't take to no strangers adulterating our pure god-given mountain water. That's some sort of east coast liberal gummint social engineering and we won't tolerate it. "Have you ever seen a commie drinking a glass of water?" I didn't think so.

Guns don't kill people; joysticks kill people.

(I don't think joysticks exist anymore, but you get my drift)

Like any good liberal mom, I always declared that we would never have toy guns in the house, and we haven't so far. Henry has shown no interest in guns. Either that's a personality trait or from a lack of gun-shooting testosterone in the house, but it's been an easy rule to keep.

Of course it's easy to follow when you're talking about replica guns and rifles -- clearly banned. But what about water guns? Nerf guns? It's a slippery slope. And it gets slipperier when you add video games to the mix.

I always loftily decreed that Henry couldn't play shooter games, the ones where you win by killing the most enemies. Clear enough, I thought. But then Henry started testing the definition. OK, no gun games, but what about shooting down evil alien monsters with lasers? Karate games, games where the Hulk drops people off buildings, samurai sword-fighting? And if those are OK, then why aren't shooter games? 

I came up with some lame excuses like sword-fighting is more of an athletic challenge, but we're talking video games, not re-creations in the park. (Bend can't be the only town that has teen boys dressed up in capes playing with fake swords in the park, can it?) Or this reason: shooter games glorify war and killing. Hmmm. Luckily, he's not interested in those games, except for the fact that since they're not allowed, they clearly must be cool.

Yes! I medaled...

(When did that become a verb again?) For finishing a few projects during the knitting Olympics, from Ravelry.com:

WIP DANCING (finishing old Work In Progress)

"Please accept this lovely bouquet of snowdrops from the knit-clad Bobettes and crochet-covered Bobdudes:

And bow your head for your medal -- what an honor!

Now will Ravthletes and spectators alike bow your heads for the stately yet intoxicating Ravelympic anthem … dum de dum dum … dummmmmm .. DA DUMMM!

and the crowd goes wild as the competitors proudly sport finally-finished objects of all shapes, sizes and ages, walking off the podium showered with cake and hot chocolate "

MITTEN MOGULS (for the fingerless mitts)

"drums rollin Please accept this Ravatar bouquet for the lovely hand-warming pieces you’ve finished! crowds cheerin

and this wonderful medal is from our very own head of the International Ravelympic Committee, Adonis Dionysius Bobicus Maximus because he knows how much training went into this year’s Ravelympics.

badges waving Please salute our hard working raveletes as our Ravelympics National Anthem takes us to our next commercial break."

Knitting humor. Ya' gotta love it.

blogging article if you're interested

This is the print article of which I blogged:  Download Source article

This is a PDF file. To view/read or print a PDF file you must have Adobe Acrobat Reader software installed on your computer. If you don't have Adobe Reader, you shouldn't be using a computer, frankly. Call the Source and ask them to send you a copy through the U.S. Postal Service. What are you doing reading this blog anyway?  Sheesh.

Fri. frylet: bad kitty (PG-13)

Tiger Woods’ lawyers threatened to sue PETA if they used the campaign presented below. “We agree and have now turned the focus of our campaign to Mark Sanford,” said a PETA spokesman. The organization has confirmed that the new ad campaign for the South Carolina governor would feature the possible tagline,”Your dog doesn’t have to go to South America to get laid.”

 

(Media note: I got this from Facebook, posted by Cheryl, who got it from Entertainment Weekly who got it from Fox News who got it from the New York Post. I didn't dig deeper than that.)

...just as long as they spell my name right.

where the magic happens

The local alternative weekly, the Source Weekly, asked me recently to write a personal article about blogging. And now I'm blogging about my article about blogging. Now that's meta.

Anyway, they didn't spell my name right in the byline, though they did in the little bio after the article. They also didn't publish my photo, for which I'm thankful. But no matter. They got the blog name right.

I'm still not quite sure why they wanted this article, other than the reporter telling me she reads my blog and enjoys it (hi, Sara!). The issue was the Women's Issue, though primarily focused on women in the work world. Also, I'm over 50, which I'm sure the Source didn't know because if they did I'd have been banned from publication. 

I used to work at an alternative weekly in Boston, the Boston Phoenix. I was the traffic manager, in charge of making sure all the ads ran that were scheduled. And all the local clubs would call in to me with their band listings for the week, which was kinda fun for some reason. What I remember most is the coincidence that my sisters' high school friend worked there. (shout out to Clif here) And all the futon ads.

That experience is actually what propelled me to get an MBA and go into advertising. The place was wildly stressful and chaotic (these were the days of physical paste-up. It's when the layout artist actually - oh, never mind.) The national cigarette and liquor ads would come in from the ad agencies all nicely finished with paperwork and such. They seemed so professional.So calm. So organized. Ha.

Since my major from a private East Coast liberal arts college was Art, I clearly needed more education, so I got an MBA in marketing and was recruited by an NYC ad agency actually on Madison Avenue. The rest is history.

So I have a soft spot in my heart for alt weeklies, even if they not proofread so gud.

Does it count as sunny if you have no shadow?

Bend boosters like to quote the statistic that we get 300 days of sunshine here -- it counteracts the Oregon = rain perception people hold. Everyone quotes the same number: 300. Realtors, the Chamber of Commerce, the medical clinic, golf resorts and the local HVAC company all repeat this frequently. (With the notable exception of a surly curmudgeon whose entire blog exists to dispute this number.) I'm not sure how the "300 days" stat was compiled, but I'm just saying we'd better see sunshine non-stop through New Year's if we're going to hit that this year.

Due to the frequent brilliant sunshine there's a interesting phenomenon that occurs in Central Oregon around February and March. By now we're seriously bored with winter and start to believe that sun = spring. People shed the down and fleece and run around in shorts and t-shirts. Myself, I stop wearing jackets to work and start leaving the doors open, until I realize I'm freezing. 35 degrees is 35 degrees whether it's December or May.

(There's a subset of guys who wear shorts year-round here. They tend to be of three kinds: snowboarders, 30-something dads who pretend they're snowboarders, and the UPS guy. The shorts are the long cargo-type, so at least we're spared large flashes of goosebumpy flesh.)

The kids immediately wear tank tops (gals) or take their shirts off (dudes) and hang around the park downtown. By the way, I seem to have turned into the kind of mom who says: "Those children must be freezing!" How did that happen?

Then it turns gray and cold and rainy again and we remember it's only February.

I'm happy to report that I'm in a far better place than I was this time last year, when I wrote this depressing post.  Wow. Good thing I didn't have my biathlon rifle back then.

Where the cool kids hang out. And the geese. On a much nicer day than today.

11 years ago, in a mini-mall far, far away...

Today's our "Gotcha Day" as they say in adoption circles, so I'm republishing this post from last year.

Where babies come from: between Domino's and the dry cleaners

Ten Eleven years ago today, in a non-descript office in a non-descript mini-mall in Humble, Texas, a social worker placed a little baby in my arms. I stared down at him staring up at me. I recall my first thoughts were: "You've got so much hair!" followed by "You're so dark!" followed by "I can't believe they're giving me this baby!"  I'm sure Henry was thinking the same things, as he looked astonished, frankly.

My big brother Steve and I had driven from Austin to Houston that morning to "Go Get Henry!" as Steve's map was titled. I had warned him about the religiosity of the Texas adoption agency and he was prepared for whatever came up. (Another couple I knew were invited to pray before they received their child.) We met with the director, who commented on how wonderful it was that my brother lived in Texas and was able to accompany me. My brother, who is an imposing character with a deep voice, proclaimed loudly: "It was meant to be!" Satisfied I was acceptable, she closed the deal. I handed over a check and they handed over Henry.

They let us leave, baby in arms (I was expecting alarms to sound) and we walked off into our life together.

Stuck in a rut, or is it a groove?

This is a quick post to show my friend Polly some yarns for fabric ideas. Polly is multi-crafted: knits and sews, beautifully. (Plug for her etsy shop here)

I seem to be buying the same skein over and over, though in different weights and yarns. Like Picasso in his blue period, right?

I never knit these - I just like to look at them.

This is two years worth of Madrona Fiber Retreat purchases. These are each made by different people -- all hand-died and mostly handspun. They're so beautiful in the skein, I can't bear to knit them.

Do you ever buy the same thing (with slight variations) over and over again?

My life as an A.V. nerd

(I love this painter. He painted 1000 images in 1000 days and blogged about it.)

For some reason that is not at all clear, I have become the A.V. go-to-gal at my office. This primarily consists of hooking up the laptop to the digital projector. It's always right before a presentation when the audience has filed in and is avidly watching. I screw and unscrew connections, push buttons, close and open the computer, confer in a frantic undertone with the presenter and eventually get the image on the screen.

It's a very mysterious ritual and takes a lot of time out of my workday when I could be blogging. (Just kidding!) I guess I kind of like being needed, and I suppose it falls under my role as the Communications VP, but shouldn't it be easier? What I think about during those times is when are these things going to be automatic. Why is hooking up a TIVO, a wireless network or a digital projector still so complicated? And why am I the one who has to do it?