Friday, January 30, 2004

Memorandum to self: orange Gatorade stains knitting when not promptly discovered and rinsed out.

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Quizzes-more enlightening and less annoying than Dr. Phil! (I'm Stalin, too, B., but I don't like to brag.)

Which Survivor of the Impending Nuclear Apocalypse Are You?
A Rum and Monkey joint.

Are you damned?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

You will die a warrior and be spirited away by warbling wenches to the Hall of the Slain. Meat and mead for ever more, well until Ragnarok, anyway, when you will do battle with giants, giantesses, dwarfs, elves and Nidhug, a dragon who likes to nibble trees. Odin is great!

Which Famous Homosexual are you?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Which Peeg are you?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Monday, January 26, 2004

I am a total paranoiac. Having fulfilled my promise to myself to finish knitting all the pieces of Tasha (note that since Tasha was the name of Pman's long-term high-school girlfriend, I must really like the bag to knit ANYTHING named Tasha. Yes, I have lots of jealous bones, third only to my dreamy muscles and paranoia tendons.) before catching up on my reading, I worked my way down to the Knitting Curmudgeon. Instead of the familiar navy filling my screen, I gaped in horror at an "Access Denied" screen.

Not even "File Not Found," DENIED.

A moment of panic while I catalogue things I have said or done to offend the grande dame of funny, cranky knitting.

I need to get a hold of myself!

I finally finished these socks that I started in June. The pattern is the Yukon Leaves pattern that I picked up somewhere on the internet. Someone posted a while ago about knitting boo-boos, and this one is a doozy. I learned halfway through that I was doing my yarnovers the wrong way-it just hadn't come up that often. I was not about to start over and anyway, it's only on the toe and anybody who would see the toes wouldn't notice.

Mmmm...baby silk from Elann...

Can I get a bit ranty again? (Maybe ranty is simply my natural state.)

I fully intend to promote premarital sex to my children. I think abstinence-until-marriage is just a church-sanctioned path to sexual deviancy and marital unhappiness. Let me put it to you like this: if I had married the person to whom I had the strongest attraction in order to act on that attraction, I'd be living in a trailer. Seriously, he does. (Genuinely because he has no ambition for anything else.) I don't mean to sound snarky, but he and I couldn't be trapped in a trailer with him for years, not without alcoholism, anyway. Plus, any attraction that strong could only burn out. If fed by the restrictive flame of abstinence, we could have gone on and on for years, making each other miserable. Instead, we "got it out of our systems," (a lot) and now I am happily married to a guy who has the whole package. Desire didn't cloud our decision-making ability. (Don't get me wrong; Pman is totally hot and there is nothing wanting in this department.)

Additionally, I think that sexual intimacy and satisfaction is an integral part of adult life, and one, like any other, that requires trial and error. Marriage is too big and important a step to jump into blindfolded. I think that a certain amount of experimentation is necessary to know what you want (or don't want anywhere near you.) Why do we insist on forcing girls into this false, restrictive purity that does them no good? My girls are going to Planned Parenthood as soon as they hit puberty. They need to know about their bodies, how to protect and care for themselves so that they are armed for the inevitable "heat of the moment" moment. Better safe than sorry. It's that Cinderella-"but he really loves me" kind of thinking that ruins girls' lives. Studies prove that pretty much all teenagers have sex. It's free, fun and doesn't require fraudulent identification. I would much rather give my kids all the facts in advance so they can make informed decisions. Sex is a gradual, holistic process. Small children learn about theit genitals in a way that deeply affects their sense of self, as well as their sense of privacy. Young teens practice "courting rituals," exploring their feelings about the opposite sex. Older teens practice having intimate, monogamous relationships in preparation for choosing a mate. How can we expect girls to make wise choices in terms of spouses and family planning if we don't give them the room to make a few mistakes? Why are boys the only ones allowed to feel curiosity or desire?

Don't get me wrong. My children's sex lives fall into the same category as my parents'. I know intellectually that they have, or will have sex, but I never want to be faced with the reality. Denial--works for me. I'm not one of those permissive parents who encourage "sleepovers" and leave candy dishes full of condoms on the coffee table. If you're old enough to be having sex, you're old enough to buy your own damn condoms and sneak around, like we did when we were teens. They are also old enough to know that every sex act is a potential pregnancy. I just want my kids armed with more information and [ermission to live their own lives than I had as a teenager. There is still a lot of secrecy and hypocrisy out there, and it needs to end.

Whew! Can't wait to get some hate mail for that one!

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

Courtesy of eklectika.

This pleases me immensely, for some reason I'd rather not examine too closely. Maybe someday in the far-off future, someone else will take a quiz entitled "Which Historical Lunatic Are You" and end up with "wooliemama" as a result.

I'm not catching up on my blog reading until I've finished knitting the last piece of Tasha. To thine own self be honest.

Someone please put this on a bumper sticker 

Help control the conservative population...spay or neuter your Republicans!!

So in lieu of an actual vacation, we checked into Casa de Hospitalitivo. Room service, fresh linens, cable television...and IV fluids. My baby boy was stricken with RSV, but he's fine now. We're at home, and while he's not 100 %, we're home now. We were officially discharged, which feels almost like a Good Parent Award from the medical staff. (He's not completely better, but we trust you!) For those of you fortunate enough to not have yearly hospital stays, time stretches out when you are an inmate. Thursday afternoon through Sunday afternoon equals approximately 10 days of real time. In the ER, Pman and I figured out that we've spent more time in the hospital than on actual vacations. A lot more, really. But I finished the second sock of my Paris Pair (France, not Hilton) and pictures will have to wait until I get my lazy tuchis out to the car to unload it.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

I hate George Bush. I hate Republicans and Christians, too. (at least the right-wing ones.) Admitting to me that you are Republican or deeply religious would be like admitting to being mildly retarded. I might like you anyway, but I would always have to be tolerant and remember that you don't know any better.

My favorite film clip is the footage of W. being told about the World Trade Centers. All of his IQ drains out of his face, leaving only panic. You know he's wishing he'd let Gore have the election.

My favorite long-term footage is the actual election coverage of 2000. It was like watching devolution.

Speaking of film clips, why are people saying that Howard Dean's televised yawp makes him seem less than presidential? He was mad. I'm mad. I want a president who's sick to death of W.'s boy-howdy-just-folks attempt to bring back the Inquisition. (It seems he's the one who's less than American and would be more comfortable in Saddam's Iraq.) Take back the White House! Root out the sickness all the way to the Oval Office and chase the GOP down Pennsylvania Ave. with shaving-cream condom bombs and Webster's Dictionaries. When he was first elected, I thought (with my typical weakness for a drawl) well, how bad can he be? He doesn't look smart enough to do any real damage. Awwww, he's kinda cute. Look at him, trying to talk.

Now I cring hearing that drawl on CNN. Thanks, W. I almost forgot that...

Compassionate conservative means "Don't hate me 'cause I'm way rich."

A Bush in office means a president who would rather spend our tax dollars on blowing up the citizens of other countries than caring for our own.

It doesn't matter how many kids find their parent's guns in the bedside table--it's all worth it if one possible terrorist is shot.

We are winning the War On Drugs, because the Bush family seems to be buying up all the drugs.

Single mothers and people on welfare are going to hell when they finally starve or freeze to death, because only Republicans are allowed to have choices--when the rest of us make decisions we are deviants.

Education is wasted on children. Rich children should just model themselves after Karl Rove, and poor kids don't matter anyway, so who cares if they can read.

Due process is only for Martha Stewart, Enron execs, and celebrity rapists. Democracy is too expensive for your average citizen.

Separation of Church and State means we worship the almighty dollar and the treasury is not in the White House--see? Done!

Jeb Bush respects the sanctity of life so much that he's willing to personally impregnate a mentally challenged woman to prove it. (Marrying Jeb Bush is proof enough of being mentally challenged.)

If you disagree with the Administration, you are automatically registered with the Communist Party and will never eat lunch in Branson again.

If Europe is laughing at us, it's because they are just jealous. Or godless socialists.

It's only OK to shoot someone when the President tells you to.

Well, I know I sound pretty angry. I am. I'm either going to hell or to jail. But this might be my last chance to get an FBI file. I don't want to run for President (Not yet, anyway.) First of all, birthdays notwithstanding, I'm nowhere near the age required. Plus, it would totally cut into my time watching game shows. But I know a crappy human being when I see one, and let me tell you, George W. doesn't deserve to wipe the snot from my kids' noses. I think I'm going to go with Dean, because I want to see someone kick a little Republican ass.

Birth control pills and a joint in every pot! (I'm getting carried away, I know.)

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Happy Birthday to me! I just found my first grey hair this weekend and I can't wait to go around and blame it on people. I live for guilt. " You with your toys on the floor/spilled juice/coming home late/cutting me off in traffic/starting that war in Iraq, you're making me old before my time!"

Pman wished me happy birthday about thirty times. Amy and Tara brought a huge layer cake to the parent meeting (with twenty-five candles) and sang to me in front of everyone, which has never happened since I've been at the preschool.

I feel happy and special and zonked on frosting. And perversely young.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

I Am the Worst Mother of All Time. 

I went out to karaoke with Brea on Sunday night, totally my idea, and proceeded to drink myself under the table. I was really sloppy. I don't remember getting home. (I didn't drive-I already planned to cab it both ways.)

I think it was a combination of too much Sheryl Crow and watching the Banger Sisters on Saturday. Not my favorite movie, but as a former wild child, now a career mother, it strikes an uncomfortable chord.

Although I'm positive I could tell the difference between my kid's bad trip and mixing red and white wine. Please. The girl may have been going off to Vassar in the fall, but not on the strength of that excuse.

So I had the motherbitch of all hangovers on Monday. (The if-you-love-me-you'll-shoot-me kind.) Yes, Alice's birthday. And we ended up postponing her party because I couldn't stop puking long enough to bake her birthday cake.

That's right. We didn't have my daughter's birthday party because I was too hung-over.


We did have a special dinner for her, (she picked tacos) and gave her a present and sang happy birthday. The kids had chocolate pudding instead of cake, which, for a three-year-old, is a fair trade. She'll get an extended-family party on Saturday, and her friends will come over next Monday. I can tell you she's gonna rake in the gifts, too. And, well, she's three, so if you're gonna get drunk and ruin your kid's birthday, this is the age to do it. Isabel was very strongly cautioned not to volunteer why exactly Mommy was sick...can you just see it?

"Teacher Shirley yesterday was Alice's birthday and we were gonna have a party but my mommy drank too many drinks and it made her sick so instead we had tacos after Mommy threw up."

I'm not up in the top five with Medea and Joan Crawford, but there's probably a regional Bad Mommy pageant I could win.

Yesterday Toby (the grey and white cat) had surgery for a big ol'abcess on his rump. He got out on Saturday and was double-teamed by two neighborhood bully-cats and we thought that's how it got hurt, but it turned out to be an older injury, so it was a good thing they operated. Toby's naturally an aloof kitty, who doesn't especially like being held or snuggled, so we just didn't know. (More guilt.)

It was fun, though, Brea. I had a good time with you. All the bad stuff was stuff I did to myself.

Would you like a little moment of zen?

Of course you would.

I know you know what she's doing.
My little girl is a knitter! Was ever a mother so proud?

Monday, January 12, 2004

We're gonna eat pudding naked like it's your birthday... 

Happy Birthday, my curly-headed baby.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

No rest for the... 

I can never remember whether it's the wicked or the weary. O well. I suppose I qualify as both. I finished Keith's cashmere socks yesterday, but no pictures, as he's wearing them. He should be, since it's a whopping 4 degrees here, -17 with windchill. A bit frosty, you could say. Actually, my windows are covered with a thin layer of ice. On the inside.

I'm glad Christmas is over. Now I'm gearing up for the round of January birthdays coming up, mine included. I never seem to realize how quickly Alice's birthday follows Christmas, in order to start planning on time. Nope, I take a nice long deep breath after Christmas that lasts until about now, and then I miss that two-week invitation window. Darn.

I have this crackpot theory that needles and yarn are related by some weird elemental process. I hate to use bamboo needles with cotton. They both grow from the ground. I can do without wool or other animal hair on casein, and I don't like to use acrylic yarn on plastic or metal needles. I don't know if these are simply my preferences and I'm not preaching gospel, but it's odd all the same. I just got bamboo double-points, size 1, to make wool socks with, and I'm seriously diggin'. When I die, they'll find a box in my closet with 37 pairs of Crystal Palace bamboo needles, all the same size, wrapped securely in their original packaging, untouched. (Note to Pman: Kidding, kidding.)

I saw Knit One, Purl Two (link provided so I don't have to tiresomely explain, not because I feel you must visit) yesterday on DIY. I think it must be new to our area, because I've been keeping an eye out for it, but I was hard pressed to keep said eye open during the program. Who could learn to knit from a TV show? (Or at least this one.) I'm not talking about technique videos, where presumablely the focus is on a pair of knitting hands. Also, with a video, you could rewind until you got the hang of it. For someone to learn knitting from this show...well, maybe Rain Man could do it in one go but I doubt the fiber arts appeal to him. Since Ms. Eig had three (celebrity?) guests, the shots of knitting were rarely the focus. (I say 'celebrity?' because in addition to what's-her-name from Saturday Night Live, there were two women of sufficient polish that I figured we were supposed to know who they are.) They were knitting our favorite project, skinny, glittery scarves from hairy novelty yarn! I'm not knockin' them, but personally they don't appeal. I can't see wearing something that hairy next to my neck. I can't even wear my hair down, usually. Plus, I'm so accident-prone. Flinging a long, skinny scarf around my neck brings uncomfortable thoughts of Isadora Duncan, and as fond as I am of dramatic exits, that's a little further than I care to go. No one who wants to learn how to knit would learn from this show, not when there are better, easier ways to do it that are readily available. It may spark interest, but that's about all. No one who knows how to knit cares a fig about how Edith Eig casts on (and dun me as a Francophobe, but she has that wicked french accent that always seems to be voiced by a viperous woman of a certain age--I kept expecting her to say, "I am Gisele, the Fransh beesh! (whip crack!)") I may be going out on a limb, here, but there are tons of interesting things going on in the knitting world, and I would love to see inside yarn or needle factories, witness the dyeing process-I'm envisioning a Reading Rainbow of the knit.

So sayeth the wooliemama.

Monday, January 05, 2004

My one and noble heart...

You wanna make an honest woman out of me?

Thursday, January 01, 2004

Feliz Navidad, Y'all 

On the first day of 2004, my common-law husband gave to me...

12 bottles of beer,
11 hours of A Christmas Story,
10 days off work (for him),
9 trips to the grocery store,
8 different kinds of junk food,
7 days without leaving the house (this was good)
6 stupid presents given to the kids by grandparents that either the kiddos or the cats shredded in under 36 hours,
5 unmade beds,
4 pairs of knitted socks,
3 attempted arrests,
2 out-of-town friends visiting who want to stay up all night and drink,
and one wooliemama who wants to run away from home.


Wooliemama received her own personal grail, her Rosebud, her piece of the True Cross, her Red Ryder BB Gun!
Pman bought me the DVD of A Christmas Story. Because he is the holiest of holy husbands.
There is a very bittersweet story about my ex-husband buying the movie for someone else one year, back when we were married. Jean Shepherd might possibly have (inadvertently) caused my divorce.

And a house down the street has a leg lamp in the window.

Happy New Year!