Full-Time Job

Would you believe that being a Mom was a full-time job this week?  Of course you would.  I mentioned earlier that this was the last week of school for Lindsay, Campbell. and Phillip.  What I didn't tell you was that Lindsay was graduating the from the fifth grade, and commemorating the move from elementary school to middle school.  Both she and I have been a bit in denial about it.  Transitions are always difficult, but the big ones can be more than we expect.

So this week I decided that whatever needed doing, I would be the mom on hand, ready for action, and that's exactly what I did.  I attended the awards assembly.  I chaperoned the field trip.  I went to the band concert.  I took Lindsay and her special dear friend, Colin out for a special graduation dinner at the restaurant of their choice (along with both kids' families).  I attended graduation.  I came to the talent show assembly, and sat through all the acts, even though mine was the only kid I really wanted to see.  And then I went home, drank a cup of coffee, told myself that it was a good job well done.  And then I sobbed my ever-lovin' eyes out.  Snot bubbles and all.

See, this is the kid I have in mind every time I mention the Smallies:

But this is the way things really are:

Lindsay is the 3rd from the left, clarinet employed (note arrangement of Birkenstock-clad feet for maximum musical efficiency).

Here are Lindsay and Colin, dressed to the teeth and sporting Lobster bibs.  I was thinking that the blackmail opportunity was too good to pass up - putting bibs on fifth-graders.  But it turned out that it also saved their swell outfits from death by drawn butter.  They elected to split a pile of crab legs.  Not much in the world cuter than that:

When you are result-oriented, it's hard to remember that the human being in front of you is the proof of your hard work.  You parents know what I mean.  Here's what I really accomplished this week:

Fifth grade, elementary school, and all that comes with it:  Done and Done.

I'm sure that I could have accomplished more knitting, but at what cost?  Sometimes the thing in front of you is what really matters.  Blink an eye and you'll miss it.

Thank you God, for making me available to do my REAL job this week.  And thank you, Gentle Readers, for allowing me a self-indulgent post about it.

Next week:  Camping in the back yard, Spinning with a dear friend, and teaching in Snohomish.  Same thing we do every day, my friends:  Try to Take Over the World.

Rayon and Rockets

At my house, the only time of year more stressful than Back-To-School in the fall is School-Letting-Out in the spring.  My Teacher husband and my Student children pretty much cease to function in any meaningful way, and we are so awash in school-related commitments that we meet ourselves coming and going. 

How appropriate, then, that while our heads are barely above water socially, the weather here is in full Monsoon, to match.  I know I will be complaining and missing the cool rain when it's miserable in August, but I could do with a bit of brightness at the moment, to cheer me up.

Forecast for Fairview:  Wet, Wetter, Wettest.  Primordial rain forest.  Blah Blah Blah.

I resolve to make my own sunshine:
 

Ain't it sparkly?  It's so slinky and sexy - Absolutely screams "Take Me Out To Dinner!"  I hear and obey.

The day I bought this skein, another lady bought the same yarn in a different colorway.  We helped each other pick, and laughed about who should get which color.  They had only one skein in each.  Because I was traveling, I knew I wouldn't be using mine any time soon and decided to wait till I got home to wind it.  Oh Ye Merciful Yarn Gods, Thou art, occasionally, good to me! 

The other lady elected to have her skein wound by the two gentlemen working at the store.  Why two?  Because by the time all of her 550 slippery, sparkly, rayon yards had backlashed and slipped down around the bases of both swift and winder, that's how many people it took to untangle the mess.  I chatted and knitted, there in the store, for about two hours, watching the horrible process out of the corner of my eye.  Then I heard there was a shoe sale across the street and had to leave on an emergency recon mission (and lo, there were cute clogs).

When I got back an hour later, the would-be winders were still at it, while that poor lady was stranded there waiting to reclaim her yarn.  Here's the best part:  Another customer in the shop mentioned to me that the woman who so patiently was waiting for the guys to hand over her yarn is an actual rocket scientist.  That's right.  She could not only legitimately verify that ball-winding is not rocket science; She probably had worked out about fifty ways to solve the problem while she waited.  But she never said a word, or tried to hurry them up.  Just patiently waited, without any signs of the stress and/or agony I was showing.  And it wasn't even my yarn.  This lady was an island of calm, while I developed an eye twitch.

The winding was still in process when I left the store, fully four hours after the debacle began.  I will remember my friend the rocket scientist for as long as I live when I think about patience.  I should get some of that.  And Soon.

Today I'm going to attempt to wind my own 550 yards of slippery gorgeousness, using only two hands and my own swift and winder.  I'm pretty scared.  O benevolent Yarn Gods, bestow your favor upon this skein and let it tangle not!  I have neither the patience, nor the mental fortitude of a rocket scientist.  If things go sideways, I don't really like my chances.

Pan Handling

Okay, I just have this last project to show you, and then I promise to lay off the kitchen-improvement jag and get back to knitting.  Just one more, and then I'll quit.  Really.

My kitchen facelift consultant (Susie) pointed out that if I were to acquire a pot rack that I could reclaim one whole cabinet's worth of kitchen real estate.  And I wouldn't have to touch every pot we own each time I make an omelet (or, if you are a Smally, a "Mom-elet).  Wait; I asked, incredulous:  You mean that I could just saunter up to said rack, choose the one and only pan I need, and then walk away?  Without handling and re-stacking all its bretheren?  Whence comes this POT RACK you speak of?

Like everything, it's only easy on paper.  For starters, pot racks cost a bleeding fortune.  And if that weren't bad enough, they are ugly.  I mean truly heinous.  Like some cosmic conspiracy to punish the kitchen-challenged for not having enough storage space.  I know they are supposed to be utilitarian, but, Really?  You have a choice (assuming you have a squillion rubles) between styles which could be charitably described as "Inner City Playground" and "Rusty French Chicken"  Neither rang my bell.  But then I stumbled upon this helpful wee article, and resolved to take a whack at making my own.  What could possibly go wrong?

The woodworking part went okay, if you don't consider a pound and a half of wood putty too much to hide the, um, extra screw holes I accidentally put in.  I don't, because I knew the wee beastie would be painted (its own OCD saga of Spackle, Sand, Paint, Repeat).  Ultimately I triumphed, and felt pretty smug that my pot rack would both fit the space I have for it, and look passable doing so.

I retired to the hardware store (the real one, where they employ codgers who mostly know how to do things, and who will bail you out if you bat your eyelashes and pretend you didn't know you needed a miter saw for that).  All I needed was the right fasteners.  Campbell and I cleverly weighed the pots and pans, in addition to the newly finished rack, so as to have an answer when asked how much weight we were proposing to swing from the ceiling.

Would you believe that it's possible to spend $90 on hardware to suspend 42 pounds of cookware from your ceiling?  Me either.  We left the hardware store with a bag of weird fastening bits and our hopes high, if guarded.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, that's automotive spray paint and primer shown above, so that the hardware bits could be made to match my swell kitchen faucet, to which they will be adjacent.  These stoopid pieces of metal had to have about eight thousand individual stickers pried off of them with my fingernails.  Then each one had to be rubbed down with lighter fluid to remove the residual sticker goo.  Then all the pieces went for a relaxing soapy bath, followed by a vinegar rinse.  All so they could then be spray-painted to match my faucet, in no less than four separate steps.  At the end of that, I was ready to give any number of rubles;settle for any commercially-available eyesore; just to have the saga over with.  What overdose of idiot pills made me think that a desire to do home improvements is the same as having home improvement skills?

Have I mentioned that I don't even like the kitchen?  Cooking to me is like being punished for being hungry.  Aside from the convenient beer storage, I find kitchens to be largely overrated.  And then we ran out of beer, somewhere around the time I tried locating the ceiling joists.  For I while, I was convinced there was not a single stick of wood above my kitchen, supporting the upper story.  Stud finders, knocking, and pilot-holes all failed to devine any framing.  I have no idea how I ultimately located infrastructure, but I finally did.  And then I had to fix the mess I had made of my newly-pinted kitchen ceiling.  Spackle, Sand, Paint, Repeat.  I began to pray for the sweet release of death.

My kitchen loathing notwithstanding, I did eventually prevail.  The cookware is suspended, the cabinet reclaimed, and the pans, well and truly Handled.  The rack has been painted the color that my cabinets will ultimately wear too.  Oh, did I mention I had to case the damn window behind the rack, too?  Well I did.  Natch.

Would I recommend trying this yourself?  Not really, unless you suffer from a deplorable excess of self esteem and free time.  I will say that it's nice not having to accept what was available to buy, when I didn't like any of it.  There is a special satisfaction that accompanies getting just the thing you wanted, in spite of the fact that no one had it to offer you.  Not unlike knitting the sweater you wish for, rather than settling for the one you can buy.  Only with more swearing and climbing  on the countertops.  I think.