Two different people called me at home yesterday, on what was celebrated Nationally as the Christmas holiday, to see why the Post Office wasn't open. I keep telling you: People are not meant to live year-round on islands. It does bad things to you.
I have a cold. So, last night, I performed some Mad Scientist Wizardry and created an epic cocktail of over the counter meds that KNOCKED ME OFF MY ASS. I still have the cold, but I'm so loopy , I don't care.
Somebody keeps driving by me in a red truck, waving each and every time. I have absolutely.no.idea. who it is. I waved once. My neighbors change vehicles more often than I change clothes.
My husband has been home with us for more than three straight days. That's something of a record. He's suckered the kids into a Wii tournament that apparently doesn't end until
1. I die
2. My head explodes I may whip up that cocktail again, just to make the evening bearable.
Just looking at this makes me laugh...and the thought of it walking out In The Wilds of Downeast Maine puts a grin on my face like nothing else:
I have the sense of humor of a 10 year old boy. The island has gotten me, too.
I'm feeling nostalgic for our 'Elf on the Shelf', Henry.
You remember Henry, don't you? He got mixed reviews here at Chez Rozenski: The Big Guy thought it was creepy to have a psychotic stuffed doll running around the house pulling pranks in the dark of night, Thing One just wanted to smother it with lovin' like ALL OF HER 482 STUFFED ANIMALS, and Thing Two just didn't give a hoot.
Me?? I had a BLAST with him. He drank wine with me until everyone was asleep, and then we got jiggy with the pranking.
He even assisted with the candy making. He had his own little hairnet and everything.
In the end, my soft as a grape daughter couldn't bear to see him packed into a box for a year, and begged, pleaded and cajoled her way into keeping him 'alive' in her room.
She adopted him.
And he had to give up his special powers to stay.
I miss Henry. Enough that I'm considering resurrecting his spirit, and starting up some evil shenanigans around the house.
It could be that I'm just bored, and miss having someone to drink wine with.
I really need a cat.
I am cooking up a storm, while it's (appropriately) storming outside.
While most of Maine got hammered once again with snow, we got only rain (Amen.), however the winds were fierce enough for the ferry to cancel.
You will never hear me berate the Captain or crew for canceling because of bad weather!
We get another chance at it tomorrow. A few are coming across, and a few are going over...and I'm pretty sure that whatever is left here on the island will be at my house all day.
They won't leave hungry, that's for sure:
That's just the desserts. And cranberry sauce.
Tammy (of Offshore Store fame) gets all the credit for the pie crusts. I wimped out, and made her do them all. We had four kids underfoot (never heard them all day, they were good as gold), and ONE UNRULY HUSBAND.
HE'S IN TIMEOUT.
Have a Safe and Happy Thanksgiving, wherever you are!
The stapler and the glue knocked me off the chair.
OMG- "This area...full of scarf. This area...not so much". What a riot! Also...I have made this exact scarf before. And I think I dated Dan. That magic wand was very familiar.
I am the deer tagging station out here on Frenchboro.
Why??
I. do. not. know. I don't know how I got roped into 99% of the crap I do out here.
But, it is what it is.
What this means, in practical terms, is that I do not get a hot meal until November 26th, because no sooner do we sit down to eat than a dead, bloody, gutted deer arrives on the doorstep with a Dude dressed in camo and orange, toting a gun.
(Total exaggeration. I've only tagged 7, and not seen one gun. And all but one Dude remembered to take off their boots when they came in the house. They get big points for that!)
Now, I grew up in Boston. There was no hunting, and the only time guns were present were at robberies, which I did not attend voluntarily. There were no dead animals hanging in the garage, unless someone's grandfather was making prosciutto, and those were just 'parts'.
And then I met and married The Big Guy.
Oh. My. Culture. Shock.
I am now a seasoned Hunting Widow (translation: I cannot find my husband from October 30th until November 26th, or whatever particular days are designated for deer season).
Nobody takes out the garbage.
Bright orange clothing appears in the laundry, with stern notes that say 'DO NOT WASH ME WITH SOAP!!!!' (How does one wash without soap??)
Empty gun cases are strewn across the living room floor, also with stern notes, 'LEAVE THIS OUT SO I CAN PUT THE GUN AWAY SAFELY WHEN I GET HOME!!!' (Because the empty gun case is lonely without said gun??)
And I no longer flinch, after 20 years, those mornings when I stagger bleary-eyed out to the garage refrigerator to get coffee cream and plant my face inside the gutted carcass of a frickin' deer hanging spread-eagled from the rafters, for some reason always directly in front of the fridge door.
I've gone hunting with him a couple of times; it's just not my thang. (can't knit)
And he won't walk in the woods with me holding a loaded gun, CAN'T IMAGINE WHY, so in my estimation, I'm not 'hunting', I'm 'walking'.
(Seriously, I went twice. He waited until we walked upon a deer, and handed me one bullet. Like Barney Fife.)
The first time I hunted, we walked for three days in the freezing cold until I thought I would die of frostbite for a couple of hours in the woods by the beaver pond off Eastern Beach Road.
I was "not as quiet as the Big Guy would have liked".
I was ambivalent about the shooting part...if I'm totally honest, his sister was visiting and I was taking advantage of getting a break from my two rambunctious hellions ummm, was forcing her to babysit just one freaking time couldn't come up with a valid excuse NOT to go.
I shlepped myself through the woods with him, kicking rocks, whispering loudly, checking my phone for distress calls, and once, whistling (which earned me The Hairy Eyeball from He Who Hunts).
Despite my best efforts, we ran into a deer.
The World's Stupidest Deer, as it would turn out.
The Big Guy handed me my one bullet, and moved behind me. Distrustful husband.
I took aim. I draaaaagged my foot across the trail, disturbing some pebbles.
Dumb Deer did not move.
He was, in fact, staring at me.
I coughed.
The Big Guy was strangling and choking, trying to hold back a scream.
I turned to look at him (giving Moron Deer the chance to run away)- his face was beet red and bulging.
And he was glaring at me.
I sighed, and thought to turn back in time to see the white arse of that deer running away...but NO.
Dipsh!t Deer was still standing in the path, staring at us. Perhaps it was my bright pink winter coat with the orange vest over it. I had apparently stunned it.
When The Big Guy poked me in the back, and whispered 'Do you want me to take this one?', my competitive streak kicked in.
I picked up again, and took aim.
Numskull Deer was still standing there, staring.
I sighed a weary sigh, closed my eyes, and twitched my shot juuuust a hair to the left...
and looked up to see that that Dolt Of A Deer had jumped up, to the left, and caught my bullet in it's neck.
Yup, I shot the world's Stupidest Deer.
It was a mercy kill, really.
When a knife was produced, and I realized what came next, I bolted out of there claiming an immediate need for a bathroom. The next time I saw Dimwit Deer, he was in quart baggies in my freezer.
I went one other time. I can't remember what we did with the kids, but we were gone for all of an hour. Walked into the woods, bumped into a nice doe, loaded it into the truck, and was home and in the shower within the hour. Not very exciting, and nothing I feel the need to do again.
So I don't hunt. But, that's OK. He does.
Useful skill, food acquisition, and all that.
And in trade, he cannot complain about the staggering amount of luxury yarn that comes into this house.
If you just can't wrap your conscience around the idea of hunting...look away.
It all started with a little too much bravado from a certain 12 year old boy, who wasn't nearly respectful of all Things That Go Bump In The Night.
Afficionado of horror movies that I am (and general wimp), I could not possibly allow that 'tude to go unpunished.
And so it was that we found our merry little band of sugar-fied miscreants stuffed into a car on a loooong dark stretch of winding twisting dirt road. (The driveway to Baker's, for those of you who know the island.)
We stuffed the boys, the 12 year old and my 8 year old (who swears he will never ever forgive me for this) into the hatchback, with the window down.
The girls, the fairer, weaker sex were safely ensconced in the back seat.
The boys were open and unprotected. On that dark, twisty, bumpy road.
I put on my best Halloween Music...creepy sounds of chains rattling, witches shrieking, ghosts moaning, and victims screaming...and had them looking over their shoulders in no time.
We drove all the way to the house without event.
And then started back out.
We encountered some 'car trouble'. The headlights began to flicker on and off, on that very dark and winding road. The car began to surge forward abruptly, and then brake hard.
The engine raced; though Tammy held her foot on the brake, the car tried to drive on its own.
She was screaming! I was screaming!
The kids were buying it, and beginning to panic...
We told them we were almost to the end of the road, where help could be found (there are two inhabited houses on that stretch).
And while the car jerked and bucked its way out to the end of the road with the headlights flashing on and off...
Jay jumped out into the road, and reached in through that back window, grabbing onto both boys!
Johnny fainted.
Brody leapt out through that window at a dead run.
IT. WAS. AWESOME.
And yes, we are all very much aware of how screwed we are when they get a little older.
We went on a fabulous field trip with some other Outer Island schools. We traveled to Bangor (which isn't unusual for us), and stopped first at the Challenger Museum and Learning Center.
It was here that I learned I will never be an astronaut.
Food and toilet issues, is what I'm saying.
It was extremely cool to see and learn what the astronauts eat, where they sleep, some of the rigorous training they must complete, etc.
We loved it!
Thursday, we spent the day at University of Maine in Orono. We visited the Planetarium, where I was groped in the dark by one of my neighbors (thankfully, a man), who I promptly groped back.
Good times.
The Planetarium was fabulous as well, and WOWed the group of k-3rd graders I was with.
Grades 4 and up were at the Climbing Wall while we were in the Planetarium, and at some predetermined time, we switched off.
Which means I did not get to see Thing One scale the Climbing wall to the top of its 25 to 30 feet. And that may not be a bad thing.
I did, however get to see Thing Two up at about 22 feet on that same wall. And I had the video camera with me.
Later, we trekked over to MaineBound (on the other side of the Earth campus) to do what can only be described as Watch Marissa Empty Her Bladder In Several Stages.
They call it a High Ropes Course.
My 8 year old. Twenty Four feet up in the air. With a plastic helmet for protection.
And someone who wasn't me at the end of the rope keeping him from falling to certain death:
Also in this video is our sole Kindergarten student on a log, 24 feet up. He's five.
And you wonder why I drink.
However, we have the best field trips, HANDS DOWN.
(You have to sing the title, like the PBS cartoon it was hoarked from.)
Consentual???
or, Consensual?
And why does the second version gross me out and make my skin crawl??
According to the Innernet, both words share the same meaning, and are interchangeable...but I think we should just stick with the first one.
Even if spell check is giving me the Evil Eye right now.
The second one makes me feel like I need a shower.
Wouldn't it be awesome if you had a map- could call up a map of anywhere, and place a marker at an address of a place you would someday like to visit?
And then someday, you're someplace...and you look at your map, and you see these places, these addresses, and you're like- Hey! That place is only 10 minutes from here! Let's go check it out!
As opposed to my current, Crap! That place was only 10 minutes from where I was! I forgot all about wanting to see that!
And don't tell me that your GPS does this. My GPS sends me on wild goose chases. I tell HER how to get places (not kidding.).
Once we had her so turned around she began yelling 'ABORT! ABORT!', instead of 'recalculating...'. And once I swear she growled.
We've never gotten her to do it again, but the kids and I were laughing so hard I had to pull over.
Just think...I could track all the fabulous restaurants we've eaten at, and all the ones we'd like to try (why, yes...it IS always about the food.)...and you could track yarn stores, too.
I was a Stay-at-home Mom, with a 7 month old. We were lazily moving through our morning routine of breakfast, chores, bath when the tv broke into whatever show was on (Regis?) to announce the news of the first plane.
My first thought: Where the F$%# is Daddy??????
(My Father spends more time in the air, on a plane, than any person on this Earth. And he had, in fact, taken that morning cross-country flight to LA the day before.)
Within minutes, my phone lines, booth house and cell, began jingling.
Once we ascertained that he was NOT on that flight, I sat in stunned silence and watched the horror unfold.
At first, I cursed whatever stupidity had caused that plane, or that pilot, to fly into a fricking building forGod'ssake...but when I saw the second plane, I understood.
Being the daughter of an Aviation Safety Specialist educates you in ways you don't think about consciously. It is the very reason I will not fly today. (Though, again, my Father is in the air more than he is on the ground.)
The rest of the day was spent in stupefied horror, watching the events play out like a horror movie. I never moved from the couch. The baby nursed almost all day.
I remember thinking that I should be there. I remember thinking that if I didn't have this baby, and it had been Boston, I would have been there.
I remember talking to former colleagues in Boston later that day, who expressed much the same sentiment; we all ached to be there, to get our hands busy, to help out, to do something.
I remember thinking how strange it was to be that person, who sat safely on her sofa with her 7 month old baby in her arms, and (secretly) wished to be at Ground Zero.
I remember being relieved that there were people who felt as I did.
I remember understanding that the policemen and firefighters who were lost in those buildings that day felt that way, too.
Thankfully, it sounds and feels like every other storm we get out here on The Rock, which means this thing must have petered out long before it got to us.
That makes me happy. I'm oddly attached to my roof.
In keeping with what has become a long-standing tradition, we had a Hurricane Party.
I considered making the alcoholic concoction Hurricane, to commemorate the event, but when I saw the list of foods being prepared, knew alcohol wasn't going to be the focus of this particular party.
(Truth be told, it never is. We all have kids.)
There was lasagna, in a pan big enough to bathe a medium sized dog (should one desire). There was crab and asparagus risotto. Garlic bread, salmon cakes, cheesecake, nacho dip and chips... and chocolate chip cookie dough. Shhh. That one's our little secret.
I grew a pants size.
And then I turned around and did it again today. A full Sunday Dinner with macaroni and meatballs and spareribs. And chocolate chip cookies.
Many, many chocolate chip cookies.
I'm never eating again. (I said this last night, too.)
I am rubbing my hands together with glee at all the nice surprises I found lurking in the depths of the freezer I'm defrosting. I feel a BIG COOKING WEEK coming on! Anyone else have a renewed spark for the kitchen? Is this a sign of fall? Am I finally 'losing it' after 14 years of island living? (Statistically there is a higher incidence of mental illness in island residents. But you knew that, right?) (Also alcoholism, drug abuse, molestation, and incest. But IT'S SO PRETTY!)
Speaking of island living...where do you store your frozen food while defrosting your freezer? Much like the 'Christmas Tree In A Bait Bucket' trick The Big Guy came up with, he's turned me on to 'Store The Contents Of Your Freezer While It's Defrosting In A Bait Tank That Has Been Bleached To Infinity'.
I have to say, it works like a charm.
The dirt on the outside is from the kids dragging it across the yard. I swear, the inside is immaculate. Also, My Mother is rolling in her grave right now.
Why I love Facebook: disclaimer: I do NOT KNOW THESE PEOPLE.
Amen, Brother.
Stay in school, kids!
Here's a link to the whole list, from Happyplace.* ((language alert!)) ((seriously funny, though, if you can stomach it and have an hour of your life to waste. Perfect for hospital waiting rooms!))
*Which is NOT my website, but totally should be, dammit.
This year, BOTH of my kids are lobstering with The Big Guy.
It took me a few days to find my groove, what with all three of them gone for a twelve hour day, but I find that if I tune the TV to the cartoon channel really loud, and go about the day yelling at them to put toys and clothes away as if they were actually there, I can breathe.
I was pretty sure I could remain in this happy state of denial until the fall, when the weather gets too rough for them to be out there with him. (Unfortunately for him, The Big Guy still has to go.)
My happy little state of denial was shattered this morning, with a call from a kid exclaiming "We just saw the biggest, most ginormous fish ever! It was bigger than our truck! It was as big as the boat! It was huge!"
yeah...OK. Does Dad know you took his phone? Are you hiding down forward?? Are there chemicals down there you shouldn't be near??
NO SERIOUSLY MOM IT WAS A HUGE GINORMOUS FISH!
OK, Honey. How is it out there today? Any big swells? No?? Hello?? OK, go catch lots of lobsters. BYEEE!!
And a few minutes later, I heard another fisherman call The Big Guy on the radio. I heard him ask about a huge fish he just saw near his boat. I heard him say 'blah blah blah SHARK blah, blah'.
Bladder: 2, Marissa: 0
There was some discussion about what kind of SHARK it was. (Seriously, does it even matter, because, Hello? SHARK.)
One guy suggested that its 25 to 30 foot length made it sound like a 'whale shark', while another thought it could be a 'basking shark'.
JAWS is circling our boat. And my kids are on it.
I quickly debated the futility of shouldering our canoe and heading for the shore...but, really?
Easier to just have the heart attack in the comfort of my immaculate living room.
I googled instead.
It seems that neither shark has a penchant for noshing on children. They are filter feeders.
That knowledge did not make me feel warm and fuzzy.
I'm going with this one, because, while huge, it apparently doesn't eat kids.
It's not funny, but the youth of America, the VeryYoung among us who walk around proudly displaying tramp stamps on their derriers and subjecting us to views of their thongs, are breeding, as it is their right to do. (Could somebody please inform them, however, that low-rise jeans are NOT maternity pants, and they were not created to wear under the post-pregnant jelly-belly? Please? Because, ewwwww.)
And that's fine.
The world expects, and hopes that they will breed, for their children (and mine) are the world's future.
That expectation comes with caveats, however.
We, the world, expect those children to be raised.
Directed, led, shown the way, taught, fed....loved.
And dressed.
Toddlers and Tweens do not need low-rise jeans.
Heels have no place on a four year old.
My daughter is 10, and that creates some problems.
Firstly, she is smart. She is independent. She is a free-thinker. (Is that clapping I hear?? Thank you! Yes, we've worked hard to promote all of those things, and on behalf of The Big Guy, I speak for us both when I accept your praise (while blushing modestly, of course) and look upon her with great pride. In return I wish all of you Parents the willpower and stamina to do the same for your own children. Good Luck, it's the hardest thing you'll ever do!)
Those traits, while awesome and admirable and invaluable, make for some battles.
Take shopping, for example.
Thing One is ten. She knows what 'dressing appropriately' means, thanks to our many women friends, her teachers, and the people we play with.
She also is aware of 'inappropriate dress', thanks to websites like People of Walmart, and the multitudes of young women who insist on squeezing a perfectly acceptable size 14 or 16 figure into some very unacceptable size 7 jeans. The 'leftover' mass of flesh covered by a too-tight t-shirt or tank top has caused my naive 10 year old to roll her eyes in public many times over.
I know she 'gets it' when she brings a pair of jeans out of the dressing room(without even modeling them for me) with an emphatic. "No way, Mom! My butt is out! I'm not walking around like that!"
No, indeed.
Fortunately, there are other like-minded people out there. People who work to undo the negativity being spread.
Here are some of my favorites, and I'd LOVE to hear of more!
What else is out there? Who else is taking the time to re-direct their kids attention away from Bratz and other sexually orientated 'toys' and clothing?
*And who else is picturing Prarie Dawn strutting around in daisy dukes and glitter boots and a sequined,padded push up bra???
This book was dropped off on my doorstep a couple of days ago.
As it was a children's book, and seemed way too young for my 8 and 10 year olds, I skimmed through it.
Then I fainted, revived, and fainted again.
I'll share a few highlights:
Please note the 'aged hippie' look of the father in the cover photo. Let's just lay all the blame there, shall we?
Moving on, here's where I fainted the first time.
They're just so obscenely proud of it, you know? Why is that?
I'm sure I have a comment about how once again, male genitalia are portrayed vs. female genitalia, and how women's bodies are shameful while men's are glorified, but I'm blushing violently and cannot vocalize it properly. Pass the smelling salts, I think I'm going down again!
But, wait!
Here's the BEST PART!
And from the book, I quote: Here are some ways Mommies and Daddies fit together:
Is that a frickin' skateboard?????
Ahem, there was this one time...we were having difficulty conceiving, and Linda The Marvelous Midwife said......
But NO. They have a BALL in play. Definitely NOT LIKE THAT.
Hello! Balloons!!
Points for the illustrator of this one. Check out her glorious smile...and HIS face.
Not sure the kids would pick up on that statement, but if I were a different person, I'd hang this on my living room wall, with the caption 'It ain't all about YOU!'...but, NO.
(Maybe in the Post Office???) Also...I will never look at a balloon the same again.
And this one has me completely befuddled. And a little scared.
I am no longer sure which one is the Mommy and which is the Daddy. And frankly I'm a bit worried abut that handle placement.
Is that a Hippity-Hop????
I'm off to call the Big Guy. He's got some 'splaining to do.
The kids are out of school for the summer, and we've thrown the schedule OUT THE WINDOW!
Gnomeo and Juliet at 10:30 on a Monday night??? Sure!
Dinner at 8:30 three nights in a row??? Why not!
Welcome to summer at my house.
And here's our new catch phrase...because unlike the other 2-word phrase that starts with an 'F' and ends with 'you', this one you could say right to people's faces without repercussion.
You know, if you were so inclined.
Special thanks to Tammy DesJardin (without speculating aloud what she did to finally get this trip added), who joined the Ferry Advisory board only two short years ago to represent Frenchboro, and also to the Maine State DOT, Swan's Islanders (who, unfortunately, must sacrifice two trips a month- we are most grateful!), and the other members of the Ferry Advisory board.
The first email came on April 14th. The power will be out on April 19th from 9 to 1...
#$%^, I said, because I am prone to say such things.
I dove for the calendar. HA! I leave on the 15th for a week! I will miss the power outage!
Score one for the good guys!
The second email came on the 15th. Power outage postponed. Date to be determined.
#$%&.
The third email came on the 20th, while I was ensconced in the dubious safety of the Maine North Woods, sans electricity, running water, or sanity. The power outage has been rescheduled for the 27th, from 9 to 1. Plan accordingly.
And I would have, had I been able to access my email. I wouldn't have come back to the island.
I did not see the email, however, until late in the evening of the 24th, safely ensconced in the dubious safety of my living room, where, slightly delerious from the scalding hot shower from which I had recently emerged (the first in gulp 5 days), I was relishing the indoor plumbing, electricity, and strong cell phone signal. No wine necessary.
#$%^, I said, again, because I really like the word.
I was left with no choice but to Prepare For The Power Outage.
Monday and Tuesday were frantic days filled with a school board meeting, laundry, and filling water jugs. And cookies. Because I read once that you can survive anything if you have cookies.
On Tuesday, I wrote a note on the whiteboard on the fridge, where I was unable to pass without the desperate words "POWER! OUT! WED!!!!" frantically warning me to BE READY on WEDNESDAY.
I added it to ical, with an audible alarm set for 1/2 hour before the appointed time.
I told ical to send me an email at 7am, to keep me alert and ready.
And I went to bed Tuesday night, fraught with dread.
I woke up this morning, and packed the kids off for a field trip. (Yup, I let my kids go off the island today, on a field trip, without me. There will be wine, later.)
I opened the Post Office at 8am on the nose, and, armed with the knowledge that I had one hour, hit the ground running.
I dove into the paperwork I normally do on a Wednesday morning: deposit, payroll, accounting, stamp order.
I kept one eye on the clock, while working at a feverish pace.
Finally, I was down to two tasks, both of which required photocopies, when, boooooooooop.
At 8:52, the power went out.
Nooooo!
Where was the alarm I set? The email?
In my haste to get my paperwork started, I never turned on the laptop.
I was *this* close to getting it all done in time.
Oh, well.
I have the entire afternoon to myself, all the housework and laundry done, and no kids to pick up from school.
And no electricity.
It's just me, a spoon, and a jar of Nutella.
p.s. The power came back on just before 12:30. Now it's just me, the spoon, the Nutella, and Pride and Prejudice. Heaven!
Oops. This pic was taken before I fixed that wonkiness on the right side.
Lace knitting and the subsequent blocking feeds my OCD tendencies like nothing else in this world.
I want to start another lace project RIGHTNOW, but I am knee-deep in a couple of baby sweaters that have been percolating for a while.
Ones that involve worsted weight yarn.
And intarsia.
And charts.
That's where this guy comes in. He may not block lace for me (coughyetcough), but he can draw.
I can draw stick figures, and Snoopy's head. That is all.
This guy, he can draw anything. So I make him draw out what I want, and graph it on tracing paper.
Yeah, it's Old School, but it works.
He still had to take out the trash later that evening, however.
Oh, how I love to knit baby sweaters in worsted weight yarn! So much can be accomplished in such short time!
This was knit in the round to the armpit, then straight to facilitate the intarsia design. In two days.
We sat and counted last night: these two sweaters will be the 9th and 10th Buoy Sweaters I've knit for fishermen's kids. In each case, I've used their Dad's buoy color.
Did you know that every lobster fisherman has his own distinct buoy color or pattern? Their buoys must also be marked with their individual number as well.
These two sweaters are for a friend's grandsons, in his buoy colors.
This friend is the same age as my Big Guy. And he is a grandfather.
And that is why, The Big Guy keeps telling me, there will not be a Thing Three.
In a bit of Knit Fail, I had to rip out the Breaking Hearts cuff. I'm sure it was Karma's retribution for starting the KAL early.
Love STR...but not medium weight. Not for socks.
I will find some other project for this yarn.
In the meantime, I've re-started in some Beyond Basic Knits (BBK) fingering weight merino, in a color called Water Lilly.
Very Spring-like!
I had some trouble with the Twisted Garter edging on the cuff, though.
Doesn't it look better on the inside of the sock??
I may try to turn it inside out before I begin the chart, just for kicks.
Due to some extremely cold temps during February vacation week, we elected NOT to cut Thing Two's hair. It turned out to be a very smart move, as we saw temps of -17 and -24. Brrrr.
As we don't take the kids out of school unless we absolutely must, he hasn't been off The Rock since.
He was happy as a pig in poop about this, when Crazy Hair Day came up:
Lookit those eyelashes!!!
Also, nice greenish bruise on yer forehead there, kid.
He never has any hair to do anything with, so this was a first, and BIGNEWSOHMYGOD in his world.
We had to do CrazyFaces to go with CrazyHair.
But, as usual, She Who Has Long Hair had the most fun:
Haha, this was fun to do!
On another note, the other day Thing Two said my hair looked like Wild Mike (from Back At The Barnyard).
I took it as the compliment I'm sure he meant it to be.
It is entirely possible that I was hoping this would be a complete failure, given the amount of time it took to pin out each tiny little point of yarn on the edge of one of these lace shawls....
But....
I am a believer.
I LOVE each section of lace in this pattern.
Heh, you shoulda heard what I said to her to get that smile!
This was so much fun to knit.
Though slightly less fun to block.
And, Charlize?
I could have done better there, I suspect.
I may have over-blocked that lovely ribbed, ruffled edge, in my zeal to pin open those last two lace rows.
I may re-block her, and stop pinning at that edge.
Opinions, from the more experienced?? (Will it matter? Should I leave well enough alone?)
The front edge is less stretched out. More flirty and ruffly.
She tried so hard NOT to laugh. She is no match for my wittiness.
I have two more lace items to block, and I am actually looking forward to the task!
A slightly crazy, sort-of-stay-at-home-mom of 2, obsessive compulsive knitter who is married to a Commercial Lobsterman, and all the fun that goes with that!
I live on an island eight miles out to sea. A very, very small island.
What does a Boston-born city girl do while marooned on Maine island year round?
My response is to raise a couple of kids, cook like a fiend, take on every charitable position available, and have fun!
Here's a peek at our crazy life on this rock in the middle of nowhere, Maine!
Frenchboro is one of 14 islands off the coast of Maine that can boast year round residents. There are 31 of us alleged adults here this winter, plus 16 kids under thirteen.
We have a K-8 one- room Schoolhouse, a Library, a church, and a Contracted Post Office. Yes, we get mail 6 days a week! We are able to travel to the mainland 3 times a week (weather permitting), but you may only travel in one direction-on or off.
All content, photos, and words (and their illogical misuse, intentional and otherwise) are copyrighted by Marissa Rozenski. If you use any of it in any way, please let me know about it, and give proper attribution. Please respect the copyright. Thanks for playing!
