Newly Named Knits

It is so weird that the alliteration in the title post is spelled with a 'k'. I think it might be easier to teach Scrunch to read a foreign language. Mandarin? Hebrew? French? She'll get Spanish at her first fast food gig. English is wacked, but I'm not a point in life where I could teach us both to read anything different. The whole " 'i' before 'e' except after 'c' " thing is as complex as my mad homeschooling skills reach.

Homeschooling...ahhh homeschooling. It is the talk of the mommy crowd these days. Ya love it or hate it and every Mama has an opinion on it. Mine is... Cool for you. Not so much, for me. Is homeschooling even a word? I was homeschooled. Can one be schooled in anything besides basketball? But I was. Partially. It was more like independent study. And look how I turned out?

N e waiz...

This post was going to be about knitting.

I don't know why knitters name their handknits, but they do. Some get really creative and add them to verse conjuring images that inspire creativity and make you want to grab your wallet and head to your LYS (local yarn shop). Paypay is a good way to go, too. Just point and click. Almost like it's Monopoly money...

I'm not nearly as into giving names to my knits as I am baby chicks. It's either a "Mayor of Crazytown's This or That", a movie reference, or a song from a movie reference. That's what happens when you knit while you watch movies. Ever since I set to blocking over a week ago I've been swaying and snapping my fingers. Except yesterday.

"I've got sunshine on a cloudy day..."

Except my version goes, "I've got Sunshine and a Cloudy Day..."

Sunshine

Ishbel by Ysolde Teague

Cloudy Day

Hemlock Ring Blanket by Jared Flood

Obscure movie references. That's what I'm about. It might not be much but I've learned her everything I know.

Gray or Grey

I don't know what my deal is, but I'm in a bad mood. A slump. And for no particular reason. If my children spoke fluent English and could spell they would file for emancipation. Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't help that my three year old has told me that she "loves me even if I'm cranky". I've prayed for naptime and get anxiety when I realize there are eleven minutes until Sesame Street is over. If I can figure out how to get the dog to stop eating it, I will bust out the Play-doh. It used to need supervision because I was all freaky about keeping the colors separated. Now we have a bunch of empty containers and a blob of gray Play-doh.

Gray Playdoh. Gray weather. Gray day.

My efforts to pump have been in vain as Porkchop seems to prefer the coconut water over mother's milk and looks like he may wean himself in order to avoid the syringe. I am now pumping for nothing. Awesome. I secretly let him play with his sister's prized Strawberry Shortcake car in order to have six minutes with him not trying to climb up my leg after putting him down for two minutes. It is the saddest thing to watch him whimper while wearing the No-nos. I have a cold heart. I do not understand women in their need for a freaky, possessive boyfriend. I need space, for the love!

When I get like this, I am nasty. In my boredom I sign on to Facebook to see what's up and want to throw rocks. Super hot, skinny chick from my youth is looking all glamorous with her self-righteous, perfect life. I need to pray. Pray for my soul for the wicked thoughts I have about throwing rocks! That is my favorite fantasized revenge. Throw rocks at them!

My favorite blogs disappoint by either not updating or posting about people and situations who have it much worse off than I do in attempt to make me feel grateful for what I've got or how lucky I am. Duh and more duh! My favorite decorating blogs make me long for more mulah, and the knitting ones for more time. There is no solace in the internet today.

The rug I scored an amazing deal on this weekend has to be returned because I can't make up my mind for more than three minutes. There is no solace in shopping.

Instead, I dig out the old popcorn puke bucket from my pregnancy days. It is perfect for holding paint and I find my little angled brush. I can always count on Abba and a coat of paint for a boost.

When Mom asked, "You're gonna try and paint now? Are you nuts?" I should have just gone with "YES!!!" Because it's true. I'm totally nuts right now. All conversation will end with a rant.

I will be back when I have something to show for myself.

Color?

Shades of gray.

Of course.

Scootle your bootle to Home Depot to find your favorite shade and blast this song. Then tell me you don't feel better? I know that mock lace collar and shimmer pants made me feel better about my greasy hair and painting scrubs.

Cheepies

I wanted to climb the walls today. I needed to get out of the house and feel like a normal person! So we did what every normal family does on a Saturday afternoon and headed to Home Depot. Don't laugh, but we're planting a garden. It was that or make another drive to Tractor Supply Company.  Because making three (or eight) stops at Tractor Supply Company in one week is perfectly normal in my family. You can take the girl off the farm but you can't take the farm out of the girl! Or something like that.

Meet the Girls. My Mom bought them while she was here, thoroughly entertaining my kids. Empty nester no more! And so flappin' entertaining to see her get up in the middle of the night to check on her "Cheepies." Please let them all be girls! Once they're named they're part of the fam.

She's telling him to pet them with three fingers. She thinks he speaks English. No wonder she gets frustrated with him.

Better than Caillou and Word World. Well, almost better than Word World.

Super Trooper

Tuesday morning they sewed up Porkchop's soft palate. (The soft spongy part at the back of your mouth.) Lots of people think that after his lip was closed, he was fixed. And while he looked sewed up on the outside the inside was still wide open. As our anesthesiologist put it, he used to have a convertible and now he only has a moon roof. In terms of surgery it is much more involved than his lip. He has had to learn to breathe through a much smaller opening. There is swelling, bleeding, and syringe feeding involved. Which is why I love, love, love that he is doing awesome! Better than awesome even! They had prepared us for spending a couple of days but we came home less than 24 hours later. He wasn't going to get anything there than he could get from me at home! Perk # 568 of seeing it through nursing clinicals. Porkchop hates hospitals more than his mom does. Once we busted out of there he's been almost back to his happy go lucky self. Except for the arm splints and syringe feeding which he thinks are lame. Can't blame him though, they are lame. He on the other hand is a super trooper!

That's my girl.

Stuff comes flying out of her mouth so fast I'd need to be a court reporter to document everything that is note worthy.

As I did a quick run through of the kitchen tonight it totally cracks me up that along with Mr. Potato Head pieces scattered in various and sometimes weird places, I also picked up her purse and a pirate eye patch.

For some reason a bunch of pencil eraser toppers are among her most prized possessions.

When I work I carry a brightly colored piece of lined paper in my pocked with the date so I can jot down important notes and reminders for the day that I will need to either get done or document later. I regularly find the same pieces of folded up papers in her purses, her lap desk, her drawers, and her pockets because she's going to be a nurse too, you know. Just ask her. Or an orthodontist.

Her favorite game is Life. We have fully indoctrinated her that when given the choice between going to work or going to school she chooses school every time. And she does. That makes me laugh.

Everything lately is, "When I am the mommy can I...?"

She got busted this morning for standing in her Princess heels on the kitchen counter. "I just needed a piece of candy." Had I attempted that maneuver I'd have broken something, but not her. She has no fear. None. We have to keep a chain lock on the front door to keep her from going down to check the mail or who knows what else. Last night it was moved up after she showed me how to unlock it. We live in a neighborhood where most people leave their doors unlocked, but to glance our front door you'd think we lived in the ghetto.

She regularly asks if she can drive.

She is my not so little Amazonian who is, due to a very high verbal ability and her height, mistaken for a little girl four or five but definitely not just turned three.

Before spreading out her crayons and coloring book she asked me if Porkchop was awake or asleep. When I told her he was asleep she sighs, "Oh good. I can work on some things." and sprawled out on the floor to color.

I worry about her and school. She's a little on the independent side. A LOT on the independent side, and even though she loves structure and is really sweet, and I have visions of her telling her first grade teacher where she can shove it. Knowing her she'll probably have been right too.

When I went to clean the bathroom I found a nasty mess in the garbage. I asked husband if he had been dumping the contents of the diapers in there that day. Scrunch pipes up, "No. I just peed and pooped in the can."

I spend most of the day just laughing or shaking my head. Lots of shaking my head.

Yesterday it was, "Next time we buy a baby brother can we get one who can talk to me?"

Scrunch is the only other person on the planet who rivals me in terms of her brother's favorite people. And next to her I'm chopped liver.

Her "Hey, Mom. I like you." are too well placed.

She's a crack up and she's got me worked. She knows it too.

This is why I started calling her Scrunch.

Her aunt's most recent comment on my Facebook was that if there were more Scrunches the world would be a better place. She might be on to something there. There is no one in this whole world like my Scrunch.

Right Here. Right Now.

Is it Friday? Not yet. Dang. Remember when I used to do Random Fridays? Well, guess what? I'm not just random on Fridays.

I think if you get a tattoo on your face you're an idiot. I mean, I love me a good tattoo. I really, really do. But on your face? You're an idiot.

I've been accused of raising a feminist. I was all worked up talking at my husband. Scrunch climbed up on the stool next to me and patted my shoulder, "It's okay mom. He doesn't understand. He's just a boy."

I cannot get behind St. Patrick's Day. Usually I'm an all out sucker for an excuse to dress up, but I don't know...isn't it kind of a sad statement on our society that adults need an excuse to get absolutely plastered on a Thursday evening? And it's not even the good stuff. Getting wasted on green colored pee. Don't get it.

Oh, and go ahead. Pinch me. I dare ya. Ya bunch of green whackadoodles.

You are never really alone. Not really. Even when you decide to pluck your eyebrows with your thumb and first finger in the rear view mirror while you wait in the drive thru for a Dr. Pepper, extra ice. Oh yeah. That would be an entire packed dining room at Del Taco that can see you. Just a heads up.

All it takes is a palatoplasty to lite a fire under my slacker-knitter butt. Ishbel has been cast off and will be blocked tomorrow. I had to wait to get rid of the guest room bed because I needed it to block my Hemlock ring. I had the mattress laying flat in the empty dining room. Two hundred pins later it was left to dry. I thought I also blocked the entrance to the dining room. When I went to check on the progress a few hours later I found Ani curled up in a ball on my still wet Hemlock Ring and pins EVERYWHERE. My Craigslist add is going to list the bed for $25.00 bucks. I'm throwing the dog in for free.

I am somewhere between, "I must remain calm. I must not overreact." (Name that Disney reference you smarty pants.) And "Holy freaken' cow!!!!! I am not ready for this!"

I'm calm. Totally calm, cool, and collected.

A little help here!

This is going to be fine. He's going to be fine. I know. Of course he's going to be fine. He gets the pain pills, anesthesia, and everything else he needs. It's Mom who gets nada.

Hmmm. Will I feel better if I stick the pins in Ani? No. Bad idea. I retract that last statement before I am reported to PETA. They're a bunch of green wackadoodles too. Oops. Better retract that, too.

If you happen find a little green leprechaun, make a wish for me. I wish for an endless supply of fresh from the fountain Dr. Peppers with extra ice. And only because I don't think I can show my face at that Del Taco for a while.

It's Been Said.

My sister Jess called today and wondered what to say. It is Moraya's birthday today. She clearly figured it out because she said it perfectly. Read Here.

Why Nurses Knit

Last Thursday was weird. I should have hunkered down to spend the day in my pajamas.

I like my job, I really do. I just have a hard time liking the day I have to get dressed and actually do it. Make sense? I'll still never quit completely. I can't. It's is more grounding, more focusing, more perspective building than a year's worth of Sunday School lessons. That may or may not have anything to do with the fact that it's been over a year since I actually sat through an entire Sunday School lesson, but whatever. I don't get paid to go to church.

If I ask for a sharp pointy object before I even get there, it is a bad sign. Man, I usually love it when I'm right! I politely and professionally discussed Hospice for a 97 year old man. In my opinion this conversation should not take more than three minutes. "97? Pneumonia? I will get an order and make the referral right now." Instead, I found myself in (multiple) round and round conversations with an attorney daughter who was not ready to let go. She needed to get to a place where she was ready to make a decision, but she also needed to hurry the hell up and get there. He was on his way out and unless she made some sort of decision the dad she loved too much to let go was going to go anyway, and in a miserable and torturous way. There wasn't much for me to do except schedule a follow up visit for Monday, knowing damn well he wouldn't make it through the weekend. That might sound cold unless you've ever seen what chest compressions will to do a 97 year old body ready to transition to the other side.

I left, made the necessary 'cover my ass' phone calls, and went on to my next patient. Bless her heart! This poor woman has been trapped in her body for the last thirty-five years. Along with pulmonary hypertension, lupus, and rheumatoid arthritis she also has a rare condition where calcium deposits form in the skin. In her case all over her body. It is incredibly painful and I was the poor shlub who got to perform her woundcare and draw her labs. Oh, for the love! I prayed and prayed. Please let me hit this vein the first time! Please, oh please! And my prayer was answered, proving there is a God because I haven't needed to draw blood in a very long time. I hit it square the first shot. I did not want to add even the slightest to this woman's pain. "I'm still here because there is more to teach and more to learn," was this righteous woman's attitude towards it all. I didn't want to leave. I wanted to take her home with me, she was so sweet! But I think we might have a policy against that.

While I sat in her driveway filling out the lab slips (Wa-hoooie!!) I got a call from Wendy.

"Hey!!! How's it going? I could have used you in a case conference this morning!"
"Weeey-elll. You know. It's been kind of weird. I put myself on Hospice this week."

Weird, does not even begin to describe it. What do I say? What can I say? So I told her I was sorry and that it was really, really shitty. My dear 47 year old friend is going to die. Having been a nurse for thirty years she knows what it's going to look like, too. I know what it means to go into respiratory failure. It is more than a weird place to be. Suddenly what seemed so clear earlier in the day, to just let go, is all so blurry. I didn't need to be the professional here, I get to be the friend, but I've never done this before. I know the greatest act of compassion will be to administer the medications that will make the transition easier. You gotta be free from pain to go Heaven! Wendy is the one who taught me that. But I'm not ready to let go. I'm not ready for my friend to die, so what do I say when she tells me she's not ready to either? The best I could offer her was that I am coming to see her in May and she told me she'd still be here.

After I cried for a few minutes I drove the hour in traffic, but not home. I don't like to wear scrubs in public because I think it's yucky. I didn't care. I headed straight for the cafe to relieve some tension. After a day like that, I'd earned it. Finally! A few hours with sharp pointy objects. My brother-in-law once noticed that I knit faster as I get more and more stressed. That might be true.

We had a new woman join our group last week who is a total kick! Oh, she was funny and I hope she comes back. At some point she asked me what I did for a living.

"I'm a nurse."
"Oh, really? How funny! I know sooo many nurses who knit. I wonder why that is?"

I just smiled.

...

I'm going to be blocking Hemlock Ring today.

All the math I remember summed up here.

Once upon a time I took Statistics in college. As I was a nursing/health major I found it really annoying that it was one of the pre-reqs. And I think I took it at like 8 a.m. Like I was ever going to use Statistics! Puh-lease! Don't fall off your chair to find out that I happen to be applying it on a daily basis, or that I even remember this junk.

Direct correlation;  y = a + kx, where k is positive constant and a is a constant.

This can also be written as

Y's consumption of Dr. Pepper = Porkchop's surgery + stress (the closer we get to said surgery!!)

"Correlation is not causation but it sure is a hint."

To be shared Prom Night 2026

Laundry Room. Check.

My laundry room is nothing to write home about. We live  in a stock builder house in the burbs. It lacks character and most everything is beige. But it's my builder beige box. And at the end of a craptastic! day it was nice to walk in from the garage and be glad to be home.

A bonus was that this room was done on the cha-heap!!! My good karma manifested at Good Will last weekend. Apparently I had really good karma and didn't even know it. I shouldn't have cashed it all in and saved some up so I could have less complicated, less stressful days the next few weeks. Now I'm saving up all my good juju vibes for cup pulls and an office chair. The kitchen and playroom are next.

Oh my ugly, un-inspiring, dirty laundry storage room! And this was after I ripped down the upper cabinets. It's stupid to have cabinets you can't reach anyway.

Okay, so I am a lemming. Just like everyone else, I am in love with owls.

GoodWill was good to me. So good I didn't take pics of everything because I didn't want you'd be jealous and I'd have win back your friendship by helping you paint your laundry room.

After

It might look like a new beige, but it's not. It's more of a greenish gray. Not bad for a $5.00 can of oops paint. The cabinets were an experiment with Rustoleum's Cabinet Transformations kit which, unlike many a science fair projects, was extremely successful! No one and nothing blew up. And there is enough left over for me to do the kitchen.

The snail is my friend. I don't care what you think, he's staying. He remains un-named, so if you're actually reading the crap I type and would like to give him a name I'll cut and send one to you and we can be lame snail twinners.

Shh. The beadboard is wallpaper.

Oooh baby! How sad/uncomfortable/pathetic is it that I'm so excited by a laundry hamper? Bless you Ana White! My first woodworking project was the laundry hamper. I have a scar in my thumb and Husband's no longer virgin ears to prove it. Then there's the $19.99 Marshall's rug that started the whole thing.

Goodwill in all it's glory.

"Yes, Annelle. I pray!" Another snail if you can name that movie.

My very first vinyl sign. Awww.

Self Improvement

Nothing is ever like they show in the movies. Not the wardrobes. The money. Not even the sex.

The same is true for television.

It takes an ENTIRE TEAM of skilled professionals to con us shmucks into thinking this is real life or that we could pull it off.

Pshaw!!!

It's a word. Look it up. It's making a comeback after Husband noted this morning that home insane.. errrr improvement... projects directly correlate with the expletives in my vocabulary. Painting laundry room shelves  has been rated a giant pain in the ass.

And HGTV?

Pshaw!!!!! on HGTV!! 

How many rug rats do you see running around in Tinkerbell panties? They commercial during the umpteen-jlilion breaks to refill empty bowls with peaches so they'll stay out of the paint cans. You never see Candice Olson precariously perched between a ladder and the washer to reach above the shelves when you should have painted the entire damn wall in the first place. As in, BEFORE THE SHELVES went up!!!

Give me another 24 hours. That's real life for ya. 5 days in real life is equal to 24 hours in la-la land. But don't think I'm judging, I'm not. I'd love to visit la-la land. I hear it's nice this time of year. And someone paints the shelves for you!

Lofty Goals

Tackling the laundry room this weekend.

And more than just folding the mounds. It's easier to paint and put up shelving if there aren't piles of clothes in the way.

Wish me luck.

Mo to the hawk.

Wendy Lady

As a nurse she was my mentor. She hired me as a new grad and taught me the ropes. She was the kind of boss who was your friend. She would call you in to her office, painted purple and the walls covered with inspiring quotes, just to see how things were going. Her cell phone was never off, and she always answered- day or night. I have watched her do a med pass from her wheelchair and take patients and staff home when they didn't have anywhere else to go.

As a friend, she cries with you. She has the capacity to make you feel like the most important person in the world. Everything you say is important and boy can she laugh! The image of her coming down the hallway in her Jazzy is imprinted in my brain and makes me smile every time it surfaces. She gave me her own '#1 Mom' bracelet charm as good luck when were trying to get pregnant. Her going away gift of a small Quan yin Goddess of Compassion figurines sits alongside the floating pearl necklace from Dad and the teardrop diamond necklace John gave me when we got married.

She talks of peace and service, but lives it to.

She also suffers from a terminal illness that has taken her independence and her ability to work in a profession she loves.

March 12 there will be a benefit in her honor to raise funds for medical expenses. If you can make it, if your cousin's aunt's dog groomer's Utah relatives can make it, please try to be there. You will leave a better, happier person just having been in the same room with her.

...

I am on the lucky list of her e-mail recipients. These are snippets from her last e-mail. I'm tellin' ya. You're going to want to be there. March 12. Don't forget.

 "I try to keep myself open to anything new and exciting that's coming my way! ...  Stay in touch as you can and know how very much I love each of you.  The hyper drive, but on my life may have been pushed but I am determined to stay present every day, in every way and soak up all the goodness that I possibly can.  Life is good, very good.  I am surrounded by the greatest group of people, each of you offer me a soft place to land.  I can't imagine it getting any better.  Be well!  Smile a lot!  Do those things that bring you joy! ...Much love and thanks to all of you.  Please everyone hold a good thought for the people of Palestine as they live under the heavy hand of military/political oppression.  One of my favorite quotes is none of us are free, if one is oppressed.  There is much work to do in that region.  All the positive energy we can send that way will help.  Sleep well and know that you are loved." 
-Wendy