Let it be known...

I have the latest copy of Vogue Knitting, FINALLY, and am getting on with a review forthwith. Hopefully tomorrow; I don't intend to draw all over these pictures like I did last time, but there are a few with Stuff That Needs Circled. In Red.

I made yarn!

I know, big duh, because I've had the spinning wheel for over a year now. But (in case you're tuning in late) I spent the last month-ish spinning three ply sock yarn, finished it last weekend, and have been knitting it up in a swatch for gauge purposes.

It's so SMOOTH!

It looks just like commercial yarn. Some would say that's a bad thing in a handspun, but I like variety in my spinning and in THIS case I was shooting for commercial, so it was nice to manage commercial type yarn. It's all nice and smooth, and knits up beautifully, better than many yarns I've knit with over the years that were machine made.

The swatch is in the round, of course, because the socks I want to knit will be in the round. Which means lots of cut edges sticking out. And lookie!

The yarn is staying spun, not too tight, not too loose. This means I got the twist right when I spun it. Which means I'm getting the hang of this whole spinning thing. Yay!

I absolutely love the bits that have colors spun together and come out looking marled and heathery.

This is exactly what I want to do with the roving that Bells sent me, only in a more wearable color - I can't decide between a sea green with darker bits of aqua, or a peach with flecks of pink. I don't have to decide yet, though, because I've just ordered an equal weight of merino to practice on before I dye and spin The Bells Fiber. For practice, to fine-tune the technique I have in mind, and to get an idea of yardage.

Then there's the issue of what to knit with it, but I've got something in mind for that, too. It's time I started knitting things that are flattering, instead of things that are freaky.

QUESTION FOR SOCK KNITTERS: I've heard/read that it's best the yarn be knit quite tightly so the stitches don't rub and wear faster. Is this true? I assume not so tight the socks will stand up by themselves, but tighter than usual, yes?

Debbie New saves the day.

Remember these?

If not, they're two (duh) squares from the Afghan Square Jacket in "Unexpected Knitting" by Debbie New. They've been in the ol' stash for about three, four years now. I've completely dumped the idea of deadline knitting for the hundredth time (what the fuck is up with that? I keep setting myself stupid deadlines and then reminding myself I knit for fun. COULD I JUST REMEMBER I KNIT FOR FUN IN THE FIRST PLACE? HMMMMMM?) and am knitting whatever in hell I feel like. Today, and for the next little while, I feel like knitting curlicues. (Though with luck I might wedge in some sock knitting so I can have a pair for the end of Sock Roulette at the end of this month. Not killing myself, though. Nope. Not. Done with that.)

So anyway. Back to the novel concept of knitting as fun. Same revelation I've had fifty times before this. Next time, someone hit me in the head with a wooden #35 needle as required, huh?

---

I am pleased to report that today I finally got a shot of the Goob I've wanted to get for a year now. Unfortunately I took it in the bathroom, as light slanted through the window, but I got it.

See the hair over her head? Looks kinda like a nimbus in the photo, but what it is, is a fluff of curly hair that grows STRAIGHT UP from her hair line and waves over her head as she moves around. It's nearly invisible most of the time, but today the light was right.

Her hair's even sillier than you thought.

Yarn philosophy.

May all the gods help us.

A non-knitting friend of mine was asking questions the other day. He didn't quite understand why I was so down about the loss of so much yarn out of the stash. Sure, he understood the lost money, but he didn't quite get the sense of loss. And he wanted to know why I knit in the first place.

I had sort of a 'duh' moment at the start, but eventually I pulled it together, and I think communicated some sense of the knitter's reality. At least enough that he got a glimmer of why I felt how I did.

I'll stick to one example on the stash issue. See this?

Three balls of Kauni Color Effects (however I'm supposed to spell that in, what is it, Danish? Norwegian?) It survived the Great Purge because I'd bagged it to avoid cat hair contamination. Looks like three balls of yarn, doesn't it? It's not. It's pure freakin' creativity. So far, I've decided to knit this yarn up into four or five different projects; a sideways-knit cardigan, three different types of stranded-color pullovers, a humongous shawl. I'll come up with another five ideas, at least, before I eventually do knit it up. I dream over it, I scheme, I jot down ideas, I think of all sorts of creative outlets, all inspired by these three balls of yarn.

Now imagine all the other ideas that lurked in that closet, sparking and sizzling in the dark, that had to get thrown away ignominiously, without ever reaching its full potential. Well. You guys get it. You're knitters.

As for why I knit. Well. Everyone always gets into process vs. product, and whether we knit for the joy of doing it, or whether it's all about the finished product. For each of us it varies, and there's no right answer. I'm not claiming there is. But why do I knit?


I made this with some sticks and string. THAT'S FUCKING COOL. I love looking at it and thinking "I did that." I love that it's POSSIBLE, that someone sat down and figured out not only how to do it, but figured out how to communicate to me how to do it, too. Sure, it was fun to knit it - there's satisfaction in the process, in knowing you're doing something fucking cool. And when you're done, there's just that much more satisfaction, knowing you made something with some sticks and string.


The Hex Jacket is one of my favorite knits of all time. It's not flattering on me. It hangs kinda funny due to the cut. Doesn't matter. The variegated yarn I hand dyed, hand spun, and knit up into the bodice. The semi-solid yarn I hand dyed. I put it all together like a jigsaw puzzle, and I am damned smug about the fact that I DID THAT. Aren't I clever? Aren't we all clever? We make stuff with sticks and string!

So, that's where I'm at lately. At least in my head. Getting philosophical over why I knit, and why I like it. I've been flipping through knitting books, waiting for inspiration. So far, nothing, but I've got out "Unexpected Knitting" by Debbie New. If that doesn't light me on fire, nothing will.

Knitting mojo, where art thou?

...and I just got off to a good start by publishing this to the 'net with no content. Which summarizes my day and probably where the ol' mojo has gotten to.

Here in the South we're doing our usual spring/autumn deal where we deal with two months' (or three, or four) of high daily temps and very low night temps. Last night there was a freeze warning. Today it is pushing eighty degrees F/26 C. These shifts leave me feeling like my head's going to explode, and is to the point I'm actually going to see a doc over it. (I've been on a doctor strike since I found out I'd been on Synthroid for a year when I didn't need it, due to bad lab technology. All my hair fell out and I felt like crap for a year, because of the lab. Bah.)

Bitch, moan, whine, complain. Anyway.

I've been sort of eh on the knitting lately, though the weather probably explains it. The only knitting I've done in the last few days is the gauge swatch for the Roulette Sock.

The Sock Roulette was a great idea. (Yes, Amy Lane, I admit it. Okay?) I don't know how many times I've seen participating people write "I wouldn't have chosen this yarn/pattern, but I like it". And that's exactly what I said to the husbeast last night while knitting up the swatch. (It's looking good for gauge; might start the sock tomorrow.) Love the yarn. Never would have chosen that shade of lavender. We should start letting other people choose more of our projects; I suspect unbiased opinions work better.

I did finish up the spinning, or at least the current spinning. (I'm sure something else to spin will turn up. Especially with payday next week. Ha.)

In total, with the other skein, 360 yards of orangey goodness. I think it's plenty for some plain old socks with a couple-four inches of twisted ribbing on the legs. The color alternately reminds me of clownfish and children's aspirin (orange flavored, of course) that I took as a kid. I'm thinking of this as my next Zen project. (With all the stress lately, I'm looking to have a Zen project going from now on, until the Goob is, what, thirty-five or so. Will the stress ease up then? No. Don't tell me. I don't want the answer.)

I think I've finally figured out what I want to do with the glorious wool that Bells sent me a year ago. But before I touch that, I want to practice on another clump of wool, so I'll be ordering that (and dyeing it) next week. And then... more spinning! (Carbon fiber? Never heard of it. What is this carbon fiber you speak of? Ya nichevo ne znayu.)

---

There was really nothing else for it today, but to set up an ad hoc photo shoot with my new gear.

There was good sunlight coming in my office window, and, one thing and another, I wound up with a hybrid; half new gear, and half the old, half-assed method of taking photos.

Then I hauled out some knitting and took some photos. Appropriately, I took pictures of the first thing I ever knit in stranded color, and the one I'm currently working on.


Before you decide you hate my ever-living guts for the stranded color skill, remember; I'd been knitting extreme lace and solid-colored clothing for ten years before casting on the Chainmail Sweater (the orange, pink, purple, and blue).

---

So, basically, my mojo is gone and I've got no idea where it went, how to recover it, and right now at my level of headache, I'm not sure I give a fuck. I probably will later. You know, like at Christmas when I've got nothing to give anyone as gifts. (I'm considering, cautiously, small knits like scarves, in non-feltable materials, for my brother's family. I've lost my mind.) For now I'm leafing through my knitting books, going 'oh, that's nice' and waiting for the fire to hit.

For now, I've got a kid who is pretending to 'do research' and 'play librarian'.

(In the last day she has discovered she can 'build puzzles'. Something else for payday next week. May all the gods bless my in-laws, who keep this kid supplied in educational and 'old fashioned' toys, or she'd have driven me insane. They'd already gotten her several puzzles.)

And Sekhmet says "I don't care how much catnip you give me, you're not getting me in that photo box to take low-light closeups of my whiskers."

Obviously I had the camera set wrong for that photo. Maybe if I got her in the light box...

Anniversary.

Seventeen years ago today, the husbeast and I ditched work on a Wednesday afternoon (how's that for kismet?) and went to the Justice of the Peace and got married. We'd been planning for an autumn wedding, and crap was piling up with my family ("I don't like that part of the ceremony" "I don't like that color" "I don't like that cake"), and I'd had it, and off we went. We had met ten years earlier at his cousin's Bat Mitzvah; I was his cousin's best friend, and from there it was kind of inevitable we'd wind up friends, and we did. Then we wound up at college together for a year before the husbeast got thrown out and joined the Navy.

After about two years in the Navy, he'd decided he missed me, and I decided he'd finally grown the hell up, so we got married.

Our families said it was sudden. We rolled our eyes.

Since I don't work, I feel like an idiot when I use his money to buy him presents. (Plus he spends enough on car parts... that's my present, I don't bitch at the money spent on his beloved engine and trucks.) Usually I bake. Today, he's getting lemon squares. From scratch, from his mother's recipe. The husbeast is always quite happy with lemon squares.

Me? Well, he's a maniac with a thing for gadgets. This is what I got from him.

A photo box with two lights and a tripod. He'd seen my usual photo setup - rolled white poster board and a full-spectrum light - and decided I needed something better. So he found this, and bought it for me. Isn't that sweet? That's the husbeast to a T. He knows what I need and gets me something extreme and gadgety to fit the requirements. Plus he knows I'm a practical woman who prefers something she'll use (as a gift) to something like jewelry or flowers. (Plus I'm on a diet and have informed him anyone bringing candy into the house will be killed and eaten.) I guess this means we're a good match.

Best of all?

It folds up into almost no space. He's already added a three-way plug (for the lights) and an extension cord to the pack, because he's the husbeast.

I set the whole thing up last night and took photos. I need work with the lighting (story of my life), but I know already the tripod alone was worth the cost of the lightbooth. Check this out.

Taken in low light, with no flash, and a long shutter speed. HAHAHAHA!!

Yarn looks pretty good, too.

It'll look better once I've got the hang of the lighting.

---

And since it's National Poetry month, and my anniversary, something romantic and funny, again from e. e. cummings.

May I Feel Said He


may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

The Taotie

(We're back to art history, everybody.)

The Taotie is a face motif that is found on ancient Chinese art. This is the short definition. As with all else (especially all else related to China), it gets complicated. Fast.

In art history, the Taotie (pronounced with three syllables, tao tee uh) is mostly associated with Shang Dynasty bronzes, but no one is quite sure how far back the symbol goes. It's been found on neolithic jades.

I suspect the reason we find so many on Shang Dynasty bronzes is because we HAVE a lot of Shang Dynasty bronzes, if you get me. The ancient Chinese (or the people who eventually became the Chinese) probably didn't favor the motif only for bronzes, that's just what has survived almost four thousand years. As well as jade, above, they've been found in turquoise,


and in ivory.

The fact that ANY ivory survived four thousand years is a miracle. But you get the idea; it's very likely they put the Taotie on everything. We just haven't recovered much else besides the bronzes and jades, for obvious reasons.

The vast majority of objects with Taotie on them come from burials. Some like to think this means there's some allmighty ritual purpose. But see, we don't have much of ANYTHING from the Shang Dynasty other than burial goods, so again, we've really got no way to say. From all I've seen of the human need to decorate everything (including the stuff that is red hot and nailed down), I'm betting they put the Taotie on everything.

What IS the Taotie? What does it represent? Nobody knows. I doubt we ever will, at the historic and cultural remove of four thousand years. The most valid suggestion I've run across is, it's an extension of older shamanic masks, real masks. It makes sense. You get used to making those and simply extend the decoration to other things. Other theories of course include mythical beasts and symbols for the forces of nature and gods and demons and, well, you get the idea.

There's also a distinct possibility that it's not really one critter we're talking about, but several. Some Taotie have horns. Some are crammed into little spaces between patterns. Some are incised decorations on OTHER animals. We just don't know.

I do think - and some art historians agree with me - that the Taotie evolved into the other 'swirly patterns' that have evolved through all of China's history, and are even now found on their art work of all kinds.





There you go. A small bit of Chinese art history. Bet you had no idea they produced such cool looking stuff, so long ago, did you? (Well, unless you study art history.)

I've regained my small portion of sanity.

I think. See, it hasn't been just about the stash around here.

Friday morning, I started my day with a call from my brother. He was so stressed out he was practically shouting (not at me), and since he's got a heart problem, that's not so good. So I followed through by having to call and snarl at some old-time, from-before-I-was-born (former) family friends. Not pleasant. I haven't heard back from the bro OR the others, so I'm assuming that situation resolved.

Friday afternoon during the Goob's nap was the discovery of the majority of the destruction in my stash, including the trashed Dale of Norway.

Friday afternoon at four PM the sewer backed up into the house (the Goob ran into the bathroom, slipped, fell, and SPLASHED), and we spent the next hours calling plumbers, landlords, county sewage, neighbors, and, well, the plumber left at ten PM after cutting a chunk of root out of our sewer line in the front yard. The Goob finally got to bed at around ten-thirty. She's still wasted, and splatted out in her bed right now.

That sort of set the tone for the rest of the weekend, which was spent cleaning up the wreckage and sifting through the damage. I did, however, get a chance to hang out with Terby on Saturday morning/afternoon (no knitting; we talked the whole time) and then I got on Skype - with video camera, no less - and talked to Bells in the evening (no knitting; we talked the whole time). The visits with Terby and Bells were definitely the highlights of the weekend. I fuckin' love the internet.

I missed nap time on Saturday (being out with Terby). Apparently the Goob and Sekhmet have declared peace again and we need to worry about them taking over the world and allocating it between them according to chocolate and catnip production.






Anyway, it's Monday, I'm on the down side of a case of PMS (oh yes, that too in the middle of the mess) the worst of the disaster is cleared up, and I shall attempt to discuss some comments I've gotten.

-Yes, I know carpet beetles fly and climb and do all other manner of devious, evil things. But all the carnage in The Pit was near the floor, except for the Dale of Norway yarns, which were eaten to scraps no matter where they were in the closet. Cotton was untouched. Mohair was untouched. Camelids were, weirdly, untouched. There are a kajillion different types of carpet beetles (or at least, protein-fiber-eating beetles), and I suspect each of them prefers a slightly different diet. I've bagged nearly everything, and will probably bag the rest in fits of paranoia in the next week or two, but the stuff they really go for is protected.

-The hanging bag in my closet is full of FINISHED knits, not unfinished. The only unfinished sweaters I have left are the Russian Prime (working now), Innsvenget, and the turquoise cotton circular cardigan.

-Sorry for making everyone suddenly paranoid. The Goob dropped a raisin on the floor this morning, I spotted it a little bit later (without glasses on) and about had a stroke. You aren't alone. Anything small is immediately thought to be a bug, and I freak.

-Brown Sheep produces utterly average, American-grown-wool yarn. For the price, it's a good value, don't get me wrong. I like it, but it's not the awesomest bestest yarn ever ohmygosh. (It is what I chose to learn on when I started knitting clothing, which is why I have so many sweaters out of it, and for that it was absolutely perfect.) It pills with a lot of wear, but if you pull off the pills it's fine after that. And apparently it's got serious anti-bug stinkum on it.

-I'm trying to avoid the big guns in terms of bug-proofing, because I have VERY bad reactions to pesticides, and I'm not wild about having them in the house as a long-term solution, with a little kid and a cat roaming around (and obviously they get into that closet). We live in a swamp. There is no amount of pesticide in the world that is going to keep this house bug-free. Not to mention, I think it got below freezing for one night all winter, and then it was for maybe six hours at about 25 F/-4 C. Not much of a bug die-off this winter. In fact I think the mild winter was a contributing factor to this whole clusterfuck with the carpet beetles.

-When we eventually move into a house we own (hopefully by the end of the year), I am hoping to find a work room with a tile floor, or hardwood, or some type of synthetic. I WILL rip up carpet with a song in my heart, as needed. More extreme measures will be taken to keep the stash safe, then.

-The 'tree of life' in black and white that was on the floor of my office in the Saturday (Friday?) blog post isn't a chart or a plan for a project. It's actually a knitting bag the husbeast gave me, years and years ago. You can find it on tee shirts and bags, usually under the title "Celtic Tree of Life".

I think that about does it for comments and questions over the weekend, through this whole mess. Thanks for the support, suggestions, help, and laughs, everyone. (Roxie, the movie is "High Road to China". I've seen it several times and knew exactly what scene you were talking about. Yes. Just like that.)

Right now I'm working on a gauge swatch for the Roulette sock, and trying to mellow out.

Over the weekend, the husbeast tried to cheer me up with some e-mailings. I'll share the ones that were funny.

The Survivors.

Most everything but the Dale of Norway made it. (Heather, thank you for the advice on felting it. I ran right out, grabbed it out of the trash, and threw it in the washing machine. Long story short, it's apparently superwash and didn't felt. But after that it was well and truly trashed, and I felt no guilt or sorrow at pitching it. So thanks for the help. It was a really good idea.)


Innsvenget and the circular cardi both made it. (One or the other is top of the list for the Next Finished Project. I'm thinking cardi.)

I'm remaining casual because Innsvenget is knit of mothproofed yarn and frankly, if bugs haven't eaten it down to nothing yet, they never will (and of four sweaters and umpteen balls of that yarn in the closet, every last damn thing was untouched). The cardi is cotton, and therefore not on the Little Bastards' food list. The alpaca project, surprisingly, also made it. I think in that case it's because it was in a plastic bag. Literally. Not a zip-loc or a grocery bag, but a plastic bag meant for taking to the beach. Since it seemed to be working, I put it all back in the bag and hung it on a wall hook for some added safety.


Most of the roving bit the dust. All that survived was stuff sealed in plastic, namely shop stock (which is also in a plastic, sealed storage container) and the two rovings you see here. They were what I most loved, and so were in plastic, though not religiously sealed, though they are now. Obviously.

The white one is the soft-as-a-baby's-butt merino roving that Bells sent me from Australia, hand to hand from her, to her brother-in-law, to my in-laws, to me. The brown one is llama that was sent to me as a gift by Historic Stitcher. The carbon fiber (the grey hank there in the front, and bags and bags more sitting on the shelf) is of course untouched. I'm leaving it open on purpose in the hopes the Little Bastards will go for it. From all I know of carbon fiber, it will kill them slowly and nastily. Eat, Little Bastards. I dare you.


Other than the Dale, all the sweaters, jumpers, cardis, capes, and ruana-thingies made it.

Most of them are knit with Brown Sheep Nature Spun Sport, as is Innsvenget, and permanently moth/bug/Little Bastard proofed. I cannot say enough good things about this yarn. I think because the sweaters were in a hanging shelf sort of thing, and not touching the floor or anything else but the hanging bar at the top, the bugs just couldn't get to them. At this point, these shelves are stuffed with all of the lavender sachets taken from among the yarn, PLUS there is a ceramic lavender diffuser hanging next to it.

You throw open the door to The Pit right now, and the menthol makes your eyes water.

Now, the only things on the floor are cotton, and leftover bits of wool from previous projects, some as old as ten years (which is when I started knitting clothing). Occasionally I get a wild hair and knit something feltable, felt it, and throw it away, from these raw materials.

I've bagged them up even though I don't really give a rip about them.


There are, near as I can tell, only two up sides to this whole thing. One, this is less stuff I have to move in July. And two?

The Pit is much less a pit now.


And now, the husbeast has popped a spring in his Lazyboy recliner and I have to go demonstrate my upholstering abilities. We may end up with a C clamp permanently affixed to the spring network. Or hose clamps, it's turning out.

At least the Goob is entertained.

Sekhmet, you fucker.

In my knitting basket...




AND in The Pit.

The almost-final toll.

That's a Dale of Norway in the trash can, there. It'd been languishing since 2003, awaiting a bunch of detailed finishing, but I still want to throw up. I'd had it out last year to look at it and take photos, and it was fine then. It looks like swiss cheese now. There'd been a lavender sachet in the basket with it, but apparently that wasn't enough to save it.

Mostly the beetles went for fluffy stuff (roving or wool boucle). They don't like mohair (who blames them?), and thank all the gods, Brown Sheep has all their yarn permanently moth-proofed, which means I found starved carpet beetles on the yarn but no holes. (Innsvenget is safe.) The down side, they seem to love Dale Baby, which is what Koningsborg was knit out of. That's the black and white in the trash can.

The salvaged yarn looks something like this (there's more added to the pile since I took the photo). Thankfully I had already bagged most of the stuff I really loved, with the intention of keeping cat hair out of it, and all of it is safe. Including the beautiful roving Bells sent me.


There are still three more project bags to go through, containing half-finished sweaters for me. One is cotton and while it may be covered in Little Bastards, it'll be fine 'cause they don't eat cellulose. Another is knit with Brown Sheep and I expect it will be fine, too. The third? It's alpaca. Either they hate it and left it alone, or there will be nothing left of it.

I really don't want to look.

Right now my office looks like this.


I am decidedly unhappy at the moment.

The Goober's birth day. Plus a few days.

The carpet beetle situation is still too traumatic to write about (and I'm not done digging out The Pit), and Amy Lane made me sentimental over on her blog, so you're all stuck hearing about how the Goober got born. (Unlike Amy, I did not go into labor over the X Files. I'm gonna laugh about that all day.) Don't worry, it's a funny story. Everything seems to be when I tell it.


Well. The Goob was a planned kid, and I'd made the plan when I married the husbeast at the ripe old age of 23. I didn't want to haul a kid around the world with the Navy, so I would wait until he was near retirement and my reproductive tract was on its last gasp, and have a kid. Simple.

Except at age 23 it's impossible to take into account the concept of AGING. Other than AGE, the whole thing went well enough.

So at age 36, there I am, pregnant for the first time, which in retrospect was a really hare-brained thing to do on purpose. But, whatever. You make your choices, you live with the fallout. There was much fuss made over me being adopted (no genetic history, and no idea how I'd do in labor), and also me being old. I was sent off for genetic counseling at one point, at the high-risk pregnancy center. They were used to dealing with women with MAJOR health problems, or daily cocaine habits, so they almost giggled at me, sitting there wringing my hands and worrying over the two glasses of wine I'd had (on different days) before I realized I was pregnant. Never realized before, how comforting it is to be almost-laughed-at.

So anyway. What with one thing and another, I was done with the whole pregnancy thing as a novel concept by, oh, month five, and ready and raring to give birth by week 38. The kid was done, everybody out of the oven, was my thought. I started obsessing about what would happen if I went overdue and how long I'd have to BE overdue before they'd induce me. I was all in favor of scheduling my inducement the day after my due date, but no one would commit to anything. With hormones raging, feeling like I was fifteen months pregnant, I was going batshit crazy.

Nothing is quite as crazy as an 8 1/2 month pregnant woman, obsessing on childbirth. Men, get out of the way. Duck and cover.

I was due on, no joke, Labor Day. I'm telling you, things in my life just fall into place for joke-telling.

Anyway. For those overseas, I'll explain. Labor Day is on a Monday, always, so folks who get it off can have a three day weekend. And as a federal employee, the husbeast always got Labor Day off. So in my psycho-pregnant-woman state of mind, I was thinking, I could go into labor Saturday, and we'd have the other two days to get things together before work on Tuesday (even though the hub got paternity leave and it didn't matter when I went into labor... did I mention I was psycho?)

Saturday rolled around and I started having what I thought were Braxton-Hicks contractions, or false labor. I'd been having those since month five, if I stood up for more than three or four minutes at a time. Whoopee, I thought. But, ever hopeful, I started timing them and walking around the house a lot in the hopes something would happen.

Nothing. Or at least I didn't think so. Too far apart, too weak, and they didn't feel like contractions had been described to me. So I'd pace some more, mutter to myself, and time things some more. The husbeast, wise man, stayed the hell out of my way. As I recall he mostly huddled in the recliner watching TV and left the rest of the house to me.

After two days of pacing, I gave up. Nothing. All those damn false-labor contractions that didn't even hurt (have I mentioned I have a high pain tolerance?) and too far apart to mean anything.

By Monday, I was having a full-blown pity-party. The hub went off to a party with his friends (I sent him; he had a cell phone and I knew I was in a horrible mood), and I stayed home and ate everything in the house and pouted.

Tuesday morning, about the time the husbeast was arriving at work, I got out of bed and realized I was bleeding. Not a lot, just a spot or two. The Goober was kicking away, just fine (she took up clog dancing around month six), so I assumed it was the normal stuff related with, hello, GOING INTO LABOR. Yay! Still didn't feel any 'real' contractions according to the nurses and mothers I'd spoken to, but who cared? They could induce me. I remember calling the doctor's office and them putting me on hold to talk to the doctor, and coming back and telling me, yes, to go to the hospital. And I remember thinking "thanks so much for the permission honey, but I was going anyway. This is a courtesy call."

Checking into the hospital, the nurse wanted to know when I'd last eaten. I said, "Uh, Heath bars, two AM." She looked up, said "Pity party?" I said yes. She grinned, patted my foot, and kept on writing.

The doc (the doc I liked) examined me, and we talked, and he said I'd been in labor for FOUR DAYS. Apparently as a first time mother with a high pain tolerance, I was just too dumb and tough to realize it. Emphasis on the dumb. So they induced me, about ten hours later I had the Goob, and a good time was had by all.

You know, those contractions NEVER DID feel like they were described to me. Even when I pushed the kid out. So it was NOT MY FAULT I was in labor for four days. Really. Honest. Okay, it was, but how in hell was I to know?

Everything in my life turns into a circus, one way or another. Took me thirty years to learn to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Caught red handed.

Or red pincered. Or antennaed. Or whatever the hell.

The suspected carpet beetles are suspects no longer. I just found a HOLE going into the last ball of wool I was spinning up. And at the bottom of the hole, one of the Little Bastards, looking fat and happy. Until I stomped him.

I've poured half a bottle of lavender oil into a ceramic diffuser and stuck it in the Yarn Pit. Later tonight after the hub's home, I'll run out and get super-sized ziploc bags for all the yarn in there. Thus far I hadn't (still haven't) seen any Little Bastards in the Yarn Pit, and was only bagging my shop stock (the bagging started more for dirt and cat hair reasons). But now? I'm not taking any chances. I attempted to estimate the value of everything in The Pit and got dizzy.

After the Goob goes to bed tonight, I get to clean the whole thing out, go over everything with a magnifying glass (probably literally in some cases), and re-pack it all. Then I'll shove all the lavender sachets that are right now stuck in the yarn, into all my woolen clothing (which is also in The Pit). There are also a couple boxes of ribbon in there... Not animal fiber, but I am trying not to imagine the stupid little fuckers wandering around THOSE boxes, too.

Damn, damn, bugger, fuck.

For now, I've torn out the funky bit in the roving and am doing my best to finish spinning it up. So it can go back into a plastic bag as yarn. All my other roving is in bags, except the carbon fiber.

I hope they try to eat the carbon fiber. Let them choke on it.

Oh, right. National poetry month.

Just remembered. I love poems that communicate old things in new ways, or things we'd have no way of feeling otherwise. So here's one of my favorite poems of all time. Enjoy.


She being Brand (XIX)
by e.e. cummings


she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

The Goob post.

There've been requests for Goober photos, etc, so off we go.

The other day, the Goober wanted to help with my spinning. So I put her up on my lap and let her hang on to the wool as I drafted and treadled.


We didn't screw it up too badly, and I left it on the bobbin after she got down and ran off. This way, when I encounter lumps in my yarn, I'll think it was from her and smile (even though it's far more likely it's a random screwup, and all mine).

Last night, the Goober helped her father torque down something or other on the engine he's building. (Headers? I think the headers. Won't stake my life on it, though.) Then she came inside and told me all about it.

After that she flopped out in my office to figure out how my office chair works. I shot this so you could see both the dirty feet from the garage (shouldn't she be wearing steel-toed boots?) and also the boofed out hair from yesterday's blow-drying session.

And, lastly, I'm not sure I blogged about this before, so here you go. When the in-laws stopped through on their way north from Florida, they of course had their cat with them, and the Goober decided the cage was a play house.


We did not shut the door on her. I for one was very, very tempted.

---

To add some news of the husbeast, here we go, from the "One man's fun is another man's nightmare" category.

For several days, maybe a week, he's been trying to remove a screw-in plug from the engine block. He's been working on cars a long time, and tried everything he could think of, working from one solution to the next. He bitched, but I know he was having a good time. (Sort of like me knitting lace.)

The other day, he finally won the battle, and the old plug was removed.

It had been in there decades, and put up a good fight, but nothing's safe in the face of the husbeast's determination. Except maybe the Goob.

---

Since everyone seems to be enjoying the history and archeology posts, I think from now on I'm going to start blogging on whatever I'm reading, if I've got nothing else. Right now, in addition to "30,000 Years of Art", I'm reading "Ancient Inventions" before bed, so there's some interesting overlap between the two and a whole lot of information to spew.

I may also pick out some favorite bits of art and explain why I like them.

You've been warned.

Now I'm off like a prom dress, to do some spinning while the Goober's pretending to nap. Later, I'm starting the Roulette sock. Whee!