LittleBit was sitting next to me with her bowl of cereal, helping me listen to Knit-A-Yarn’s interview with The Harlot. We both laughed at her comments on parenting, particularly on how it’s great to hear something you’ve said coming out of the mouth of your child. LittleBit cracked, “Yup, pretty soon you’ll get to hear me saying, Don’t make me turn this car around.”
Because it’s already happened with Firstborn. [Just ask Willow and Lark.] Firstborn called me a couple of years ago, laughing and almost sobbing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry, how did you ever not just kill me? And oh, by the way, you’ll think this is funny, but I do not. I’m turning into you. Your words came out of my mouth when I was talking to the girls the other day.”
Oscar Wilde was wrong; *momming* well is the best revenge.
In case you have one of those fancy-schmancy double-decker microwave/oven combinations, this may be news you can use. Please check it out.
A soupçon of knitting content:
Did you ever stop to think that we [“we” = knitters] make magic? Not the kind with smoke and mirrors, but the kind with sticks and string, little loops that make a fluid and flexible fabric. Socks. Sweaters. Caps. Mittens and gloves. Skirts. Neckties and scarves and shawls.
And the muggles are just as amazed by our sleight of hand as we are by that of The Amazing Kreskin or David Copperfield, or whoever the up-and-coming young magicians are these days.
Did you ever wonder if Mother Eve was a knitter? We don’t know how long she and Adam lived in the Garden before the Fall. It was a great day when one of the daughters or sons of Adam looked at a sheep and thought, “You know, if I cut off its hair, it will grow back, just like mine does. And if I wash it, it won’t stink. And I bet it would be more efficient to cut off its hair and leave it alive, than to kill it and tan it and wear only leather, which is warm enough in the winter but not so great in the middle of summer.
“And those tall plants with the blue flowers? I wonder if I soak them until the outer covering rots, if I could twist those long fibers together and make something that would be good to wear when it’s too hot for wool. And how do I get the camels and the llamas to stop spitting long enough for me to comb them?”
If the biblical account is accurate, Adam lived to be just under a thousand years old. We don’t know if Eve predeceased him or if she was left a widow for a century or two. But that certainly gives a whole new perspective on the concept of SABLE – Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy.
And can you imagine the yarn stash that Sister Methuselah might have had? Of course, since the patriarchs were nomadic at that time, her stash – and Mother Eve’s – would most likely have still been on the hoof.
One of the legal secretaries sent out this email today: “I am leaving in about 10 min to go to the courthouse if anybody needs anything.”
I wrote back, “Bring me back a good looking cop, age-appropriate, who doesn't smoke or drink.”
Her response? “I will definitely be looking!”
She popped her head in shortly thereafter to say that she’d back soon, with the cop.
My friends take good care of me, yes they do. I try to do the same.
When she returned to the office, she said that she’d found one, but he had to go take care of an emergency.
Story of my life.
When I took my knitting back to the break room this morning, there was Neiman Marcus’s Christmas catalogue. With the exception of Item 53, a heart-shaped Faberge bowl of rose quartz trimmed with gold and a few discreet rubies, nothing much spoke to me. I do not understand the appeal of Burberry plaid. Yes, I like and wear most of those colors, and at least one of my coworkers is addicted to the purses, but my reaction is more or less, “meh!” Most of the items seem to be designed not for practicality [*dang* that pragmatic upbringing] or beauty, but merely to demonstrate one’s credit limit.
When I took my knitting back there again at lunch, somebody had added a recent issue of InStyle to the table. And I spent the better part of lunch hour alternating spoonfuls of soup with eyefuls of stuff that the nabobs want me to buy. Or at least to covet.
Of the actresses and models who were featured prominently, the only ones I could see myself having a civil, intelligent conversation with were Reese Witherspoon, Sharon Stone [maybe], and Catherine Zeta-Jones. I do not suggest that the rest of them lack intelligence, but that the behavior of most of them would tempt me to shriek, “What in the world were you thinking when you _____(fill in the blank)____?”
And then the ghost of Dale Carnegie would have to beat me about the head and shoulders with his book; Miss Manners would make me stand in the corner; and my own dear mother would remind me what Thumper’s mother told him. This is why I’m not on the A-list. This is why you will never see my face on the society page. Though if some of my kids get their way, you might see me on “What Not to Wear” :)
This diversion did serve a useful purpose, however; I am far enough along on the November Mystery Socks...
...that I can feel the first faint spasms of finish-itis. I was kept sufficiently distracted by a gentle but persistent simmer of irritation at celebrity cluelessness and fashion faux pas that I was able to concentrate on the things they pay me to do, instead of wishing the day away until quitting time.
So thank you, I guess, you bronzed and blonded women of the silver screen.
Going with the Flo [Ms. Knitingale, that is]:
Today she was even more eye-wipingly hilarious than usual. Take that trip down the hall, first, and finish your mug of milk. My response? In Texas, we don’t *hang* the mistletoe. We dispatch it by lethal injection.
And here is LittleBit in the driver’s seat, after seminary but before driving us to get...
...and thence to the parking lot across from school, where I resumed custody of the steering wheel.
Oh, and Knitty is up. I have already added Jeanie to my queue on Ravelry. Stop laughing, Bookgrump, I can hear you from here!
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!