Knitters-Knitters

Ticky Tacky

For the first several days of living here we had no satellite service, which means no TV.  Instead, in the evenings I watched season 2 disc 1 of Weeds, which was entertaining, but I imagine even moreso if you've actually seen season 1.  My favorite part is the theme song.  It leaves me with nagging questions about ticky-tacky, and if I've been using the word wrong all these years.  I'd assumed ticky-tacky was an adjective ascribed to certain facts that were minor data points--things with which those of us getting the Big Picture should be unconcerned--but apparently, ticky-tacky is also a building material.  And you can use it to make houses.  Perhaps it's something like Spackle, or stucco, or even particle board.

I like my old definition better, and as one who oftens concerns herself with the small stuff, it gives me a perfect jumping off point to share some details about where I live now, and, as the young people say, where I'm at.

It is a 15 minute drive from this house to Olive's day camp.  It's odd that here in the suburbs, where you hardly need them, traffic lights with green arrows abound.  Note to self: stop turning left on red lights.

Olive is still wait-listed at Keshet, and is unlikely to secure a placement there for the fall: at least, not the fall of '08.  We have not heard yet where her public school placement will be, but likely, it's going to be Hickory Point: a very small, leave-it-to-Beaverish school for grades 1-3.  It participates in the NSSED program, and is approximately 40 yards from our house.  We wouldn't want it any closer, really, lest we be trampled at the end of every day by a throng of children stampeding past our house, like in You're In Love, Charlie Brown.

There is a harmonious flow to an attached garage which exceeds, benefit-wise, the aesthetic charm of a house where the garage is not visible from the street.  Especially when one is carrying groceries.  And, undoubtably, this will prove even more true in January.

If an architectural visionary designs and constructs a house with built-in display areas, it is possible that his tenants may choose to show off a very different collection than what he had in mind.

If you run out of yarn for a project and have to order more--even if you pay for expedited shipping--you run the real risk of starting a new project in the meantime.  A project which you have no wish to set aside once the new yarn for the old project makes its appearance.

If in making sure you have enough yarn for your new project, you un-knit a previously abandoned item and use that bit of ravely yarn across the chest, you will see a glaring swath of warbly demarcation.  Intellectually you know that this will not show after the sweater has been washed and blocked, but still, it nags at you.

The fact that the pattern you're using specifies a rolled neck and hemline will not change the fact that leaving off the ribbing (or hem facings) strikes you as a depth of laziness to which you will not allow yourself to sink.  Frozen pizza for dinner, wet towels draped over the radiator and a Hefty bag that doubles as a clothes hamper is one thing, but a sweater with no edge treatment?  You'd never be that sort of mother. 

Stronger Every Day

Today was Olive and my first day of commuting from the new location. On the way home from camp, "Feelin' Stronger Every Day" came on the radio. For a moment I felt a pang at not being able to marvel at the synchronicity of hearing Chicago while driving in Chicago, but then we were home and it was time to turn off the radio, anyways.

Progress

The trouble with moving every three years is that you get in the habit of always having 5 or 6 boxes which head straight to the garage, never to be opened or thrown out or even considered until the next move, when--if you're handling the move yourself--they head straight to the new garage.  But if at some point during those moves you graduate to hiring hunky young men to move the boxes for you, those self-same boxes sometimes find there way into the breakfast nook.  And when you open one, expecting to find that collection of plates with all your kids birthdates on them or maybe the white, tumeric-stained ladle, you come across this:

That's baby Daisy.  Look how sweet she is!  At first you're not sure because Sabina wore that little green dress, too, but this baby has two handies.  Remember that horrible wall-to-wall carpet?  Remember how baby gowns weren't popular then, and how happy you were to have this one instead of those boring onesies with the tedious snaps?  Everyone wore that green dress at some point, except Anatole, who was too big for it when he arrived.

And speaking of Tolie, look what else came out of the box!  Baby's first Green Card.  He was so fat upon arrival you suspected he'd been inflated instead of fed.  No hair gel required for that spikey 'do.

Here's baby Olive.  You put that teddy bear on the electrical cord to justify her faschination with the socket, but really, it was all about the cord.  With 20/20 hindsight, you like to refer to this unusual interest on her part as Clue #1.

It's a rude shock to tear into a box expecting a kitchen implement but instead finding yourself at Niagara Falls, Canada side, in 1986, with someone who is very much not LB.  How you two argued on that trip!  And how ill-suited you both were in your roles of driver and navigator!  Why couldn't you have just enjoyed being in your very early twenties, and did things that only people in their very early twenties can do: lift heavy boxes without getting winded comes to mind, for instance.  Or eat spicy food right before bed.  Sit down, stand up, sit down, with nary a perceptible change in heart rate.

LB and I have almost completely unpacked, shopped at IKEA, assembled two bar stools, a kitchen table, and a large bookshelf/curio cabinet with nary a disagreement or even a peevish remark.  Now that is something I could not have done in my early twenties.

First dinner in new house:

The Flip Side

We are officially here, on the other side of the Edens, and I'm writing you from amidst a mountain of cardboard.  I am at that stage of unpacking where it really looks like I've done quite a lot, but then, I start to encounter more and more boxes marked Miscellaneous, which invariably contain items culled from three different rooms.  Rooms which are now--in the new residence--on three separate floors.  It's all I can do to press onward instead of parking myself in front of a DVD of Columbo, with my knitting in my lap and a nervous spaniel at my feet.

Did I mention that we have moved every three years since we got married, 15 years ago?  At least this time we had the best packing and moving team ever.  They were fast, on time, and called me by my first name instead of Ma'am-ing me.  I dislike being called Ma'am.

And they were cute, too.

A Three Edens Day

Yesterday was a very busy day.  As I mentioned last week, Monday was the day Olive's little group was to wear green.  Friday, she's supposed to bring a litterless lunch.  I'm not altogether sure what this means--transferring the Pringles to a Tupperware instead of the snack pack they came in?

As usual, Olive was eager to head out.

She had places to go...

...and people to see.

After arriving home, I had some time to contemplate my garter stitch blanket project, which is taking way, way longer than I expected.  It'll probably be a gift--I have no real need for an enormous wool blanket, but after I saw this version, I felt compelled to stop everything I was doing and cast on.

My version is in Noro Kureyon, and is about 2/3 done.  Ultimately, those two ends in the middle will touch at the corners, but I kept them apart for the photo so you could see the clever S.

I did the wrapping thing so I wouldn't have rows of diagonal holes at the corners. 

I haven't made my mind up about the edge treatment.  Elizabeth Zimmermann recommends i-cord, but the very thought of doing that much cording makes me want to nap.  In fact, doing anything around the perimeter of this blanket makes me want to nap.  At this point, I'm seriously considering knitting up a separate border and (gasp) sewing it on at the end.  I like the idea of carrying around a small and portable strip of knitting for a few days as opposed to creating an edge treatment with this monster in my lap.

After LB arrived home from work, we piled back into the van and went to Northbrook for the final walk-through on the house we're renting.  We are moving on Thursday!  For those counting, that made three round trips on the Edens for me yesterday.  I didn't do the driving on the last trip, but still.

When we arrived, the children of the homeowners were waiting in front, along with several neighborhood children.  Apparently word had gotten out that a family with a bunch of kids were moving in.  Through the windows in the breakfast nook, you can see Sabina and Anatole chatting with a new pal.

Plenty of yard at this house.

Cog et al, you'll be happy to know that this move is in keeping with my residential destiny.  At first I thought this little shop was where one could change baht to sheqalim, but apparently, Currency Exchange is just Suburbian for "Check Cashing Place."

To see lots more pictures of the house in its current, pristine, pre-Sullivan state, click here:

Kiddie Pool

Lisa Made Me Do It

All this talk about the banished place coupled with the fact that Olive's camp schedule allows me an extra hour of sleep in the morning means that I have more energy to sew, and less of an excuse not to. 

First things first: Monday is "wear green" day at Olive's camp.  I think this is meant more figuratively than literally and perhaps the idea was for the children to wear recycled hand-me-downs, but I had a beautiful green and red cotton knit that's been sitting on my cutting table for months now.  Plenty of green here, and sort of green in spirit (since it was made locally, after all).

I don't usually topstitch knits, but in this case I decided to decided to forgo stretch in favor of structure.

The entire top is lined and interfaced, and the buttons at the top don't actually button--the whole thing slips over her head.

Matching shorts are a must.

Today was Picture Day at camp, so all the campers had to wear (gasp) matching screen-printed Hanes tee shirts. But I'm pretty sure no other child was wearing these shorts. I had been saving this very small amount of bright blue and purple for just such an occasion.

I was going to put Olive in her pink high-top sneakers, but her sisters pointed out that the suns on her shoes matched the suns on her shirt better.

Finally, seersucker shorts in pink and green stripes. These are to be worn on "wear pink" day, and will be accompanied by a coordinating tee shirt with pink ribbing.

Campers-Campers

Here's Olive the morning before her first day of camp.  The beautiful orange ensemble was made by my friend Debbie.

And here she is the morning before her second day.  She's holding my purse and her satchel, ready to head for the door.

On the third morning I got no picture, because Olive was insistently dragging me to the door by my wrist before I could get my camera.

It's safe to say Olive is enjoying camp.  However, let my experience be a lesson to you: never miss orientation.  Even if you're vomiting bile and birthing reptiles, show up.  Even if you have to drag yourself there by your elbows.  Not only did we miss the all-important information regarding fire lanes and where to park, but we also managed to enroll Olive without knowing that this is an integrated camp.  This means that autistic kids and 'nother kids are all mixed up together.  And while statistics seem to show an explosion in the number of children diagnosed with autism, the reality is that Olive's particular camp group consists of 14 neurotypical little girls...and Olive.  I have no idea what they make of her or she of them, but I find myself wishing I'd never read Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye.

I know several readers of Knitters-Knitters have kids on The Spectrum.  Now would be a good time for you to wax eloquent about your child's terrific experience in the wonderful world of inclusion, even if you have to fudge it a bit.  Tell me that children don't get away with being as scornful and exclusive as they did back when we were mean little girls.

Olive has a young aide who accompanies her on all camp activities.  We'll call her Daphne, in keeping with our beloved Frasier theme.  Daphne includes a bit of text every day on Olive's experiences--not as detailed and reassuring as the Sacred Notebook, but very appreciated, nonetheless.  Here's today's entry:

Today Olive played with Maris and Lilith.  She put her face in the water (at swimming) and used the bathroom.  She also loved art time and Kid's Fit.  Can you please send a water bottle daily?

There's also a checklist, where it indicates that today Olive participated in swimming, Tae Kwan Do, art, story-time and sports, and especially enjoyed putting her face in the water. 

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall at Tae Kwan Do! 

Egg Rolls

It was great seeing Annie again and I realized what a terrific person she was and how much fun it was just knowing her and I thought of that old joke, you know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, 'Doc, uh, my brother's crazy, he thinks he's a chicken,' and uh, the doctor says, 'well why don't you turn him in?' And the guy says, 'I would, but I need the eggs.' Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but uh, I guess we keep going through it...because...most of us need the eggs.

-Woody Allen

When my dad (OFD) goes to the Chinese restaurant, there's always some anxiety involving the egg roll and spicy mustard.  Traditionally, during the egg roll course at Milwaukee's William Ho's, both spicy mustard and sweet and sour sauce are brought to the table.  And with the same regularity, the spicy mustard is whisked away before the entree arrives.  For whatever reason, Mr. Ho does not consider the main dish--any main dish--to require spicy mustard.  The problem is, OFD likes the spicy mustard on his shrimp in lobster sauce, on his white rice, on his fried rice, and occasionally, on his beef and broccoli.  One would think it'd be easy enough to simply ask the waitress to leave the mustard behind, or if unable to catch her pre-whisk, to please return it. 

Herein lies the problem: once, long before I was born, OFD requested that the spicy mustard be left behind for him to enjoy with his entree.  The waiter came back with the accusation that surely, OFD must have forgotten he'd ordered a fish dish, thus implying that no reasonable person could intend to put spicy mustard on fish.  OFD felt powerless to object.

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, the spicy mustard conundrum joined us at every William Ho's outing.  Asking for the mustard to be left behind could precipitate a confrontation so stressful as to interfere with OFD's enjoyment of the first course.  And asking for the mustard to be returned was right out.  Hiding the jar under the table whenever the waitress materialized seemed childish (my suggestion), and sneaking in our own mustard would have felt like crossing the line. 

Why didn't we just eat someplace else?  William Ho had the best egg rolls.

Today was Olive's first day of showing up for Summer camp.  Because of our horrible gastrointestinal virus, we had missed orientation and the entire first week of activities.  We did not get to meet the counselors before today, and we did not have our Special Packet: you know, the one that says where to go, what to wear, what to pack in the satchel, and in fact, what sort of satchel it should be.  All we had this morning was a short letter sent long prior to orientation that said, in reference to camp arrival, Please be prompt!  Drop-off and pick-up locations are in front.  Drive down the fire lane, please, and do not get into the carpool lane!

Some people, like LB, can read directions such as these with no increase in blood pressure.  They're sure that the whole fire lane/carpool lane business will be completely self-explanatory upon arrival, and if not, well, what's the worst that can happen?  But when I read things like this, I know that my near future holds a circuitous maze of one-way lanes, poorly placed orange cones, and the promise of being yelled at by someone in a crossing guard's banner. 

It makes me feel, to put it another way, as if I've arrived at Mr. Ho's after the egg roll plates have been cleared.

As I could have predicted, there was more than one fire lane, and we ended up in the fire lane more traveled. It was the fire lane meant for parents of 'Nother Kids: the ones who leap effortlessly from the back of the minivan and can follow the language of cursory waves and written signs that say exactly where they should be.  It's amazing how one parent being in the wrong lane can slow down the entire drop-off process, and it's equally amazing (though I may be overly sensitive about this sort of thing) how quick those parents of regular kids are about pressing the horn.  When the requisite woman in a banner  showed up with her indecipherable instructions to use that lane back there, see? Where those cars are coming out.  No!  Not the first one--the one behind it! I barely flinched.  I already knew there was no succor to be had, let alone spicy mustard.

I am convinced these are the things that shorten our lives, these pokes in the sternum in the form of brief, admonishing exchanges with other people.  And it makes sense to me now why no condiment in the world was worth, in OFD's mind, the risk of an evening out turning into a jab in the chest.  The question of why we venture out into the world at all is so handily answered above by Woody Allen that it hardly bears repeating, let alone paraphrasing, but there it is: we need the egg rolls.

Summer in the City