I am easily assimilated.

Fine.  I joined Facebook.  Now I have THREE pages to keep updated.  Hmpf.

Three kinds of day.

Morning:  Crappy start, very tired from show closing party the night before.  Behaviorist supposed to come at 9:30, had time down as 1, came at 10:30, stayed for three hours.  Successful session for Christian, not so much for me as was sushed repeatedly like five year old in movie theater.  Cost $240, were planning on $80.

Afternoon:  Excellent time with Rich and Shelly at awesomely tacky Auburn SuperMall.  Shopped at Disney Parks outlet (overstock from Disneyland), found final four blown glass ornaments from 50th anniversary set (have two, couldn't afford rest on last trip) for half price.  Saw "Nightmare before Christmas" in 3-D.

Evening:  Utter shit.  Hit beautiful white stray cat on way home.  When got out of car to try and save cat, saw cat's mate run away.  Cat died in car on way to emergency vet.  Never had this happen before.  Really can't stop thinking about it.  Sick to my stomach and can't get imagery out of my head.

Still, heard from cousin Steph this morning, and she got in to UW for medical school, which is freaking incredible.  So proud, especially as 1) she took time off to volunteer in three countries, went back to school to do pre-reqs and worked while doing so and 2) is first person in family to go to med school.  Christmas this year will be full of celebration.  Need to think of suitable present.  Briefcase?  Wingtips?  Old fashioned doctor's bag?  Hmmm.

Please, though, say a little prayer for the kitty.  I'll do the same.

I shall hop a plane tonight to help.

Because she's WAY too damn modest to post about it herself, I'm going to share my sister's parrot rescue story. To recap Tina's story so far, she's a wildlife biologist who is taking three months off of her normal life to study songbirds in Panama with a grad school colleague. She emailed me this story yesterday:

"Saga 1 -- Parrot rescue! At this park we work at there's a little "office" and people who guard the park work there. They had 4 parrots in 2 small dirty cages, and a mess of other bad things you don't want to hear about. I expressed my concern to (her colleague) about the condition of the cages, the food, water, etc, and said it was not good, and what could I do about it? I started changing their water, and bringing them fresh fruit myself. On Wednesday, we went in and one bird was gone. I asked (another colleague) to ask them what happened, and they said one of the other parrots killed it. I was not surprised given the small cages, mixed species, no proper care and attention. But I was furious and could think of nothing else the rest of the day, as they didn't particularly seem to care. (Colleague 1) thought they have only had the birds about a month, and they were confiscated from someone, and the park people were just going to see "how they go". Well, they are not "going" well!! So I told (Colleague 1) I wanted to talk to whomever was in charge and tell them this wasn't right, or find some way to make it right. Well, the person I can talk to was not there today at the park. But back at Tupper today, he introduced me to (a researcher), who does some work with parrots. When I explained the situation, she immediately said, bring them to me and I'll take them. She'll fatten them up, clean them up, and see what can be done regarding adopting them out or releasing them. I am SO ecstatic. I cannot wait to get those birds out of that situation. I'll take them Saturday when I have a gamboa truck. Yeah!! I just feel awful about the 4th bird, why didn't I do something sooner?"

To which I replied, of course, you rock and have done everything you can. Because she's awesome.

Criminal Knits Check In!

All right, knitters of fury, post in comments and let us know how you're coming with hats, mittens and scarves for Miss Clara's little chickens. Leave your email and I'll send you her address for to mail said objects of warmth and comfort. Woot!

Technical Delays

Tech week always prevents me from posting. Four to five hour rehearsals every night for almost ten days tend to make one a wee bit listless. However, the opera has opened to two excellent reviews, and the only umbrage I take with both is the reviewers' criticisms of the set, which I love and think is freaking brilliant. Aside from the (hateful) raked platform stage, I find no fault with the scene the sets set (hee) at all. On the contrary, I think the feelings of mild claustrophobia and decrepit opulence suit the tone of the opera beautifully. And God, can Nuccia Focile sing. That woman is a heart-wrencher, she is.

Knit for the Criminals, 2007

To all the Forumites who wish to give the criminals in Miss Clara's classroom a warmer winter than they'd have otherwise, here are some patterns and sites to get you going:

This link has a ton of free hat and scarf set patterns.  This is a VERY easy mitten pattern, and this is a very easy hat AND mitten pattern.  If you are going to make either of these using one type of yarn, you can make a matching scarf by casting on six inches worth of stitches in the same yarn and working in garter stitch until you run out.  

Here's also an easy earflap hat and this is your standard stockinette hat.  All of these patterns are great stash eaters.  You don't need much time or yarn for any of these.  Good luck, and email me if you need any help!

Hmph.

Strong is not pronounced "schtrong," despite what the Army wants you to believe. Watching all of Season 1 of Heroes while home sick from work has made me peevish because no one can kill Sylar, dammit, and New York will get blown up before I get a chance to visit again. My nephew, Kyan, called me to tell me that he misses me and I bawled. Gus the three toed box turtle eats superworms like his head is a particularly prehistoric vacuum attachment, and it amuses me to watch his little steam shovel jaw scoop up the leftover crunchy bits. Crap, and speaking of vacuum attachments, I STILL haven't emptied the vacuum cleaner bag to find my diamond earring that got sucked up while I watched in slow motion, too torpid to intercede.

The behaviorist came to help us with Sasha, so we're reading to him and trying to make our presence near his cage less unbearable. It turns out he was pretty terrified from having the cage under the window, so we're undoing our own damage. I hope we can hold him again. Cyril is mad because we got him a new, separate cage, so he bit me, which hurt my feelings. However, he's so cute when he's mad I can hardly stand it. Who's the cutest fluffy angry birdie? He's also gotten very chubby and has breastbone cleavage, which is bad, apparently. I need to take him to the vet for his annual anyway, so I'll ask their advice.

The skylight in the guest bedroom is leaking from a old and busted seal. And why the hell am I so dizzy all the time? I just really want a piece of fried chicken, but then I think of KFC and their awful practices and lose my appetite. Christian and I have hardly seen each other in weeks because I'm rehearsing so much and our vacation seems impossibly far away, even though it's now in less than two months and, between now and then, I have two shows, a holiday and possibly surgery, for which I'm trying to lose weight so I'm hungry all the time. Christian just brought me home a beef and cheddar, though, so I'm fine now.

We had a turkey dinner on Sunday to say goodbye to Tina, and I have no clue what to do with all the leftovers, especially the gravy, which I hate. All the stuffing is gone, too, and that's the best part. Man, I still need to find out what Steel Pig puts in their sauce, now that they're closed and I have nowhere to get my fix.

I wonder if I'm depressed about something.

Why not to read opera reviews.

I read a review in the NY Times this morning of Romeo et Juliette at the Met, and the critic effused greatly about the young mezzo playing Stephano, who is a recent graduate of Juilliard's bachelor and master's programs and is managed by the top agency in the US. Now, I love to hear fantastic young voices, but sheesh, it can be depressing to read about those who have had a charmed career. Of course, that means nothing about her personal life and its hardships, but I can viciously hope that, when not making triumphant debuts at major international houses, she's a lonely spinster who sits at home and eats an entire gallon of Haagen-Daaz while watching A Baby Story on TLC.

An Obituary for Alex

And from CNN:



He was one amazing bird.

Photos from the fair, as promised...

Dr. Who done in needlepoint. Yep, David Tennant. In needlepoint.

Plus an angora goat, because, well, I like mohair.

And really, he's very silly.

If knitting is crack...

I'm definitely its bitch.  I just finished the fisherman's sweater I started LAST YEAR, but since I designed it, it didn't come out even approximately the right size.  It was supposed to be for Christian, but I didn't swatch my cable pattern, and I didn't realize until way, waaaaaaay too late that the center cables I chose would make the sweater about four inches too narrow. Length right, width wrong.  Once I realized that the sweater wouldn't fit Christian, I put it down for many months but thought about it constantly.  I decided that I'd give it to mom, but that's when I thought the body and sleeves would be shorter than they ended up.  I had to pick out and then redo the collar as I also hadn't even followed my own pattern well enough and had not made the armholes the right length.  The good thing about it all is that I think it will now fit Tina as she is very tall and slender and has longish arms, so I'm thinking it will be perfect, and I'll be able to knit Mom something pink and beaded.  I'm just glad someone I love can use it.  And it is quite attractive:

A sad event, indeed.

I just found out that Alex, the African Grey belonging to Dr. Irene Pepperberg, died unexpectedly on September 7th. His last words to Dr. Pepperberg before going to sleep, were, “You be good, see you tomorrow. I love you.” For the complete article, see here. I am distraught.

I shan't spend it all in one place.

We went to the Puyallup Fair yesterday, ostensibly to eat ourselves into a coma and chortle heartily at the tragic fashion parade in true, obnoxious, elitist, suburban form, but it was really to see if I won anything from entering my shawl in the Home Arts competition, which I DID.  I won second place, which was certainly a surprise, as I made two rather large mistakes in the border and didn't block it aggressively enough.  I won a magnificent $3, and I hope they give my my prize in check form so I can frame it next to the ribbon and this picture:

The first prize went to the shawl pictured below, the pattern for which is in "A Gathering of Lace," a book I also own. 

 

It is very beautiful and very well done, but I must comfort myself with the knowledge that the body of my shawl is one pattern and the trim is another, and I taught myself how to knit on the trim by picking up edge stitches, and in the winner's pattern, the book SAID how to do it, so nyah.  

Here was some of the competition. This one was very lovely:

And then there was this one, which, well, huh.  It's very Cher as dressed by Bob Mackie in the 80s if Bob favored acrylic fun fur which, really, he did.

I also got to see real Angora goats, from whence we get mohair (not angora, that comes from rabbits), and see mohair boucle yarn spun by one of the artist exhibitors in the hidden hall of classy (not with a k) handiwork.  Thankfully Shelly remembered where it was, as I had forgotten from last year.  I have never really been tempted to spin or dye my own yarn until now, as the colors and textures and materials were so gorgeously delicious that I only narrowly avoided humiliating my friends and necessitating a call to the fair police by throwing all the racks of skeins to the floor, stripping off my clothes and rolling in the piles of superwash merino and bamboo blends.  I was only allowed an hour in the hall, though, so there just wasn't time.  Next year, maybe.

Diagnosed

So, all the tests are done and all the tubes are out. A week and a half of sleepless nights are over and I feel a surprisingly strong sense of relief and I am no longer annoyed at, well, everything (Christian is heard to breathe a sigh of relief from his Redmond office).

It was confirmed that I have a hiatal hernia, which I knew. It's a sliding hernia, the more common type, thankfully, as a paraesophageal hernia is v. v. bad and can cause icky problems, like esophageal strangulation, which sounds like the esophagus would make little acky noises and hold its hands to its throat in the universal sign for "give me the Heimlich".

Anyway, the hernia isn't large, which is good, but it's either caused the sphincter at the base of my esophagus to become incompetent (useless thing) or the incompetent sphincter caused my stomach to migrate into my esophagus. Chicken...egg...

Interestingly, I also have a wastrel esophagus. It doesn't perform its job adequately, and sometimes not at all. The wretched manometry showed that the muscles don't move in synch to push food down, and sometimes give up all together and just flap around while looking for a place to nap.

Consequently, I can get a Toupet fundoplication performed to correct the hernia and limit the reflux, but this procedure isn't quite as effective as the full fundoplication, for which I'm not eligible because of the layabout esophagus. Another wrench in the works is that I'm too heavy right now to ensure the best outcome from the surgery. I actually felt a little sorry for the doctor, as he seemed a trifle nervous to bring up my weight, as though I would heave around my ass and smother him in outrage for letting that taboo subject be discussed amongst strangers, like my weight is an illegitimate child or Auntie's affair with the neighbor's hunky son. But really, saying I need to lose weight is like saying that global warming exists. We know it's there, it doesn't have a quick solution, but it's perfectly manageable if we all work together and exercise some restraint. Consequently, before I get the procedure done, I need to get the plump little ball rolling. Support and solidarity are requested.

Tube in, stomach contents out.

First three of four tests are done. First test, horrible. Large tube embedded with metal sensorballs inserted painfully through nose and down throat, inducing several vomiting bouts, embarrassingly, and then had to swallow salt water and viscous gel meant to simulate chewed food, all to test muscle strength and coordination as well as sphincter capabilities. Scrumptious. However, husband's love proven yet again, as held hand and petted head and lifted me up, while I oozed liquids from eyes, nose and throat. Wonderful husband. Love husband.

Finished test and then very happily sedated for second, of which absolutely nothing is remembered. Lovely drugs. Hiatal hernia confirmed. Had yet another tube inserted through nose, down esophagus and into stomach, fortunately while groggy enough to not care. Came home and was surprisingly alert, although surprisingly exhausted. Oddly, no reflux and belching now, irritatingly. Want proof of vexing issues. Where is proof? Need acid now. Must keep diary of incidents, but few incidents to report, as of yet.

Shelly and Angie came over and gave beautiful present, cupcakes and ice cream because they are loveliest friends and wanted to help. Shelly even taking me back tomorrow so I don't have to drive. At 7:30 am. Must buy chocolates for that.

Tube out tomorrow morning and then barium swallow. Consult with doctor at 9:30. Cross your fingers and hope for possibility of laparoscopic repair.

It burnses, it burnses.

Day five off Prilosec. Scope not for two more days. Esophagus burns. Throat hurts. Acid bubbling up from lack of sphincter. Intestines cramping from unaccustomed levels of gastric juices. No caffeine as makes more burning. Finally understand what endoscopy clinic questionnaire means when asks if stomach symptoms interfere with every day life. Can't sleep. Wake up coughing. No voice. Can't sing. Must constantly eat bland food to give hydrochloric something to do. However, all food sounds horrible as want to vomit all the time. Very burpy, which causes much embarrassment.

Bright side, lack of energy means I re-finished front and back of Aran sweater as only want to sit on ass and watch Coupling marathon. Don't want to work tomorrow as will be very busy and is Christian's birthday. Want to celebrate (in limited fashion). Can't wait for glorious drugs for scope.

By God, it works.

Thank you, Boombella.

Edited to add video!

Wait one cotton, pickin' minute...

Have I misspelled Sweetener this ENTIRE time?? Did I accidentally change it? I know I spelled it right when I first made the blog as I LOOKED IT UP. Am I going crazy?

Submishe

Thanks to being browbeaten into compliance, I've submitted my shawl (despite the fact that it's still not flat and thin enough and needs to be blocked again) to the Puyallup Fair to be judged in the Home Arts category. I love that quilting, cross-stitching, sewing, pickling, canning, knitting, crocheting, etc are still called the home arts. I've been trying to think up other, more suitable names for them, like:

1. You've Become your Mother Arts
2. Go Home and Fix your Husband a Drink Arts
3. Would You Like Some Cool Whip on that Jello Arts
4. Jesus is my Accessory Arts
5. Feminism Never Happened Arts
6. I am a Feminist and I'm Doing this Because It's Fun, I Swear Arts
7. I have Fourteen Cats Arts

I also have to say that I was pretty amused by the guidelines for submission. One area the judges will pay special attention to is cleanliness of the submitted piece of knitted, crocheted, quilted or cross-stitched work. I'm picturing a nicotine-stained afghan knitted in Red Heart Pound of Love acrylic with bits of Spam still stuck to it. The image is very clear.

Heartachy

It's a cosmic punishment for being so smug when he first came home with us. I know that. That's what happens when you have pride. You get part of your cuticle torn away from your thumb. Poor Christian.

We're having some aggression issues with Sasha. We were foolish (so foolish!) when we first brought him home, and we have unleashed upon ourselves Nature, red in tooth and claw. Literally. I doubt that Sasha had any structure in his previous homes, if his behavior is any indication. He gets frustrated very, very quickly and his moods can change faster than a teenage girl's. All of the bird books espouse structure and consistency in the same way that books about human children do. They need rules, the books say, they need to rely upon their humans for the guidance as well as for food and shelter as, in their captive situations, they cannot provide any of these things for themselves. Don't begin patterning your bird with negative behavior when you first bring them home as it will lead to problems down the road. Carefully monitor your bird's posture and vocalizations as they will tell you what your bird is feeling and how to respond to it. Yep, yep, all true.

The charming and hilarious video below? Oh, if we could only go back and undo what has been done. He's nesting now, trying to build a home for a mate that will never come. He's mercurial and irritable and wants everything his way because we've set no boundaries. Christian can no longer pick him up from the ground or play with him in the same manner as he could even a week ago.

Birds bite because that's the only way they know how to communicate certain messages. This morning, Christian tried to step Sasha up onto a t-perch. Sasha didn't want to go, but Christian persisted, as he had always been able to do in the past. Sasha latched onto his thumb and wouldn't let go. I had to intervene with another hand-held perch and put Sasha back in his cage to allow Christian to tend to his very badly battered hand. It was torn in two places and bitten in several others. It's gotten very hard to tell which bites are new and which are old as Sasha will preen the scabs off the old bites if given half a chance.

It's a hard thing, wanting an animal to love you because you love it. We know Sasha is very attached to Christian, but fear of being bitten has changed a relationship that they both had grown to enjoy and rely upon. We now have to totally restructure how we interact with Sasha, try to establish a wholly different relationship, and that will be hard. We had gotten so complacent about being able to pick him up off of his cage and play with him that it will be a wrench to have to be more disciplined about using hand-held perches. I'm actually quite heartbroken that this poor bird that has had such an inconsistent life up until now has to endure more change because we were too lazy to pattern our interactions with him properly from the first day we brought him home.