Light and Momentary

Oh, Dr. Freud?

I was in a railway station with my baby when I suddenly thought, "Why didn't anyone ever notice that this baby has two heads?" Two lovely heads, with golden-red hair and blue blue eyes, but still: two heads. I wondered, "Why didn't they pick that up on the ultrasound? Did I forget to take her for a well-baby exam? It's lucky that the birth went as smoothly as it did with such a complex presentation. Maybe that's why the pushing was harder this time."

I kept thinking. "We should have named each head separately -- two brains, two souls, right? It's going to be really frustrating for them when they start walking and each head wants to go in a different direction."

When I looked more closely I saw that in my arms I had two babies, joined at the hip but otherwise separate. I gently jiggled the spot where they were conjoined and it separated with a slight metallic click and only a bit of resistance, like those magnetic building blocks.

I cradled one baby, smaller and limper, so that I could not see her face. The bigger baby Stella took my finger and toddled off with me down the steps toward the trains. I was a mother of twins and I never even knew it! I was going to have to tell Elwood that I separated our conjoined twins all by myself.

Then the alarm went off.

Just Say No

I imagine the Starbucks marketing team sitting around joking about the most improbable thing they could get on a menu. "I know," says one. "Shiitake mocha!" "How about eggplant macchiato?" adds another. The third guy says, "Let's try a pumpkin latte!"

They all look at him and say, "That's so crazy it just might work."

I have complained before about the crazy that is pumpkin in coffee. Pumpkin. In coffee. I mean, what's next? Liver-and-onion cafe con leche? And yet people rave about pumpkin spice lattes.

I thought to myself, maybe I'm missing something. Maybe it's just coffee with the spices we use in pumpkin pie. I like cinnamon and nutmeg and ginger. I like chai. I asked the guy at the counter, Does this taste like pumpkin or does it taste like the spices we use with pumpkin?

Both, he said. It tastes like pumpkin pie.

I'm going to live on the edge, I told him. I'll take a medium.

And oh, my friends, what are we doing, lining up to buy these things? YEA VERILY, the pumpkin spice latte is an abomination in the eyes of me. Have you seen the color of one of those things, people? The orangey glow?

In general I'm an open-minded person, I think. In general I try to be receptive to new ideas. But this is truth immutable, right here at Light and Momentary:

Coffee should not glow.

And the taste! Ugh! Fake chemical-ly non-pumpkin pseudo-spice! Who has perpetrated this scam upon the American people, that they are shelling out $4 a pop for these things?

I have returned from my trip to the edge to say it plain: don't go there. It's a bad edge. It's an ugly edge. I like pumpkin; I like coffee. But never the twain should meet.

Sniffle

One of the fruits of spending less time online is that I have more time to do other stuff. This seems silly now that I have typed it out [note to my brother: don't leave me another comment with "duh" in it. It hurts my feelings and I am a fragile flower this week.] but it has been a pleasant surprise.

Since last Saturday I have finished both of the socks pictured in their embryonic state (or maybe the striped one was a fetal sock) in this June post. I decided to cast on something new and fun: Pomatomus, in the pretty green Socks That Rock yarn I bought for Stella's sweater and booties. I had a whole skein of it and I was cruising along. The pattern was easy for me to pick up but very fun to see developing all the same. This sock was a happy thing amid the festival of crud. [<-git yer foreshadowing right here, folks] Tonight I started the heel flap, thinking, "I bet I can get the heel turned before I go to bed and then I'll be halfway."

"...Hm," I thought to myself. "This sock-in-progress feels very heavy. And this ball of yarn does not feel very heavy." My kitchen scale confirmed my fears: I don't have enough yarn to finish the pair. This baffled me momentarily and then I realized: mediumweight yarn won't give me the same yardage I've come to expect from a skein of sock yarn. This would be another "duh" moment except see above re: temporary fragile-flower-ness.

This makes me gnash my teeth a little bit. Can I get some knitterly input? I could (a) order another skein, but they make a big deal about how skeins ordered separately might not match each other and that would make me even grumpier. I could (b) frog the booties and cannibalize the yarn. Would I have to wash it so it could relax? (In case it is unclear, the answer I am looking for is "No, Jamie, you can just pull it right off those booties. No need to wash and rewind it; just go right ahead. You are knitting on the same size needles, so it won't be a problem at all." Unless that answer will cause me greater teeth-gnashing down the line, in which case I might possibly be reconciled to a different answer. Possibly. Did I mention the fragile?)

I also noticed that the leg of this sock has a bunch of lengthwise stretch. I could (c) continue to rib across the sole and take advantage of that lengthwise stretch, knitting a sock that looks like it would only fit a Chinese foot-binding victim but which would actually stretch to fit my very own unbound feet. Would a ribbed sole be uncomfortable? Or would a stockinette sole stretch lengthwise?

Input much appreciated to save me from option (d): flinging myself out the window and running away in search of ice cream.

Having a Crunchy Moment

We share a driveway with the guys next door, two college kids whose parents bought the house last summer. Mostly these guys have been fine neighbors, much easier to get along with than the previous owner. But I just went outside and the guys' dad is there with a big can of insecticide. The problem is the cicada killer wasps.

Cicada killer wasps look imposing but don't hurt people in the normal run of things. You might get stung if a female flies up your sleeve accidentally, but they're not aggressive like yellowjackets. I had adopted a live-and-let-live approach to the ones that live between our two garages, but the neighbor is having none of it. He had hired some guys to fix his garage door, and they refused to do the work because of the insects.

He was unmoved by my amateur entomologist exploits, so I showed him the nest site and he sprayed it. My logic was that if he was determined to spray, he could hit the right spot instead of spewing chemicals around my kids' toys. But he is not content. He is spraying every hole in the ground he can find, and any live insect that flies near him.

Since it's hard to hear someone's tone in a blog post, let me be clear that I am not freaking out (toxins! cancer! disaster!), only rueful. Like this guy says, I liked watching them.

Oh, well, I think he's done spraying. I am off to recycle some old paint. In my Birkenstocks, of course.

P.S. Now his son is now walking around the garden with a giant -- like, 5-gallon -- sprayer unit filled with weed killer. The previous owner was a gardener and these college kids are not, and the weeds have spread. If I were really crunchy I would go out there with my guitar and serenade him in my Birkenstocks: "All we are saying, is give weeds a chance." Perhaps one of the boys would accompany me on a compost bin drum.

Shore Leave

Hershey bar: Hey, Captain, looking for a good time?

Willpower: Are you addressing me? An officer in Her Majesty's Navy? I have a ship to keep on course, madam, and I'll thank you to keep your trollopy offers to yourself.

HB: You look like you've been running that ship a long time, Captain. Shall we dally?

WP, icily: That, madam, would be fraternising with the enemy.

HB, meltingly: It's awfully lonesome here in the refrigerator. Can't you bring a girl out where it's warm?

WP, wavering: Maybe there's no harm in succouring a lady in distress.

HB, inwardly: I'll show you suckering...

***

It occurs to me that if I am imagining a candy bar thinking devious thoughts, there might be something hallucinogenic in my salads. It could be. I've been eating a whole lot of salads. Scale was down 4 pounds this morning, though, in spite of last night's indiscretion, so I see more salad in my future. (That's probably a blip -- I'm betting it will be back up by a pound or two tomorrow. But still, progress.)

Declaration of War

WHEREAS 180 days have elapsed since the conclusion of our most recent pregnancy, and

WHEREAS the final 10 pounds (known variously as 4.5 kilos, 9.57 minas, or 0.15 talents) accrued during that pregnancy have most rebelliously, incorrigibly, and unlawfully declined to remove themselves from our sovereign borders, and

WHEREAS our preferred royal shorts can only be zipped in a supine position, and

WHEREAS this state of affairs is most unbecoming to our royal dignity, and

WHEREAS in four short weeks we shall celebrate the commencement of our quadragesimal year, and we are earnestly desirous not to cross the bounds of that year in our present steatopygian state, and

WHEREAS our previous desultory attempts to evict these unlawful trespassers have proved unavailing,

BE IT KNOWN that we hereby declare war on those accursed ten pounds.

Chocolate!

I am finally following up on my offer of chocolate to the people whose guesses about the baby's arrival were closest. Julie got the weight right and guessed that she'd be born on the day I actually went into labor. Susan called the Dec. 23 arrival. Ariella also got the birthweight exactly right. Email me your address and I will send some chocolate your way. Let me know if you're a milk person or a dark person. :-)

Dress-up Fun

Baby girl in handknits -- who knew a person could have so much fun putting clothes on? (Baby Yours sweater and Christine's Stay-On Baby Booties, STR mediumweight in Beryl.)

Baby says it is very tiring to be this cute.

In Which I Am Relieved Not To Eat That Particular Slice of Humble Pie

Okay, I'm now two hours or so from the beginning of my 41st week, so it looks like I can skip the placentophagy. I have long labors as well as long gestations, so even if I am felled by a mighty contraction in the writing of this post, I'm going past my due date. Which is good, because a person so confident that she is not no way nohow going to have a baby is a person in a vulnerable position. Humble pie with added homegrown organ meat is not a dish I would relish, personally.

Oh, a funny about due dates: the woman who coordinates music at our parish called me today. She is a very kind lady, if perhaps a bit too heavily influenced by Liberace in matters both musical and sartorial, and she asked me when I was due. "Today," I said. She gasped. "You're so tiny!" she exclaimed. (I am tiny like a beluga whale is tiny. Compared to a sperm whale, maybe I'm tiny.) I told my husband about this conversation and he said, "You mean today's your due date?" Isn't it a little surprising that he didn't know?

A few December knitting pictures, and then I am going to kick back and enjoy the quiet in my house. All my children are sleeping and my husband is out playing poker with the guys.

Term (sort of)

I am 38 weeks pregnant today, which technically means I could have a baby any minute. My uterus is much more quiet this time around than in my previous pregnancies, which is fine by me. With Pete I had so many interludes of regular contractions with a bit of an edge to them that I finally said to my uterus, "I am NOT listening to you, girlfriend. Talk to me when you've got something worth my time." This attitude resulted in my ignoring the first...um...seven? hours of my actual labor (hard to remember precisely because I was la-la-la-ignoring it so diligently), and in my midwife's arriving when I was almost 9cm dilated because I was only just beginning to think there might be an end to that pregnancy. Oops.

I suspect I've got a mind-body thing going, because I really really really do not want to have the baby before my prelim is over, on Monday at 3. No, I'm going to be picky: I do not want to go into anything resembling labor before my prelim is over and I am safely back in my own town. I was joking with my advisor about naming the baby after whichever town was closest when I delivered precipitously on the shoulder of the interstate, but really I'd rather avoid that whole scene.

Yesterday I shipped off the Christmas gifts. (You are only allowed to hate me if you are more pregnant and have more kids than me.) I'm a little worried that I mixed up the two Florida-bound packages, sending the one for my 2yo niece to my 10yo goddaughter and vice versa, but here's hoping I escaped that particular manifestation of placenta brain. I am going to put some knitting pictures down below the cut since knitting isn't everybody's cup of tea, but there are also a couple of full-term belly shots for anyone who's into those. I won't ask whether that's because they inspire pleasant broody feelings (we don't say "broody" in the US, do we? to talk about women feeling that they might like another baby? it's a useful word but I think it's a UK thing) or can't-look-away alarm. Please ignore the toothpaste splatters on the bathroom mirror.

(Trying Not To Be Quite So) Garden-Impaired

Back in July I asked for ideas about the weed-infested beds around my house, but I have only done anything about them in the past couple of weeks. (Jody said fall was the best time to put in perennials, so I figured I had time.) I was excited to put in some of the things you all suggested, but then realized when I went to the garden store that I hadn't told you: we have lots more shade than sun. This is mostly good -- we didn't turn on our air conditioning a single time this summer -- but rules out many of the plants I might have liked to try.

I am going to make a note of what I planted, so that if it comes back up next year I won't have to puzzle over what it might be called. I put in about two dozen bulbs: grape hyacinths, crocuses, and daffodils (my favorites). I'm hopeful that since daffodils bloom before the trees are leafed out, they'll get the sun they need. On the north side of the house I decided I would just be boring and stick with hostas for now: reliable (barring a late frost like the one that took out most of the hostas that used to live in those beds), reasonably pretty, nice and leafy to keep the weeds from getting a foothold. So I've got hostas behind and purple pansies, at the moment, in the front. I can manage to keep a few annuals in there, I think, despite my garden impairment.

Moving clockwise: on the east side of the house I put in a speedwell variant that can be happy with some shade, and cheery yellow daisies. On the south side, where it's full shade, I put in some vinca (purple-flowering ground cover) and lily of the valley. A pal offered me some ferns and they might go back there as well.

Around on the west we've had these hideous perennials: giant broad-leafed things with ugly ugly white flowers. I hate them. So I dug them all up, which was a project, and thinned out the badly overgrown tiger lilies that live by the sidewalk between our house and the next-door neighbors' house, and plopped in a mix of tiger lilies and day lilies. I am hoping for a riot of orange and yellow to replace the forest of ugly. On the northwest corner I put in another speedwell variety that prefers more sun, and some lavender. I am hoping they will grow up tall and purple and low-maintenance.

I am doing this pretty late in the season, but it's been quite warm here so I'm hoping they can get settled in before the first frost. If not, they were mostly 75% off so I'm not out a ton of money. We'll see, I guess.

A Knitting Post

This is the post where I tell you about the knitting I've been doing for the past couple of months, an undertaking that may be unappealing to those of you who do not knit. But here goes anyway.

Keeping Me Humble

Some things about me you can't tell from this blog. One of them is that I have crazy hair. If left to its own devices, it would stage a takeover of the free world -- it's that crazy. I have a serious gel habit. I have put lanolin on my hair because I was so sick of the frizz. But in July I set aside my book snobbery long enough to buy a copy of Curly Girl, and I've been happier with my hair ever since. This is me on my birthday, mostly frizz-free: 

Today I was planning to run for the first time in a while (actually, since right before all that CPS garbage started), so I didn't take a shower this morning. My attempt at a run was abortive: one ankle was complaining loudly about carting 17 extra pounds around, and then my round ligament started aching. I didn't get very far. Still unshowered, I went to pick up Pete from preschool. He and I and my hellbent-on-hegemony hair (it's been rainy in the Midwest and my hair gets huge in the rain) went to the new natural foods store in town.

Pete had a lot of fun scooping rolled oats and flaxmeal out of their bins and into our bags. We browsed through the aisles, and I was just about to head for the register when a woman approached me. "Would you be willing to be in a commercial for the new store?" she asked me.

I agreed. We cruised the cereal aisle for the camera, talking about the options and chucking one box in the cart. I signed a waiver allowing them to use the footage. We left the store and I realized I had just given permission for them to put me on television with hair that looked kind of like this.

Oops.

Garden-Impaired

In the spring when I should have been setting out petunias, I was alternately struggling to finish the spring semester and lying on the couch moaning. Ergo, no petunias. Instead I have a breathtaking crop of weeds in the beds around my house. This afternoon I went out and hacked and pulled and wrestled several cubic feet of them down to the curb (doing a less thorough job than I might have liked because when I pulled out my gardening gloves they were filled with insect egg sacs -- ick!). I still have more to do but I am going to replace the gloves first.

I aspire to be a gardener but I do not even know where to start. Fact 1: I have killed mint plants. Mint plants! Fact 2: I have killed hostas. (Actually it was a late frost that killed the hostas but then they didn't come back the next year. I thought hostas were supposed to be tougher than that.) Fact 3: I do not have a lot of time for gardening.

If you have any recommendations for me -- plants that will thrive in partial sun under benign neglect, favorite websites, any tips or tricks or what have you -- lay them on me, please. I live in a pale yellow house and so red and pink flowers are probably mostly out. I'm willing to pay for some perennials but I don't even know if I can put them in the ground right now. I need to figure something out fairly soon or the weeds will come creeping back. Not even creeping -- they'll come galumphing boldly while their vorpal thorns go snickersnack (she types ruefully with her scratched and sweaty hands).

P.S. My brother, who comments here as Stephen, is 29 today. He is ushering in his thirtieth year with a frenzied effort to finish his dissertation, due to his committee tomorrow for his defense in two weeks. Want to wish him well?

June, the Wordle

Because I do not want to revise the stupid results chapter, especially those stupid histograms that were enough of a pain to generate the first time. (Who, me? Bad attitude? Why on earth would you think that?)

Speaking of plaid

I was given a new maternity top that the giver found on sale. It is emerald green, turquoise, chocolate brown, and white. Plaid. It is heavily smocked across the front, like the little dresses I wore in 1974.

Eek. I think I know why it was on sale.

But do you want to know a funny thing about me? I have a weakness for loud pants. In general I dress conservatively (see previous post: white shirt, khaki jumper, no jewelry -- pretty typical). I would no sooner wear this new shirt than I would eat it. And yet I often wear a pair of plaid pants in exactly the colors I was mocking in my last post: lime green, turquoise, and yellow (not, lest you wondered, with a plaid top). I have another pair that's pale green with huge hot pink flowers. I wear them to work.

Is it weird that I don't want anything loud on the top half of my body and at the same time I collect crazy pants? Maybe it's because my hair is so loud -- bigger and vivider than you can tell from my picture over there. This is the most self-indulgent post ever but I'm going to hit publish anyway. Got any fashion quirks you want to share?

Splutter

Pete can't do initial /s/ clusters. "Stop" is "dop." "Stink" is "dink." "Stay" is "day." Which is why I had to laugh when he waved a giant stick at me and said, "Mama! Me has big stick!" More or less.

April Haiku II (& III)

Blast and damn and heck
Lost my checkbook register*
Can't do taxes now

*the old one, the one with 11 months of 2007 charitable giving and childcare expense records in it

ETA:
Swearing retracted
It wasn't lost, just hiding
Thanks, St. Anthony

April Haiku

"Render to Caesar"
But must I do it gladly?
Taxes are a pain.

Oh, and another thing

We are still washer-less. Elwood P. wants to buy used; I have been looking at new ones. He suggests that we compromise and buy a cheap used one. If it dies, then we'll buy new. This is not my favorite idea, since if it dies we have to deal with the same hassles all over again, but I'm okay with it. Anway: I was browsing at Best Buy (Alex said, "Hey! The last time I asked you if we could go to Best Buy, you said someone would have to pay you a nine-digit sum of money to go back there." This is the trouble with having children whose memories are better than yours.) and found a washer on sale for $2300.

Twenty
three
hundred
dollars.

A washing machine that costs $2300 had better fold your laundry for you. No, wait, it should fold it and then bring it to you with a glass of ice-cold pomegranate juice, freshly extracted via its ultra-high-speed spin cycle. It makes a new front loader look like a positively frugal choice.