Knitters-Knitters

Technical Difficulties

We have a new computer and it's scaring me, with its giant monitor and its new-computer smell.  This computer automatically identified my camera without my having to insert the Canon disk, but it did not come with any photo editing software.  For years I've been using Picture it! which, handily, came already installed with Windows XP.  Now I have to actually learn something new, and I hate that.  I want Picture It! back.  I knew how to use it.  It couldn't do very many things, but those few things it could do made sense to me and were all I needed. 

LB was advised by the computer guy to download something called GIMP, and it is not, I repeat NOT self-explanatory.  I'm not a photographer--I just want to take a few pictures of my knitting and my children, resize them and occasionally make them darker or lighter (the pictures, not the children).  Okay, sometimes I like to rotate, but that's as fancy as it gets.

Windows 7, I'm discovering, is intended for people who actually understand their computer and who have opinions about which programs they want to use for what.  They want to go out there on the web and choose their own photo editor, thankyouverymuch, and don't need their hands held. 

I had a friend who always said that if you can't lift your motorcycle, you shouldn't be riding it.  I cannot lift Windows 7; it just slithers through my fingers and snickers at me when I try.  I can't even figure out how I manage to keep hitting the caps lock key, or why I never notice until I've typed a whole paragraph OF SHOUTING. 

It may be several days before I can post a picture.  And when I do, it might be sideways.

More of the Same

Everyone here is or has been sick now with the virus I wrote about in the last post, with the exception of Sabina and LB.  Olive has no more fever, but still suffers from the malaise.  I'm keeping her home tomorrow (she spent much of today dozing in the nurse's office) which is another way of saying meaningful blogging will not be happening within the next 24 hours.  Anatole woke up with a rash; I expect it came from his new Spongebob pajamas.  Changing into different clothing and a dose of Benadryl made it fade considerably, but no one here is looking his or her best right now.  No pictures.  Also, none of us is very interesting to listen to, unless you enjoy descriptions of fatigue and the annoyance factor of watery eyes, or the sound of sneezing.

I dislike the sound of sneezing, especially the sound of productive sneezing.

LB says last night I talked in my sleep.  I don't think I've ever done that before.  Not only did I speak but I paused and waited for answers.  Apparently it was a very emphatic conversation; I accused one woman of trying to make another woman feel bad about her appearance.  Who are these women, and why did the situation merit my somnolent comment?  I don't remember the dream, but I remember LB patting me to wake me up.  It's all reminiscent of the last time I was this sick, and the dreams I had.  At least with this illness, there hasn't been any puking.  Yet.

November Comes in on Little Rodent Feet

On Friday Olive came home from school coughing and with runny eyes.  By evening she had a fever.  She spent most of Saturday lying on the couch, moaning, with eyes half-mast, occasional taking breaks for Advil and an Albuterol treatment.  I am so glad we bought a nebulizer instead of renting it, when Olive got that bad respiratory bug over the summer.  It has now officially saved us from at least one ER visit. 

Halloween took us by surprise.  We'd assumed trick-or-treating would start after dark, but this year Northbrook went the Milwaukee route and did it in the middle of the afternoon.  The doorbell started ringing at 3 p.m., and the children had to quickly don their costumes and get out there before all the good, peanut-free stuff was taken.  I didn't even get pictures. 

Olive and I stayed home, of course.  At around 4 p.m. she spiked a fever, began wheezing and got the chills.  Time for more Advil, more nebulizer, clean warm jammies and a nap.  Olive and I got into the big bed where she promptly fell asleep on my chest.  Occasionally she'd move a bit to make sure a knee was digging into my liver or to cough sputum more directly onto my face.  We lay there for two hours, like St. Julian and the leper, and after Olive woke up she looked and sounded much improved.  I had a suspicious tickle in my throat and feelings of pre-flu deja vu (do you all get that, too?  The ominous feeling of familiarity that preceeds illness?).  It occurred to me that this is the second Halloween in a row where Olive was too sick to trick-or-treat.

In the evening we set a mousetrap in back of the television set.  Clover had been sniffing around back there and we suspected our autumn visitors had returned.  We watched two DVR'd episodes of The Big Bang Theory, and during that hour we caught three mice.  Each time one died, LB would set a new trap.  Twenty minutes later we'd hear a snap followed by frantic scuffling, and then, nothing.  Some children enjoyed this more than others.  During the night we caught one more mouse, and in the morning Clover got to it first.  LB found Clover slinking around with the trap in her mouth, tail dangling from her snout, and when he snatched the trap away from her, she growled.  We think she believes she killed that mouse herself.

Today, Olive is back to chortling and gleefully tossing nearly-full cans of soda, while I'm miserable and shivering and sweating and having leg pains and coughing and feeling hot behind the eyes.   And LB--between giving me back rubs and fetching my various pills and suspensions and making the children their meals--actually had the nerve to suggest I was laying it on a bit.

I suggested we nap together.

A Song for the End of a Long Week

IEP and Colposcopy: Comparison Study

Yesterday was our first IEP meeting since Olive's been at Keshet.  I'd say it was less painful than the ones we attended at her last school, but that's a little like saying a colposcopy and punch biopsy performed with topical anesthesia is slightly less uncomfortable than a colposcopy and punch biopsy without. 

In fact, there are a lot of similarities between the IEP and the colposcopy.  First of all, the very fact that you're there implies there's a problem.  They both involve scrutiny into something of which you are possessive, perhaps defensive.  Bringing your husband along doesn't help as much as you'd think it would.  You can bring snacks to both procedures, but no one is going to eat anything, especially you.

Now, here's where the procedures part ways.  I've had four colposcopies, with diagnoses varying from normal to CIN III.  During one of them, the doctor said, Huh, and invited two resident in to look, for a teaching moment.  

But for Olive's IEPs, the conclusions are always the same:

Olive makes definite though glacial progress.

Olive does most of the tasks involved in her therapies with an ambiguous and frustrating 60% accuracy.

Olive is very happy and well-liked.

Olive has cute clothes.

Another way these procedures differ?  You are more likely to cry during your fourth colposcopy than you are during your first.  You are more likely to cry after your first IEP than your fourth.

There are, no doubt, many other differences between the two procedures, but one occurred to me today, after I dropped Olive off at school:

On the day after the IEP meeting, it is possible for your child's aide to say to you, with absolute joy, She clicked* at me yesterday!  It is very unlikely that the day after a colposcopy, a stranger will approach you with good news about your cervix.

*tongue-clicking is Olive's way of initiating contact with someone she has decided she likes.  It means you're "in."

Shhh...Coat is Sleeping

The maternity swing coat has been lovingly washed in a shampoo for color-treated hair, and is now resting comfortably on my living room carpet.  Project details:

Pattern: "Indigo" by Marianne Isager in Japanese Inspired Knits.

Yarn: Tvinni (merino) and lace-weight wool, both by Isager.

Needles: 4mm.

Ravelried here. 

As you can see, the sleeves, hem and collar are in a different dye lot than the body of the sweater.  This is because for some reason, Isager markets their yarn in the US in skeins exactly half the size of how they're sold in Europe.  I loved this book, but dang, I wish they'd made that clear!  Or, barring that, I wish I'd actually read the label on the skein and noticed that it was only 50g and not 100.  If you make it, buy double what you think you need.  Unless you happen to be in Denmark.  Then you may go about your business per prior instructions.

There is also a...design element where I did the color-work differently on one sleeve than the other.  The right sleeve was done correctly, with the band of gold going all the way around the wrist.  For reasons unclear to me but which may have something with my focus being diverted by a particularly compelling episode of Dexter, I did not continue the gold all the way around the left wrist.  This discrepancy didn't come to my attention until the sweater had already been washed and laid out, at which point I reminded myself that perfectionism is a trap I won't fall into into which I will not fall. 

To avoid drawing unnecessary attention to this unique sleeve feature, I hope I can count on the wearer to always keep her hands well apart while wearing this garment.  No slumping forward with elbows on the table, forearms pressed together.  No outstretching of arms and clasping hands with thumbs aligned in the volleyball "bump" position. 

In fact, Andra, being pregnant and all, maybe you should just hold off on the volleyball.  Parcheesi, Go to the Head of the Class and even Sorry! are permissable, but make sure you drink lots of fluids first and take frequent breaks.  Now, if a situation arises postpartum where volleyball truly cannot be avoided and there's a chill in the air that calls for a long sweater, I ask that you "set" and "spike" only.  As a favor to me.

He Complains...

...but I think he'll feel a little sad when the sweater's washed, blocked, and on its way to its rightful recipient.

The next project will be LB's birthday sweater, no joke, for being such a good sport with the modeling.

In Which LB Totally

...rocks the maternity sweater.

The sleeves are complete.  Only the collar is left to go!

The 6th Anniversary is Facial Hair

Abel Day is October 28th. It could be very late the 27th, but the recorded time of death is on the 28th, so that's when we, for want of a better word, celebrate.  How does one celebrate, you may ask?  I blog.  All surviving Perlmans make grudging phone calls to each other, discuss our vitals and move ever onward to Thanksgiving plans.  We may each drink our own form of celebratory beverage.  Mine is one part survivor guilt, one part should my pulse rate be that high? and two parts anger at Abel for still being dead, after all this time.  Because I have felt, more than once, that given how mature we're all being, how well we're handling this whole Abel-dying-out-of-turn thing, leaving off being dead would be the least he could do.

I've never enjoyed fall as much as your average mommy-blogger, and that dislike pre-dates Abel's bad timing.  This fall has found me tired, very much a slave to the Bad Nap.  I've never been a good daytime sleeper -- I've always woken more tired than when I started and often with bad dreams -- but this fall that knowledge hasn't stopped me from hurling myself crosswise onto the Tempurpedic with the hope of rejuvenation.  I think what I've been trying to do is sleep through it, all of it: sleep through Abel Advent, Abel Eve, Abel Day, and wake up refreshed on Abel Boxing Day.

This afternoon I woke from a nightmare that LB had grown a beard.  If you didn't know Abel, then you probably don't realize that this is an Abel Dream.  Abel didn't have a beard.  Abel was the beard and the beard was Abel.  See, this is another reason Abel needs to come back: somewhere, there's a solitary beard wandering, in search of its Abel.

But back to the dream.  Naturally I sent LB to the bathroom to shave but every time he came back, he returned with a slightly different sort of beard.  He started out with the Full-on Abel, also known as The Happy Rabbi. 

The first time he came back from the bathroom, he had the neatly-trimmed Abel. 

The next two returns from the bathroom he headed into places where even Abel feared to tread: the goatee.  The Adnan.  Finally, he came back with just a mustache and flatly refused to shave clean.

Like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, Abel will not be ignored.  See how the eye naturally gravitates toward Abel:

So how do we celebrate this fall, this 6th Anniversary of Abel's death?  We will take our blood pressure and compare notes.  We will drink our sour, personalized beverages of self-punishment.  I will feel my anger, hurling it at a few of my favorite hobby horses: I won't forget what you did, Ted Kennedy.  Yoplait, do you really require me to rinse, dry, estimate postage and then, mail you my garbage before you'll donate to breast cancer research?  

Because I do know that being angry at Abel is as pointless as the Bad Nap, and will not lead, ever, to that Abel and beard reunion.

Just a Few Things that Fill Me with Irrepressible Joy and/or Ironic Amusement

That LB got himself a new chairjob.  Same firm, same basic duties (which I do not pretend to understand, but which have something to do with the buying and selling of intangible abstractions, and the managing of those who counsel others on how to buy and sell their intangible abstractions) but he'll now be doing it 5 minutes from home.

That the Illinois Special Olympics are being held in Normal, IL.  (Since I'm the mother of a maybe-contender, I'm allowed to laugh at that.)

That Olive will need to leave Presbyterian Sunday school early for the next several months so that she can go to Keshet for special-olympics team practice.

That last night I found an extra can of Diet Coke in the 'fridge and you all are right--it is effing awesome.