Friday, August 15, 2014

Homemade Friday: Warm, Soft Felted Mittens

Winter is coming.

I know, I know.  It's an overdone cliche of a phrase at this point.  I  blame the fact that for some reason we have free HBO streaming with our cable at the moment and have been able to catch up on Game of Thrones.  (Nobody say anything.  I don't want them realizing they've made a mistake before I finish watching the rest of True Blood.)

Cliche though it may be, it's a phrase I've repeated often to myself over the last few weeks.  Winter is coming and I'm not prepared.  I'm a knitter, which means it's against the knitters' code and handbook and pinky promise to buy winter hats and scarves and socks.  And now that I can make gloves, I probably have to add those to the list.  That's not to say that I don't buy them when I have to.  I just feel really, really guilty when I resort to store-bought winter items.

And so the pressure builds to Make All Of The Things, especially since this winter is supposed to be as hard or harder than last winter, which was pretty brutal compared to normal Kentucky winters.

Sebastian may be okay on his hat for this year, as I think his last one still fits.  (Remember the Snowflake Hat?)  And if he can't wear it, then Adele can.  So I'll only have to make one hat for the kids.  But I'd like one for myself because I haven't made one in awhile.  And Chris will need one.  Then there are scarves.  Everybody needs scarves.  And socks - which are a bit time-consuming on account of the thin yarn and tiny needles.  And gloves.  Everyone needs gloves.

Add to this the fact that I am attempting to prepare for a festival by knitting the crap out of some washcloths and hats and whatever else is quick and practical and beautiful, and you can see that I am constantly consumed with thoughts of yarn.  But it's a good type of obsession.  The only issue is the amount of projects I want to knit versus the realistic amount of time I have to work on them.  But I'm okay with that.

However, sometimes I'm a selfish knitter, and can't force myself to stop working on a completely elective and unnecessary sweater for myself even though I have a ton of other practical and necessary things to knit.  In case you were curious, it's the Starbrook Pullover and I love it so much.

These felted mittens were an experiment of sorts.  I began them because I knew they would be fast and I was hoping to be able to knit a few pairs before the festival.  I think they're practical and kind of awesome, you know?  The whole felting process is pretty remarkable to me.  You take something you've knit, that is huge and loose-gauged and ridiculously floppy, and run it through the washing machine a few times and create a solid, warm, strong item.

As with most things I make to sell, I want to keep it.  It is difficult to let go of something I've taken the time to design and fight with.  But ultimately, most of what I make is for other people.  I like seeing people enjoy things I create.  It's rewarding and awesome and puts a huge smile on my face.

So these will go to the sell stack.  And if they don't sell, well, then maybe they'll find their way back to my hands.

(Do you know how hard it is to take a picture of your own hands?
(Also - if anyone is interested in purchasing them - you can find them here! I can also make them in any size or color so feel free to design your own!)

(And if you'd like another look at the shop, you can find it here:  jaimalaya on Etsy.)

Thursday, August 14, 2014

On writing and Hemingway and being a real writer

Yesterday I had to drive to Springfield to interview a couple of boys for a story.  I say 'boys' but they are 20 and 26, which, come to think of it, is really an entirely different generation technologically and musically and grown-up-nessly.  (I like to make up words.  It's my prerogative as a survivor of a liberal arts program.)

But anyway, since I was going to be on the rode for almost an hour, I thought maybe it would be a good time to think about blog posts and possibly putting a bit more thought into what I write, having a theme, avoiding the stream-of-consciousness that normally comprises this space.  I've been wanting to share a story from my youth, because I haven't done that in awhile.  And I'm not talking about a journal entry.  I mean a fresh take on an old story.  I like to tell stories and I think I'm good at it.  But the problem is that I can't find one that I want to tell.

I downloaded a voice-recorder app so I could record whatever came to my mind on writing. And now those thoughts sit on my phone.  I haven't listened to them yet.  I haven't taken notes or made an outline or even began a stream-of-consciousness post on something I suggested for myself that later could be refined and edited and tweaked.  I'm just not feeling it.  I don't know why.  Maybe I haven't found the right story.  Maybe I am out of practice.  Maybe I just don't want to face the stories that would be the hardest to tell but the best to write.

Hemingway said, I believe, to write drunk and edit sober.  I fully understand what he was trying to say.  It's hard to write.  It's hard to put yourself out there to be judged, to share a part of yourself to people who may not appreciate it.  Also - it's extremely difficult to write honestly, to be honest about yourself, your life, your experiences.  Because those experiences are usually shared by other people, who may have a different view of what happened and who may not appreciate your view.  People could be hurt or upset or take offense.  And so the stories stay where they are.  In memory.

And sometimes with writing I become tied up with the words.  It sounds silly, I know.  But I do.  I focus on a word or a sentence that doesn't sound exactly how I want it to, and instead of moving on and coming back to that part, I obsess until none of it makes any sense at all and I can't find my way out.  When you're drunk, inhibitions are loosened, including writing inhibitions.  The words flow, and if they don't, eh, I'll just write something until a good part comes along.  I honestly haven't had a lot of experience with drunk writing, but I understand the sentiment.*

The important thing with writing, I believe, is to put the words on paper.  To have them out to look at and dissect.  Once that's done, then the rest just happens.  Write drunk. Edit sober.

I was speaking with a colleague this week about writing, about how we don't necessarily feel like real writers.  I am not a fiction writer.  I've started many, many stories that fizzled out before I decided to call it quits.  That's not to say that I don't hope to someday be better at it.  I do.  I want to be a real writer.  I just don't know whether I am one.  Or whether I have the time and dedication to be a real one.

And I do believe that to be something other than a blogger or newspaper writer would take more dedication from me.  It would take more work than I have been able to put in.  And I like the personal narrative, which is what I mainly write.  I'm happy that there is a genre now to fit people who like to talk about themselves, and I'm happy that some people are actually making a living talking about themselves.  (I am not.  Though it would be nice.)

My friend sent me a link to a MFA in Creative Writing program that looked amazing.  And part of me really wants to do it.  It's terrifying and scary and completely out of my comfort zone but would also be amazing and something I've secretly always wanted to do.  But I've never before let myself consider that it was an option.  And honestly, right now it isn't an option.  School costs money and I have small children and a job and now is just not the time.

But one day, when I let myself consider that I could be a real writer, maybe then I'll go.

*Although I did write an awesome cover letter drunk one time.  Because the words flowed freely.  I didn't get that job.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

'Let's just say we lost more than we won'

Apparently my body has decided to be an asshole and make me pass out in the shower at the gym.

Okay - I didn't really pass out, but it was only from sheer willpower on my part, and the fact that, as standing up to shower wasn't an option, I compromised by squatting.  And let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've shower-squatted.  Or should it be squat-showered?  Either way - good times.  After I survived that debacle I raced, dripping, to the changing room where I sat down, on account of the darkness rolling in, and begged someone for some food as I just assumed I had low blood sugar.  Thankfully a woman gave me some peanut butter so I was able to eat that (Jif-to-go FTW!) and I felt marginally better.  Still not able to stand for long, but better.  And by the time I left I was able to be upright, though sitting definitely feels much better.  Hooray for sitting!

I'm still fuzzy and still have no idea what happened.  But I'm here.  The running has been going well, actually, except for today.  I can tell a difference and I feel stronger and it's awesome that I can run longer and further than I ever have before.  So hopefully the (almost) passing out is a fluke.

In other depressing news, Adele screamed and screamed when I dropped her off at school this morning.  I was pretty certain it would happen, even though yesterday was so great.  Today, though, she knew what was coming.  She knew enough to be nervous.  I'm still hoping it will be a quick transition.  Though her begging me to take her home - and the fact that the teacher had to pry her off of my let - does not bode well for that.

So, as I am only partially brainful* today let's do another throwback.

10-25-96 (9:00 p.m.) (Fri.)  - 15 years old

Woa, it's been awhile.  Let me see if I can catch you up.  First, I guess, is camp.  I had a blast!  I had roommate issues at first, but with all that aside though, I had fun.  We woke up early & went to 2 different training classes with 2 different coaches - Steve & Paddy.  Paddy, I swear, looked just like George Clooney.  (Modern-day edit - he was also Irish.  SWOON!)  Steve was okay-looking.  They were both big flirts.   After the sessions was lunch & then a game.  Next was supper & then another game.  It was exhausting!  I had a really good time.  I was happy to be going home, but sad to be leaving.

Irish George Clooney.  And a bunch of other people.
Do you recognize yourself?  Also Okay-Looking Steve
 is in the middle of the girls, behind Irish George Clooney.

We had a baby shower for Courtney (my sister) the day after I got home from camp.  I had fun.  Courtney got a lot of nice stuff.  She left soon after that.  It was really sad. 

I guess after that I started soccer practice.  I love soccer!  I had a lot of fun doing that!  I was hoping to lose weight but all I lost was 5 lbs & that was after it was all over.  I probably lost muscle.  Anyway, the Varsity won the District Championship.  The JV didn't do so well.  Lets just say we lost more than we won.  That's okay, though.

School started then.  My teachers are Mrs. Crosslin (Geometry).  (She had Courtney & always asks "now she's expecting isn't she?).  Mr. Shook (World Civ.)  He's nice & I like his class but you never know what chapter you're on.  Mrs. Jones & Mrs. Gentry (chorus) I love to sing!  Mr. Blankenship (Chemistry) I like him alot.  He also had Courtney in class.  For the 1st six wks. I had an 100 in that class!

Well, Courtney had her baby!  It's a boy & his name is Christian Rae Leslie!  He is the cutest thing. I think he looks like me! (Modern-day edit - that cutest thing is now two months away from being 18.  Guess how old that makes me feel!  Also he totally doesn't look like me.)  He was born 10-5-96.  Me & Mom went down on 10-10 & stayed until 10-13.  Christian always has a scowl on his face!

I sang my first solo!  I sang it at the Homecoming Chili supper on 10-18.  I don't think I did so bad.  I was shaking really bad!  I lived though.  The night before I put my hair in little braids for spirit week.  That Thursday was the soccer District Game. 

Well, I guess I've said about all I can say.  I think my pen's running out of ink!

*Made it up.  

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

A day of firsts

It doesn't make any sense, really.

I was all set to have to rip my daughter off of my leg at her first preschool dropoff this morning.  She's a bit of a Mama's girl, and, as I said yesterday, every other time we visited her school there have been tears and partial meltdowns.

She started daycare last March, with mixed results.  Her first week or so was fraught with screaming and tears and general guilt (mine) for going back to work.  And then she was fine for awhile.  And then she had another bad week.  Then the cycle would repeat itself.  In July, of course, she stayed home with me and her brother.  So I kind of figured she'd gotten out of the habit of being away from me, which would make today extra hard.  She's been telling me for weeks that she didn't want to go to school, that she wanted to stay home with me.

I could tell she was nervous last night.  She screamed extra hard at bedtime and fought with me on everything.  I lay down with her, as usual, for about five minutes, but she still was super pissed at me for leaving her bedroom.  (This is normal - but it was the level of her pissed-off-ness that wasn't).

She also woke up around 2:30 in the morning, crying.  I lay down with her again, but thankfully (for all of us) it didn't take long for her to go back to sleep.  And then at 5:30 when I got up I heard her up again.  I didn't encourage her to come downstairs so she went back to sleep.

This morning we dropped Sebastian off first - my Big First Grader who walks into almost any new situation with confidence, even though he admits that he's "a little shy."  The kid amazes me.  Other than the few months of screaming at his new daycare when he was 18 months old we've never had any issues about dropoffs.  He just goes with it, you know?  It's an amazing quality, that ability to not be painfully shy in new situations.  I hope he never loses it.  He's told me over and over again how excited he was to go to school and how much fun it's going to be.

When it was time to drop Adele off we walked to her classroom and she casually held my hand, but not too tight.  And we talked about the playground and all the toys and all the writing and learning she would be doing.  And then we went into her classroom, she hung up her backpack, found a Frozen puzzle and started working it.

Okay then.

I gave her a hug, told her I was leaving and to have a good day.  Then I braced myself for the screaming and clinging that was sure to follow.  It ... didn't.

She told me bye.

I walked out the door.

And that was it.

Until, of course, one of the teachers chased me down all the way to the parking lot because I forgot to sign Adele in.  But even then, when I expected her to cry when she saw me again, she was absolutely fine.  Great even.  She was sitting with another little girl working the puzzle.  When I said goodbye to her, she waved at me and said "Bye mom."  She wasn't overly excited to be there, but she was okay with it.

I didn't cry when I left, though I wanted to.  I don't know what to think about all this.  It made her seem so grown up all of the sudden, so much a little kid.  I don't know if this new-found independence will last, or if it was a one-time thing.  But this is it, you know?  The baby is in school, starting her journey.  Her brother is already well on his own way.

I'm not going to survive them moving out of the house, am I?