Am I Becoming An Artist?

So I started making stitch markers for knitting over the summer. Very fun, made of beads and jewelry toggle rings and then wrapped with wire. I think they're quite lovely, and so does one of my mom's friends. She asked if I was selling them, and I thought, "Why not?" So I contacted a yarn store in Washington, Missouri where my mom lives, and the owner is interested!!!

She asked me an important question--do I want to sell them on consignment or wholesale them? I don't know!!! Who has done something like this? What are the pros and cons?

So excited!!!

We No Speak Americano

Drummer Boy posted this on Facebook, so I swiped it for my very own. They're actually Irish step-dancers, though definitely avant-garde ones! Very catchy, quirky, and cool.

Enjoy!

Should I Be Worried?

(After Elvira apologized for some minor thing)
Me: You're so cute, I could forgive you anything.
Elvira: Anything?
Me: Pretty much.
Elvira: Good to know...

Desperate Times

About 11 years ago or so, I managed to tear both my rotator cuffs to varying degrees, but I really have no idea how I managed that. My left one was much worse than the right, and at some point I had a cortisone shot in my shoulder which seemed to do the trick quite nicely. Rotator cuff tears don't heal on their own--they require surgery--so I was thrilled that the shot took away the pain for a number of years.

Last week I was pulling a large patch of weeds up in the backyard, and tore the left one again. At first I thought I had just "overdone" it a bit, since my neck was a bit sore too. But within 12 hours or so that distinctive burning pain in my upper left arm left me no doubt as to what I'd done.

I found piano substitutes for the weekend (thanks Cathy and Lisa!), and gingerly went to our sports medicine guy on Monday. Not only did I manage a full tear (he thinks), but the muscle is also impinged (read: pinched) in the shoulder socket, two conditions that both require surgery but that can be done together.

I've had more than my share of surgeries over the years, and the novelty wore off many moons ago. I like to plan ahead, so I hoped that with another cortisone shot I could make it to the end of the school year. On Tuesday, the pain was still increasing, but I was optimistic about surgery over Christmas Break. This morning I knew that I had a kitchen knife and a melon-baller in the kitchen drawer and was pretty sure I could perform the surgery myself, thank you very much! I have an appointment with the surgeon on Friday to discuss options, but unless that cortisone shot kicks in really fast, it looks like I'll be adding another scar to my body, this one to my previously unscathed shoulder.

The worst part is (well, I guess if I were truly honest it isn't the worst part), it hurts to knit!

Walk To Cure Diabetes--My Perspective

When Elvira was just barely six, we found out she had an autoimmune thyroid disease called Hashimoto's Thyroiditis. It's a condition that causes your own body to destroy your thyroid gland, wreaking havoc on your health. The treatment is a little tiny pill that can help replace the ever-diminishing output of your own thyroid. The annoying thing about autoimmune diseases is that they don't like to be alone. They almost always travel in pairs, which means that having one is an open invitation to any of the other 80 or so autoimmune conditions. You have no idea which one it will choose as its BFF, so symptoms for one can be overlooked while looking for symptoms of another.

When she was diagnosed (after developing significant symptoms when she was five), they started doing routine blood tests to check all sorts of levels of this and that chemical in her body. At the time, I didn't know that Type 1 diabetes was an autoimmune disease. I was more concerned about her developing Type 2, because one of the hallmarks of Hashimoto's is rapid weight gain. In September 2001, her endocrinologist gave us yet another lab slip to take to the doctor. Being the ultra-responsible mother that I am, I promptly misplaced it. It nagged at me for three weeks, until it miraculously resurfaced. I took her right in to her pediatrician, who drew several of vials of her pretty blood and sent them off to the lab. That very night, she got up repeatedly to use the bathroom. Warning bells went off in my head immediately, and the next morning, October 13, I called her doctor to see if the labs had come back. It was a Saturday, but he was in his office anyway. After putting me on hold, his nurse came back on the line and said it appeared that Elvira did indeed have diabetes, and to get her to the hospital that afternoon. She was to be admitted for three days of stabilization and observation. As it turned out, she had probably developed diabetes within that week or so, following a virus she had had earlier in the month. If I had taken her in when the doctor first gave me the lab slip, it wouldn't have shown up.

I didn't know what to say. We talked to Elvira, and tried to explain to our little eight year-old what we didn't really understand ourselves. What would this mean for her? For our family? Would she die? What would her life look like? What was going to happen to us? It was terrifying. The only person I knew at that time with diabetes was my sister's old roommate who was loony as a squirrel and constantly in the hospital with self-induced diabetic crises. The one thing I remember feeling so guilty about was all the many times she had wanted to bake cookies and I always put her off for one reason or another. With all the weight gain from the Hashimoto's, I hadn't wanted to encourage the sugar intake. Now my chance was over, I feared, and I had robbed her of the most innocent of pleasures.

Emily came down and stayed with the other kids, aged 10, 5, and 1 at the time, while we took Elvira to the hospital. They were very nice to her, but they poked a huge hole in her poor little finger to test her blood. Would this be a daily thing? How awful! She settled into her room, and thus began an impressive, and frankly intimidating, parade of specialists. In popped her endocrinologist, a diabetes educator, nutritionist, play specialist, nurses, lab techs (press 'repeat'). I hadn't even known where the pancreas was (confession: I'm still a little fuzzy on that), let alone what it did (I've got that part down better now). The finger pokes became a five times-a-day routine, sometimes more depending on the meter reading.

Part of the deal when you have a child with diabetes, is getting them to "take ownership" of the disease and learn to manage it themselves. In preparation for giving herself her first shot of insulin, our nurse (a big man with a heart of gold) let both of us practice on him with a saline-filled syringe. He kept reassuring us that he really didn't feel a thing, but neither of us believed him. It must hurt a bit, like a wasp sting or something. After drawing insulin from two separate kinds of insulin, mixing it, getting rid of the air bubbles, and wiping her stomach with an alcohol wipe, she sat there, a needle poised above her perfect skin. She was nervous and scared, and I was ready to pass out. After numerous false starts and encouragement from her nurse and me, she finally plunged the needle into her body, slowly pushed the insulin into her body, checked for back leakage from the injection site, and withdrew the needle. She assured me that it really didn't hurt, smiled, and looked relieved that it was finally over.

I don't know that I can ever fully describe to someone who wasn't present the way her look of relief and pride changed to sheer devastation when she realized that all this build-up was not for the one shot, but for the many thousands of shots she would be giving herself every day of her life after that. To see my daughter, the toughest kid I've EVER seen, shoulders hunched and shaking with sobs, will be one of the images that goes with me to the next life. She had thought that by giving herself that one shot, she was fixing the problem, that it was in her power and hers alone to slay the Diabetes Dragon. A shot with two kinds of insulin every morning, a shot before every meal, corrective doses when her body doesn't absorb the insulin at the rate the "chart" says it should, three different insulins as night--it added up to sometimes 13 shots a day, combined with the finger sticks (borrow someone's lancet/poker sometime--it really hurts!). And in the end, she still felt sick, exhausted, and constantly sick to her stomach. That was on a good day!

Not to worry, they all reassured us. A cure was right around the corner, truly it was. So much research was being done, so many encouraging developments. By the time she graduated from high school, there would be a cure available to her.

Five years ago, she got her first insulin pump. It eliminates the multiple injections, replacing it with tubing attached to a site in her stomach that she changes every three days. She still has to test her blood just as often, but the dizzying highs and lows have slowed considerably.

So how is the research going?

Well, for 2011, the budget for Type 1-specific diabetes research is $150 million, with more than 15,000 children diagnosed each year. This does not include Type 2, which affects 24 million Americans. By contrast, in 2009 the National Cancer Institute (NCI) spent $599 million on breast cancer research alone, with an estimated 209,060 new diagnoses in 2010. Now I'm not saying we should take money away from breast cancer research. I doubt I speak only for myself when I say that many women wonder if cancer is a ticking time bomb in their body, waiting to steal their life from them. I am saying, however, that a cure is truly possible with diabetes, and with more research and funding it can become a reality. If we have to take matters into our own hands, then so be it.

Which brings us to The Walk. Every chapter of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) holds an annual walk in their community to raise money for Type 1 diabetes research. Isabelle has started her own team this year, and this post is a request for anyone reading it to join us. Walk with us, support a walker, and send us good wishes/karma/weather! There is a link on the sidebar to join our cause.

My younger daughter, Tinkerbell, was recently diagnosed with Hashimoto's. If Type 1 diabetes is in her future, I want to be able to promise her that it won't be for long.

Sharing the Torch

One of the great things about being a kid (at least from my former-kid's perspective) is doing Arts & Crafts. Nearly every child likes creating something from next to nothing, and while that something might be unrecognizable to us, it's the Mona Lisa to them. I sat at Bible Day Camp with the best of them and churned out God's Eyes like there was no tomorrow!

I've been making things for as long as I can remember. One of my very early memories was of my grandmother staying with me while my mom ran a few errands. I must have been three, because we lived on Reavis Place in Webster and my dad was in Viet Nam. I was sick, and she brought over a box of straws and some string (resourceful grandmothers can spin straw into gold on command, pardon the pun). We cut the straws into beads, strung them onto the strings, and voila!--designer necklaces! From there, I learned how to trace a heavy metal paperweight onto felt to make a perfect-sized Barbie skirt. Cutting several layers of felt into an apple shape, then stitching the top together by hand created a needle holder that my proud mom still uses 40+ years later.

I've spent my summer learning some jewelry making techniques, starting a new quilt, finishing a sweater I was knitting and starting another, filling hand-sewn organza squares with home-grown lavender, turning currants into jelly, and learning to lay tile with Sweetie. I've always got this intense need to create something, and without having more children (who, while absolutely wonderful, are probably better left to future generations at this point) I look for raw ingredients everywhere I can.

Tinkerbell and I went to the fabric/craft store this morning and used our handy dandy coupons to pick up a couple of craft kits for her--more pot holder loops (a staple in many homes) and a really great bead-making kit. She reverse-painted some glass beads and glued them onto mirrored backs to make bracelets, which turned out very cute and kept her occupied for quite awhile. The Easy Bake oven is out, the pot holder loom is waiting in the wings, and a spool knitting kit is hiding in my dresser drawer. I'm not giving up our summer break without a fight!

Jane Austen's Fight Club

It's pretty unlikely I suppose, but we can dream, can't we? This is what a bunch of LA Mormon girls can accomplish when they put their minds to it!

Tigerlily is home!

Our Adventure Kitty showed up about 3am when Elvira checked "one last time" for her. Just ran in the house, grubby and hungry, but seemingly all right. No idea where she had been, but we're happy to have our little family all back together.

I had no idea I would be one of those people who gets weird about pets. A little disturbing, but there it is.

The Little Engine That Could

My Dad is in the hospital with late-stage cancer. He was diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer more than 19 years ago and given six months to live. The tricky part of that diagnosis is that he had an eight year-old at the time, and dying wasn't a particularly convenient option. So he didn't. Or he wouldn't. He went to Washington University for a horrifically experimental treatment that destroyed his general health, but kept the actual cancer at bay for awhile. It came back. He banished it. Repeat. Then it came back when Caro was more or less grown up, though still in college, and he decided to try to just keep it at bay, but not vanquish it. It settled in his bones and made his life pretty miserable, but time passed and my dad became a medical anomaly/miracle who lived and lived without any seeming justification for it.

Tuesday night the paramedics took my dad to the hospital, dehydrated, unable to walk, and dizzy. He had excellent care at home, but there's only so much you can do when your body just tires of the fight. Mom stays at the hospital all day and evening, knitting like a fiend to keep the stress to a dull roar. Emily and Jim go visit, Suzy, Caro, and I call incessantly to check in. We try to keep him cheerful and happy, but we can't fix this.

How does a perfectly healthy 54 year-old man end up with a deadly cancer? It happens every day to someone, doesn't it? One of those "mysteries" that we just have to accept.

Except that we KNOW how he got cancer.















"Leaving for war", August 1966 and "Homecoming", August 1967

My father went to Viet Nam in August 1966 and returned a year later with a deadly toxin already sitting in his cells, biding its time until it could end my dad's life. Don't believe me? Check it out:

Agent Orange, Vietnam Veterans and Prostate Cancer

My dad refused to file for compensation from the military. His feelings were and are that serving in the Army was an honor and a sacrifice made willingly, and exposure to Agent Orange was just an occupational hazard. It's a shame that he got cancer, but so did a lot of other people so why should he be an exception?

That's very honorable, and those words came as no surprise to any of us that know him.

But I'm still mad about it. Two of my nephews serve in the military, one as a combat medic headed for his second tour in the Middle East, another in language school with the Marines. My son wants to fly for the Air Force. I'm not anti-military. But I'm still very ticked off that so many thousands of men have had agonizingly painful deaths from exposure to a chemical that completely devastated a country, its people, and our own people with no lasting benefit to anyone. We lost that "police action", so-called since there was never a declaration of war. We will lose this one. And 40 years from now someone's father might very well be dying of a preventable cancer after exposure to God-knows-what in Afghanistan back during that disaster of a war. That is not a reflection on our leaders or our soldiers. I firmly believe they are doing their absolute best and doing heroic things every single day.

But all wars eventually end, no matter how many battles are won along the way.

I have added a link to my Dad's CarePage on the right sidebar. If you would like to see updates on his condition, you will need to register with their site.

All The Pretty Beadies In The Trees

I've been making beaded bookmarks this week. Lots of fun, and they look very pretty in the magnolia tree, don't you think?

Breathing Room

Oh my, that was a crazy month. So glad June is over, though it means one month of summer break is gone. Kitty Boy had marching band from 7-10 am every weekday, drumline on Mondays and Wednesdays, and parades every Saturday. Elvira had Summer Orchestra from 9-12 every day, and Girls Camp the first week of the month. Tinkerbell had swimming from 11-11:30 every day, and skating from 6-7 every Thursday. All three kids had Tae Kwon Do on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. But now all we have is Tae Kwon Do, though Kitty Boy will still have band stuff on and off during July. Now "Camp Season" begins: Boy Scout camp in July, Diabetes camp in July and August, Youth Conference in August.

Sweetie has been working hard tiling the laundry room. He got about 2/3 of the room completely done, and will finish it off when I get the laundry caught up today so we can move the washer and dryer. Then we'll lay hardwood flooring in Elvira's new room so she can get all moved in before school starts. The bathroom will have to wait a little bit, but that's going to be a huge tiling job that will really tax poor Sweetie.

I've been cleaning and organizing like crazy. Got all my mending and ironing caught up, have a huge pile of old filing to shred, finished knitting a sweater and started another one, started a new moley for the next Ravelry round, sorted tons of beads from Elvira's and my collections and combined them into one, organized all my yarn, and am churning through books and audio books as I work. We've been packing in all the doctors appointments so we're all caught up before school starts.

I've gotten precious little weeding done, which I'll need to rectify ASAP. Currant season is nearly here, so I'll be making lots of jelly soon, then canning pears. I'm going to try to juice our grapes this year before the birds and wasps drain them. The kids are eating peas like crazy, and we have strawberries and raspberries now, too.

Quilting is something I've wanted to learn in earnest, and while I've made a couple of quilts over the years, I wouldn't say that I really know what I'm doing yet. I'll be starting a new quilt next week, and I'm so looking forward to it! When I was a little girl, I used to spend the night in my dad's old room at my grandparents' house in Webster. Hanging on the wall was a quilt made by one of my grandmother's sisters, Aunt Janie probably. I loved to look at all the fabrics and thought they must have all had the prettiest clothes that the pieces had come from. It wasn't until later that I realized it was probably all fabric from flour sacks during the Depression. American Quilting is starting a block-of-the-month quilt using fabrics from the 1930s, and I squeaked into one of the last spots in the group. I'll post pictures of my "surprise" blocks, as I won't know what the finished product will look like until it's actually done!

Off to pick up Kitty Boy from band and take Tinkerbell to a doctors appointment.

Back In the Swing of Things

Had a great time in St. Louis! Finally got there (1st class, too!) and did all kinds of things. Went to Emily's knitting group at Cafe Ventana one evening, which consisted of three doctors, one professor, a super-smart MBA (Em)--and me. Had a cinnamon sugar beignet with Mexican hot chocolate, which was divine, and made a lot of progress on my sweater. Got pedicures with my mom, did some sewing done on Sweetie's pirate costume for Halloween this year (let's be honest--I watched my mom work on it), met Em's boyfriend (lovely, by the way), popped by Ted Drewes, went to Global Foods Market (a jaw-dropping international grocery store), ate at Pueblo Solis with my brother and sister-in-law, picked up Caroline at the airport--just all kinds of things!
But now I'm home, and the real summer vacation drill begins: Marching Band, Summer Orchestra, swimming lessons, skating lessons, Tae Kwon Do, Scout Camp, Diabetes Camp, Girls' Camp, cleaning rooms, purging closets and drawers, de-griming everything that was "grimed" during the school year. And of course dinners on the deck, playing in the yard, knitting, sewing, and loveliest of all--reading.


Our online book club, Trans-Atlantic Bibliophiles, is back in swing on Goodreads, and there is still time to join us. This summer we're reading "Middlemarch" by George Eliot. It's a long one, but we're allowing ourselves the whole summer to work through it. I've picked up books from Orem Library, so if you'd like to join us, I'll bring a copy by for you! If you're not in the area, you can grab a copy at your local library or bookstore.

Click here and it will take you to our group. If you haven't registered on Goodreads yet, it's free and very fun. Add me as a friend!

Happy Summer everyone!

Dear Delta

(This is a copy of the actual email I sent to Delta this evening.)

My flight was canceled today--the exact same flight that was canceled in February when I attempted the trip the first time. No one was answering the phones at the airport to try to change my flight. I gave up and drove back home. Tried to call from home--"due to the extremely high call volume, no one is available to answer your call." Delta has bottom-of-the-barrel customer service, and it makes traveling a nightmare. I'm still trying to find a flight to St. Louis that a) works for my parents to pick me up, b)doesn't take 7 hours to make a 3 hour flight, and c)has seats available. After this trip, I will never fly Delta again. I would rather spend two days in a minivan with four children driving through Kansas than depend on your airline to get me someplace on time--if ever.

I'm trying one more time tomorrow. Then I'm through with it. I feel like I'm on The Island in "Lost."

Pigeon: Impossible

Sally sent me this, and I thought it was fabulous. Just thought you'd enjoy it :)

At Last!

I wore both shoes today! Not a slipper--a shoe. :)

Progress!

I played the piano in church yesterday for the first time since "The Incident." It's my left foot that's burned, not my right, but I hadn't been able to have it down for that long. I usually prop it up on a chair while I'm at work. Also, after a week at work, my nerves freak out on the weekends to where I'm doped up pretty thoroughly. This weekend--just a little!

Hopefully I'll be able to wear a shoe in another week or so. I definitely need new slippers :)

Wrong Corner

Went back to the doctor yesterday. I swore there was infection brewing after a hellish weekend where I popped pills like candy. He said I was "healing beautifully" and everything looked perfectly normal.

I win.

Now my foot is all red and inflamed, swollen up, shooting electric shocks throughout the nerves, and generally ticking me off.

I'll pick up an antibiotic as soon as the pharmacy opens in the morning, but I can barely walk on it tonight.

I'm so sick of this! I would give anything for Hermione's time turner.

Turning The Corner!!

Well, I think the worst is definitely over! This past weekend I think the nerves were finally wide awake, but they've gone into "normal" mode now. I can see skin starting to grow on my foot (I'd take a picture but Sweetie hid the camera somewhere), and I'm down to just 800 mg Ibuprofens a couple of times a day. Yippee Skippy!!! Still wearing a sock over the bandages instead of a shoe, which makes walking across the playground at school a little awkward, but I'm walking!

And I'm going to be teaching my Civil War unit for Gifted/Talented for the next three weeks, which makes me very happy! I finally get to show the kids my replica bullets Sweetie bought me a few years ago. He knew I'd love them :)

Angels Among Us

Burns hurt--more than anything else I can think of. There's just no way around it. At first, I had kind of hoped that the nerves in the top of my foot were fried. In comparison to losing the nerves in my fingers, it was no big deal in the "big picture" of it all, and I didn't mind not feeling the pain so much.

Oh, they're alive and well. And angry.

I'm back on the pills, after not taking a single one since the day it happened. I'd be on the sauce, too, if I could walk into the liquor store to get any. That's what Dad prescribed, and Daddy's always right, isn't he?

This has been a growing experience for me, for lack of a silver lining anywhere else. My darling friend Sue offered to bring dinner to me the day after it happened. At first I declined--I was sure Elvira could throw something together. But then I realized that I really did need help, and she was there in a flash. I grossly overestimated my recovery time, so Lisa brought dinner over last Monday out of the blue. It was amazing, and with 5 children of her own she still took care of the five of us. My coworkers have been so kind to me and completely accepted the little I can do at this point. My amazing mom, who has her own stresses in life, has called and texted me every single day. All of my sisters and my brother have called too, multiple times. Sweet ladies, one of whom I've never even met, played the piano for me in church so I could stay home.

When I heard about Stephanie's plane crash, I of course felt such sorrow for her. How painful in every way possible to suffer burns over 85% of your body. But I had no idea at all, and fortunately I still don't. What's the surface area of the top of my left foot? (I'm not really counting my hand anymore--it is healing up very well) About 1% of my body? And yet that alone has completely debilitated me! I'm on serious drugs for the pain, and can still barely walk nearly two weeks after. And yet she experiences it daily, at 85 times the amount I do. Amazing, so I can't really complain--it could be and is worse for so many other people.

So thank you to you all, you who have sent kind words and done kind things for our family. You are all angels.

Healing

I've always known I was impatient and competitive. It can be a strength in some situations, but a weakness in others for sure. I make a terrible patient when I'm sick or otherwise physically impaired. I never take it as easy as I should and think I'm ready for "normal" way before my injury does.

So yesterday I went back to work. I knew that morning it was a bad idea, but I did it anyway. I still can't wear a shoe on my left foot, so I threw on a big sock and limped in to work. Even with the least amount of movement possible during the day (a slug would have been victorious over my pace) I was still hurting pretty badly. I came home, peeled off all the bandages, and didn't like what I saw.

Sunburns peel in an icky but harmless manner. 3rd degree burns peel in a scary and infection-attracting manner. I'm not going into details here, but I swear I was down to raw flesh on my finger. Sorry, I guess that was detailed enough. Enough to scare the bejesus out of me, to be quite honest. My foot looks horrible, and I have no idea how long it's going to take to heal up. The doctor said 7-10 days, and this is the one week mark. Way more than 10, I'm thinking.

So I'm playing hooky today. I'll prop my foot up on a chair, finish doing my taxes online, take copious amounts of ibuprofen, and really hope that all this doesn't get worse.

Why Cooking With Oil Is Bad For Your Health

I'm not entirely stupid--I've read lots of nutrition articles and watched loads of Food Network shows. I know as well as the next guy that cooking with oil is not the wisest nutritional choice. But I completely disregarded this knowledge two days ago when I decided to make my kids scones for breakfast. Scones! What a perfect Spring Break treat!

Mormon scones aren't like the baked scones that the rest of the world enjoys. Ours are really just deep-fried roll dough, served with honey butter. Mmmmm--so tasty. I'd never made them before, just tasted them, but on a lazy spring day with a chill still in the air, there was no time like the present.

Now I'm no expert in cooking with oil. I've made egg rolls a few times and done corn tortillas for enchiladas, but I don't even do fried chicken. I've never owned a deep fryer and bake french fries in the oven. Oil scares me a bit--so unpredictable, flammable, and painful. But what's the worst that could happen? I'm always careful in the kitchen.

Apparently, not careful enough. I made a few scones, and they turned out great. At some point I must have hit the pan handle with my elbow or something. Oil splashed on my right hand, and as I jumped back it somehow ended up soaking the sock on my left foot. The pan didn't fall off the stove, and I did manage to turn off the gas burner before we all blew up, but I'm still not sure what actually happened there. I poured cold water over my hand, but the sock was still burning into my foot. I managed to rip the sock off, and had Kitty Boy drench a dish towel in cold water that I could put on my foot. I was screaming hysterically while simultaneously teaching Kitty Boy a whole new vocabulary. Well, he says I was--I'm sure he's heard it all before in middle school. Elvira said all she could hear was "Oh God!!! The pain!!!!" combined with incoherent animal sounds. I remember thinking, "Oh poor Joan of Arc!!! What a horrible way to go!!!"

Tinkerbell handed me a paper bag because I was hyperventilating, and one of the kids called Sweetie. I had the car, so his secretary ran him home even faster than I usually drive. We headed up to Instacare where they treated my many 2nd and 3rd degree burns. Wrapped up like a mummy, I headed home with pain pills and a sheepish expression.

What a moron. I know the difference between a healthy breakfast and a non-healthy one, yet I chose the latter and lived to regret it. I'm through with oil. Enchiladas will be made with plain tortillas, not cooked in oil. Egg rolls are right out. Scones--well, they're still yummy but so not worth it.

I've unwrapped my hand, and while it looks a bit scary I needed to let my fingers bend. Hopefully there won't be any scarring. My foot might have a bit of nerve damage, but thankfully it's just on the top and not the bottom. Probably a little scarring on it as well, but I'm more of a running shoe girl as opposed to sandals so who really cares? In the end, I think I got very lucky, and just as importantly I've learned a valuable lesson.

The ironic thing is that I've been watching Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution for the past few weeks, and really shouldn't have been thinking of feeding that to my children anyway. Lesson learned. Onward and upward.

Another Reason To Love Knitting

I was on the Mason-Dixon knitting blog today and found the coolest videos. The first is a Belgian natural gas commercial, and the second is how they made it. Knitting is freaking cool, I'm telling you!

The Appeal Of Knitting

I first learned to knit when I was about 11. Back in the day, my church's weekday religious program for children divided the girls from the boys when we turned 10 so we could have a class that was more relevant for our own interests, or something like that. No idea what the boys did, but we did a lot of crafty things. I learned to embroider, knit, crochet, and babysit. Surprisingly, all of these things came in very handy for me (you were expecting me to say something snarky, weren't you?). I took to the needlework like a duck to water, and never looked back. Over the years, I've added cross-stitch, smocking, needlepoint, needle tatting, hardanger, Swedish lace net darning, Swedish huck embroidery, rug hooking, sewing, quilting, and beadwork to the original three skills, as well as a little jewelry casting, leatherwork, and woodcarving. Each has its allure, but I think I love to knit the most.

When I was growing up, my mother always had some kind of project going. She did a lot of needlepoint and introduced me to most of the needlework forms I acquired over the years, but no matter what she was working on, she always had a knitting project. I can still hear the "click click" of her metal needles as she sat in our big brown chair making a sweater for Emily or a pillow for my bed. Both my grandmothers knit and crocheted, and I always had one-of-a-kind sweaters, slippers, hats, and mittens. Since we usually lived so far from my grandparents, wearing something they made connected me to them, and them to me I hope.

I hadn't knit in years, but after 9/11 I picked it back up again. I was horribly stressed at the time, and essentially I just wanted my mommy. After mastering a few dishcloths, I started a sweater for Elvira. It turned out pretty well--at least both the sleeves were the same length, albeit a bit short. I have knit while learning how to shoot Elvira up with insulin in the hospital, while waiting for my husband to come out of major eye surgery, waiting for Tinkerbell to wake up from a medical coma, listening to doctor after doctor go over our family's health histories and say, "Wow, that's really unusual! How interesting... Hey Joe, come take a look at this file! Would you consider being part of a study?" I've also knit while waiting for concerts to start, kids getting their braces off, waiting in line for all the "Harry Potter" and "Twilight" movies, watching baseball games, and yes, even in church.

But my favorite knitting memory was just over a year ago when I was home in St. Louis. Emily, Suzy, Mom and I were all watching "Mamma Mia"--and knitting. One of the best things in life is watching my mom watch a movie. Her face is so beautifully expressive, and she has the most wonderful laugh. Whether she's watching "Tom and Jerry" with Tinkerbell, "Mamma Mia" with us girls, or "Muppets Take Manhattan" with all of us, I would rather watch her than the movie anyday. I adore my mother, if you can't tell. There we were, me working on a sweater for a friend's baby, Emily working on a sweater for Elvira, Suzy just learning to knit, and Mom working on a sweater for herself. Click, click, click, the occasional curse word, and singing Abba songs. Then Dad got out of bed, shook his head at us, and asked us to keep it down. A happy, happy memory.

Tinkerbell had a Destination Imagination competition in Salt Lake on Saturday. When we were done, we headed over to Blazing Needles, which is the loveliest yarn store I've ever visited. Last summer I mentioned a moleskine project I was embarking on, and I was finally able to meet Laurie, the talented and versatile woman who is upline from me in the exchange. She was teaching a class there that afternoon. The store was filled with people, some in Laurie's class, a couple of women just hanging out knitting with a dog at their feet, Chris winding customer's skeins of yarns on the amazing swift they have, Cynthia popping around to show me things, an expectant couple looking at yarn for baby sweaters. The sun was coming in through the windows, lighting up the yarn in the bins. The yarn! Wool, silk, cotton, cashmere--handspun, hand-dyed, hand-painted, you name it. So many pretty little scarf pins, lavender sachets, books, leather project bags, just more than I could ever list.

But it was the feeling in the store, more than the goods, that made the biggest impression. There is such a comaraderie and sisterhood in knitting. The two women at the table were friends, though maybe they met through the store. One is an advanced knitter and the other just a beginner. They wanted to see what I picked out, and hear about a book I recommended. I looked at their projects and pet the sweet labradoodle that was recovering from peritonitis. Laurie and I had a big hug, Tinkerbell made herself at home picking out a project for herself, and there was a faint smell of tea from the mugs a few people were sipping from. I hated to leave.

My friend Pat, who currently lives in London, and I have talked about opening a yarn (or wool, as she says it) shop someday. We also want to write a book together. How lovely would that be? Surrounded by gorgeous fibers, creative customers/friends, the scent of lavender, and warm tea. I don't think we'd have to worry about writer's block at all.

National Day of UNPLUGGING: March 20

I need this soooo badly. Constantly worried about when my stupid Farmville crops will need to be harvested. Was it 1 hour or 50 minutes until my tika masala kababs were ready on Cafe World? Facebook has taken over my life, and I'm taking it back!! I deleted ALL my games this morning. I've tried to take breaks from Farmville before, and didn't have the strength :) But this time is different! After giving up cable (and living to talk about it), I don't miss it at all. I do watch the odd show through our digital conversion box every so often, like "Biggest Loser" and "Who Do You Think You Are?", but that's about it.

But it's not enough.

I love the concept of Shabbat. At sundown on Friday the Sabbath starts and is ritually observed until sundown the following day. Peace, family, tradition--very appealing concept. In our faith, the Sabbath is observed on Sunday, so I'm unplugging Saturday evening at sundown.

Anyone with me?

Let's Take This Party Inside

Well, I'm a little sick of blogging. I'm tired of my own thoughts, bored with everyone else's, and just kind of over the whole thing at this point. I'd rather go back to neglecting my journal, quite honestly.

I'm taking this baby private. I really don't want to be "out" there anymore. At least not right now. Not sure how the whole "private thing" goes, but look for me to disappear in the next little bit unless you know the secret password. But first you have to send me your email so I can invite you. If you know me, you probably know my email or are a friend of mine on Facebook. If you don't, leave a comment so I know how many of you are out there. If there are a lot of you, I'll think about just staying public. If there are only a few, then I'm going private.

Thanks!!

Tongue-Tied

I want to talk about something really important to me, but I can't.

Well, I could, but I really can't. Well, I guess I can, if you want to get technical about it. I could open my mouth (or type with my fingers) and say whatever I want to. But I shouldn't. I shouldn't so much so that I might as well say I can't.

There is a furious debate going on right now on a certain blog about the author's post on feminism. She expressed her opinion, which, of course is her right as an American to do, and should be her right no matter where she lives. Whoops, I'm saying too much. I'm starting to sound a bit militant, aren't I? Let me try again.

Some women in the blogosphere believe they are not feminists. That's their right, of course. Their god-given right to believe whatever they want to. And their American right to say it in their blog. Never mind that women all over the world don't have that right. Never mind that after campaigning for family members and begging for votes, even being able to cast your own, you are in a minority in the world. Never mind that you can make money off your readers by having ads all over your blog and then collect a pretty little check made out to you that you then deposit in your own personal checking account. All that aside, to say that equality has done nothing for you, as this particular blogger said in her post, leaves me speechless and yes, tongue-tied.

But I really shouldn't talk about all of this, because one might infer from my comments above that I am a feminist, and that might be detrimental to both me and my family. The fact that people assume we're Democrats in the most Republican county in America has caused us no end of unwanted attention. I can only imagine what being a feminist or having a feminist wife would do to us when one works for one of the most conservative religious universities in the country. Oh, whoops, no I don't have to imagine it because I know. It can get you fired. Or blacklisted. I would really hate to give off that impression, because I love my husband. So I can't say anything.

I also can't talk about the fact that the religious youth group that my daughter attends when I successfully coerce her into going by assuring her that I'm sure they'll do something worthwhile, interesting, and relevant this time, took the girls to try on wedding dresses last week. Never mind the fact that these girls are 16 and 17 years-old and it reeks of polygamist child-brides to me. Never mind that I'm so incredibly thankful that I didn't even try to get her to go so she was not exposed to it. Never mind that, though a few of the parents were horrified, the leaders themselves saw nothing wrong with it. Apparently it was to give them "something to look forward to." I suggested they try on caps and gowns, because my mother always said "first things first." Then I suggested that they take the boys to price out engagement rings if they wanted to continue with the culture shock theme. The leader was not amused.

Never mind the fact that after 20 years of living in this place I still feel like I live on another planet sometimes and am ready to scream my lungs out but nobody who heard me would care one bit. One might assume that I spend hours deprogramming my children after being exposed to such activities and ideas, but then one might also believe that try as I might I just can't buy into the cultural ignorance of many in the predominant faith in my particular area. One might then assume that I'm so fed up that I'm ready to turn my back on my faith and so many of its ignorant and frankly, foolish, members.

But then one would assume incorrectly, because I can differentiate between doctrine and culture.

I know that where I grew up, in lands far away from here, that I was not subjected to stupidity at the level I have seen in this place. I know that there is not such a sense of religious entitlement within my faith elsewhere, that many people, and not just women, are aware of inequality in the world and realize there is a long way to go still. I also know that even in my own family there are huge divergences of opinions on politics and yet we still love each other passionately and will protect one another's right to believe what they want.

I also know that I'm not alone. There are others here. Thinking, feeling, intelligent women and men who read and study real issues. The cautious ones talk about it in hushed tones. The rash ones shout it to the heavens. But they are talking and voting, and I don't feel so alone sometimes.

I wish I could talk about it all, I really do.

I just can't. Yet. But someday I can. And then all the thoughts that have been collecting in my head and heart all these years will come pouring out. I can't guarantee that they'll be interesting or even valid at that point, but I will be free to speak my mind without any thought of repercussion to me or my family, either economically or socially.

Lord help us all.

Blank

What to write. What. To. Write. WhAtToWrItE...

I haven't been too busy to write. I just haven't had anything "grab me" and beg to be written about. A few random thoughts, but nothing that could become a stellar essay. Not that I'm in the habit of writing "stellar" essays, come to think of it.

Some random thoughts.

Why do people continue as Education majors after working in our After School Program (ASP)? Wouldn't that be a huge deterrent--sort of like "Scared Straight" for the primary set? (Note the lower case 'p' as opposed to upper case. Used as an alternative to 'secondary' rather than an LDS church auxiliary. Just thought I'd point out that random little thing)

Why is it that once I'd finally chosen something to get my Masters in, made contacts, and had enthusiastic and positive feedback from said contacts, I realized I could probably never a) find a job in this market (both economic and geographic) and/or b) never find a job in this market that would allow me to see my family on a daily basis? That, my friends, is called 'cruel irony.'

Why is it that once I'd finally settled on my backup plan and chosen a different career to pursue, the necessity of taking Math 110--for the 4th time!!!--would become brutally obvious? This time I have to get an 'A' in it, which is alternately terrifying and hilarious. College Algebra is a huge challenge for me. I've always felt that math is like liquor--best to stay away from the hard stuff. Looks like I'll be drinking alone--again. (You know I mean "math" when I say drinking--don't scare the neighbors)

I have a big scar on my face from an accident when I was 11. I've had plastic surgery, so now it's not too noticeable. I think plastic surgery is fabulous, and I would love to have more done. Just thought I'd share.

Sometimes people think I'm weird because I live in Utah and hate guns. The very sight of one makes me want to pass out. There's a reason for that, and it might become a blog post someday. Or maybe not. (Just to clarify, people DO think I'm weird because I live in Utah, but I was trying to point out that in a state with a very high gun to possessor ratio, hating guns is the weird part, not that fact that I live here)

I love to read, but I'm a little overly critical with the books people recommend. This does not explain why I loved the first couple of "Twilight" books so much. The last two, not so much, but with the first two I was a little scarily obsessive. I'm much better now, and back to my nitpicky self. So over it now. Pretty much.

I like to knit, too. I knit during my "downtime" when I'm playing the piano for the little bits in church on Sunday. I tell people it's to keep my poor fingers warm back in my cold corner. Really it's because I have a LOT of downtime and I can at least keep my mind occupied while the kids scream their heads off. (To be fair, it's really only a few spoilsports who do the screaming, but they give their peers a bad name by association)

I wonder sometimes if I have ADD. I've joked about it for years (SQUIRREL!!), but sometimes I think I do. I wonder if a person can train themselves to develop ADD just by living a chaotic life? One would surmise then, that by streamlining and simplifying said life, the ADD could go away. That assumes that my first supposition was correct, and I'm only supposing at the moment. I could be supposing erroneously. Hupidubidu!

Worth the month-long wait between posts?

In the Ghetto

Elvira and I were standing in line at our pharmacy the other week. This is not an unusual occurrence, unfortunately. The staff there and I are on a first-name basis--we ask about each other's families, share recipes, compliment new hairstyles--you get the picture. The pharmacist was on the phone to some pharmacy staff member at a different location who wasn't familiar with our part of the world. She said, "I don't know about where you live, but here in Provo we have a definite ghetto. Our store is right in the heart of the ghetto, and you wouldn't believe the things I've seen here."

Wow. I've driven past Cabrini-Green in Chicago (fast), seen the Robert Taylor Homes on the South Side, and walked dozens of times through gang and prostitute infested areas on the way to our friends' home on Chicago's North Side. I had no idea that all this time in Happy Valley I was living in the ghetto, being exposed to who knows what! I'm sure that to someone who hasn't lived in more "colorful" areas, Provo's West Side can look a little rough around the edges. Yes, there is gang activity, yes there are homeless people and panhandlers. But I've never had bullets whizzing over my head like Sweetie did while building a fence at Judi & Albert's house. And I've never seen syringes on the ground like I saw nearly daily walking down Sheridan Road, Clark Street, or in the park. When it rains in Chicago, the streets smell like a mixture of urine, oil, and cigarette smoke. Here it just smells like rain.

I've been reading a book called "Almost French" by an Australian woman who falls in love with a Frenchman and moves to Paris. She recalls her long period of adjustment to the French way of life and the way they interact with each other and outsiders. I've always been fascinated by France and have imagined myself living there any number of times, so of course the book is fun to read. But I identify with it so much because no matter how long I live in Utah, which is coming up on 25 years now, I will never be a Utahn. I still find it a very foreign place to me, even though I grew up LDS. I don't speak the "secret code" that Utah Mormons seem to speak, virtually all of my friends are expats like me, and I still have no idea why people put Ranch dressing on everything, including pizza. I pronounce my t's in kitten, mitten, and mountain which automatically flags me as a transplant. It took me years to appreciate the mountains here and not feel like I was imprisoned by them, though lets be honest, I really am. I've lived in so many interesting and sometimes difficult situations, but I've never encountered the fear and distrust of "the outside world" like I have here in Utah. Anything on the other side of Denver is considered "back East". There is a real feeling of "them" vs. "us" here.

I guess it's just a matter of perspective. Lucky girl that her idea of a ghetto is 500 W. Center in Provo and that she doesn't know what a real one looks like. Not that I do, either. I just laid down on the seat while Sweetie drove really fast through them. If bullets were going to fly, he has much better reflexes than I do.

The Voices In My Head

I've mentioned Public Radio any number of times on here, and it is an extremely important part of my intellectual life. I've listened to it for over 15 years now, nearly every single day. Sometimes it's just the news, but I love it when the timing works out for me to listen to "The Diane Rehm Show" and "Radio West." Diane Rehm and Doug Fabrizio are so interesting and entertaining to listen to, and their voices are so familiar to me now that I

find them enormously comforting in stressful times.

Here's a link to a dream-come-true interview for me: Doug interviewing Diane here in Salt Lake.

Utah NOW

It's so cool to actually see the people that I normally only hear. Who knew she was so beautiful?

Thoughts on Aging

Getting older is a drag. It's way better than the alternative of course, which is pretty much, well, dying. It's a privilege to get older, and I am conscious of that, but it's still a drag.

We've lived in our house for 15 years now. One problem with moving into a brand-new house is that all the appliances are exactly the same age. After 15 years, they're starting to wear out at the same time. This past weekend it was the furnace and water heater that gave up the ghost simultaneously. With no notice, the water heater ruptured, with water spraying all over the back of the bathroom wall that Sweetie had just recently finished painting. The blower on the furnace then kicked on, sucked some water into it, and fried our furnace in just seconds. $5,400 later, we are now in a warm house with hot water to spare, but with a few economies that need to be made.

Where to start? Obviously, the big one is the food budget. I could certainly do better about meal planning and using leftovers more wisely, so that's one. I've been wanting to get rid of cable TV forever, so this might be my chance. But yet another potential "hole" in the budget occurred to me.

My hair.

Ouch. After a second grader kindly pointed out how gray my hair was getting last year, I starting coloring it. Well, I started having it colored. I have a terrible history of pretty spectacular hair disasters, most at the hands of others but a few at my own, and I don't dare take on this task by myself. Rather than going lighter, which I have always done, I went quite dark. I liked it. The Morticia Addams vibe works for me. No more gray, and it looks good with my eyes. But it's pricey. I'm a notorious tightwad, and it's hard for me to even justify a pedicure, let alone having my hair colored every few months. I've managed to rationalize it one way or another for the past year though, and haven't lost any sleep over it.

But here's where my brain won't just quit and be happy. Yes, I covered the gray. But it's still there, underneath the dye. The same goes with Botox or "fillers" like Restylane. It's not as though your wrinkles disappear--they're still there, just frozen or filled with something. I can pretend that I'm not 46, but I am. Is that a bad thing? Am I supposed to be embarrassed by that and do everything I can to look 36? Is looking younger than you are really being your best self, or is it trying too hard to be something you're not? Why not just let my hair go gray again and wear it proudly?

Jamie Lee Curtis does. I think she's awesome. I've always liked her, especially in "True Lies", so when she decided a few years ago to just "let it all hang out" and wear her years proudly, I cheered her on. It's a little harder when it's me, but I really do think she's gorgeous and makes 51 look good. I don't make 46 look all that great, at the moment. But I will. Even with gray hair.

Just in time for the dishwasher to die on us.

Oh, and Happy Anniversary Sweetie. Thanks for 22 years!

The Posts That Never Were

I write a lot. Way more than I ever actually post. Mostly it's because I'm in a questionable state of mind at the time and upon further reflection think it might be best if I refrain from sharing my thoughts publicly. Sometimes it's because what I want to say is just "right there" but I can't seem to put it into any cohesive state. Other times it's more than coherent, but polite society dictates that I show some serious restraint. Here are a few of the posts of 2009 that were written, could have been written, or were worked out in glorious detail in my head but never written down.

1. Why Doesn't God Know Who I Am? He Knows My Neighbors ...
2. Oh, God Knows Who I Am All Right--He Just Doesn't Like Me.
3. What Lovely Etchings You Have! Why, I'd Love To See Them, Thanks Ever-so!
4. I Think We'll Move To England!
5. When The Kids Are Grown, Sweetie And I Are Moving To Italy!
6. To Hell With Them--I'm Running Away To Paris.
7. I Love My Family
8. There Are Just So Many Of Them!!!
9. Let's Compare Scars
10. Lock, Stock And Two Smoking Barrels
11. I'm Sick And Tired Of Twilight
12. Cheater, Cheater, Pumpkin-Eater

Aren't you happy that I didn't publish these? I will try to post more in 2010. I'm also going to add two new sidebars--all the movies I see in 2010 as well as all the books I actually finish (I'm reading five at the moment but will probably only finish a couple of them). I'll try to give them star ratings if I think it's relevant.

Happy New Year to All!!!