Crazy Lanea

Answers

Juno asked if I like brown.  You know what kind of brown I like, Juno?
I like Boyne river-reed brown

And mini-horde of amber brown

And oak griffin brown

And ladder-back chair brown

And elk, doe, and buck-skin brown

And birdseye maple brown

And birchbark brown

And rust brown

But I love Kayo brown above all else.

So imagine my joy at finding Shetland cashmere/silk laceweight in Kayo-brown on my doorstep.  Thank you so much.  Kayo thanks you too. 

This will become Kiri, if all goes as planned.  I may not be able to pull off a medal in the Knitting Olympics, but I sure am going to try. 

I will join Team Wales.  Because I know more about Wales than is ultimately safe to know.  I feel it is my duty to serve. And I may need to get on the liquid-refreshment teams too.  Yes yes.  Must swatch. 

Captian Jim

I just found out that our friend Captain Jim died.  It wasn't exactly out of the blue--Jim had a heart-defect that he'd known about all his life, and he wasn't supposed to make it past 20.  He made it to 55.  He made Celtic summer camp a true hoot this year--his first.  I rarely meet people who entertain me so well so soon after I meet them.  He dove right into every bit of our community.  Several of our friends in Michigan had the chance to know Jim for far longer than I did, and I both envy and grieve for them now. 

Keep sailing those great lakes, Jim.  And we'll keep singing you back to shore. 

More things

I started sweeping up around here, and noticed I petered out pretty early in the 100 things process, so here's some more. 
First 17

18-35 . . .

36. As do most forms of discrimination.
37. I studied debate techniques when I was in school, and grew into an award-winning speaker. 
38. On more than one occasion, I made an opponent cry at a podium.
39. I never did it on purpose.
40. I did make a boyfriend or two cry on purpose, back when I was waiting on a block of ice for my husband. 
41. My husband's pals, most of whom I've known since I was in high school, call me Meangirl, and I think it's charming and funny when they do, especially when they say it en masse in this manic cartoon-y voice they use.
42. On the few occasions my Mom called me Meangirl, I was both chastened and startled by how funny it was. 
43. When a particular person I know calls me Meangirl, it is an act of violence against me, and I want to punch her in the sanctimonious mush.  I guess that makes me mean, but not as mean as I would be if I actually did it.
44. Another group of friends often refers to me as nice-lady, as a foil to the Meangirl thing.  The truth is somewhere in between.
45. I study pacifism, and have since I was about 11, when I decided to never hit my big brother or anyone else in anger again. 
46. I may have made that decision because I was never ever going to win a fight against a male a foot taller than I am.
47. I think it was a brilliant decision.
48. When I was in college, I started playing a violent contact sport.  I was never particularly good at it, and quit playing a few years ago when an unrelated shoulder injury made it too painful.
49. I waver between missing stick fighting and wondering why I ever did it.  I think the answer to both is “uppity.” 
50. I placate myself by loaning out any gear I’m not using anymore, making stuff for my friends who still stick-fight so they look fiiiiiine, tending their wounds when necessary, and taking pictures and film. 
51. Oh, and making bridies.  Bridies are like soma, but with meat.  And brown sauce.
52. My bridie recipe has won me a few marriage proposals.  My husband, however, proposed for more traditional reasons.
53. I almost went to cooking school, but a pro-baker friend sat me down and asked how I would feel about giving up all of my weekends for a decade. 
54. I stuck with writing and editing.
55. If I ever strike it rich, I’ll go to cooking school in Italy.
56. My great-grandmother Antonia was an amazing cook and owned a restaurant.
57. When the girls threw me a bridal shower, my Mom and my sister-friend Heather made bets on how quickly I would cry if they gave me Great-Grandmother Antonia’s cookbook. 
58. I got weepy just picking up the bag it was in because I recognized the spine of the book, so no one won the bet.  Or they both won. 
59. I’m a sap. 
60. I’ve been toying with writing a family history for years, but I worry that the crazy(er) side of my family would burn me at the stake. 
61. I have a rare last name, and I didn’t change it when I got married.
62. A co-worker and fellow fan of Edward Gorey suggests I use the pen name Mary Pinto when I finish and publish the book.
63. My Mom considered changing her name and ours when she divorced my father, but his family insisted she do it, so she refused.
64. Uppity runs in the family. 
65. I still have that last name because my father’s family tried to take it from me.
66. If I ever publish a book I’m really ashamed of, I may change my name.
67. I have many legitimate family names to choose from.  I think my Grandpap’s is currently in the lead.
68. Everyone misspells my husband’s last name, and his father abandoned their family, so I’m not drawn to it.
69. My big brother and my husband are not like their fathers, and that makes me incredibly proud and thankful.
70. Sometimes I fear that I have too much in common with my father.  Just writing that made me teary.
71. Thankfully, I know I am much more like my mother. 
72. Fear and pride both make me well up: see number 59.
73. If I were someone else’s child and I met my Mom, I think I would really want to befriend her. 
74. My mother accidentally draws floods. 
75. She will try to deny this, and then she will visit you and your water-heater will burst.
76. When we bought our house, we picked one without a basement. 
77. My folks just bought a new house, and they bought a lot of flood insurance.

Reviews from a temporary shut-in

Been watching lots of movies lately, me, and reading far too little.  Here's a pile of opinions: help yourself.

Man of Aran.  This is one of those films you're just supposed to watch if you have any attachment to Ireland.  It's no barn-burner, but it is historically significant and pretty interesting to my kind of geek.  Filmed in the early 1930s, Man of Aran is a quasi-documentary about a poor young family living through privation on Inis Mor, the largest of the Aran Islands.   It was made by Richard Flaherty, the same director as Nanook of the North.  He was obsessed with the whole man v. nature trope.  And, well, the family he filmed wasn't actually a family, but they were locals who did know a thing or two about poverty and hard labor.  This is the first film of Flaherty's to use any sound other than music, which is apparent but also charming.  For the fiber lovers, there are some cute, albeit brief, shots of sheep and lambs and some snippets of knitting.  The DVD has some great special features, including a documentary about the making of the film and its lasting affects on the people of Aran.  Oh, and I don't think Jaws would ever have been made were it not for this film, though only the shark dies in Man of Aran. 

Layer Cake.  I'm a sucker for Matthew Vaughn's brit-gangster films.  Just love 'em.  This time, he turned from producer into director, and I think it was a great idea.  This is definitely the best of the bunch.  I will admit to missing some of the harrum-scarrum pacing and the thickness of the accents, but this film takes us to the educated side of dope dealing and crime.  Daniel Clarke gives a great performance as a yuppie coke dealer XXXX, who is trapped in a deal-gone-bad and the insanity that follows it.  Colm Meaney, as usual, plays a great hard-ass.  George Harris plays a chilling enforcer, and exactly the kind of guy you'd want working for you if you were, well, a yuppie coke dealer.  Which I hope you're not.  And Sienna Miller plays the smoking hottie, because gangsters need purty girls to hang out with, I guess (Jude Law, dude, you are a dumbass).   In this film, the twists and tricks and plots of Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch are refined a bit, and the cleverness of the writing has a chance to shine more brightly.  While still fast-paced, this film just isn't as hectic as its older siblings.  Loved it.

Young Adam.  Holy hell, I hated this mess of a movie.  When I found it on Netflix, I thought it was a sure thing, what with Ewan McGregor and Tilda Swinton in the same cast.  Nuh-nuh-nuh-nooo.  I hope it's the director's fault.  The film opens with McGregor and his boss pulling a dead woman out of a river and onto their barge.  Over the course of the film, we learn that McGregor's character knows more than he should about her death, and he begins a relationship with Swinton, his boss's wife.  Fine and good.  The pacing was plodding--that I can accept.  But McGregor's character comes off by turns as a freaking sociopath and a would-be likable character.  But the actor seems so confused by his character's actions that he can't commit to either monster or failed man.  Throughout, McGregor's character never seems to have a motive or soul or any reason to act as he does.  Scott and I were baffled throughout the movie.  My impression is that this director, David Mackenzie, is just a hateful misogynist--I don't know what else to think.  I don't normally get that impression from films, but it really seems like he hates each and every woman in the film.  I haven't seen any of Mackenzie's other work, but this hasn't sent me searching for his next big project.  He may just have unseated Connery as my long-standing Scottish Guy I Hate, which I thought was impossible. 

The Tenth Good Thing About Barney, by Judith Viorst.  Yes.  I am this pitiful.  My cat is dying, so I am comfort myself by reading and re-reading the book my Mom got me when our first cat died.  Boy, would a therapist have fun with that.  But I love this book because it did comfort me when I was a little kid, and because I find solace knowing that when Scath does die, he will indeed be buried under a tree in our yard and he will feed my garden.  Except maybe I'm now convinced that Scath won't die, and maybe he's faking the cancer.  Ok, time to read the book again.

"Normal" Needs a Prefix

So, getting back to normal here at the Mean-Skuta Manse.  And for us, "normal" needs a prefix. 

Somehow I accidentally agreed to be in a calendar (fully dressed, get your minds out of the gutter) some friends are putting together.  I'm normally pretty camera shy, having experienced both a shutterbug step-Dad and, well, stalking ( I don't recommend the latter).  For a former drama-club kid, dancer, and singer with good stage presence, I'm pretty strange about being watched and/or photographed if I don't feel totally in control of the situation.  But Anubh wants to make a calendar to display Richard's work.  And I think I'm incapable of saying no to either of them, hence her hat and his hand-woven belt.  And Richard gave me the best helmet ever.  For free.  And I keep getting all of this Norse stuff, but haven't worked up the complete, historically correct kit.  So, we're heading to John the Ferrier's for Imbolc, and I guess I'm going to swallow my crazy and make some lovely Viking clothes for myself so's the helmet and the jewelery make visual sense.  Yikes.  Lots of sewing in my immediate future, followed by some cold-weather camping and then some people looking at me way too much when I'm just standing here would you stop with the clicking and the pointing and the ughhhhh.   Beer may be necessary. 

And, sheesh, I cannot pick a project for the Knitting Olympics.  I hate seeing "undecided" there next to my name.  I'm trying to come up with something I can make from my stash, and that will be challenging enough but that I can work on while watching the Olympics.  I'd say lace, but the only lace-weight I have is tied up in the Kimono Shawl, and is driving me nuts.  So I could frog that and work with yarn I don't like, or I can buy yarn I don't need to make something I haven't yet fallen in love with.  Or I can chuck the lace-weight idea entirely and make . . . Any suggestions?  Time to take a serious look through the yarn.

Those socks I made Scott are done, and fit well, but are a bit too scratchy right off the needles.  Here's hoping they soften up in the wash.  And a pair of wool socks for my Mom is on the needles.  This is an experiment in fiber-sensitivities, so if they itch her, I get them back.  Cross your fingers for her--she needs to be able to wear more wool if she wants me to be able to make more goodies for her.  I'm using some lovely Wildfoote in Elderberry that Chris sent me a while back, and I love the texture of the yarn. 

A handmade sling is winging its way out to California for the wool-footed boy.  I would have made it much sooner, but, well, we were a bit distracted.  I actually used the same batik I used to line my aunt's purse from the same post.  I hope his folks like using the sling. 

How I spent the holidays

Apart from the whole car accident and its attendant drama, this is what we've been up to round here.

First, Scott gave me an amazing present:

If I remember correctly, he gave it to me on the Solstice.  But I could be eliding dates, because my brain is still a bit scrambled.  That, my lovelies, is an entirely handmade, gorgeous, historically accurate lunikeit.  Which is a type of necklace that was popular with the ladies throughout most of Scandinavia and in Rus settlements beginning in the 7th or 8th century.  The moons are called luniks or lunitzas, depending on where you're from, and are symbols of a particularly beloved Norse Lunar Goddess.  The beads are a mix of handmade granulated silver bears, handmade glass lampworked beads, and mother-of-pearl beads.  Even the clasp was handmade by my favorite new Man Who Pours Molten Metal.   So this is the mysterious hunk of lovely I mentioned back in December.  Scott and the Man Who Pours Molten Metal designed it to be just the right length and very wearable.  I've worn it almost every day since Scott gave it to me, and if it didn't weigh a metric f-ton, I might even sleep in it.  I heart it. 

As I mentioned, my entire family chipped in to get me a Lendrum double treadle spinning wheel for Christmas.  I was floored.  I was also a tad worried to start spinning, because most of my wheel spinning last winter happened in the run up to and in the weeks following my friend Michelle's death of metastatic breast cancer.  So what with my cat in makeshift hospice here and the anniversary of my Grandpap's death approaching, I was a bit worried that I would start associating wheel-spinning with grief and death, and I didn't want that, no matter how fitting it may be. 

Anyway, the wheel arrived at my folk's house a couple of days after Christmas, and Scott and I rushed down to pick it up.  I spun a little the night we got it.  And a little more the next day.  And a little more the next, which is when a cop called me, and I went to the hospital.  Our friend  found the wheel abandoned mid-draft when he came to our house to get our dog Kayo and check on our cat.  Sean's a funny guy, so when he called my cell to let me know all was well with the pets, he left a message explaining that Kayo was spinning amazingly well, all things considered.  Anyway, now that things are getting back to normal, I'm spinning more.  That's some muddy Coopworth.  I think I'm making a sport-weight sock yarn.   I don't know who will get the socks yet.

Here are the supposed-to-be-Scott's-socks:

Which are my size, because, well, because I was freaking out.  This picture really makes me want sock blockers.  These poor socks look absolutely tortured, but I promise you they are sock-shaped.  They're fresh off the line.  I love the yarn even more now that the Trekking has bloomed further.  But I do owe them a better pic: things are a bit slap-dash around Mean-Skuta Manse at the moment. 

And these are thick-as-all-git-out Peace Fleece socks, take two:

I made my first pair of socks out of this yarn, and I decided to revisit it.  These beauties are amazingly warm.  I hope they last for years, because knitting them up was murder on my hands.  Because the fabric was so stiff and thick.  They can stand up on their own, even when clean. 

Next, I started again on socks for Scott, which has been more of a challenge than I expected because he's a slender guy with wide feet and heels that never seemed disproportionate until I tried to make him socks.  So these are loose in the ankle:

It's ok--he's not complaining.  I'm using Knit Picks Essential, which is a nice vanilla yarn.  Not the softest, not the prettiest, but available in his favorite color: dark.  These also want sock blockers--that heel does not have a tumor or huge bulge.  So strange. 

In addition to the knitting, there's been a lot of quilt talk hereabouts.  I wanted to make some broken squares, both for the obvious metaphor and to see if I could overcome some of my, er, let's call if perfectionism, and think of Gee's Bend and necessity and frugality.  The first one is too ugly for words.  I'm seriously thinking of burning it.  The second one:

only hurts my brain a little bit.  Potholder, see.  Scrap cotton denim and scrap cotton batting inside, machine quilted because I  didn't want to bleed all over it, since I'm not down with thimbles lately.  Who knows where it will live.  I won't be making a quilt full of broken squares anytime soon. 

Making those squares forced me to confront the scrap pile.  Now, I know some of you sew, and I'm sure some of you have scraps.  But I'm pretty sure I've out-scrapped most folks who don't work in sweatshops.  I make really a lot of clothes for my friends in my living history group.  And I've been sewing for the masses since I was 15, so that's 17 years worth of scraps from really a lot of clothes.  I've probably made hundreds of garments.  And I've made a few quilts and a bunch of baby slings (for carrying babies lovingly, not flinging them at enemies, sickos) and some curtains and slip covers and such.  And I don't throw away scraps as I work.  I save 'em all.  And my friends occasionally give me their scraps.  And I do a fair amount of patchwork, but I still can never beat down the pile, but am very interested in maintaining orderly, beautiful surroundings.  Which was becoming an issue: my last organization method was:
1. Place random scaps in bottom of basket
2. Stomp on scraps until maximum flatness is achieved
3. Repeat until basket is full and/or broken
4. Drape beautiful finished something over basket of shame
So last weekend, I got serious.  I planned to make another square or two, and instead I purged and trimmed and pressed and folded.  I've gotten rid of two trash bags full of stuff I didn't love or that was too small to use, and the scraps I kept are all lovingly sorted by color and material.  Quite proud, me. 

Oh, and I'm still working away on my first cabled sweater. 

Which is already hard to photograph inside in winter, but is even harder to photograph with my particular assistant:

Scath says hi, and he wants you to know that he fricking hates cancer, but that he loves catnip and steroids and canned food and going outside.  Now pet his head.  "PET MY HEAD, WOMAN!  Stop touching that stupid sheep hair!" 
I have to get another refill on his meds next week, which has me and my vet flabbergasted.   

Gratitude

I have utterly failed in making sure I send personal thanks to all of you, but I just wanted to pop in and say that Scott and I really appreciate all of your kindness.  It means so much to know so many people are thinking of us.  Thank you all. 

Scott starts physical therapy today.  He still has a fair amount of head, neck, and back pain, so I hope the PT can help a lot with that.  We got Scott a new car over the weekend.  Buying a car is a huge pain, of course, and one we don't feel the need to repeat for a while.  Suffice it to say, we found one car dealer we will curse forever, and one who was really great.  He got a Camry, which has side curtain airbags (a new requirement in my book) and is a pretty safe car all round.  We're also likely to talk to a lawyer this week so we can be sure that any medical expenses will be handled fairly. 

And our lovely cat is still holding on and in a great mood.  Scath has asked us to allow him to be an outdoor cat millions of times in his 12 years.  Last week, he was meowing at the door, yet again, while our dog Kayo was waiting for Scott to play fetch with Scott.  I turned to the cat and said "Scath, you don't go outside."  And Scott asked the $10,000 question: "why not?" 

So we are indulging Scath in escorted trips around the back yard, which he absolutely loves.  He gets more adventurous every time, so we may be forced to commit the ultimate offense against Feline kind and get him a leash, because neither of us wants to call the vet and explain that we've lost our cancer-ridden, drug dependent, elderly charge.  Scath really wants to be outside so he can attack the ginger Tom who is always peacocking him through the window, and because Kayo goes outside, and one's subordinates are supposed to have less freedom, not more.  I'd blather on more, but His Majesty is calling for his morning constitutional.

Edited: Oh, and I finished some socks, and started some new socks for Scott, which will be too loose in the ankles because he has big heels.  But that's ok--first socks are like that first pancake, which is really a dog treat, because the dog wants it now now now and we humans know the next pancake will be so much better.  And a sweater--I started a cabled cardigan yesterday out of some gorgeous emerald green mohair/wool yarn I had made for me by Annie Kelly at Kipparoo Farm in Maryland.  This is my first cabled project, a pattern of Annie's, and I'm liking it.  But the true joy is all in the yarn.  There Kiparoo site isn't quite up yet, but you should just call Annie, tell her what colors you like and whether or not you like mohair in your yarn, and give her your credit card numbers.  I kid you not (bad pun--sorry--very tired).  Delicious yarn.  The color is heavenl--er--terra-ly, and the texture of the yarn if gorgeous.  Very shiny, but in an organic way.  And it makes a very satisfying click when it finds its way home in each stitch.  I hope that makes sense.  Kiparoo does have a booth at Maryland Sheep and Wool every year, but I really love going to the farm itself. 

Shattered

I've been off-line for a bit.  Some woman (I know her name, but won't post it, of course) ran a red light and t-boned my husband's car on the 29th.   She was going at least 45 miles per hour, ran a red light, and didn't even bother to touch the brakes.  She is about five feet tall, and she was driving a Ford Expedition, one of the biggest SUVs on the road.  She didn't even touch her brakes.  She didn't even touch her brakes.  She walked away.  Scott was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.  He was unconscious for a while, and then he was awake, in a lot of pain, and totally lacking short-term memory.  He received a terrible concussion, temporarily lost much of his peripheral vision in his right eye, and had serious speech problems for several hours.  It was absolutely terrifying. 

Thankfully, he had an excellent trauma team and great care at the hospital.  Scott's vision and speech have recovered.  He doesn't remember most of Thursday, he has a lot of pain in his neck, and will need physical therapy and massage therapy for a while so that he can return to his normal active self.  I still can't get the police officer who was on the scene to return my phone calls, but I hope the woman who did this gets more than a ticket for running a light.  Had she hit him a few inches further back on the car, he could have been killed or maimed.  The car actually looks much worse in person.  The engine is off its mounts and several inches away from where it belongs.  The whole front end is shifted several inches to the right. 

I fretted and cried and couldn't sleep.  I cursed the woman who did this.  I knit until I wore a blister into my middle finger, where my active sock needle rests.  i knit so tightly that the sock I was making for my husband is actually a bit snug on me.  When I couldn't help Scott, I helped the elderly man in the next bed, who didn't have anyone with him at the hospital.  He called me dearie and I thought it was sweet.  I watched all night to make sure that IV tubes stayed straight so the pumps wouldn't beep, and to make sure that everyone was breathing more evenly than I was.  Realizing that Scott remembered a nurse he hadn't seen for half an hour was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. 

When we got home, I talked to one person after another who called to wish Scott a speedy recovery, and I was buoyed to remember how many people agree that Scott is a wonderful man, and that we all love and need him in our lives.  I baked.  I cleaned.  I talked to insurance agents and doctors and to the pets, who were both perplexed.  I managed not to track down the other driver and wring her neck, for which I think I deserve a gold star.

We're tired, and we have a long fight ahead of us, but Scott and I both feel very fortunate.  I've already heard from several of you folks, and I am very thankful to know you are thinking of us.  Please stay safe.  And get side-curtain airbags.  And don't run red lights.