Where in the world is...

Brewgal?

I took a plane to Galway, Ireland.

Where even the manhole covers are cool.

Drank lots of Guinness,

and bought some yarn (angora-wool blend, aran weight).

Then I got on another plane

to Lisbon, Portugal.

The weather was lovely.

I ate this (not the heads),

drank lots of coffee,

saw beautiful views,
sampled some local brew,
and some wine,

and ate Santo Antonio's pudding (love the caramel star!)

Finally, I managed once again not to fall in the Corrib.

Get your kicks on Route 66

Neat stuff from Google.



create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

Yes, I'm feeling better. Thanks everyone!

I picked up this link from Midwife with a Knife. Shouldn't some of these states be blue? :-) Clearly I've missed a whole section of the country up there. Also, I'm fairly sure I've been to Alabama AND Mississippi, because you can't drive to Louisiana without going through both of them.

Ok, technically you can drive to Louisiana without going through those two states but based on our travel pattern, we would have driven in a straight line.

Today we are celebrating Little Brewer #2's birthday. Five little boys and a moonbounce shaped like a Dalmation. What could be more fun? Brewguy has declared that he must test the moonbounce first, to make sure it is "safe." Let's hope he doesn't "safe" it into deflating.

When I was a kid, birthday parties consisted of 5-8 of your friends running around your house, eating cake and playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Now it's ballet parties, dance parties, Chuck-E-Cheese, firehouse parties, etc. And the gift bags! Sheesh! They're like Oscar night swag.

I am attempting to resist this trend as long as possible. All Little Brewer birthdays have been held in the back yard. We are fortunate that both birthdays occur in the spring, so I usually just let them run around and play.

However, Little Brewer #1 is turning 7 this May. I am fearful she has been led by her friends into expecting something *big.*

Resistance is futile.

Is it possible to get mono twice? I caught it in 2004 during my long battle with a post-partum infection and dual root canals.

Back then, when the doctor told me I had mono, I repeated, "I have mono?" I was 37 years old. In my exhausted state, the diagnosis seemed ridiculous. So I started laughing. Loudly.

This probably would have been no big deal, but at the time I happened to be speaking to my doctor on my cell while riding on an Acela train. Based on their expressions, I deduced my seatmates were not pleased to be privy to the news of my condition and my seeming hysterical response. Yeah, bite me.

So back to now.
My symptoms: low grade fever (between 99 and 100.4), muscle aches, fatigue, dizziness, slight nausea.
Duration: three weeks, probably brought on by the stress of being verbally bitch-slapped by the statistics division at work and moving MIL.

Symptoms improve with ibuprofen but I hate taking that stuff all day, every day. Tylenol and I are not on speaking terms (Brewgal loves the brew and also loves her liver).

I would love nothing better than to stay in bed all day but I am speaking at a conference on Thursday and next week it's back to Ireland! And Portugal! So I must GET BETTER.

Healing vibes appreciated.

The big move: update

My MIL has decided that she no longer wants to live in the retirement home and will move back to her house.

She lived there for three days. THREE DAYS.

I think my head is going to explode.

We're back. MIL is successfully moved to the retirement home and her rooms look passably like her own.

I have learned a number of important things:
r Milton-Freewater does not have Wi-Fi (but the Pasco/Kennewick airport does)
h Ibuprofen is my friend
a It's ok to say no to a "family heirloom" if you don't like it

We have spent the last seven days, 12-hours a day packing, sorting and cleaning MIL's house. She saved everything. Let me rephrase that: EVERY-%#$!!-THING. Receipts for watch repairs from 1954. Contents of desk drawers from long-vanished desks. Brochures from national parks visited in 1972. Sealing wax. I am not making this up.

Now don't get me wrong- I love digging through old things. If I sound dismissive, it is only because every time I opened a drawer or a cabinet I was faced with a mountain of stuff to sort. If I had more time (say, three weeks) I would have been much more relaxed about the whole process.

Most interesting:
Grandpa's WWI doughboy helmet with hand-painted scenes of places he had been stationed

Most scary:
Live ordnance. Four enormous shells (similar to version F in this photo) and a box of live ammo of various sizes. I have no idea how MIL managed to move that stuff from California and store it in her garage without some sort of disaster occurring. Eeesh.

Best knitting find:
Grandma's nickle-plated double-points in the original package

Wineries visited: 3 (we were really busy)

Must clean out own house now.

Go West

We are preparing to head out to Milton-Freewater in a couple of days. I wish I could say this trip was going to be fun. Rather, I suspect there will be extreme drama. Let me rephrase that: DRAMA, involving Mr. Brewguy's sibling, the disposition of my MIL's house, possessions, and inheritance. In brief:

• Brewguy's sibling (whom we shall name CAguy), lives with his lovely bride in an apartment in the Los Angeles basin.


• CAguy spends his time attempting to be a freelance writer. This gig pays poorly.


• MIL sends CAguy money each month to help with rent.


• MIL and Brewguy see an opportunity for CAguy and bride to live in house in M-F rent-free, thus nullifying the need to be sent money each month.


• CAguy believes he is being babied by MIL and attempt to get them to move into her house is just another way to keep him dependent on her. Resents monthly rent checks.


• Brewgal's reaction: Uh, dude? Simple solution- STOP TAKING THE MONEY.


• All parties are coming together next week in small Oregon town.

It's shaping up to be a fun-filled week of tension and packing! Wheee!

To tide you all over, some photos from my trip to NYC last month.

This is the view from my hotel room at the Marriot Marquis.

This is a slightly different view. Note the glass office building at right. Brewgal thinks to self: "Who can possibly see me up here on the 12th floor? All those people on the street can't....oh. Hi, office guy." I am sure I flashed the office workers at least twice during my stay.

Look at the wattage on that Nasdaq sign. Aiee! I'm blind!

These are the Oscars. More accurately, these are the Oscar butts. They are hanging out in the ABC studios prior to being shipped to LA for the Oscar ceremony.

Something pink this way comes...

Twins!

Twins! Not for me, of course. That would be frightening. When I got married, I discovered there were eight sets of twins in my family history. I have twin aunts. Since twins tend to skip generations, I figured there was a pretty good chance each peanut would be peanut(s). Imagine going from 2 to 4 kids in the blink of an eye. Three bedrooms, four children, zone defense. Thankfully, I had two healthy children, one at a time.

One of my co-workers has discovered she is having twin boys. She'll now have three boys and a husband. I've christened her new life "The Locker Room." When she told us her good news, she had a smile and a slightly crazed look in her eyes that said, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

What indeed.

I, on the other hand, was so excited I ran home right after work and made these.

She is not due until August. I am having a very hard time waiting that long. I want to give her the hats now NOW NOW!!

I'm trying out a new template. What do y'all think?

It's springtime in Maryland! Three days ago the weather was warm enough for me to break out the short sleeved shirts. Little Brewer #2 wore shorts. And then...



I heard birds singing this morning. It is hard to tell if they were singing for joy or out of desperation. Birds are inscrutable.

I feel better able to put this cold snap into perspective because Friday night we viewed The Day After Tomorrow. Billed as "a wake up call for us all," it is a cautionary tale depicting climate change resulting from overuse of fossil fuels, arrogant politicians, and blatant disregard for traffic laws.

I may have made that last one up.

*spoilers, for those who have not yet seen it*

It was great up until minute #2. Scene: the Antarctic ice shelf (where it is very, very cold). The new guy is drilling for core samples. Suddenly, cracks start to appear along the ground and ominous rumbling occurs. As the experienced scientists emerge from the tent, the new guy squeals, "I didn't do anything!" Ah, the mantra of our generation- It's not my fault! It soon becomes clear IT IS ALL OUR FAULT! MUHUAHAHAHA!

Sorry, channeled my inner mad scientist there for a second.

As the cracks progress, the entire Antarctic ice shelf breaks off, causing a giant crevasse to appear. Dennis Quaid, climatologist extraordinaire and olympic long-jumper, leaps across the widening crevasse to save the core samples. And then he leaps back.

I'm no climate scientist, but the antarctic ice shelf breaking off seems slightly more important than those core samples. That, and living to tell other people about the event.

As the climate change hits (with unbelievable speed), Quaid sets off to New York City to rescue his son, Jake "Resourceful Boy!" Gyllenhaal. He and a few others are holed up in the New York Public Library awaiting rescue, because we all know the best way to wait out a climactic event changing the course of civilization is to burn the written records of that civilization.

The next hour+ is a whirlwind tour of wooden acting, bad politics, unrequited love, snow, supercooled air from the Troposphere, wolves, snow, more wooden acting, and Mexico.

Moral of the story: keep a few land-line phones around.

Age is catching up with my MIL. She's a springy 88 years old and has worked out a compensatory mechanism for everything. Stiff joints? Walks two miles a day. Memory problems? Writes notes to herself and leaves them around the house. She lived in California for 30+ years, decided the price of living was too high, bought a house (herself) in her old home town of Milton-Freewater, OR, sold the one in Newbury Park, CA (herself) and moved. Herself.

Well, she didn't lift the furniture but she packed everything.

Herself is a strange word when you type is over and over. Herselfherselfherself

MIL is very pleasant and personable but when she sets her mind to something, watch out. You are a dinghy and she is a battleship - hard to stop and difficult to turn. Better to just get out of the way.

A month ago she had a nosebleed incident in the middle of the night that sent her to the hospital. It was a 5-hour ordeal, as most ER visits are, and she realized that although she was quite capable, she would be on her own if there was an immediate emergency. And so she has decided to move again, this time to an adult retirement community.

She is already packing.

I'm too lazy to post any content this week so you'll just have to be entertained by cute photos from the Little Brewer Archives.

First short sleeved sweater I ever knit.

Hat knit by the mother-in-law of one of my work colleagues.

For the past week, Brewguy has been in Milton-Freewater Oregon visiting his mother. This means Brewgal has been single mom. After 5 days I am proud to say:

1. The little brewers (2) are both still healthy and moderately clean.
2. The fish (2) are still alive.
3. The mail has been picked up.
4. The dishes are (mostly) washed.
5. No laundry has been harmed.

Yesterday Brewguy called me on his cell and said, "Check out the street camera in Walla Walla." I pulled up the webpage and waited as the camera swung back and forth across the street, focusing first on the Starbucks, then up Main Street, then on Title Plaza.

"Do you see me waving?" There he was, on camera, waving.

"Yes, I see you! Hi!" I replied. For just the briefest instant, I forgot that Brewguy was on the other side of the country waving at a light pole and I returned the gesture. I waved back. I waved AT MY COMPUTER.

Then my synapses had the following exchange:

Synapse 1: "You're waving at your computer."

Synapse 2 (freezes hand in embarassment): "Oops!" it giggled. "That was silly. I hope he didn't see that!"

Synapse 1 (rolls virtual eyes): "He can't see you. He's in Walla Walla."

Synapse 2: "Oh, yeah."

Synapse 3: "What's for dinner?"

Synapse 1: "Do you mind? We're talking here!"

Synapse 4: "I have to pee."

It's busy in Brewgal's head. Brewguy is coming home tonight. I hope he's bringing wine.

I'm back from New York.

The Louise Brooks exhibition is tiny- about 20 photos from her private collection consisting mostly of movie stills from Diary of a Lost Girl and Pandora's Box, with a couple from Metropolis thrown in. They are also running the film Pandora's Box. The Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit is much larger. The prints are contact-sized (about 2x4") so you have to get reeeeeally close to see the detail. Great stuff, though.

The best part was an exhibition on Martin Munkacsi. According to the notes, it was Munkacsi's photo of three boys running into the African surf that inspired Cartier-Bresson to take up photography. The photos were stunning! There is one photo in the exhibit that shows a soccer (football) goalie stopping a shot with his head. The shot was taken at the exact moment the ball impacts his head and you can see the way the ball smushes itself against his skull. Wow. Then I read the caption which said this photo was taken with a large format camera*. My jaw dropped open. WOW.






But you know the best part? Mr. Brewguy hadn't heard of him. I brought back the exhibition book and he loved it, enough that he's thinking of traveling up to see the exhibit. I introduced BREWGUY to a PHOTOGRAPHER. Ha!

*the skill necessary to get this photo is just awe-inspiring.

Help me Rhonda

I need help. Help, help me Rhonda.

I am not an idiot. I am a highly trained, possibly overeducated, slightly absent-minded, pun-loving working mother but I cannot FOR THE LIFE OF ME figure out why the sidebar links to my patterns are not working. ARRGH. Is there someone out there with basic HTML knowledge who can help me fix them or at least point me in the right direction?

*sigh*

In other news, I came across this super cool webring for Knitting Scientists. Now here is the dilemma. Brewgal *is* in fact a scientist but does not blog about her job. Blogging about her job will get Brewgal fired quicker than ... than... heck, it's so fast I can't even come up with a good analogy!

I shall be forced to admire the webring from afar.

I'm off to New York next week for a 2-day conference. I'm taking the early train from Baltimore so I should have about a total of 8 hours in the city around mandatory conference stuff. I'm planning to go to the International Center for Photography to see this exhibit on Louise Brooks Cinema, this exhibit on Henri Cartier Bresson , eat here and here and possibly here, give my presentation, hopefully not get too many hard questions, and jump back on the train. Trains! Knitting time!

The weather’s been chilly lately. Brewgal knew it was cold when she came home to find this on Mr. Brewguy’s dresser:


Yes, that’s yeast in the bedroom. Apparently it was so cold in the basement for the yeasties they weren’t growing properly.

Love those little yeasties, love them in my beer

In addition, the fermenter showed up in the powder room.



Yes, it’s been cold at Lincoln Street. But you know what Pedro says…
Chili today,
Hot tamale

South of the Border
My mother grew up in Florida. OLD Florida circa 1942. She ended up in DC working for NIH, married my father and settled in Maryland. But every year we’d make the pilgrimage back to Gainesville to visit my grandparents.

These experiences are seared into my mind, mostly because of the heat. There’s nothing like driving a gazillion miles in an un-air-conditioned Plymouth Valiant during the month of August. My father knew this. He would bundle the four of us into the car well before sunrise so as to “beat the traffic” on the Beltway. The goal was to make it as far as South Carolina before having to stop for the night.

My brother and I would be piled in the back, stretched out on pillows (seat belt laws were more lax back then). I used to lay back and watch the stars move through the back window. I’d get that funny floaty feeling in the pit of my stomach, the way you feel when you’re at the top of the arc on a swing, ready to head back down with gravity.

It was awesome.

My mother made these trips with a large thermos of sweetened iced tea sitting on the floorboard of the car, sandwiched between her legs. I don’t know how she did it. Brewgal gets all freaky when there’s anything on the floor near her feet, much less impeding her legroom. Mom would hand out little cups of tea and lifesavers to make the trip more interesting.

Are we there yet?
Going south on 95 the mile markers count down so it was easy to know how far one had to go in each state. Every state had its own character. Virginia went on forever. The pine trees started in North Carolina. Georgia had that enormous peach. Orange juice at the Florida State Line and the stench of the paper mills near Jacksonville. The best part were the South of the Border billboards: Burma Shave of the 1970’s. They were tackiness incarnate; bad puns (see quote above), stereotypical depictions (giant sombrero-wearing Latinos), animal abuse (that poor donkey!) No amount of begging on our part could convince my parents to stop there on our journey southward.

Pleeeeeeeze????
Like many things subject to denial, the place began to take on mythical proportions. The billboards were placed closer and closer together as you approached the South Carolina border. Some had moving parts! Every car seemed to have a South of the Border bumper sticker.

Except us. We never stopped.

I hear the old place is still there, still tempting the weary and the unwary with Pedro's promises.

Someday, when we make the journey southward with the little Brewers we may stop. Maybe.

Or maybe it's a place best left to my imagination.

Rude Haiku

Brewgal has a long commute. Not as long as the 144-mile round trips between Rockville and Gettysburg Mr. Brewguy and I used to make on a daily basis.

I miss the cows and the horses I used to see on those trips up to Pennsylvania. I guess that's why I love Bohemian's photos. It reminds me of those days when I could drive out into the orchards of Adams County, park the car up on a mountain in Ortanna and sit listening to the sounds of birds.

But I digress.

My commute is long enough to allow my mind to wander. I have a few minutes of nice scenery, punctuated by insane Maryland drivers whose time is CLEARLY MORE IMPORTANT than Brewgal's. *deep breaths*

Ahem. Anyway, yesterday, as I was driving home to the dulcet sounds of DC101,* I came up with the following haikus.

For most of you this will be tame stuff. However, I warn those of tremulous sensibility that what follows is rather rude. Naughty bits are referenced. Bodily functions are discussed. Proceed on your own recognizance and don't send me nasty emails because you feel post-hoc offense.




In parenting books
Not once did I read the words
"projectile pooping"


Empire State needle.
Old Doc Big Apple, pricking
the ass of the sky



*Yes, I realize "dulcet" and "DC101" are rarely mentioned in the same context. It's SARCASM, people!

Quote of the day

"Get me a scientist!" -- Tommy Lee Jones in Volcano.

As if we're all on retainer and can be called up at a moment's notice like The Geek Squad (TM). Imagine it: huge bands of scientists, roving the countryside, looking for problems to be solved. We could wear badges!*

Cat up a tree? Call a scientist! (a tall one)
That missing sock? Call a scientist!
Global warming? Call a scientist! Oops, did that already. Inspectors general at two agencies have begun an investigation into whether the Bush administration has suppressed government scientists' research on global warming, officials at NASA and the Commerce Department confirmed yesterday.

*Ok, FINE. Everyone repeat after me: "Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges!" Then if you haven't already, go rent Treasure of the Sierra Madre so you can know whereof you speak.

Stashing and busting

Little Brewer #2 is a genius. Look at the drawing he did on Paint. This would make a fabulous yarn!

It looks like a sunset. I officially name this color "Jeffrey"

In other news, I've been pondering the rules for Knit From Your Stash.

(if I could figure out how to add a button to my sidebar, I would. HMTL=1, Brewgal=0)

For instance, are the following scenarios within the KFYS rules:

1. Can I buy yarn from a thrift store? Net yarn = +, but cheap
2. Can I take apart items I have already made and re-use the yarn for another project? Net yarn = 0
3. Can I buy items at the thrift store, take them apart and re-use the yarn, yadda yadda yadda? Net yarn = +, but possibly offset by effort.

Can you tell Brewgal has been loitering around the thrift store lately? My zip code has an excellent mix of households that are new families and families that were original owners. This means that when the original householders move on to warmer climes or Leisure World, they downsize. And this often means the knitting stash gets donated.

Yesterday, while Little Brewer #2 and Brewguy were having "guy's day out" at the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space Museum, Little Brewer #1 and I ran errands. We came away from the thrift store with a great cache of needles and an odd kntted garment. I am not sure how to describe it. It was open in front like a cardigan, seamed under the arms, short sleeved. What attracted me was the geniune norweigan frog clasp and the feel of the wool. I am sure it was knit with unprocessed fibre because I could feel the lanolin. Heaven! And for $2.50, worth the price just for the clasp alone.

I tried it on just to make sure it couldn't be salvaged as a stand alone piece. It fit like a slightly off-center short sleeved blanket. Oookaay, let's frog that puppy!

When I'm finished, I'll post before and after photos.

Crisis!

I had a dental appointment yesterday. Just a cleaning. I say "just" for those of you who do not harbor a deep, ingrained fear of dentistry.

Unlike myself.

WARNING: scary dentistry story follows. Feel free to skip! I've had four root canals in six years to fix problems from prior bad dentistry. In the first, the anesthetic never took effect completely. *feel free to cringe here* Two others occurred simultaneously, about three weeks after Little Brewer #2 was born. Someday I will write a book entitled "The Root Canal Diet." I lost 50 pounds of combined baby and me weight. Perspective: I'm 5 feet 10 inches tall. My weight went down to 125 pounds. And it was not a good thing.

You have no idea how good food tastes when you've been unable to eat for a month.

My reward for getting through this particular appointment without crying was to stop by my favorite local thrift store for a look-see. Twenty-three dollars and one hour later, I came out with the following:
1 Hello Kitty down jacket, size 6
1 Old Navy soccer jersey
1 black purse
1 pair enameled cufflinks
3 long sleeve t-shirts
3 issues of Vogue Knitting magazine circa 1995
2 Bernat booklets
1 copy of animal knits by Zoe Mellor
1 copy of Vogue Knitting - the 1989 reference book

It is the Vogue reference book that has precipitated my crisis. I was taught to knit by my maternal Grandmother (twice, but that's a story for a different post). This is the woman who could eyeball a pattern and recreate it in her head. When she passed away I was lucky enough to inherit some of her stash, needles and her wooden swift. I still have the fair isle sweater she knit for me in junior high.

There, in the book, were the instructions for the knit stitch and the purl stitch. And I became aware, as I once knew, that I KNIT WRONG. At least, wrongly according to the gurus at Vogue. When I knit, I put the needle through the back of the stitch, rather than taking the front of the loop through the back. My purls seem to be ok.

Yet my finished work is, to me, indistinguishable from "correct" knitting. Why then the crisis?

Have I completely screwed up the others I have taught to knit? Probably not. Adding more knitters to the universe can't be a bad thing.

Is my work crap? Various opinions may be voiced, but I don't think so.

I think it is the fear that someone will tell me I am doing it wrong and this will destroy my love for the craft. This fear kept me from knitting or crocheting in public until fairly recently.

So now I'm mad at myself for falling back into the trap of "different=bad." I need to grow up.