Knitting Socks or Learning to live with Addiction

The Purple Stocking by James Jebusa Shannon

"There may be a metaphor in creating something for the feet that in turn inspires all kinds of mind wanderings, or it may be that the Zen 'beginner's mind' works perfectly with socks so that I am just there, observing and seeing what occurs. For every time I do knit socks, some new pattern of thought emerges."

~ Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity 2007

As a knitter, I had never quite been able to grasp the attraction of knitting socks. There are knitters on the internet who devote entire blogs just to the knitting of socks. For the life of me I just couldn't justify all that work, and expense, (most sock yarn is $15 a skein which equals one pair) when you could just go out and buy them in bulk. And four needles? All tiny, and double pointed, and no matter how I tried I couldn't seem to get the hang of using them, and what about this fifth needle that came in the pack, what was it for? Loss prevention? Lacy socks, cabled socks, socks with incredible designs. Why? I figured they were all nuts and swore I'd never do it. I resolutely refused to give in to the lunacy that was sock knitting.

And then a good friend wanted help with her knitting. I helped her get back on track, and she was soon able to complete several stagnating projects and some new ones as well. But, I kept avoiding that pair of half finished socks languishing in her basket. More than anything, she really wanted to knit socks. It came down to a choice of upholding my principals and the all-mighty dollar. She was eager to learn to knit, and I had the ability to teach. Avarice won out. On the sly I began to examine socks and sock patterns. I shyly asked for help from one of those "crazy sock knitters." I was welcomed with open arms into the fold. With the click of a mouse button I purchased and downloaded a highly recommended beginners sock pattern and my first ball of sock yarn.

Sweet Tart Socks, Lana Grossa Meilenweit Fantasy #4833, US size 0 dpn

As I cast on that fateful first sock I kept telling myself I would not succumb. I was doing this for educational purposes only. Turns out that's like saying you only use alcohol medicinally. Half way through that first sock I had to admit it was rather fun. Turning the heel was downright euphoric. After picking up and knitting the gusset I was hooked. The second sock and then the second pair were cast on without a second thought.

Juicy Citrus Socks, Trekking XXL #158, US size 0 dpn









Elliot loves them too

My complete fall from grace came when I uncovered the dirty little secret of the sock knitting world. Self-patterning yarns. Those socks of intricate designs and multitudes of color I'd been admiring were fake. They were not painstakingly knit in a minute fair isle design, the yarn did it all by itself! Color after luscious color rolls off the ball as you knit. Every row brings new designs; new color combinations. What rapture. What wild abandon. I couldn't stop. Just one more row. Just one more color. What entrancing design will happen next? I've never been a knitter so attached to my work that I carry it with me. Now I carried it everywhere. I couldn't bare to be separated from it. Those four little needles became natural appendages. All my other knitting had been cast aside in favor of socks.

The Frozen North socks, Opal "Berries" #195, US size 0 dpn

The hypnotic rhythm of that endless spiral round and round. Complete peace and relaxation of the mind. Is this ZEN? The mind travels to exotic lands where the air smells of spices, or a damp sandy beach where rollers break at my feet. Sock knitting also allows me to indulge in my favorite hobby, watching films. It also keeps me from eating, because I can't let go of the needles long enough to put anything in my mouth.

Balls of sock yarn began to arrive in the mail and my knitting basket began to bulge alarmingly. Trekking XXL, Meleinweit Fantasy, Kaffe Fasset, Socks That Rock, Opal, Lana Grossa. Brown paper wrappers covered in German. I ordered yarn from the UK and even France. The family was beginning to ask questions. I started stashing the boxes of yarn and opening them in secret.

the sock stash

"Sock yarn may be the knitter's version of methadone. It's what you buy when you don't really want to buy a lot of yarn, or when you just need to take the edge off. It's dangerous, easy, and comes in irresistible self-patterning varieties that make you feel clever."-Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, Knitting Rules, 2006


I reluctantly began to admit to myself that I had a problem. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I had become what I had once abhorred. A SOCK KNITTER. The real problem was, I didn't want a cure, I didn't want to stop. So, like any junkie, I did exactly what my dealer had done for me. I hooked another innocent.

I drew Beth in with my tantalizing descriptions of the thrill of heel turning. The orgasmic rush as the colors ran through your fingers and twisted themselves into kaleidoscopes of color before your eyes. As bait I bought her first pair of sock needles and a ball of yarn. I gently lay the Doctors Without Borders sock yarn from The Unique Sheep in her lap, and then I set the hook. "Fifty percent of your purchase goes to Doctors Without Borders", I mewed innocently. I used her free trade tree hugging environmental activism against her. Elisabeth received gift cards for yarn as birthday gifts (my suggestion, of course) She spent every dime on sock yarn.


Beth's Frank Miller socks, The Unique Sheep Verve-Doctors Without Borders, US size 1 dpn



Beth's Greek Socks in progress















Yesterday, Elisabeth showed me the new sock yarn that had just come in at One Planet Yarn..."it comes from a small family run farm, lovely happy sheep, everything is organic...don't the colors look just like hibiscus flowers?"

Knitting socks is like crack cocaine. One hit and your hooked.

On the needles: Bird Nest socks (the yarn reminds me of pale blue eggs and twiggy nests), Trekking XXL #82, US size 0 dpn

"Socks are a miracle of engineering. When you knit a sock, you're doing it the same way it has always been done. You're connected with knitters over the last 700 years, all making socks and watching them wear out."

-Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, Knitting Rules 2006

-Tigerlily

Brenda Starr The Movie

Just as Brenda Starr the comic strip went from the newspaper to the big screen, our own Brenda Starr has been given a promotion of her own. Elisabeth will now have a weekly column called the Geek Beat on Cinematical. com. The column will appear starting tomorrow and be a weekly Tuesday feature. She has also been asked to write theatrical and DVD film reviews for Cinemablend.com. Details to follow shortly. I think it's safe to say she is officially a free-lance journalist.

Brenda will also be attending San Diego Comic Con this year as a working member of the press. This should get Ms. Starr some behind the scenes peeks, inclusion in interviews if only as a tag along, and maybe invites to some exclusive events. Plans at this point are sketchy but Lara Croft will probably be making an appearance for some on the floor interviews with costumed attendees.


Though July seems eons away, (especially when we had snow for Easter) in reality it's a mere 12 weeks. Since Brenda Starr must be prepared for all eventualities, from a black tie dinner to tomb raiding, we've already begun shopping in anticipation. From gun belts to cocktail dresses, we plan to have it covered.

All this has of course turned our Brenda's world quite upside down. Living a vampire lifestyle in ones pajamas and suddenly finding yourself needing a research assistant, personal shopper, fashion stylist, receptionist, personal trainer and dog walker all at the same time can leave one feeling a bit stressed. Elisabeth has decided what she needs is a social secretary to organize her life. If only she could find her very own Miss Pettigrew. (BTW, Brenda gave Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day 10 out of 10)



Unfortunately, since Brenda has yet to see her first paycheck, and she doesn't as of yet have a sugar daddy, I'm afraid the part of Miss Pettigrew may end up being played by me. I have to admit, the resemblance is uncanny. Middle aged lady in moth eaten coat and dress of funereal colors, frizzy hair of nondescript shade and lack of makeup of any kind. Yep, that would be me.
I get queasy just contemplating having to attend a cocktail party at Brenda's side. Do I dare hope that I might be treated to a makeover before been thrust into the whirlwind social life of Brenda Starr ace reporter? I've begun doing yoga and eating nothing but celery sticks dipped in Vitamin Water in the hopes that after Sarah and her fellow students at beauty school finish with me I might look more like this:


And, just so you don't think the rest of the family has dropped off the planet, here's the scoop:

Sarah is now out of classroom and graduated to the floor where she gets to work on real people. If you're looking for a cheap haircut, color job, manicure or pedicure over the next six months, LMK. She got a 96 on her pass out test! She doesn't really enjoy what she's doing much, but just keeps telling herself its a step in the right direction. In the few minutes time she has to herself between work and school, she's working on designing some new costumes.

Mike, was invited to speak at the Homeland Defense Journal Conference on School Safety and Violence in Schools. His power point presentation focused on Columbine. He was such a hit he was asked back the following day to sit on a panel with the officers who handled the recent shootings at Virgina Tech. He has been contacted by a senator asking if he'd be willing to testify before a senate sub committee studying school emergency preparedness plans and cooperation between school officials and law enforcement.

I have the most boring life of the bunch, forever destined to sit on the outside looking in while knitting endless pairs of socks. Frankly, all this elbow rubbing with studio execs, celebrities congressman and senators gives me a salted slug stomach so I'm probably better off where I am. If you seen the animated film Flushed Away, just picture me as one of the screaming slugs, but with frizzled hair and dowdy clothing who occasionally bursts into song and answers to the name Guinevere Petttigrew. *(also see slugs on the BBC show Creature Comforts from the producers of Wallace and Grommet)

-Tigerlily

Brenda Starr

If this was 1942, and my house was the bustling newsroom of some big city paper, and if people still used typewriters instead of laptop computers, the clickitty clack of keys and the ding of a returning carriage would be vibrating the walls. We have a reporter in the house. The new millennium kind of reporter that writes for the fast paced world of entertainment news on the internet. Our very own Brenda Starr.



After six months out of work, Elisabeth has a job at last, writing for Cinematical.com, a web magazine operated by MovieFone and AOL. She is watching the wires until the wee hours, then sleeps until noon, and hits them again for the late breaking midday news. Beth is the snarky new girl geek on the beat, and already her articles have drawn in several hundred new readers to the site and generated the second highest comments in February. She wrote about Viggo Mortenson being snubbed at the Oscars for Eastern Promises and how Nim's Island with Gerard Butler will be helping to educate kids on coral reefs and living green. Wolverine and Wall*E and are just part of the everyday grind at the keyboard.


"So Brenda, tell us what's it like being an ace reporter?"
"It sucks, Daphne Dimples is making my life miserable."

It isn't much and the pay doesn't even qualify as poverty level, but its a start. I hope its the beginning of something bigger and better. I'd love to see her entertainment articles in Rolling Stone, People, or the NY Times some day.

Will there be a mystery man with an eye patch in our Brenda's future? I'd prefer two eyes of the blue-green variety, but that's just me....

-Tigerlily

Apple Blossom Time

This beauty was picked up on the discount bulb pile at Walmart. The bulb had sprouted in the box and was curled and rather anemic, but I brought her home anyway. Its been slow going, but here she is at last in all her Apple Blossom amaryllis beauty. Its a bit early to be thinking about wedding season, but my mother loved the arrival of apple blossoms in spring, and the lyrics to this song floated to the surface of my memory.

I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time
(Neville Fleeson/Albert Von Tilzer

I'm writing you, my dear,
Just to tell you,
In September, you remember
'Neath the old apple tree
You whispered to me
When it blossomed again, you'd be mine.

I've waited until I could claim you,
I hope I've not waited in vain.
For when it's spring in the valley,
I'm coming, my sweetheart, again!

I'll be with you in apple blossom time,
I'll be with you to change your name to mine.

One day in May
I'll come and say:
"Happy the bride the sun shines on today!"

What a wonderful wedding there will be,
What a wonderful day for you and me!
Church bells will chime
You will be mine in apple blossom time.

I'll be with you in apple blossom time,
I'll be with you to change your name to mine.

-Tigerlily

Domestically Inclined

Back in October, I discovered the delight of Yarnstorm, a wonderful blog written by Jane Brocket. I fell instantly in love on my first visit. Bright, funny, beautiful photographs and artful design. I just know Jane is a kindred spirit. And, if we did not live in different countries, I have no doubt we could become bosom friends. Jane knits. Jane quilts. Jane bakes. Jane gardens. Jane makes quince jelly and keeps three hens in her backyard that cluck around her feet as she hangs out the laundry. Jane revels in her domesticity and isn't afraid to write about it. Jane Brocket makes me feel really good about myself.

"Domesticity is not synonymous with housework. In fact, I think there is far too much media bossiness about cleanliness and tidiness these days, and nowhere near enough celebration of the joys of homemaking...live and let live, use the space instead of attempting to subjugate it to our wills, and get on with doing what needs to be done in order to make enough time to enjoy the more pleasurable gentle arts." -Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007


Jane Brocket's book, The Gentle Art of Domesticity was released in October. It took a terrible ripping in the London Telegraph. I immediately rushed over to amazon.co.uk and bought myself a copy. Take that British press! It took me more than a month to read. Not because it is some massive tome, but because I savored each and every page. It is essentially her blog put to the page, but more of it. This is a lady who shares my heart. She is me, but not afraid to talk about it. How many times have I heard the "you have way too much time on your hands" comment, or "well, you can do that because you don't work." I've been bouncing this kind of thinking off my domestic goddess armor for a very long time. Now some Tribune journalist says my enjoyment of the domestic arts - baking, sewing, knitting and gardening is anti-feminist?!

"Just as many aspects of domesticity are often derided as old-fashioned, quaint or downright useless, so the skills and practicalities associated with it have fallen out of fashion. Despite the efforts of many contemporary knitters, quilters, stitchers, crocheters, crafters and bakers, the fact remains that the gentle arts are frequently regarded as mildly eccentric, touchingly nostalgic and outmoded..."-Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007

With luck maybe all those letters to the editor will force the message home that real women knit, and cook and sew and lead brownie troops and do carpools to soccer practice and hundreds of other things each and every day while holding down jobs. My choosing to be a full time mom doesn't mean I'm wealthy, or have any more time to devote to other pursuits than a woman working outside the home. I don't have domestic help who clean the toilets or do the laundry or cook our meals. As my mother would say, I am chief cook and bottle washer. I'm the laundress and doggy daycare. If I choose to express my creativity via baking or quilting and in turn provide warmth and food for my family I am not setting women's rights back 100 years. Martha Stewart was the first person to bring home keeping out of the closet and Jane Brocket makes it feel like an art form. She makes me want to go out and buy a t-shirt emblazened with some kind of catchy phrase like Domesticity is an art, or Domestic Feminist and proud of it.

..."Embedded in the gentle arts is a slyly subversive streak that encourages free thought, individuality, creative self-expression, imaginative thought processes and not a little self-determinism..." -Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007

I'd always known there were others like me, there just weren't any nearby to commiserate with. People whose need to create a home, care for family, and release their artistic talents in ways that celebrate this love is as important to their survival as oxygen. Blogging changed all that. Suddenly I wasn't strange, or odd, there were thousands of us out there in the world. I blog in the hopes of reaching others who share my interests. I blog to connect with extended family and distant friends. I also blog to entertain. My life isn't perfect. There are plenty of things I don't say. There is a very real and gritty life that happens in between all those posts. I write what I'm comfortable with, choosing to focus on my creative endeavors and the humorous and upbeat aspects of daily life. I allow myself a little creatively licensed escapism.

My fellow artist and blogger Nancy summed it up better than I ever could....."To make the argument that by engaging in the domestic arts we've given up feminist ideals is intellectually flaccid. What's more feminist than having the choice to create as you desire, be it a post-modern political treatise or an heirloom quilt? What's more feminist than finding one's voice in an open medium? Isn't that what the movement was about? The freedom to be comfortable as women and to follow our interests, whatever they may be? I think we'd do much better to focus on women around the world without choices than to spend so much time picking at each other..."

Tigerlily is coming out of the closet. Yes, I am domestically inclined. It's what I am and what I do, and I love it. I knit, I bake, I sew, I quilt, (I try to garden but stink at it, but I would love to have chickens) I love making my home a home and I feel very lucky to have a job I love so much, and thank you Jane Brocket for your wonderful blog and being a kindred spirit.

"The gentle arts are all about comfort. They are soothing, relaxing, consoling and caring. " -Jane Brocket, The Gentle Art of Domesticity, 2007





The orange tea cozy was knitted in Cascade 220, tangerine heather yarn. The leaves came from Nicky Epstein's Knitted Flowers book, and the beads are Gutermann.

-Tigerlily

The Hamsters On Me

Just when you think life couldn't get any bleaker. When you couldn't possibly have a worse day than yesterday. When your heart feels like it was ripped from your chest, torn to bits and then shoved back in again. When someone tells you that if they'd had the choice of being born they would have said no. When the only thing worse than life right now would be if you were dying or dead and even that has a positive slant to it because at least all this crap making you miserable would be someone else's problem. When you have told God that you don't plan on communicating with Him any longer because it has become quite obvious no one is listening. Because if someone was listening they would at least have the decency to acknowledge your presence. Right?

Then someone out in the great beyond sends you this: Flying Hamsters
(it's nice to know God has a sense of humor)

best score so far 233



-Tigerlily

Peace Weavers

Beth and I were on our own one night last week, and having watched Eastern Promises found ourselves in a Viggo Mortenson aka Nicolai cold, brooding, Russian mood. Since we're short on Viggo movies, and it was cold and snowy outside, Dr. Zhivago seemed like an appropriate substitute. With blankets to fend off the harsh Russian winter, we curled up with our knitting and steaming cups of tea to sniffle once more at the romance of Yuri and Lara. I'd been saving a recipe for Cranberry Pavlova for just the right time and what is more Russian than Pavlova? Ok, the dessert comes from Australia but it was named after a Russian ballerina. The perfect choice for a night spent in Varykino. The crimson tide of juice and cranberries ran down the sides and into the crevices of the meringue like the folds of the Russian flag. The meringue lasted just long enough for Sarah to make it home from work for her share and then dissolved like cotton candy.

Ever since she wrote her senior thesis on the role of women in Anglo-Saxon literature, Elisabeth has been calling me a peace-weaver. In Anglo-Saxon, "fri'webba" means peace-weaver. The term was used to describe a woman who married someone from an enemy tribe in order to establish peace between her family and his. The marriage was a political arrangement to hopefully end hostility between warring tribes. Some historians think peace weaving was one of a woman's most important roles, and that men consulted them about preventing war. Women were the weavers of all the fabrics used for clothing and furnishings, and word weavers, the diplomats responsible for weaving the fabric of society. They used words and gifts and acts of kindness to weave peace. I like that very much.



Our little house of peace weavers has been very busy weaving its own kind of peace. Our free trade baskets (got them at Sunflower Market) are full of yarn and overflowing all over the family room. The end tables hold pattern sheets, pencils, scissors, post its for counting and coasters of tea cups. Needles of every shape and size are rolling loose, stabbed into balls or stuck in couch cushions. Baby booties, scarves, tea cozies, socks and shawls grow from our knitting needles each evening while we three peace weaving women watch movies and weave away the winter evenings.


A friend of Elisabeth's recently had a baby girl. Her Daddy is a huge Lord of the Rings fan, so what could be a more appropriate gift than Hobbit feet? Knit from an obnoxious peach pink for skin color and topped with long brown hair, these proudfoot booties can't help but make you laugh.



Hobbits are alive and well and living in America.

The Shoalwater shawl is finished at last and spends most evenings hugging my shoulders and keeping out the chill.





The undulating pattern of waving scallops imitate the soft ripples of water. It was knitted with sea wool from Fleece Artist in the Capri colorway. Sea wool is actually a combination of wool and sea cell, a fiber made from sea weed.

With all the peace weaving going on, politics naturally come up in the discussions. Health care, the environment, and the war in Iraq loom large. We need a change but who to choose? The front runners are no choice at all in either party. Too many carefully chosen words, no real answers, and they all sound the same. We became intrigued with Dennis Kucinich. If you haven't heard of him, it isn't surprising. We found him through Viggo Mortenson's web site, Perceval Press, http://www.percevalpress.com. If you've never been there, you owe it to yourself to visit. Artists, poets, photographers, current events, its all here in a softly focused, quietly powerful site.

You can find out about Dennis Kucinich on your own without my help. The part of this story that really bothers me, is that he was banned from the televised debates. First ABC, then MSNBC followed suit. Even after a Nevada judge said Kucinich should be allowed to debate, the network insisted on taking the matter to the supreme court. Since the man has little chance of making it onto the ballot, let alone becoming president of the United States, why go so far to quiet his voice? Unless that voice is one you fear being heard by the American public. Just as the newspapers print only what they want me to read, the networks televise only what they want me to see and hear. It is my right as an American citizen to choose, not the media. The networks say the smaller candidates don't have the numbers. They can't get the numbers if they can't be heard.

This kind of behavior is a blow to democracy. I urge you to write to NBC (letters@nbc.com) and MSNBC (letters@msnbc) and voice your displeasure. Leave comments on the New York Times article. Don't do it in support of Dennis Kucinich--do it in support of free and unbiased press and an open election.

In Truth there is no News, in News there is no Truth

Please take a moment to visit Knitters Without Borders. You will find the link at the upper left corner of my main blog page. Donations go to Doctors Without Borders. If you can buy yarn to knit, you can donate. I also highly recommend Heifer International, http://www.heifer.org.

A few dollars buys chickens, plants trees or you can buy a knitting basket which represents 2 llamas or 2 sheep. From shearing to spinning, weaving and finally selling woolen goods at market, the gift of a Knitting Basket will help entire families and entire communities break free of poverty.

Peace Weaving indeed.

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. -Ralph Waldo Emerson

-Tigerlily

A fun, old fashioned Griswold family Christmas

Christmas is quite literally only days away. Denver is expected to have a white Christmas, and just like in the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song,

"all along the rockies you can feel it in the air
From Telluride to Boulder down below. The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere
Is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

Before you go all mushy on me, let me let you in on a little secret. Colorado may be prettier to look at than L.A. at Christmas, but the spirit is no stronger here than anywhere else. That part of Christmas is carried within. Remember those immortal words of Ebenezer Scrooge, "I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year."

Most of you don't know that there was a model for the Griswold family, and we were it. Yeah, that's right, I'm married to Clark W. Griswold. Life with Sparky is never boring. Like Helen Griswold I've come to expect the unexpected as part of my everyday life. I gave up on a fun old fashioned family Christmas years ago. I spent New Year's Eve 2001 in a hotel room in Holbrook, Arizona after the drive shaft on our class C mini wini motor home shot out the side like a rocket and just missed the windshield of the car behind us. According to the state patrol, we should have been dead. Combine Robin Williams in R.V., with the Griswold's trip to Wally World and mix in a bit of Ricky and Lucy in the Long Long trailer and you'll get a picture of what vacations are like for us. Don't laugh. I can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up with our "memories."

It is because of my National Lampoon existence that I was so worried about Beth in England. Obviously the curse of the Griswold's weakens when the family is split up. She had some Griswold moments, but by and large the trip was more good than bad.

Christmas 2007 is going to break a record as the most expensive season we have ever had. After the veterinary bills of November, the replacement camera lens, 2 sets of car tires (one of which was a good Samaritan act), and a lost cell phone, I knew I'd better pay attention to my inner Helen Griswold voice instead of Martha Stewart. There was more on the wind, I could feel it.

(FYI: Mike has lost so many cell phones the phone company won't insure him anymore. One was frozen in the snow while picking up after the dogs. Another met a watery end in the toilet bowl. This time the phone was under Ruby Bear's bed. We vibrated that thing for 3 days and never got so much as a raised eyebrow from Ruby. I suspect her of working for AT&T)



Sarah went down with bronchitis and missed several days of school and work. I love the new medical policy of not giving people antibiotics. Instead I was sent to the pharmacy to buy two different kinds of Musinex at $20 a box and a bottle of cough syrup. A Z pack would have been $40 cheaper and would have worked faster, and Sarah wouldn't have had to return to outside life still contagious, which is how she got sick in the first place. (Don't even get me started on my pandemic soapbox)

Michaels Craft Store, in its infinite wisdom decided they should get into the extended holiday shopping hours business. After putting in 6 hours of school, Sarah heads for Michaels where she works the closing shift, newly extended until 11pm. I suppose it is possible that someone might need a bottle of Martha Stewart's all-purpose craft glue at 11 at night, but I rather doubt it. I also don't see hundreds of men turning to Michaels for their wifes gift at zero hour on Christmas Eve. Sarah is coughing her best and manning the framing department waiting for that big last minute Christmas sale that will never come.

Forrest, Ruby's brother has a things for wheels. He attacked the BBQ until he ripped the tires off and it collapsed. When it was gone he turned to the trash can for solace. It is now rolling with a decided limp. Forrest went to the vet on Saturday after ripping a toenail off in battle. $60 bucks later he hasn't learned a thing.

Sarah came home Friday night screaming about the ignition on the cruiser. Her key kept getting stuck. Great, we were going to need a new ignition and new chip keys....Four days later the car is still at the mechanic and the ignition never got replaced. They couldn't get the key to stick. They did however find a leaking shock absorber, and broken water pump, a leaking celanoid on the brand new transmission, and a timing chain ready to kick the bucket. Estimated cost of repair: $1700. This comes on the heels of a $3000 transmission put in this past summer. I think the car may self implode before Sarah finishes cosmetology school.

Two days ago my dryer went out. With a puff of acrid burning plastic smell it died. I have clothes racks of underwear standing in front of the Christmas tree.

But I want to make sure I end this blog on a positive note. After all, we Griswolds are nothing if not optimistic. We make the best of a bad situation. We really do try and keep the spirit of Christmas in our hearts all year. We soldier on after we kick the plastic Santa's ass and take a chain saw to the neighbors tree.

"Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse. "

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from our nuthouse to yours. -Tigerlily

A State of Grace

A State of Grace is defined as the following:

1·· (Christian theology) a state of being protected or sanctified by the favor of God.

In the crazy aftermath of Beth's coming home, in what I thought would be that respite between Halloween zaniness and the business of the holiday season, I took Quincy in for eye surgery. Quincy is the patriarch of our doggy pack. The last of a trio of dog boys whose antics inspired stories and whose living affected our family so deeply that their loss is still very painfully felt. Aging now, with a gray muzzle and salt and pepper eyebrows, Quincy is the one we call our benevolent buddha. The dog has never passed a day in his life unhappy. He loves everyone. He sees no bad or evil in the world. He'd recently developed a bump on his lower right eyelid. It didn't seem to bother Quincy much, but it wasn't exactly attractive. Sarah kept complaining about it and wanted it removed. I hated to spend what I knew would be a chunk of change to have something rather harmless removed. At his checkup the vet said it would be an easy matter to freeze it off, and the price wasn't bad, $150.00. I set the date. By surgery day the bump had decided to grow a large pink nodule that burst open and threatened to quickly do it again. It seemed more certain that this had become a necessary surgery rather than a cosmetic one. A good thing in the end.

But when I took Quincy in, he did something he had never done before. He refused to walk in the office. Once in the office, he tried to get back out. When the tech came to get him he refused to move. He braced his feet. I had to trick him into following me to even get him to move. He looked at me. Let's go home momma. Let's forget all this. I really don't want to go. Alarm bells rang. Why, why is it when we get this messages, these instincts we don't listen? In the parking lot I nearly went back in. On the way home I began to really worry. I remembered my sister's cat that fought all the way to the vet only to die on the surgery table. I rememberd my father. Never sick a day in his life and then a fall in the snow and a sniffle. Then a cough that didn't go away. Three weeks later he was gone from lung cancer so advanced it had spread to his bones. The knot in my stomach would not go away.

Quincy came home from surgery smiling but looking rather bedraggled. The sight of his eye alone that first night had me in tears. The bump had been a tumor and had extended below the eyelid about 1/2 inch. As that first evening wore on the eye began to swell and Quincy became more stressed and by morning there was little doubt he was in pain. We went back to the vet for an additional shot of pain meds. and a steroid injection to help his lungs. By day 3 post-op his breathing was gurgling. By day 4 there was little doubt there was respiratory problem. He wasn't eating or sleeping, his breathing was rapid and shallow. I made more than 10 trips back and forth to the vet in that first week. Quincy got so used to going that he would just stand at the garage door waving side to side with weakness when he heard my keys. By the weekend there was no improvement and Quincy was straining for every breath. The vet was completely bewildered. Said the surgery had been very routine and uneventful. There seemed to be bronchitis in his lungs.

By Saturday morning I truly feared he might not come out of it. He was that weak. Unable to eat, unable to walk, barely keeping himself hydrated, Quincy looked as though he had aged 10 years overnight. The weight was falling off of him and we had taken to calling him Sticks as he looked like a wrinkled and sagging balloon held up by stick legs. In secret I was calling him Sticks the Lunger (only someone who has seen Tombstone is going to get that reference to Doc Holliday). This happy little guy, who had never been sick a day in his life, who had recently been more active than we'd seen in years, in the span of a few days been reduced to this, and it was all my fault. I begged him to forgive me for not listening.

When I looked Quincy in the eyes, I saw the look of someone who has given up. He wasn't fighting anymore. Maybe it was his age, maybe it was because he is such a happy fellow that he fell into such a depression. Those eyes frightened me and in that most desperate of moments I did what everyone does. Beg. Make bargains. I promised him toys and treats, anything if he would just please fight harder. I plied him with McDonalds kids burgers and bits of beef tenderloin. I tried chocolate chip cookies, his favorites. Anything to spark his interest. I planted hundreds of kisses on the black smudge on his forehead. We always called it his thumb print from God. Fight. Fight harder.

Maybe its because I spent so much of my own life in a state of bronchitis or pneumonia that I suffered so with his every breath. I knew what it felt like. How exausting it was just to breathe. That breathing too deeply brought on coughing, and coughing hurt so badly it was to be avoided at all costs. Quincy didn't want to be alone, and he didn't want me to leave him. The house was so hushed. The other dogs never barked or squabbled. They stayed close. We needed help, and the vet and his endless medicines were not going to be enough. My prayers alone were not going to be enough.

I sat down at the computer with Quincy at my feet and composed an email. I sent it to everyone I knew asking for their prayers and happy thoughts. Beth and Sarah both posted bulletins on My Space and their blogs and favorite hang outs asking for help too. The responses began to come back almost immediately. My friend Ricky in Georgia, whose partner is a vet offered any help they could. Our vet had promised to check back with me but it had been nearly 36 hours and still no call. I emailed my dear friends immediately with Quincy's current status and all his medications. I told them what the vet had told me about the surgery. Jeff emailed me right back. It sounds like aspiration pneumonia. Turn on a humidifier or take him in the shower. Run the hot water and get that steam going. Start doing coupage (percussion treatments) to the sides of his chest several times a day for 5 minutes at a time. Check his gums and make sure they are pink. Pink means he's staying oxygenated. Gray is bad. We had to help him expel all that bad stuff out of his lungs.

Not 10 minutes after that email came in, the vet finally called. He told me word for word exactly what Jeff had just said with one caveat. Oral antibiotics can take up to 5 days to take effect. That was news I could have used earlier. No wonder he seemed be getting worse. He was.

We kicked into high gear. I showed the girls how to do cou'page. My niece and nephew had suffered from asthma for years, and we all knew how to do percussion from them. Cup your hand. Now pat quite firmly along the sides of his chest where his lungs are. Do along his back too. We sat in the steam until Quincy was panting from the heat. Pounding, pounding. After just one treatment he began to cough and phlegm seemed to be loosening. We took turns getting soggy. We pounded him while we watched tv. Mike pounded him when he walked by.

At the same time the letters were coming in. One email. Five email. Fifteen. My Space and Ain't It Cool News, blog readers, they all responded. The power of LOVE is a wonderful thing. With each and every one Quincy began to improve. Throughout the weekend and into the coming week we kept this up. After just one day, Quincy began to lead me to the bathroom. By Tuesday a.m. I had a tail wag. When a pug drops his tail, and can not curl it, something is very wrong. To see that tail lift and curl, if only momentarily was a very big deal. We were on the mend. Still gasping but able to breathe a bit deeper, Quincy began to ask for the steam and chest beating. His attitude improved. He smiled. He barked. And with that the antibiotics finally began to do their job.

Thanksgiving came and I really was thankful. Thankful for friends and family. That people from all over the world would come to the rescue of a little pug they had never met was a testament to the power of love. Imagine what else it could do? I felt as though I was being carried along on a river of benevolence. This doesn't mean life has suddenly been picture perfect and sunny. The opposite would seem to be so. We have had a string of rotten luck and unexpected expenses that has put quite a crimp in life as well as Christmas gift giving. I'm upset, angry even, but this glow I'm feeling makes it all seem very trivial. Each and every day is a precious gift. Why waste it fighting or being angry? The important bit is the living. And the love. And when Quincy looks at me from the depths of his shining eyes I am thankful that dear puggy wug, the last of a trio is with us to celebrate his 10th birthday on December 6th. I think Joe and Maverick are watching from Dog Heaven and smiling. This truly is what Christmas is all about.

So, despite dishonest businessmen, new boyfriends, lost paychecks, broken cameras, out of work daughters, screaming bosses, grumblings about who is or isn't doing their share of work, husbands spending more time in the air then on the ground....

I feel blessed for a chance to know this state of grace.

-Tigerlily

Scots, wha hae

Elisabeth is in England. My baby girl off on her own in a far away place we have only dreamed of until now. I think I have spent at least an hour a day crying since she left. Crying because I was frightened of her alone and far away. Crying because I so wanted to be there too, and crying because more than anything else I missed her so much my heart ached.

How very silly I kept telling myself. She is all grown up. How will you cope if she ever moves away? I have come to the conclusion that I simply won't be able to. Even Sarah cried because she missed her sister. What? Is this possible? It would seem they really do love each other.

And me, this woman who is so very much a woman of the past and old fashioned pursuits, thanks the gods for the wonders of modern technology. Not only have I been able to speak with Beth every single day via mobile phone, I have been able to chat with her live on the computer, and literally watch as her latest photos appear like magic before me from thousands of miles away. I could hear the tolling of the bells at Saint Paul's Cathedral, live, as Beth stood outside, and hear the soft Scottish brogue of a man complimenting Beth on her American accent. I heard the wind blow across the water of Port Glasgow as if I were there. And when she was homesick and her heart was breaking, I was there to hear her tears too. Imagine if it took weeks for letters to cross back and forth across the continents. Imagine no phones or electricity in the wilds of Scotland. Imagine the cold abruptness of telegrams. I am glad I live in a very modern age and I can incorporate the old and embrace the new, and appreciate the gifts it brings my life.



In fact, this concept of old and new seems to define Britain as well. So very chic, trendy and hip, with little shops that dispense fresh organic salads, sandwiches and sticky buns faster than you can say McDonald's and a Lush shop on every corner, which must be why all Brits have lovely skin and are stick thin. And all this chic appears to blend seamlessly with old tweedy Britain with its towering edifices of Gothic archways, medieval halls and Victorian memorials. The air in these places actually seems to have weight it is so old. If you like the smell of antique stores or old books, you'll know what I mean, but multiply that aroma by centuries. Elisabeth says she wishes she could bottle it. Around every corner there is history. They have so much history and it is so very everyday and common place, that you wonder if they even really appreciate it. Can they grasp what it's like to have so very little, like America?






Scotland is as you imagine it to be. Pipers piping and every shop window filled with a rainbow of plaid to catch a tourists eye. Rolling hills, misty mountains, and real steam engine trains winding their way through the countryside. Little old ladies line up for the bus with their shopping bags and little old men totter about in woolly cardigans eager to chat up the American who is following the trail of William Wallace. Herds of highland cows, hillsides of heather, streets full of kilts. Scots have a wonderful sense of humor, and they know how to market the hell out of their countries best product.


What is it exactly that makes what is essentially a girls skirt so attractive on a man? Is it those firm Scottish legs? Is it the way the plaid clings so nicely to the bum? Or is it that the men who wear it do so with a certain swagger to their walk? And take a look at the television ads promoting Scottish beef featuring a handsome highlander named Glen. All over Britain women know what they want for dinner...


http://www.qmscotland.co.uk/marketing/beef.html

If you want to see more of Glen, copy and paste the above web address into your browser, and go to the bottom of the Quality Scottish Beef page. Now click the tiny red print that says view television advertising. There are 3 commercials in total.


I was with Beth in Scotland, at one very special spot. Port Glasgow. Standing on the rocky beach as the tide was going out, Beth called me on the phone. I could hear the wind and the water. The ferry boats crossing the water were playing Scots wha hae.




"I'm here mom. I'm standing on the exact spot on the beach from Dear Frankie..." And for those moments across all those miles I was there, standing on the barnacle encrusted pillar where Gerry Butler had once sat. Beth got me a great gift there. A rock all green with moss.

-Tigerlily

If you would like to read more about Elisabeth's Transatlantic Adventure, please visit her blog at: http://ringbright.blogspot.com/

She seeks wool and flax, and works with her hands willingly

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The woman who works with her her hands is only a laborer The woman who works with her hands and her head is a craftswoman The woman who works with her hands, her head, and her heart is an Artist

~St. Francis of Assisi

After what has turned into a long summer hiatus, my blog like Martha Stewart is back on the air. What I may have lost in words I've more than made up for in activity over the last couple months. I have been a very busy person.











I've canned peaches and applesauce. Also made a small batch of apple butter.

























After two summers, the trellis/pergola top for the courtyard fence is done. Now if I could just get to the Kwall store for the paint! (No, I didn't build it, but I had to keep the workman who did supplied with liquids.)











I've framed 3 finished cross stitch pieces. Michaels had their friends and family sale and I got 60% off a frame order. Nice. Never could have afforded them otherwise. I mounted the needlework and Sarah put my backing and hardware on. I love how old the frames look. Unfortunately the frame details don't show up well in the photo.


The sewing projects have been piling up at an alarming rate. Sarah is bringing home fabric faster than I can buy tubs to store it in. She's finished a wine colored Will Turner shirt and a very Twiggy tweed wool jumper. She's neck deep in black fabric for a Snape costume. I've managed to snatch the machine a few hours for myself ...





At long last the new pillows for the family room sofas are finished. They look fantastic. Simple pillow sham construction with iron on velcro closure. Used scotch guard on the fabric so they wipe clean between washings.

A very good thing because...










Elliot thinks the new pillows are great. Here he is defiling them. He has no respect for anything but his own comfort. He is such a pug!



























Here is my French flea market apron. I made it using really cute retro Halloween fabrics from Marcus Brothers and FatQuarterShop.com
















And last but not least...
They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I sure hope that's true because I'd hate to be called a copy cat. A friend of mine, whose blog I discovered while hunting up help with the Charlotte's Web shawl, Nancy, is a very talented lady. She and I have so much in common that I have often told her I wished we were neighbors, or at least lived near enough to visit. She knits and scrapbooks, sews and rubber stamps. We often end up choosing the same knitting patterns and similar yarns without even knowing it. I've watched Nancy's quilt making with awe, but never had any desire to do one myself. Until the day I logged on to her blog and saw her red quilt. I kept going back and looking at it again and again. I wanted it. I began to dream of having it. Desperation drives people to do strange things. It drove me to check out every Kaffe Fassett book the library had. It drove me into scouring the internet for the fabrics. I hope Nancy will understand and be flattered. Here is the finished quilt, I call it the Ruby Quilt after my mother. Red was one of her favorite colors and I think she would love it.


I used Fassett's layout for the Tapestry Garden Quilt. However, when it came to which color block goes next to what my head began to spin. I let the fabrics tell me what felt good and went with it. Beth got so excited as I neared the end, she did the whole lower third. We ended up with too many purple plums in the last row, but who cares? It's gloriously beautiful.We had so much fun that I've ordered fabrics for another. All golden fall rose hips and crab apples.



While it may look like Nancy's in overview, it in no way resembles Nancy's in true beauty or quality of workmanship. I had no end of trouble with it. I made mistakes I never should have made. My impatience got the best of me again, and I paid the price. Forgot to iron the quilt top. Didn't use clear thread for the top, which would have covered so many of my mistakes. I used a spray adhesive for basting the layers together and it worked really well, but the reviewers who said I would not need pins as well were sadly mistaken.




I think my biggest problem was simply dealing with the sheer size. I struggled and struggled with the weight pulling the sewing out of line. Up until now I've kept my time at the machine to short bursts. The weight of the quilt along with the stress and sitting really took its toll on my neck and shoulders. I will never machine quilt another large project. This said, I have fabric for two quilts waiting. What to do? Tie 'em.




I also used Nancy's tutorial for sewing a bag and created this beach bag. It's lined in muslin and even has an inside pocket. Nancy wasn't fooling about it holding six beach towels. This is the beginning of what I hope will eventually be enough bags for my grocery shopping.







They are incredibly cheap to make. JoAnn's always has bolts of home decor fabric on the clearance, and this bag barely cost me $6 and that's with the lining and the webbing for the handles. That beats the store bought canvas bags by $10.

And speaking of grocery bags, here's a great recycling idea from Martha Stewart. Make your own shopping bags out of t-shirts. Sew across the bottom hem of the shirt. Lay the shirt flat and cut off sleeves following seam lines. Cut an approximately 9 1/2 inch 1/2 circle in neck. A bowl works great to use as a guide. Mark a line around the bowl and cut. There you have it, a shopping bag! Put it in your purse and you'll have a bag ready when ever you shop for clothes, books, etc. Make enough, and you can sack your groceries. To add longer life to the bag, zig zag stitch along the cut lines of neck and arm holes. :o)




While I've had great success on the sewing front, my knitting has not been going so well. I'm still struggling with the Shoalwater shawl. I certainly thought I'd be done by now, but it is determined to make my life miserable. If I didn't have so much time and money invested I'd burn it. I could rip it out, but the thought of all the wasted hours makes me sick at the very thought. This is all doubly embarrassing after the quilt debacle and only made worse by all the knitters on line who have made this shawl apparently with little or no trouble at all. Lovely things sit waiting to be cast on but I refuse to give it until this beast has been tamed. I do love this fantastic free trade market basket I found at the Sunflower Market.

He who knows what sweets and virtues are in the ground,
the waters, the plants, the heavens,
and how to come at these enchantments
is the rich and royal man.

~Emerson