Pink Prickly Pear

Paging my immune system. Paging my immune system...

Hello?  Hello?

The flu, or something like it, has had me in a headlock for well over a week now.  Actually I just realized it's the second Saturday in a row I've woken up, sure my energy level and lust for life would magically return with the prospect of the weekend.  And it's the second Saturday, where, by mid-morning, I've realized that you can't just will the malaise and mental fuzz away.  For a few days I took myself to bed.  I don't mean that I lounged around, watching movies on the couch or propped amongst freshly fluffed pillows catching up on my reading, I mean I just lay in bed, curtains closed against the overwhelmingly sunny California afternoons, staring at the ceiling thinking about - about - about nothing really.  The hours just sort of went by and I wondered what I'd done all day.  I wondered what mini-pear had been up to, noiselessly occupying herself about the house and garden, cobbling together her own meals. 

At this point, I suppose it's no longer the flu, but I'm still blowing my nose twenty times a day, and hacking up great gobs of god knows what and my mental capacity feels...hmmm...diminished in some way.  Is the fact that I'm building someone else's brain right now an excuse to lean on?

So far I'm still searching for the great in "great with child".  Despite eating like a picky toddler (bagels, potatoes, pasta, occasional bits of fruit) I continue to lose weight and get scolded for it by my doctor.  He says, "You know, I bet you could eat a steak."  He's right.  Three weeks ago, we were out for breakfast and I had an overwhelming urge to eat the lion's share of mini-pear's side of bacon.  So I did.  And then last week, nose streaming, head aching, joints weak from days spent in bed, muscles damn near atrophied, I made a massive pot of chicken noodle soup, ostensibly for mini-pear.  Except, we all had some.  In fact, we all had quite a bit, even Mr. Pear, who's been a vegetarian even longer than I have.

So, yeah, it's been a bit like that.

I paid $3.59 a gallon for gas this morning.  While this pains me, I know we're still not actually at the real price of gasoline, so I won't gripe about it all night long.

I will, however, gripe about the woman who sat in the parking lot a few spots down from me during choir practice.  I usually park in the shade, listen to Fresh Air and knit.  Perhaps if this woman had also parked in the shade (plenty of spots!  come on over!), she might not have needed to leave the engine of her Lincoln Navigator running and the AC on for over an hour.  It was warm today, but there's always a breeze at the coast (we were about a quarter mile inland tops) and except for about 2 weeks in August, the shade in Southern California is always a bit nippy.  She really didn't need her sweatshirt and whatever it was she was drinking in her insulated beverage cup.

Review of some things that suck, and others that don't.

When you realize you're reading an bad book, do you plod though it anyway?

I do.  Well, unless it's The Count of Monte Cristo, which I would very much like to finish, but I bought this massive edition of it and it's literally too big to read in bed.  Bed is where I do most of my reading.  It may end up being my beach book, but something about lugging The Count of Monte Cristo to the beach this summer makes me feel like a poseur.

Anyway, two books I recently read, despite loathing them:

A Widow for One Year by John Irving.  Why do I persist with John Irving?  I hated that other one with the bear in it (I think it was Hotel New Hampshire) and I hated this, yet I read the sappy, shoddily constructed thing to the bitter end.  Actually, the end was less bitter and more totally unbelievable.  Were I cartoon style, I think I would have slapped my forehead with the disappointment of it all.

A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby.  Stupid premise, crap execution and yet I wasted about 3 evenings on it.

A book I don't loathe:

I'm completely engrossed in Stones from the River by Ursula Hegi.  I just sort of stumbled across it at the library.  It was a little disappointing to google Ursula Hegi (because once I realized I was really going to enjoy it, I wanted to know what else she'd written and if she's still alive and writing even more) and find that Oprah Winfrey apparently found Stones from the River first.  At least this is an older edition and doesn't have the Oprah's Book Club Seal on it.  Incidentally, I do actually enjoy a great many of Oprah's selections (except that Nicholas Sparks guy and I never read Tuesdays with Morrie - let's yawn for books about old people! - or that book about the people you meet in heaven - not interested since I'm probably not going) but I don't necessarily want to advertise this when I'm carrying my book around.  Not because I'm embarrassed to enjoy the same books as her, but I don't want people to think I can't pick out my own books from sources other than what an afternoon talk show hostess recommends.

Not everyone is so concerned with what other people might think about what they're reading.  There is a mom whose son is in one of mini-pear's classes who usually brings along this huge spiral bound volume with a rather depressing title.  Something to do with demanding respect from your children and maintaining control of a "happy family".  Another mom brings totally trashy bodice ripping romances, complete with gilt covers and Fabio look-a-likes manhandling hot redheads in their very best Ren-fest gear.

Knit one, purl two...rip...

Now that he's opened his present, I can share a photo of my very first pair of socks!  Once I got accustomed to using little tiny double pointed needles, these were a breeze.  Well, except for the kitchener stitch on the toes.  I looked up diagrams in all my knitting books and watched little online tutorials and I'm still not entirely convinced I did it right.  Now I know why knitters get hooked on socks and go through periods of knitting nothing but socks and wearing nothing but hand knit socks (well, on their feet, I mean).  I put these on so I could snap a quick pic and really didn't want to take them off! 

You might think I'd move on to a project with more of an immediate gratification factor, but I decided to knit up a baby sweater I've had bookmarked in an old copy of Interweave Knits for years.  Knitting for babies and children can go pretty quickly, but not when you're knitting them up on size 2 and 3 needles.  It is going to be very pretty though;)

Speaking of knitting for baby, can anyone point me in the direction of their favorite baby knits?  Not necessarily looking for free stuff, just cute stuff that's not knit on gigantic needles (I think little babies in bulky knits always look a bit overstuffed and uncomfortable).  I adore Debbie Bliss, but having worked on a couple of her projects, I always seem to end up saying, "Now why did she do it this way?  Surely, it would have been easier to just..."  It seems I'm proficient enough to notice when it could be done more efficiently, but not necessarily while initially reading through the pattern.  She just seems to leave a lot of finishing.  A lot of hats with seams to sew, as opposed to knitting them in the round.  I had planned on starting the holiday sweatshop early, but I think a better use of my knitting time this summer knitting for baby;)  One of the nicest things about knitting for someone else, is all the time you spend thinking about them while you are knitting and I think spending some time thinking warm happy baby thoughts will be very nice indeed.

Hmmmm, babies.

The dog gets up to all sorts while we're out.  On a Sunday morning, while Mr. and Mini-pear are off at karate, she frequently forgets I'm home.  I'll be laying in bed reading and hear the distinct sound of the kitchen bin being opened.  Once I walked into the kitchen to find her standing on top of the table, licking the crumbs off a bread board!  She was, quite literally, paralyzed with fear when she saw me.

Such a bad dog.  Very occasionally, she will chew a toy.  I know better than to leave any knitting about.  She can't resist it.  Knows it's wrong!  Hangs her head in shame and cowers in her crate!  More often, she just moves things.  I will return to find my hat in the middle of the bedroom floor, when I know I left it on my desk chair in the living room.  Mini-pear, in an effort to declutter her own room, has arranged a wee assortment of stuffed animals next to my bed.  These often end up on the rug in the front hall, slightly damp and disheveled.  I suppose we should be glad she does not remove the eyes of stuffed animals with surgical precision and leave a pile of those at the front door.  I had a friend whose dog did precisely that.  I know you're not supposed to hold eye contact with strange dogs, but I found it difficult to even look at it, knowing its particular predilection for optical dismemberment.

Here is Tanky, sunning herself on our picnic table.   Right after taking this picture, I crept up to the screen door, "Just what do you think you're doing?"  To which she yawned and stretched before finding another sunny position on the very same table top.  Becoming brazen in her old age.