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.

Kakapo

Thanks to Rich (and, via him, Douglas Adams) and my obvious and compensatory (yes, I know about 50 people lately have said I need a kid) love for and obsession with parrots, I've become a little fixated on the Kakapo (fluffy bunny), the extremely endangered, flightless and utterly weird New Zealand parrot (pooper head).  Now, my favorite living artist, Eleanor Grosch, has a print of the Kakapo (chicken butt), and all proceeds from purchases of the print go to Kakapo (squidgy doo) rescue.  

She's my hero.

American Arrogance

There is a fine line between observing a problem and creating one. This is a perfect example of the latter. Considering that the folks unwillingly sucked into this controversy are actually involved with animal welfare and conservation at home (and here, as one of the ambassadors went to EVERGREEN and lives here half the year) and chose to come to our beloved zoo as an opportunity to share their work, the argument that they are "part of the exhibit" is offensive and ludicrous, especially as it implies that the very people who are working the hardest to protect their own environment and who have traveled around the world to help us greedy bastard consumers understand that our wastefulness has far-reaching consequences are naive enough to be hoodwinked into a being part of a Victorian sideshow.

Mad as Pants

In the British sense of the word, I mean:

Knitting my Shroud

You all know about my fixation with alpacas. During the first visit to the farm of long-lashed will-destroyers, I purchased from the farm store a beautiful hank of dark turquoise fingering weight alpaca yarn spun from the animals at the farm with a shimmery metallic thread plied in. I debated long about what to knit with it, as it was very expensive, $36 a hank, and I wanted to make something particularly lovely and worthy of the cost and effort. I couldn't decide and couldn't decide and kept buying more and more of the yarn every time we'd drive to Bellingham to visit the IL's and would stop at the farm (well, I'd take the exit without any say from Christian as I usually drive and he is at my mercy). No one else was buying it, and it was all one dye lot, so I kept accumulating it at $36 a pop until I had four of the five hanks available, which equalled 1,460 yards of yarn. That's a lot. I just couldn't bear to knit anything boring with it, so I kept swatching and frogging and setting it aside to think on it.

Late last year, while reading one of the many knitting magazines that litter our bedroom floor and make me twitch either with disgust from the hideous waste of perfectly good wool or with lust over yarn I could NEVER afford, I came across an article on knitted lace. There were pictures of the most incredible shawls I'd ever seen, straight out of Queen Victoria's dress wardrobe. Catherine the Great would have gone to war over some of these pieces (she apparently was given a gift of a spectacular wedding-ring shawl from the Hebrides and had the eyes of the knitter put out, ugh, so she couldn't knit any more, but the knitter's daughter had learned the craft and passed down her skills to following generations, bless her). Anyway, I really wanted a good project to be portable and beautiful, so I found a pattern I liked from KnitPicks.com (as they had really jumped on the lace train (snork)), the candle-flame shawl pattern, and brought it on the plane with me to England last January. I only finished about a few inches on that trip as we were so busy, but I had lots of time this last Spring in which to knit and finished the body in about three months. It wouldn't normally have taken nearly so long, but I had to periodically set it aside to work on other projects, like hedgehogs and sweater sets.

Once it was done, though, it seemed a little drab. I had purchased second hand a book on traditional knitted shawl patterns and the author had charted out some beautiful edges. She also included instructions on how to actually knit the edging onto the body of the completed work by picking up edge stitches every other row. As I really wanted to make this damn thing spectacular (I had visions of walking into a performance and hearing everyone gasp with awe and admiration of the sheer gorgeousity of the thing), I picked a wide border that I thought would compliment the overall pattern of the body. I had also, unfortunately, read an article about beading your knitting, and HAD to buy Czech glass beads in the same color as the yarn to add to the yarn overs in the edging. Yeah. Just a little mad.

So, I threaded on all the beads and started to knit, and it took a really, really long time. I fortunately realized fairly early in the trim knitting that I'd run out of yarn and had to ask the farm to send me the final hank of yarn that had, fortunately, not been purchased. I was getting so close to the end by the last week of July that I spent six hours knitting last Monday while Shelly and I watched the Thin Man movies I had received from Christian for our anniversary (thanks, honey!). Well, after seven and a half months, 5,470 feet of yarn and 1,500 pre-strung beads, I finished the damn thing. And boy, did it look terrible. However, it's supposed to. Lace knitting looks like a pile of twisted ass when finished, as it has to be aggressively blocked to lie flat and look proper. I read all the lace blocking instructions on reputable sites and decided to make my own blocking frame out of PVC and eye hooks. It took about five hours last Friday night to cut the pipe, drill the holes and screw in the hooks. This is what it looked like (and it's modular so I can take it apart to store and make any size to allow for varied garment blocking):

I had to soak the shawl in warm water and mild detergent, and then gently press out the excess water with a towel. Bask in the lumpy shrivellness:

To get all the little edge points to stick out and get the body to lay flat, I strung each point with twine and ran the twine through the hooks:

Christian helped me, and once all the twine was in place, I pulled it tight and began to see the incredible definition of the lace pattern in the body and on the edge:

I cannot tell you how this sight made me feel. It was so lovely and graceful-looking that I could barely believe that gallumphing me had knitted it.

When I took it off the frame after it had completely dried, it only sprang back the tiniest bit. All of the edging peaks stayed peaky and the pattern definition stayed defined. The pretty beads make a wonderful clacking sound when they hit together and give the piece a lovely drape, so my efforts were rewarded.

The final measurements of the thing top 9 feet long by 3.5 feet wide. Should provide me with plenty of coverage, if I can only think of something worthy with which to wear it. Maybe I'll have to make a dress. Hmmmm...

On the radio, sounding REALLY annoying...

The topic for the second hour of KUOW's Weekday was birds in the home, so I HAD to call in and put in a plug for parrot adoption. You can listen to it here. I'm about 35 minutes in. Do I always sound that over-eager and knowitallish? Ugh. Still, good topic.

And what a lovely day it is, too.

Today is a momentous day for two notable reasons:

#1, my mother in law, the lovely and charming Lynn, who not only gave me her son but many knitting tips and tools, was born. May she remember this day for all the glorious things sure to come to her, deserving woman that she is. Lynn, may you ride all day in perfect weather and only come home because there's an excellent bottle of wine and a cake waiting for you with a new puzzle to complete afterwards. Sal, do you hear me?

#2, the muffin head was born, fluffy pooper bunny that he is.

There is much to celebrate.

Six years ago, on this very day (tomorrow)...

Hi honey. Tomorrow is our anniversary, but since we'll be in Bellingham celebrating your mom's birthday, I thought I'd write this today.

Six years of marriage. Apparently, the sixth anniversary gift should be candy, at least traditionally. The modern gift is iron, but you already have several shot puts and I bought you a hammer (against my will) a couple of Christmases ago. Oddly enough, recommended sixth anniversary vacations are Hershey, PA and Walt Disney World, so I guess our upcoming vacation in WDW was meant to be, although I think the best evidence for that is the $60 hotel room price we all got.

I was thinking about our marriage the other day, and I got kind of giggly. That's seems to be my usual response when thinking of us. I giggle like I'm twelve and the boy I like just looked at me, except I'm 34 and the boy I like lives with me and I get to wake up with him every day. The comment I always hear about the two of us as a couple is that we seem made for each other, and I think that's because we're always laughing. It's kind of a miracle that, considering how easy it is for me to lose perspective on, well, everything and become so anxious and clamped down, laughter is such the predominant theme in our marriage that I can't think of us without chuckling, but in a happy, non-Mr. Burns, non-demoniacal kind of way. I don't know how you've managed to turn me into this person who not only laughs all the time but who can laugh about things I used to cry over. That's practically a miracle.

We've both grown a lot in the last year. We each took new jobs, causing our income to plummet. However, you never let the money be a factor in your insistence that I work only half time so I can sing and not want to fling myself off the roof of our house in sheer dramatic exhaustion. You've become so handy, even more so than you were before, and good Lord, am I grateful. I love that you're so competent around the house that all I have to do is ask you to auger the bathtub and it's done. You seem to take great pleasure in being "the man of the house," and I'm shocked that I don't mind. Well, not really. I like the fact that, despite what I say to the contrary at 1 am when we've been hanging shelves all day, you simply MUST screw everything into a stud. When that inevitable earthquake comes, that picture of our house on the bird room wall won't budge. Of course, I also like that I can put together furniture and such and you let me do it without standing to one side with a beer in your hand criticizing how I used your drill.

One thing that happened this last year, though, really defines for me what our marriage is, and what makes it my lifeline. I had slowly been becoming resistant to my anxiety medication, and I was putting off going to the doctor. We were getting ready for bed one night and I was particularly ornery and unwilling to put away laundry, and, while most other people would get upset or argue in the same situation, you looked at me and said, very calmly, that you could tell that I was much more anxious and upset than when my medication was working, and that you were going to harass me until I went to the doctor because you hated to see me so unhappy. You were right, and I knew you were right, and I finally went to the doctor because you wanted me to. It's funny how sometimes that's what it takes for me to do things I know I have to do. I won't do them for myself, but I'll do them for you. I'd do anything for you.

I love you, sweetie. Happy anniversary.