Love Letter

My Beloved Blog,

Happy Fifth Blogoversary!  Words can't describe all that you mean to me, but I'll have to try, because you have no thumbs and wouldn't know what to do if I gave you yarn.

When we started out together five years ago, I didn't even have a camera other then the crappy one in my flip phone.  You never let on how bad the photos were. 

When we first met, I barely had the guts to post at all, but you patiently reminded me with your readership stats that if I wanted to reach the knitters, I had better show up with something to say.  When you told me that we had 10 real subscribers to our rss feed, I knew that I'd be devoted to you till the end. 

You never bug me when I fail to post.  You never judge me when I say something dumb.  You help me remember what I was doing last summer, and last week, and yesterday.  You gently remind me how far I've come, and how far I still have to go.

There have been losses, and successes, and failures, and hilarity.  All the things we hope will fill a well-lived life.  But mine have the great good fortune to be shared with the Gentle Readers.

Oh Blog, if I could have guessed at the blessings the Gentle Readers have brought to my life, I would have started you much earlier!  Back when we began, I thought that Blogs were like belly buttons, and everybody had one.  What you taught me, though, is that there really are people who want to read what I write, see what I knit, and share their lives and knitting with me.  What better discovery could there be? 

Blog, Dear Blog, you've made me a better writer, a better knitter, and a better person.  You've helped me make new friends, and rediscover old ones.  You've become a full-fledged member of my family.  We say things like "I don't know, maybe you should ask the Blog;" and "Wait till I tell the Blog!", and my personal favorite: "Mom, look what I made! Can we put it on the Blog?".

In a way, It seems like I've known you for longer than five years.  You are the sparkly pink diary with a golden lock and key that I never had.  You are the place where I can put it all, with the assurance that it lands in the capable hands of friends.

I Love You, Blog,

Your Knitter

One Blind Mouse

CLICK HERE to knit this cute little mouse.


Not to worry, Gentle Readers; I haven't gone missing, only sub-radar. There's a situation with my vision that makes everything I like to do (knitting, driving, blogging, knitting) temporarily challenging.

Turns out I have the left eye of someone much older and less healthy than I am, for reasons which escape my doctors. The official diagnosis is THIS, if you're interested in such things, and if you're not (neither am I), the short version is that one of the veins in my retina is blocked, which caused swelling and hemmoraging, and well, eww. The cure is just to wait until it goes away, and if it won't then there might be things like injections and lasers in my future.

For the moment, though, I'm resting my eyes as much as possible. Which isn't much because there are hats to be knitted, a book to be written, and a whole bunch of other things which require looking and seeing. The usual end-of-school maelstrom of Field Day, Junior Rose Parade, banquets, dances and dinners to attend has been cranked up to eleven by the fact that Campbell is graduating from Elementary School and Lindsay is graduating from Middle School at the same time.

Come to think of it, no wonder I'm bleeding out my eyes.

I'll be posting as much as possible, but in the meantime, knit on, and try not to blow any blood vessels.  I'll do the same.

Screen Test

Our sliding patio door is actually the main point of entry to our house, because the driveway and garage are behind us, on an alley. As such, the patio door has hosted no less than 4 bargain-brand screen doors since we moved here. They are crappy when new, and rage-inducing when old. Combined with Phillip's complete lack of mechanical nuance, it's a recipe for two escaped Scotty dogs and a house full of bugs.

Last September, Phillip won his annual summer-long fight with the screen door.  He won by flinging it, frisbee-style, as far as it would go into the back yard.  The thing had leapt from its track for the ten-millionth time and bent, decisively, in the middle of its sub-par frame.  He turned to face me, breathing harder than was strictly necessary, and announced that we, as a family, were done with the screen door.

I calmly suggested that a family without air conditioning a might experience difficulty with that setup, and extracted a promise that we would acquire a new and improved screen door, Next Spring.  It was almost Fall, after all, and I'm a girl who knows how to time my battles.

As the person most likely to notice when the weather is getting warmer (probably because I'm usually sitting under a pile of WOOL), I wasted no time once the season changed.  I was on the phone to the Mobile Screen Door Installation Unit before you could say "Relative Humidity".  I ordered up the beefiest, industrial-strength, hard-core, pet-and-husband-proof, kickass screen door they sell.  I was so excited, I announced the forthcoming blessed event at dinner that night:  "Guess what, family Huff," I said. "I've called the screen door people and we are getting the very best one they have, next Tuesday!"  The crowd went wild.

The door was installed just as promised and it is, in a word, perfect.  It swishes open at the touch of a finger.  It lets in air.  It keeps out bugs.  Even the Scotties love it, preferring to nap in the doorway where they can smell all the outside smells.

Phillip came in that night.  Through the new screen door.  I said "Notice anything different?"  He hates it when I ask that.  He looks like a lobster that has smelled drawn butter.  I can hear the gears grinding in his head. "Did she do something to her hair? Is this an anniversary? Are any walls not where they used to be?" He runs through the litany of hugely obvious things he has missed in the past, trying hard not to panic. 

"Um...don't tell me,"  He opens the screen door, goes outside and spies the pot of herbs I planted three days ago. "OOooh!  Basil!  Looks great, sweetie."  He comes back in through the partially open screen door, closes it behind him and asks, "Was that not it?"  I smile serenely and call Lindsay in to watch.  Dude truly has no idea, and I think I need a witness. 

"Lindsay, Daddy's having trouble seeing what's new around here," I say.  She collapses into a giggling fit.  I join her, unable to stand it anymore.  Phillip opens the new screen door again, closes it behind him, and wanders around outside, looking for what might be new or out of place.  "Is it the flower pots over there?  You emptied them out?"  Lindsay and I are now immobilized by laughter and unable to respond.  He opens the new screen door, comes in, closes it behind him and retreats to his favorite spot behind the laptop.  "You people are just mean, you know that?"

Yeah, we know that. 

I finally gave in and pointed out the new door, once my breathing had returned to normal.  He had opened and closed it no less than 4 times, and never registered its existence.  As if we hadn't chased after at-large Scottish terriers only last week.  As if we haven't been squishing bugs like people in a tent for many, many days. 

My husband is a very smart guy.  He teaches other peoples children to be smart, too, every single day.  He is aware of many, many things.  I sometimes cannot tell what those things are.  Some things just don't make it through the Phil-ter.  It's like there's some sort of mesh device, keeping out all but the most pertinent information.  Yeah, some type of ventilated surface, mounted on a track around his brain.  Almost like a...

Never Mind.