knit and tonic

Nothing Like a Fish Eye Lens to Keep Your Spirits High

The hardest part about my current situation is that I have slowly, ever so slowly, given up on my usual routine. I no longer do The Yoga, except in my dreams--and in those, I've been chronically late or arrive with boots on that can't be pried off. I no longer "work out" (I sort of just go through the motions). I still do, however, enjoy a round of people-watching every now and then, and to tell you the truth, that is what keeps me showing up at the gym.

The other day, on my one of two days that I actually did any physical activity, I noticed a lady about three treadmills down wearing a giant visor, a polo shirt, some nice, white clam diggers, and a full-on plastic, red, white and blue lei. As a bonus, when I looked to my right, about two treadmills down, I spotted a probable office worker, most likely a guy from the IT department, running like a crazy man. That sight, on its own, wasn't anything special, but add to it a pair of Dockers, some black socks, regular walking shoes, a button-down shirt and a lanyard with a company ID card a-bouncin' left and right, right and left, and it became a very special day, indeed. Notwithstanding that I was actually moving, other than the kind of moving I've been doing these days: knitting and purling.

Not that knitting and purling is bad. It's just that I'm more used to pining over the knitting while I'm doing something physical or at least walking the dogs. Nowadays, the reverse is the reality. I'm knitting and purling and wishing I could actually walk the dogs without lumbering here and there, feeling punished, old and in pain.

I was a little sad yesterday after the news, and there is more sadness today. But the good new is, I don't have to have a hip replacement. The bad news is, I'm probably facing some sort of hip surgery, but we shall see. I will visit an orthopedic hip-guy next week and fingers crossed he will think this tear I have in the lining between the ball and socket of my hip can be helped with physical therapy instead of surgery. (What is torn is called a "labrum," if you're interested. The guy who caught a glimpse of my personals, the one who held my legs up over my head while I threatened to faint, told me that he only saw torn labrums in girls who do the high kick for a living, so I should feel secure.)

But on more interesting and less depressing news, HWWV borrowed a fish eye lens and we all had a turn last night.

BTW: I also finally had some inspiration for that Allhemp6Lux--a summer cardigan that can double as a little cover up for a tank or bathing suit, something that can be worn between seasons, too. Now that I have finally finished that one project (it is for Stitch Diva), I can get down to it. I'll cast on a swatch tonight in between cookies, juicing a million lemons for future sorbets (sis has a tree that was absolutely leaning over with the fruit) and making lip gloss for Girlfriend's friends at school. I have a feeling the lip gloss will come first.

 

Little Did He Know, I have the Higher Kind

Geez, I don't know how the old broad in front of me managed to enjoy her MRI without taking her clothes off, but let me tell you this, I had to take it all off and I got a bonus round to boot. This isn't my normal post, but truth be told, the MRI is nothing to be afraid of. What you have to be afraid of is the hot-ish doc, the one handling the syringe and long needle, the one whose helper insists you remove your underpants even though in the end you really didn't need to. Add to that the fact that as you lay there in the CT tube you nearly faint from seeing the long needle sticking into your hip joint on the monitor in front of you and when you nearly pass out, the wise doc lifts your leg up into the air, and when it doesn't work, he lifts both your legs into the air just like you used to do to Girlfriend when you changed her diaper. All this, to keep you from fainting.

"You have the low blood pressure to begin with," he reported knowingly while he held my ankles in the air (and my you-know [and I'm not talking about the book] is in the air, too). "Usually the ladies your age have the higher blood pressure so they have the reserves when the panic sets in. You should have had a salty and sweet beverage before you came in."

"You mean a Margarita?"

"That, and some chips," he said with a wink, and then he put my legs back down. Everyone grinned.

Just then, I realized he looked like a young Mick Jagger. Good thing I didn't tell him the truth, that I, in fact, have the higher kind of blood pressure. Today was the first time I didn't shell out the truth, for once in my life I didn't spew out the facts. I was speechless.

This is some new yarn I scored. If you don't like the usual hemp, you should give this newest stuff a shot, It is Allhemp6Lux from Hemp for Knitting. I'll admit that I haven't knit a swatch yet, but from the feel of it, I could swear it is something entirely different than the hemp I know, but maybe it's just more like the final product after many, many washings. I can only imagine how it will drape right off the needles. If you grab only two hanks you could make a summery scarf just to try it out. I have about 10 hanks! I can't wait to cast on for something fabulous. Hopefully, I'll be dreaming about it tonight, rather than my hip, the one that's leaking that dye my Mick shot into it.

It Must be all the Knitting

For the life of me, I must be insane or am on the brink of being insane, or just plain nuts. I just spent the last half hour looking for our iPod Shuffle. I had it in my hand and was walking to my office, thinking of sharing some photos from the weekend (we roller skated!) and next thing I knew, the Shuffle was gone gone gone.

Where'd it go?

So I retraced my steps. I retraced my steps back into the bedroom where I finally opened the curtains at what, five in the afternoon? No, I didn't drop it there. Then I went into my closet and reopened my top junk/lesser underwear drawer where I had just scrounged for spare buttons, you know, the ones that come attached to a jacket or shirt (I stuff them in there). I thought I might attach one to a swatch I'm sending to IK, but no, I didn't drop the Shuffle there, either. So I then went to the laundry room. Not there (I was clutching it as I put some wash in the dryer on my way to my office).

So here I am typing this post and I realize my sweats are sort of feeling tight around my hips. Ugh. I must have stuffed the Shuffle into my waist band on my way from one place to another without thinking.

I'm either suffering from some sort of dementia or I am completely and totally bonked out.

Honestly and truly, if this continues, I'm going to have to resort to some sort of Help. I feel so cluttered. Congested. You know, like my closet is a complete mess and everything is falling off the shelves and I can't make it stop. [Note: to say my closet looks like a cyclone hit it is an understatement.] Worse, I keep having dreams that I'm in college and I can't remember what class comes next, or what building it is in. So I wander here and there and say to myself, "Horror! I haven't been to my English class in weeks. I'm going to fail!" And then the part of my brain that's still conscious (I never take down my guard, friends, I'm a Type A ninja that way) pipes in and says, "Wendy, you are dreaming. You are no longer in college. You are allowed to relax." So, after a couple months of this reoccurring dream, last night I had a new one. This time, I forgot where I worked and kept getting lost on my way there, and then I finally think I find the parking lot and after I pull in, I realize I am still wearing slippers.

Which reminds me, I once knew a woman who would only make right turns when she drove. Never left turns. She was absolutely terrified. Anyway, she finally developed a very specialized, fine tuned way of getting to her job about 20 miles away without ever having to make a left turn. Then one day, there were workers on the road, and a detour.

She went missing for awhile. How long is still under heated debate.

BTW: I'm just really busy with a knitting/design job. And after I finally finish this one project, I need to take a day and de-clutter and finally fold the laundry. I can't concentrate. But, I did have a wonderful Mother's Day with my sister, her husband and my family. We even brought Chuck and Rocko. I actually got some knitting in, too. Oh, and BBTW: I'm having an MRI of my hip tomorrow.

No Picture Necessary

I just used that new Veet hair remover, the one you can use in a shower. On the commercial, there's this long-legged gal frolicking here and there and let's just say, if you're anything like me, one view of that commercial, and you'll buy into the scene, hook, line and sinker.

So I sat there tonight, on the couch. I sat there and saw the commercial again and remembered I bought some and ran upstairs thinking about this Sunday, Mother's Day, and how we'll be roller skating around Dooze's "outdoor roller rink" (it's really a giant painted parking area in front of her house with a big boom box sitting nearby) and how cute I'll be with pig tails and shorts and really smooth legs.

Newsflash: If you read the label carefully like I did, you'll read how you shouldn't go out in the sun for at least 24 hours or more after you apply the stuff. Worse, you can't reapply it within 72 hours, much less slather on some self-tanner any time soon.

And now that I'm out of the shower and I'm realizing it only worked in spots, truth be told, I'll have bearded legs by the time I can actually go out on the "rink" with my new roller skates, pig tails and shorts.

Such is the life of a 40-something wannabe roller derby queen.

I guess things could be worse. I suppose I could be that gal on that one divorce court show whose fake tooth flew out on national TV. Even worse, I suppose I could be sitting in the tub with a green mint mask on my face and musing about whether or not it's better to collect stamps, or coins.

"Productive Knitting" Oxymoron? Anyone?

My friend, who could probably be your friend by now based on the number of times I've mentioned her, the one whose cousin plays guitar with his toes and who has a knack for the malapropism, when I called her today for a break in what has been a three-day knit fest (one word: deadline) she said, "Oh! You must have ESPN! I was just thinking about you and boom, the phone rings and it's you!"

Well, she got me thinking about what I was hoping this week would be: a week full of Productive Knitting.

Now, that, my friends is word misuse if I ever heard one: Productive Knitting. Sure, it's a bit more subtle than her remark about ESPN or the remark an old colleague made to HWWV when he walked into the office with a new suit ("I love your entourage!"), but Productive Knitting is about as crazy-weird when the two words are put together and just about as good as any decent malapropism should be, maybe even better. But I'm a knitter.

Sheesh. Knitting these days, at least for me, is about as slow going as ever. And I'm not sure if it is because I have been interrupted constantly (The Bunny throws up a hairball, the dogs fight over it. Girlfriend spills a liter of apple juice, then stands there crying while I try to finish a row. Girlfriend continues to cry while I try to finish another row. I think I see someone running through my backyard in the reflection of my reading glasses. It's a prowler! It's a coyote! No, it's that wad of tissue I keep meaning to pick up off the grass! And then I hear a crash coming from inside the freezer. Seems one of the shelves has collapsed under the weight of all my Lean Cuisine's.)

Oh, and guess what? There aren't any activity points attributed to Knitting in the online Weight Watchers activity list. I checked. If only those people over at Weight Watchers had any idea.

The good news is, at least my neighbors very likely think I'm having a week of Productive Knitting, what with all the closed windows and such. They know, in the same way I know what they are doing too--the Italian Restaurant Neighbor just got a huge LCD panel even though he's never at home--that when I sneak out to the mailbox wearing pajamas and no makeup or bra along with that very old T-shirt from Hallmark with a picture of Maxine splashed on it and the words: "I had a tummy tuck this morning. I tucked it in my pantyhose," that some really great and super productive things are happening under our roof. You know: Productive Knitting.

If only they knew.

Mother's Day

Proof I don't get out enough: We go to the local civic center to watch Girlfriend do a couple dances with her troop and we escape across the street while the adolescents and cheerleaders do their gigs and we're sitting there at this upscale-ish steak joint and upon hearing the music overhead I say, "Oh, they have good taste! They're playing Elvis Costello!"

"It's not Elvis Costello, love, it's that guy over there in the corner, the one playing the piano." (HWWV)

So then, I say, "but he sounds just like him!"

A few minutes pass and we're enjoying the tunes, and next thing I know, the performer whips out a bugle and starts playing it with his mouth and his left hand, and continues the piano with is right hand.

But the wine was uber expensive and the steaks . . . let's just say that the guys sitting at the bar with us, all of them wearing way more jewelry than I would ever, had their fill. I wonder where they put it all. I swear, the guy next to me got a steak that would feed my family plus my brother, my sister and probably my mom, too if she were here.

Which reminds me, when mom said she'd make dinner for all of us, she'd buy the smallest steak and maybe two potatoes and call it a feast. When she lived with us while she was going through chemo and radiation she said she'd shop for us and come home with an onion, a potato and a bottle of wine.

She had a problem with quantities. We were always hungry. When we were kids, if we drank a quart of apple juice in a week's time, she'd wonder what was wrong with us, why did we drink so much juice?

And that is how it all was. Forever and ever, that is how it all was. And I didn't like her very much. I didn't like her but she was nice to me. She made me things. She made me spangled eye patches to wear to match my dresses and I was always angry because she'd use double-sided tape and smush it all against my eye. She put drops in my eyes that hurt and she made stinky cooked carrots that she burnt on the stove top and we'd throw them up onto the ceiling and they'd stick there. When they fell down, she never mentioned it. She never mentioned the fact that we'd throw our overcooked hamburgers out into the field across the street while she wasn't looking, either.

I met someone the other day who said she didn't speak to her mother anymore, or at least she didn't speak to her but once a month to try to make contact. It made me feel guilty.

My heart would break if Girlfriend decided that she hated me. I love her. My mom loved me. I know it now, after all these years how much, and as much as I want to go back through the years and hoist her back from wherever she is now and scream "I LOVE you, I DO!" the only thing I can remember about her right now is the last time we spoke. I was sick and my voice was gone. I was sitting in the car in a Target parking lot and I called her. She said hello and I said mom I wanted to say hello I hope you are okay today, and she said I don't know who you are. Who is this? and hung up.

I sat there weeping in my car, and then my phone rang. It was her sister. She said, "Wendy, your mom remembered you just now. She wants to talk to you."

"I will never forget you" is what my mom said.

And that was the last thing I ever heard her say.

BTW: I'm in a crocheting mood. I wish I was in the mood to finish projects. This particular one is a knotted poncho (yes, a poncho) from a Rowan Magazine a couple years back. I'll have to go and check the edition and get back to you on it. I will say that I screwed up on it a few times before I realized that it was knit from the bottom up. Oy. I'm such a top-down thinker.