Why I Did Not Knit Today

1. Dishes

2. Sick Things

3. (Are you ready for this?)

Six.

There were six in the cage. When we returned home there were none in the cage and a rather suspicious plastic portal cover on its side, the victim of a chew out.

(Their mother was the ringleader--how Old World can you get? "The Family" is out and wreaking havoc.)

And Thing Two's bedroom door was OPEN.

We retrieved two in Thing Two's room, one in the living room, and one (of course) in the yarn-based bedroom. (What is it about gerbils and my room??? I'd already suffered one solo baby gerbil escape over Christmas break while the Things were gone to their dad's. Little Master Adventure Gerbil had headed straight for my room, where he curled up under a pillow and slept while I tore the rest of the house apart looking for him. Gah.)

Later...

Just returned from a bathroom capture. One gerbil under the washer, which steadfastly refused to move like the obliging dryer. I had to haul the not-feeling-well Thing One out of his burrow to lever the darn thing up for us. I've now got lint on the legs and bottom of my sweats. But we got the little twit.

Still Later...

The last escapee was definitely cagier than the rest. (Okay, so there is an inherent contradiction in word choice there, but at the mo I really don't give a flip.) It remained on the lam for a good hour and an half after everyone else had been delivered to their plastic prison.

It had not counted on Thing Two with her head cold/virus, though. Seriously, that girl could rival the heralding trumpets of the Second Coming in sheer volume. She perchanced to blow her nose whilst walking through the kitchen. There was a terrified squeak, and out ran the last juvenile delinquent from behind the refrigerator. It took one look up at her, the creator of the cacophony, and promptly turned tail and ran back behind the damn refrigerator.

Thank goodness my kids have enough plastic weaponry leftover from Halloween to arm a small mob of sugar-crazed four year olds. The sword fit under the frig and with judicious waving of it, convinced the miniature fugitive that ducking under the frig itself was not wise. The scythe's handle fit under the stove (the secondary point of evacuation). Thing Two waited at the exit behind the frig and I stationed myself at the space between the stove and the frig. Thing Four, with great enthusiasm, kept the weapons moving.

Stupid rodent figured out just how far in I could reach, though, and calmly sat right beyond that point. But he hadn't counted on human wits, you know? I chivvied a broom back behind him and swept his little butt out into the cold light of...well, light bulbs, okay? It was evening, after all.

Wits though I had, I may have neglected to think things quite through. There is a bit of difficulty, after all, in capturing a rodent on the run when you've two hands on a broom. And so the chase was on. We got him out from behind the baseboard heater in the kitchen and he promptly legged it to the safety of the Christmas tree. (No, I've not yet gotten it down. Thanks so much for pointing that out.)

Then it was a mad dash for the safety of under the sofa. By the time we had tossed the sleeping, sick Thing One off its cushions and upended it, the little criminal made its final dash. To MY room.

I repeat, what is it about my room???

So, back in we went. Baskets of yarn were lifted, and my rovings (nestled in a open box with my drop spindle) were carefully checked through, because if little dude were snacking on my rovings, then his butt would be out in the snow.

(I don't care how cute he looks with over-large, not-yet-grown-into ears.)

After I was VERY certain there was NO rodent in that corner, we turned our attention to the land of under the dresser.

And that's when the (insert word not appropriate for all audience members) jumped me from behind.

His trajectory suggests that he came, indeed, from the corner just checked, and that he came on with an, "It's either them or me, see?" mentality. Personally, I think he wanted the deep purple and royal blue rovings for a nest and would stop at nothing to gain them.

I, of course, was too busy battling for my life to actually capture him, and Thing Two was laughing so hard that I still don't see how she scooped him up. Traitorous girl. She's so on dishes-washing duty for the rest of her natural-born life.

But though she gave the miscreant gerbil a stern baby-talk talking to, I think I was right to be suspicious of him and his murderous tendencies.

Remember the victimized plastic portal cover? Well, Thing Two reinserted the cover and masking taped it in, secure in the knowledge that none of the grown-up gerbils had been able to foil that strategy. What she hadn't counted on was this same little deviant capitalizing on a rough edge to chew a hole THROUGH the portal, one just big enough to wriggle out of.

She's lucky not to have woken up with a pillow-wielding rodent on her chest, ready to smother Trumpet Girl in her sleep. Seriously.

Tomorrow we are going to try to find a pet store closer than an hour away and Girlie is spending some of her hard-earned Christmas money (hmm hmm) on a METAL cage.

Let's hope they can't squeeze out between the bars.

Mass Thing Migration

You know, I think three times back and forth over half the country would be enough in one year's worth of months, don't you?

But no, at barely the 13-month mark we are setting out again, this time so the Things can visit their dad, who has moved back down south.

I told myself that at least we got to drive through a different half of the country this time. (Yeah, I know I was reaching there. Thanks for pointing that out.)

So, Things Two through Four and I packed up

(small bag, clothes; large bag, stuff of a yarnish nature)

and swung south in our own state to pick up Thing One.

When I hit the interstate, the bread van did something interesting. It began to shake. Not the mild, I'm-an-old-car-and-don't-care-for-all-road-surfaces-anymore shake that it did from time to time, but a strange, full-car-body shake. When I hit sixty, though, it disappeared.

Not feeling there was much choice, we drove on.

We stopped in New Hampshire to pick up our other co-driver, and Thing One was so taken with the beauty of the mountains that he asked for my camera, then said he took only two shots because there were too many buildings at the Highland Center and he didn't want those in the pictures. (And this is the Thing who thinks that nature is something best viewed through a window. Go figure.)

While we waited for the co-driver to get off work, we participated in a gingerbread house building contest (nice Christmas present--thanks!)

Thing One helped in the usual teenage fashion

but the other three Things went to town.

We all agreed that our gingerbread person (who was almost as tall as her house) looked severely deranged, though. And thus it was here that Thing One added his contribution.

(Every pyscho gingerbread person needs a butter knife to guard against home invasion by hordes of hungry children, after all).

Once that was complete, we hopped in the van and did what we always do on long car trips. We talked. We didn't talk. We read. We watched movies and listened to music and books on tape/CD.

And we crafted. I didn't get any pictures because I was too busy either knitting or driving, but Thing Two sewed buttons on snowpeople and completed the woven pipe cleaner sunhats she was making them, while Thing Three knit on a snowperson beach towel (Thing Four gets car sick easily, so exempted himself from this activity).

I knit on the red hat hat and its accessories. (Sherry was nice enough to model it for me when I returned. See?)

About the only time I put down my needles (apart from some reading and lots of driving) and did nothing was when we were in the eastern part of Virginia. There was something about the feel of the landscape, even from a van window, that just stilled me. It's the sort of place where you would go to sit beside the tomb or burial mound of your ancestors, silent, and then from which would depart as noiselessly as you came.

I want to go back there someday. I want to soak in the history of the whites and of the people who came to be there because of them and of the people who were there before them. I want to find out the name of the plant that was in all the roadsides, and someday try to capture its winter color of beige with tones of pink and orange in a dye pot (I still regret that I was "sensible" not to mention schedule fretting, and did not get a picture on the way out, as it was dark on the way back). And I want to go with someone who will walk silently with me.

Obviously, this was not the trip for any of the above, but I loved even the feeling I received from just passing through.

We did not stay long in eastern Virginia. Instead, we drove westward through some states that were longer on their east-west axises than they were tall running north-south, met the Things dad one state away from where he currently resides, and turned right around and headed back to the lovely snows of the north.

The drive back was pretty much identical to the drive down, with the exception of fewer people in the vehicle and a lot less gear (which meant that I no longer felt like a sardine with claustrophobia issues).

(And with the exception of this hotel hallway, the like of which we most definitely did not encounter on the way out. Not something you really want to step foot in at 2 a.m. I mean seriously, who the h--- did the decorating??)

There was also more shake. Definitely more.

We tried to alleviate the bad mojo of this by stopping in Chilhowie, VA at a Tastee Freeze. I had never seen a Tastee Freeze outside of Blairstown, Iowa. (And it had been a very big deal when my Great-Aunt Helen would take my cousin and me down to Main Street so we could be handed the cone of our choice through the tiny building's service window.)

This Tastee Freeze was LOTS bigger. So we went in rather than going through the drive through--anything to leave the shake for a bit--and, while being served by employees whose vowels rolled and bounced in enthusiastic waves, I discovered that in all those years, the Tastee Freeze's menu hadn't much changed. Fried food and soft-serve ice cream.

Hmm. I think that wasn't the right mojo. Because the shake got worse. Lots worse. As in the -cup-holder-routinely-popped-out-of-its-slot worse.

By the time we got back to New Hampshire, I could only go either 30 or 85 without the vehicle shaking so much that it felt as if I was receiving a rather violent full body massage (though on the up side, this did keep my shoulder from locking up).

I didn't find this reassuring, and when I rather hesitantly mentioned the lack of fun involved in driving a different route home in the dark with bad headlights (don't ask) in a car that was intent on shaking my fillings loose, my co-driver sighed and admitted that he didn't like the thought either and would follow me home.

That meant it was once more to the couch, dear friend, for you. And then stuck 1) eating eggs that were spiced in a way you didn't care for and 2) with a six-hour drive back home the next day rather than a three due to the forecasted storm hitting a day late--definitely no fun.

Sorry, dude. Two cool Chanukah gifts headed your way, okay? (Late--I mean, I'm not even making my own holiday's deadline--but headed.)

Somewhere About This Time

I decided existence might be interesting. (Well, a couple of decades ago of somewhere about this time, if we must be accurate).

And, somewhere close to this date, my family and friends proved me right.

So thanks, all, for seriously dark dark chocolate

for rising to the challenge of sending me one rose for every year I'd been alive and for sending them to me at work,

(Seriously wondered how you were going to do that, J. By the time you add my years, it would've have been freaky expensive.)

for mini-cupcakes,

free munchies,

free lunchies (that's my co-worker in crime and our leading henchlady boss),

and cards and happy birthdays sung at me and even emails from the students I've pestered endlessly about missed meetings.

And thanks to a sister and mum (well, and bro-in-laws and dads, too) who demanded that money spent be splurged on myself, allowing me to get fiction and non-fiction books (the Stephen King bought in honor of the long tradition my sis had of buying me one every year until he changed his publishing schedule--thank goodness he changed it back or it wouldn't have felt like a proper birthday),

a COOL sock knitting book,

and nifty embroidery stand and equally nifty dogwood-patterned pillowcases to embroider, which weirdly matched a dogwood-patterned throw I had received before moving to Minnesota, and which had been boxed up for so long that I only remembered it when I unpacked after moving back.

(Actually, the embroidery stand is nothing but trouble. There it sits, calling to me, when it knows darn good and well that I am buried under Christmas crochet and knitting projects. Why do I always get the urge to embroider in November?? Why can't the urge hit in July for once?)

And most of all, thanks to my Things, who woke early to pan fry my English muffins

so they would be warm and crispy, rather than toaster dry,

(I mean, c'mon, you didn't expect me to pause to take a picture of them, did you? They would have gotten cold with as long as it takes me to get an even slightly unembarrassingly bad picture.)

a group-drawn story of a puppy and his yarn ball,

and, with the help of a sneaky friend who was tall enough to have plastic which allowed for the magic of online ordering (coughjedediahcough) this completely cool, completely imaginative book, which, while mostly knitting, also has some crochet.

(Now I have to knit a garden for someone this summer. Seriously.)

And last but not least, for a Thing-decorated cake that had so many sprinkles on the top that the knife made rasping sounds when I cut the cake.

Everyone who moans about turning 40? You are all so wrong. As Thing 3 says (every year, in fact) "This was the best birthday ever."

And it was. I can't remember such a happy birthday in a long, long time.

Thanks and love, everyone.

So Maybe The Blog (Okay, The Blog's Writer) Was A Tad Optimistic

I never realized how long ten minutes could be, until the computer I was using froze on one screen for that long. Repeatedly.

It all began when Things 1-4 began their summer bacchanal of fast food and parade candy,



endless days at the pool



and nights way later than thought possible in winter.



Throw in some cool designer clothes at sale prices their mother can never find and fried retinas from so many movies and video games,



and their little lives are more or less complete.

Yes, that's right. They'd gone to the grandparents.



The mother, left on her own and about to begin looking for houses, was feeling a bit odd. How does one cook for just one person? A friend of hers from work suggested, that, as her Things were gone, and the friend's teen Thing was also gone, the lone mommy should come and hang out. Then there would be two for which to cook (there hasn't been really; we were optimistic there) and lone mommy could explore the northern and western burbs as well.

Sounded good. Actually, it's been great. Lone mommy has been having a blast. (Note to children: never leave your parents unattended.)

However, the internet connection left a little to be desired. It froze so much lone mommy started checking the weather to see if a strange front was moving through. And that was just on email. Forget opening files or posting pictures.

No problem, lone mommy thought. She'd use the weekend time to keep up with the blog.

Ha. Like that worked. Enter lone mommy trying to catch up with 183 unanswered emails, field calls from Things who oddly enough thought her still in charge even when hours away and being unable to find excuses to stay home when her friends said, "It must be lonely without the kids. Why don't we______?" all while making time to get lost in unfamiliar burbs because she was trying to sneak peaks at what's for sale in areas she fancied?

Notice the blog didn't even make it into that last sentence, let alone any of the weekend time lone mommy tried to give it. Nap time at work was out as well, because 1) work was fuzzy about how many jpgs can be downloaded on their computers and 2) one tiny guy is not real into napping. So nap time has devolved into one shining moment of respite while he briefly snoozes, followed by an hour and a half of playing let's-find-ways-to-keep-Cash-on-his-cot-and-quiet-so-everyone-else-can-sleep. A most thrilling game. Really. (The staff strongly suspects this child's inherent adorableness is a survival trait given to him by the angels in order to offset his amazing capacity for mischievousness, but that's another story...).

But now lone mommy has narrowed down the housing options and has things like appointments with a (gasp) realtor. (He has GPS. That is good.) So here she is with weekend time AND a happy internet connection (it pays to offer to water the plants of people who are gone). She has picture permission from one yarn website, public domain clip art, and a blog-in-waiting in the Drafts folder. She's even finding time to knit and crochet again (amazing what an I-must-get-this-stuff-done-before-we-go-to-visit deadline will do for one).

Exit optimism. Enter posts.

(Well, she hopes anyway. Especially since this little blog is a master of bugging her when ignored.)