The Stitch Witch

New Hampshire Sheep & Wool

Ahhhh, wool.  Not too much because we're moving to Westfield, MA at the end of June. But sock yarn in eminently portable. And cute.

There was a color theme this year. I swear it was unintentional. Sort of, anyway. Most of my closet is one of these two colors. The TuckerWoods lady 'fessed up to placing the colors next to each other cos she was hoping someone'd pick them both up. So now Lauren has a pair of Aegean Sea and Saffron striped socks in her future. 

And I picked up wee bit for spinning (. But only a wee bit. Moving the stash seems onerous enough (though I am looking forward to freaking out the movers. Heaps and mounds of books, wool, and fabric. Oh my.)   Soap. Every year, I succumb to someone's hand made soap. This year's is probably the best yet. Almond. I tucked in with all the wool and it all smells heavenly.
Almond soap is possibly the best smell ever.

As cool as all this was, though, there was something better. Something nearly miraculous. 

No, not Grace getting a lesson in the fine art of shepherding with a crook (though that was pretty cool.  Compared to babysitting, this was probably a piece of cake. After all, you can't use a crook on wayward children (at least that's what I've heard)
The magic here was that Grace and her brother Nick (he of the outspread arms) - who typically fight like the legendary cats of Kilkenny- cooperated, coordinated, and collaborated. For 10 whole minutes. The sky did not turn black. The world did not end.  The sheep ended up in the pen. So I hung around for a hands on lesson on the fine art of sheep condition scoring and handling sheep. I mean, even before this little miracle, it was part of the life plan to live on the side of the mountain with sheep. But this might speed the timeframe up a bit. :)

Books: Really freaking bad. And a good one for balance.

Last weekend, I had a brief and quite entertaining encounter with the much hyped 50 Shades of Grey. It's supposed to be the oh so hot porn du jour for middle aged women. I'll say this: even allowing that it started out as Twilight fanfic, it's pretty crappy. The working Harlequin title'd be something to the effect of The Emotionally Stunted and Abusive Multi-Zillionaire's Vapid 22 Year Old Never Ever Been Attracted to a Man Before Now Virgin BDSM Partner.

Yeah, it is a little wordy. But now you don't have to read it. Trust me. You want a little spanking and bondage, go old school and read some Bertrice Small. I'm reasonably certain every one of her protagonists was shipwrecked in Algiers and was destined for a harem though only after pages and pages of being meticulously schooled in every kinky act Ms Small could think of. 

On the other end of the spectrum, Anne Tyler's latest, The Beginner's Goodbye. Her books are populated by boring people, and the small and wonderful details of their lives. So far, it's a melacholy read- chapter one introduces a widower and his dead wife (a ghost? a figment of his lonely imagination?) and in chapter two, we revisit her death. It's a quick read, but I paused after chapter two. The couple had a minor quarrel, the kind you usually apologize for about a half hour later, except she was crushed by a tree that fell on their house and there was no chance for apologies. It's got me thinking a bit. I'll let you know how the rest of the book works out. If you haven't read Anne Tyler yet, start with Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant. 

Dear Job,

Thank you for the lovely relocation package. Even though this week requires working 80 bajillion hours, it's a hell of a lot easier because the hotel's a mere 4.7 miles from the store. 

I'd also like to thank you for this child and dog free time. Four whole days of not waking up with stinky preteen boy feet in my face or a foully flatulent fat pit bull under the blankets or the strident alarm of MOM MOM MOM is rather wonderful. I've even had time to shave my legs. Of course, it's been long enough that I was stunned to discover my leg hair is no longer blond but brown and why that is when the hair on my head has turned white confounds me but thankfully for the world I wear long pants all the time and haven't unintentionally startled anyone with my hairy gorilla legs. 

At least I think not. If I have, tough taa-taas. 

I might even have time to draft a decent proposal for my final research project in anthropology.

And watch the moon rise. 

I can stay up late blogging (instead of working on a certain final project proposal) in a Barnes and Noble cafe and bring an extra latte back to the suite and drink it in bed, a bed that's currently covered in books. 

And while I do miss my family and the farting pit bull, a little solitude is does wonders for the soul.

Love,

Erica

Purple Finches

Yesterday was a rare but stereotypically hellish single parent day. Dan woke up with the flu, which he'd caught from me. Lauren fainted just after she got out of the shower (she's perfectly fine but poor Grandpa's nerves are shot, probably forever). The Fat Pit Bull ate something- gawd only knows what but it'd been dead for quite sometime- and spent the day horking piles of decomposed yuck all over the house. And I have the flu.

After the mayhem had subsided, I went for a lie down. Wee-est Child was hogging my bed. Eldest Child & Fat Pit Bull were hogging the couch. The world's most uncomfortable recliner awaited me. Meh.

The world's most uncomfortable recliner offers a delightful view of the purple finches building a nest in the left over (thankfully artificial) Christmas wreath on the front door. The photos are a little wonky because I was too sick to get out of the world's least comfortable recliner for a decent angle. It's a bit like one of those nature shows where the camera's hidden behind glass spying on some unsuspecting critter. 

They're cute. So we use the back door now.

Ahhh, spring!

Monday Ramble

Every year, on the Saturday before Easter, my parents have the same argument over the making of the Easter babka. My father makes the babka; mom hasn't made it in over a decade. Yet, despite this, she KNOWS better. He's kneading it wrong. The foil isn't high enough. How come there aren't raisins in it? It's not rising enough. The litany continues until the whole thing's been consumed, and since the Easter babka's pretty darn huge, we're talking at least mid-week. 

Not this year. 

The Fat Pit Bull ate the leftovers this morning. Half a babka's worth. Apparently she didn't share mom's concerns about quality control. She's got the loudest and stinkiest gas in the world. And there's no babka to bitch about. Awesome. 

I might miss this sort of stuff after we move but probably not.

In more practical news, the house hunt continues. One thing I hadn't realized was that the western part of Massachusetts survives on oil heat. With a wood or pellet stove if you're smart or dislike hypothermia. This makes size a serious consideration when we're looking at places (alas, beautiful and relatively inexpensive 3,500 sq/ft Victorian with original features, including 120 year old single pane glass windows, it was not meant to be). I hadn't planned on a McMansion, although I did find a 10 bedroom 7,300 sq/ft mansion for a mere $365,000. Again, the oil heat thing. And the lawn was freaking ridiculous. Ok, and it's out of my budget in the sort of way that requires splitting it with 2 friends to make it work. But I digress. I was thinking more of a cape, with a southern orientation for future solar panels. So I can be one of those hippy dippy old broads who sells power back to the electric company. With backyard chickens scratching in the dirt under line dried laundry flapping in the breeze.

Probably they'll scratch dirt onto the clean laundry but let's not let reality intrude in laa-laa land just yet. 

Changes

Remember that promotion I got last December? The job was an interim training position- ostensibly for training me, though with the amount of experience I have, it more often than not involved me training or advising other managers in slightly higher positions while I was waiting for placement. It wasn't a bad gig, though it was pretty damn stressful at times, because watching someone decide that they'd rather fail than listen to common sense isn't pretty (example: turning over 1/3 of the staff for performance and ethics issues and not interviewing, let alone hiring, enough replacements) and it defies logic. So, after 2 long months of madness, when my vacationing boss called very early one morning in late February asking if I could possibly spend a few weeks in western MA- starting the next day- I was all over it. Left my stash of Green Mountain hazelnut coffee languishing in a desk drawer a half mile from Boston and headed west for the Berkshires. 

Ok, as lovely as that sounds, I'm actually closer- much closer- to the Mt Holyoke Range. 

I love the area and I'm not leaving. Got a full-on promotion effective March 19. The kids are in school until mid June, so that leaves a 222 mile round trip daily commute. There's a relocation package involved so the gas expense isn't an issue. And, yes, the drive is long but I can't tell you the last time I had 3 1/2 hours of peace and quiet every day. Every day. The delay gives us time to research school systems and find a house, hopefully with a little bit of land, by the summer. Some place suitable for a huge garden and maybe a few chickens. 

Chickens. Imagine that. 

House hunting is still in the very preliminary stages. Still getting familiar with the area. I've explored about 20 miles north, south, and east. This week is west. The basic list is a bit of land (at least 2 acres), a house that's immediately inhabitable by a single mom and her 4 kids even if it needs work, and a location that'll suit my crunchy granola solar tendencies. 

I cannot express how grateful I am for the turn of good fortune we've had this past year. I'm still a little stunned. Very stunned. And quite relieved. 

Dear Crabby Yarn Shop Lady,

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for today's obvious intrusion upon your quiet time. After all, while the "OPEN" sign outside your shop lured me in, it was clear from the withering glare you directed at me that OPEN really meant CLOSED. Having never met you before, I was somewhat taken aback; strangers usually don't dislike me until I've opened my mouth but perhaps there's a secret mark on my forehead that's visible only to bitchy yarn shop owners. Despite this, I would like you to know that you needn't have expended any energy on the glare. The overwhelming stench wall of Glade PlugIn that greeted me at the door was a clear indicator that you were determined to drive away everyone or at least those of us in possession functional olfactory nerves. Perhaps it's a sign of yarn snobbery (something I am occasionally guilty of) but I expect that wool should smell like wool, not a craptastic chemical interpretation of lavender. IFear not, O Crabby Yarn Shop Lady, I'd sooner spin and knit pit bull fur than set foot in your intentionally smelly and unfriendly shop ever again. 

Love,

Erica

A little update

So, as I've mentioned to some friends in 'real' (read non interwebs) life, back in November I had this brilliant idea to register for full time classes just days before I accepted a promotion. The promotion kicked in December 5 but in a lazy way: training my replacement on site. Easy peasy.

On January 2, I became a free range crafter (which sounds way cooler than my real job title) and was set loose in a store that needed a trainer and some operational guidance. Translation: 1/3 of the staff doesn't know what they're doing, 1/3 of the staff knows what they're doing but refuses to do it for a variety of self absorbed and absurd reasons, and 1/3 of the staff just doesn't show up on a regular basis. It's pretty hectic and there are a lot of 12 hour days but there are weekends off, something that's pretty uncommon in retail, and the novelty of that hasn't worn off yet.

 And then, on January 9, classes started.

Holy gee. Color me stretched to the max. Sometime, I forget how arrogant I can be and then I decide to do something like what I'm attempting now and it all comes back to me with astonishing clarity: occasionally, my ego smothers all commonsense and clearly there were decisions made in that oxygen deprived state. Back in my mid-twenties, this particular mental deficiency led to what I fondly refer to as the year that almost killed me: I accepted a promotion to bookstore manager, got married, got pregnant, bought a house at a foreclosure auction, became a landlord, sold the old Saab, bought a less old Saab, moved, renovated an apartment while 8 months pregnant, sold the old pickup truck, bought a new pickup truck, took to landscaping with a chainsaw to work off some hormonally induced hostility (ok, that last bit really wasn't stressful but it was fun), gave birth to the world's colickiest baby, went back to work full time, transferred to a different bookstore, remained calm the day my then husband called me at work to announce that he'd quit his day job so he could start a business... Interestly, while I can list the sequence of events, I can't recall much detail about the year. Or the year after for that matter.

I'm not quite that busy...not quite, though it felt a little close for the first two weeks. These days, I'm better equipped for stretching things a bit, though sleep seems more important than it did 15 years ago.  Conveniently, the myriad sticky, frustrating, and sometimes just downright wierd situations that crop up at this store are perfect discussion material for the class I'm taking on human relations in organizations. This week, I need to choose a HR research paper topic and a little piece of the brain is fairly shrieking in protest that we haven't written a research paper since high school and auuuuuuuuughhhhhhh!

Dear Brain: Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt.  If I may remind you, that last paper we wrote was on the effects of radioactive fallout and we had to pretend to nuke England. Ok, we didn't have to nuke England but it's an island and that was convenient for our purposes. Now, what could possibly be less fun than that? Besides a paper on TQM/Process Imporvement? Exactly my point, now lighten up. Love, Erica

Exhaustion induced silliness aside, this is possibly the most fun I've had in years.  I feel stretched and it's fun. Of course, my eating habits have gone right to hell (might have something to do with eating breakfast and dinner in the car) so I rejoined Weight Watchers online and commited to 1 hour/week with a personal trainer for the next 8 weeks (plus additional work out time during the week, obviously. Having the trainer keeps me honest while I'm getting back into the habit of looking after me. If I don't work out between appointments, I don't progess.

We'll see how it goes.

Mindfullness

After the sheer nuttiness of the past few years, I thought I'd keep the resolution simple this year: mindfullness. Spend enough time constantly stressed and it's easy to get out of the habit of focusing on the here and now and instead have a brain that's constantly scrambling off in 17 directions simultaneously.

In my brief quest for this mindfullness thing, I spend a lot of time thinking about it instead of what I'm doing (go ahead, giggle. I won't take it personally). Thinking about one thing at a time is an improvement for me, even if it means an idea remains theoretical for a little while before it's actually applied to life. So, tonight, I was busy contemplating mindfullness while cooking dinner and what it meant and maybe I should buy another book on it though I already have that one book and it's pretty good do I really need another and maybe this mindfullness thing'd be easier if I just laid off the caffeine my brain might slow down and I'm almost out of coffee so it wouldn't be that hard to quit and what's that awful smell?

Smell?

The smell brings us to tonight's lesson on mindfullness: if you fail to notice that the sweater you're wearing is on fire, you're not being mindful.

 I know, newsflash, eh?

 Another thing: if you're going spend your cooking time thinking about mindfullness instead of practicing it, wear wool. That way, when you finally gather the wits enough to yank your hand knitted irish wool sweater clad arm out of the burner, the fire will extinguish immediately. It's like magic.

Clearly wool was invented for absented minded fools.

Of course I'm fine, though the left arm's a bit hairless and the kids think I'm an idiot. I've sworn off thinking while cooking at least until I master multitasking.

Hello 2012

"I do think New Year's resolutions can't technically be expected to begin on New Year's Day, don't you?  Since, because it's an extension of New Year's Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight with so much nicotine in the system.  Also dieting on New Year's Day isn't a good idea as you can't eat rationally but really need to be free to consume whatever is necessary, moment by moment, in order to ease your hangover.  I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second."  ~Helen Fielding, Bridget Jones's Diary

Personally, I always find starting something on a Monday works better for me. And this years, the first falls on a Sunday and Sundays are for sleeping in and slothfulness. Monday it is, then.

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you're familiar with the angst of the past 2 years. And if you just stumbled across me for the first time, do yourself a favor and skip over 2009 and 2010. It was a miserable couple of years and most of the sporadic posts reflect a struggling, frustrated, and unhappy woman. I'm not deleting a word; it's my history and I'm leaving it out there but it's tedious and repetitive reading.

Life turned the corner sometime in September; being the superstitious sort, I've hesitated to say anything and instead have held my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop. It hasn't. And I've wised up and started breathing before I turned very blue :) We can, officially, start moving on. How about that.

Monday, work begins in a new location- same company, different position. I was promoted 5 weeks ago. The commute's a little longer but brings me within a stone's throw of Boston, a city I have an irrational love for. Possibly I'm well on the way to becoming a sentimental fool. It's rather enjoyable. 

In addition, we can afford to move out of my parent's house this year. 

Classes start in 9 days.  Classes for me. Textbooks are coming.

The kids are thriving.

For all of this, I am grateful. Happy New Year.

October was interesting month.

After several years of thumbing his nose at me, the law, his family, his children, and pretty much anyone else who follows the basic tenets of society, the X was arrested on a warrant that I'd requested.

I'm beginning to understand why the government tends to fall back on tax related charges when going after mobsters and other hard to catch bad guys. It's pretty concrete. Failure to pay child support is pretty cut and dry, even if one has the chutzpah to try and explain to the judge that the ex-wife had received her half of the equity in the house and therefore one shouldn't have to pay child support for one's 4 children 8 years after the equity payout.

Really. I did pick a winner, ladies. Of all the marvelous possibilities I've considered for the second half of my life, matchmaker is definitely not among them.

While the X spent most of November in jail, we were free of multiple daily phone calls, random packages and 'gifts' being left on the doorstep or on my car, the delightful situation of the X repeatedly 'running out of gas' in front of the house as he 'happened' to be driving by, myriad custody order violations that the police repeatedly informed me they couldn't help with but I could request a hearing in front of a judge, the endless irrational emails contesting EVERYTHING. Or as a family member of his said: "At least when he's in jail, you'll have a break from the harrassment".

Indeed. Because low grade harrassment can drag on for quite sometime before the authorities might consider taking it seriously. Failure to support one's children, though, that gets their attention. 

 In NH, the bail requested for a child support contempt capias goes directly to pay off some of the child support arrearages. At the hearing, the nonpaying parent's given an opportunity to make some phone calls for the express purpose of hounding friends and family for enough money to stay out of jail. "Hey, can you loan me $3,500 so I don't go to jail today? Why? I'm waaaaay behind on child support and your posting bail helps me catch up on my child support obligations and has the added benefit of providing food and clothing for my children. C'mon, it's the holidays, support someone else's family."  

 Ok, the caller's never that honest. I know this after listening in on many, many such calls the morning of a show cause hearing 2 weeks ago. "Jimmy, I got most of the money I need to stay outta jail and if you lend me the last $300, I'll pay ya back tonight." Remarkable how so many non-paying parents can suddenly find the money when presented with jail.

Show cause hearings are an endless parade of lame excuses the judge refuses to suffer: "You're on welfare and are only obligated to pay $50 a month for 4 children? Do I understand that correctly? $50 a month for 4 children and you've chosen not to pay? Let's do the math: $50 divided by 4 weeks is $12.50 a week divided by 4 children is....$3.12 a child. That doesn't even buy a gallon of milk for that child and yet you've decided not to pay. There are two ways to leave this courtroom, sir. The doors in the front lead to freedom. The doors on the left go directly to Valley St (jail). You go make some phone calls and try to come up with the money you need to leave through the front doors. Otherwise you're going to jail."

Other that the dollar amount in question, the first hearing for the X played out much like that one. They all do. While waiting to be called at the second hearing, I listened to the judge berate quite a few non paying dads while they stared at the X in shackles. This time, though, the judge freed the X. Before we all get all sorts of indignant, hear me out. The judge is no nonsense former Marine who praised the fact that I'm raising 4 kids without child support or any sort of public assistance and acknowleged that I was rightfully bitter and frustrated and then pointed out that sending the X right back to jail wouldn't afford him an opportunity to pay his arrearages. And, I agree, he's right about that. So,  X was released with two weeks to meet a number of stringent conditions. If he fails to meet any of them, he goes back to jail.

 It's unfortunate we've reached this point but after spending nearly a month in jail, X's finally begun to appreciate reason. So, we'll see.

 

Hey ladies, it's been a year since my not so great lumpectomy adventure. I could leap on October bandwagon and be all sorts of serious about breast cancer awareness. Or, instead, I could share an awareness video featuring topless men (thanks to the ladies at Smart Bitches for this one). 

A little knitting

Currently on the sticks: 

Consider this a "before" picture of Paton's Piroutte in Midnight Blue Shimmer. After following the directions to knit through every other hole, it's begun to resemble a wayward acrylic hairball. When I made the store sample, I through every hole and it the result was far more appealing.

Also on the sticks, Mountain Colors 4/8 Wool (colorway already forgotten though I think it might be Alpine. Dratted lost label.) on size 3 needlesWorsted weight socks are an ideal reintroduction back into the knitterly universe. Not to mention they're eminently practical for New England. And you know, the great thing about taking an extended hiatus from knitting is having a magical moment when I'm knitting along and I can suddenly smell the wool. Ahhhhhh, wool. The Paton's is shiny and shimmery and perfect for my 13 year old daughter (though I'm also tempted to make a scarf for myself in Twilight Sparkle) but it's completely scentless. Since it's mostly acrylic, that's probably a good thing but it's the yarn equivalent of an unscented tea rose- pretty, yet it's lacking something.

Or maybe I'm just a weirdo.

 
 

September was interwebs hiatus month. Mostly. I would have told you but I was busy being elsewhere. Mostly in my head, thinking about me, something I haven't done with any sort of clarity in a ridiculously long time. Sadly, this contemplative period hasn't resulted in the cure for cancer or world peace but I'm feeling focused for the first time in forever.

Hot damn.

And you haven't missed much at Chez Stitch Witch. The kids are in school. I'm headed back to school for HR pending the delightful process known as 'verification' of my financial aid application. Humorously, the part of the government that handles FAFSA apparently isn't on speaking terms with the part that handles taxes so if you're ever randomly selected for verification, expect to spend extra postage mailing your tax return and all related schedules to They Who Verify.

An unexpected benefit to spending 2 years in court is that there is AMPLE documentation supporting my claim that the X doesn't pay child support.

Why HR? Because it's the part of my job that I enjoy most. Always have. Even when I'm looking at someone and wondering "What the fuck were you thinking?"

There's been knitting in fits and starts. During a recent daytrip to Maine, I picked up some yummy Mountain Colors 4/8 wool (for bulky socks, of course) at The Yarn Cellar. And, because of work (the She Who Crafts part as opposed to the She Who Sometimes Wonders What The Fuck They Were Thinking part) I've spent a decent amount of last month futzing around with Premiere's Starbella and Paton's Piroutte during yarn demonstrations and quick one on one knitting lessons. Both are netting-type yarns and the Piroutte's got a chenille edge and, depending on the yarn, may contain sequins or other sparkly bits. It's pretty hot stuff for the ladies who knit for craft fairs cos they can crank out a complicated looking (to the uninitiated) scarf in an hour or so with $4-$8 worth of yarn and charge $25-$30. Almost makes hand knitting profitable.

This isn't shill for netting yarns, BTW. Half the time I'm attracted to their ruffled sparkliness and rest of the time they remind me of a technicolor acrylic hairball. Talk about conflicted. 

 

(random red building in Hollis NH)