Splish splash

Last year, when the CA Lottery hit a major high, I told Andrew to buy a ticket.

"Who knows?" I said, "We could win some money. Please buy a ticket on your way home."

And wouldn't you know it, while we didn't win the big pot, we won a little money. I didn't write about it, or talk about it because I didn't want anyone to think that winning the lottery had changed us.

I promise, it hasn't.

It has been scorchingly hot for a few weeks, so I made a proclaimation that it was time to put in a pool. As these projects sometimes go, I misjudged the cost scope of the pool, but that's because Mom thought we should go bigger, and she - like always - was right.

We only won $7, guys. We bought this pool

The installation was fairly straightforward and quick, and the smell of it offgassing curing reminded me of my childhood. It smelled like floaties and fun.

I put a couple of inches of water in it, while Mom got Genevieve into her adorable swim diaper, and then we let loose with the squirting bath toys.

There was splashing. There was squirting. There was laughter.

Swim diaper!

And Genevieve had fun, too.

Lighting the way

The fact that we will be parents in under 2 months is starting to sink in. Proof?

Add caption

We have nightlights all over the house now. (Specifically, these ones.) It makes our house feel more like a home, which is strange, because it's never *not* felt like home.

Until this last weekend, I had forgotten how amazing night lights are. Having night lights all over means:

- I no longer have to do a shuffle step when I get up in the middle of the night to avoid stepping on either of the dogs.

- I can get a midnight snack without searing my retinas with overhead lights.

- Personal injuries (toe stubbings, knee bangings) have been greatly reduced, not just by my graceful self, either. 

- The gentle lighting is always flattering. (If for no other reason, go with this one.)

Operation Home Beautification

Andrew has gotten the nesting bug something fierce. He's had it since August, when we were listening to the PregTASTIC podcast on the way up to Uncle Andy's memorial. One of the contributors on the show mentioned that their baby was imminently due, and - GASP!- they hadn't finished the nursery yet. Even though I was only four-ish months pregnant at the time, Andrew shared the panic.

A month or so ago, Andrew, GingerMan, Bromantic Brandon, and KidBrother Sam painted SharkBean's room, the hallway, and the entryway (the areas in the house where we didn't need to move furniture). Shortly after that, her furniture showed up, and what used to be Andrew's office started to really start looking like a bedroom.

We'd find ourselves randomly in SharkBean's room, just admiring the sand-colored walls and the smell of new maple furniture. There was envy, and envy smells like old IKEA dressers.

Fortunately, Andrew and I had picked out some Real Grownup Furniture^TM, which happened to go on sale at EXACTLY the right time. Andrew ordered the furniture, and we got started on packing up the bedroom. And by "we", I mean, Andrew packed and did the heavy lifting, and I directed. Because that's where we are at this point.

As I blog, Andrew is painting our bedroom, which looks much larger when none of our furniture is in it. By next weekend, we'll (hopefully) be moved back into our bedroom, but with our fancy new furniture. Possibly with new lighting.

For now, I'll be sitting on the couch with my feet up, knitting. Because somebody needs to.

Excitement Stew

A dish of Excitement Stew for your Sunday brunch:


- The new Michael Bublé Christmas album. I got it in the mail a few days ago and *almost* broke the "no Christmas music before Black Friday" rule. Almost. (You can bet that this will be what we listen to on Black Friday when Mom and I go to the Pajama Jammie Jam at Purlescence at o'dark hundred.)

- New furniture. My IKEA dressers are giving up the ghost after seven years of hard use. Andrew might have fixed them once or ten times already before declaring them "done".

Andrew and I found furniture made out of REAL wood, made in Eugene, OR. Since I want to retire there, I'm excited to be supporting their economy. It's due to arrive at the beginning of December, so we're emptying out the bedroom, painting and having lights (and a dimmer switch!) installed in the meantime. Real wood furniture? Smells amazing.

- SharkBean. She's due to arrive in 10-14 weeks. She has already met Galina and Lily Chin. She's got a wooly future ahead of her, but for now, she seems content doing barrel rolls every time I sit down. Maybe she'll be a knitting and spinning pilot. Or a Cirque du Soleil tumbler.

In any case, that clock is ticking down at what feels like breakneck speed. I can't wait to meet this strange little person I've been growing.

Snipe hunt

One of the perks of living so close to my parents is that we have the same mailman. Ron the Mailman has been delivering the mail in our area for over 20 years, which is kind of awesome. He has watched the families grow and change, and in our case, grow up and start our own family. He has also heard me caterwauling singing in the shower, and thinks I'm pretty good.

Mailman Ron and I have a special relationship. He will tuck large packages behind our gate and leave a note in the box (when we get them), if something needs a signature, he'll take it to my parents' house and have them sign for it instead of making me find time to head over to the post office for a pickup. Let's suffice it to say that Mailman Ron always has my back.

I always know when we have a substitute mail carrier. Mostly because they are terrible, slow, misdeliver a LOT of mail, and most of all - they aren't Mailman Ron.

Mailman Ron is married to a lapsed weaver. He thinks all of my "wool mail" is hilarious because, let's face it, if it's not actually yarn or roving, it's books/needles/notions for my knitting. He doesn't really get why I spend all this time knitting and spinning when I could be *weaving*. He was over the moon when I told him earlier this year that I was officially a weaver.

Fast forward to yesterday. Andrew and I have been getting bids on how much it's going to cost to install some desperately needed cabinets in our garage. (Remember Project Workspace?) While one of the sales folks was figuring out our estimate, Mailman Ron walked up us sitting in the open garage. The garage that was positively GAPING, exposing the neighborhood to All of Our Things. It's tidy, so I don't feel too bad about it, but I felt a little naked. If that makes any sense.

(Let's face it, there are *much* worse things we could store in our garage. Use your imagination.)

Two of the looms (the table loom and the Gilmore X-frame loom) live in the garage right now, and are on the garage door side- clearly visible when the door is open. Apparently, Mailman Ron's wife had a mystery loom in their attic, and he had been searching for the missing parts. (He had been hunting for legs. For a table loom.)

After a quick peek at the two looms, and a short conversation, his mystery was solved. I'm not going to tell you how long he's been looking for the missing legs on that loom.

Long enough that it will be a while before that's a funny story for them, that's for sure.

99 days

Today, we hit 99 days to SharkBean's due date. At this point, the calendar is getting progressively busier (classes, appointments, and oh yeah, the holidays), and this whole we're-having-a-baby thing? That is getting really real.

I know. You'd think ultrasounds, the elastic-waisted pants, and the merciless kicking would have been what made it "really real", but no. SharkBean's furniture arrived this weekend (crib and dressers), and that's when it got Real.

The crib has been built. We’re calling our AMAZING electrician to install a few lights (and a dimmer switch) this week. She is officially a real person, with a real room, real furniture, and her own dimmer switch.

That's when the crazy kicked in. We're going to be parents. We're going to be 100% responsible for someone else. Everything is going to change, we just don't know how. We just know that everything is going to change.

I vacillate between being really, really excited to meet SharkBean, and being COMPLETELY terrified that we will make All of the Wrong Decisions and we'll end up on Maury Povich. Which I don't watch. (Anymore.)

We haven't been documenting The Bump as diligently as we should, but I mostly blame that on the fact that I tend to sport the Cryptkeeper look on the weekends, unless we have plans. (I'm also usually the one who takes the pictures.)

Picture one, not as the Cryptkeeper:

18 weeks, 1 day. Spike heels worn only for this photo.

A Cryptkeeper Sunday, complete with stylin' headband:

24 weeks, profile

24 weeks, from the front

The other thing I'm finding strange is the kicking. Does kicking mean she likes something, or she *doesn't* like something? USE YOUR WORDS, SHARKBEAN!

Ahem.

I'm supposed to be talking to her, but what do you discuss with a developing baby? I figure she can listen in on conversations I have with the dogs about the importance of being neighborly, discussions I have with Mom about knitting, and all of the peaceful natural birth stories I was reading out loud to Andrew from Ina May Gaskin's Guide to Natural Childbirth. (I hope if nothing else, this last one sticks with her.)

In any case, she has her whole life ahead of her for one-sided lectures. For now, I hope to provide interesting material for her to eavesdrop on.

Playing (o)Possum

Sunday mornings are usually pretty quiet around here. If Andrew and I both sleep in, we usually have an extended cuddle session with the dogs, then Andrew makes breakfast while I check Facebook and Ravelry and inform him of What Happened while we were sleeping.

*This* Sunday, I got up a little earlier because we had a somewhat busy day planned. I got myself a glass of juice, and sat down at my computer. A little while later, Andrew got up and started making breakfast. Business as usual.

As Andrew was dishing breakfast, Niki was acting... twitchy. Suspicious. He was grousing at something under the stainless steel rack in the kitchen. I took a glance, and all I saw were dust puppies. (A "dust puppy" is like a tumbleweed, but made of dog fur.) I told Niki that none of his toys were under there, and thanked him for his diligence.

[SIDE NOTE: Lest you think I *never* clean my house, I sweep almost every day, and dust puppies are just a reality of having two double-coated dogs.]

Andrew and I sat down in front of the TV to enjoy our eggs and (decaf) coffee, and 10 minutes into the episode of Dexter we were watching, Niki was still grousing and growling.

"I looked and I didn't see anything. Could you please go take a look?" I asked Andrew.

Andrew agreed, I paused the DVD, and kept working on the beautiful cup of decaf he had made for me. (I miss coffee so, so, SO much.)

I hear Andrew blow the dust puppy out of the way, pause, send the dogs behind the dog gate, and then the following conversation transpired:

Andrew: Um, Jasmin?
Jasmin: What?
Andrew: There's a... [long and thoughtful pause]... possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you joking?
Andrew: No. There is a possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you serious?
Andrew: Yes. There is a possum in our kitchen.
Jasmin: Are you messing with me?
Andrew: No. Come look.

You have to understand, sometimes, he messes with me. And seriously, who would BELIEVE that there was a possum in their kitchen? So, I moseyed over to the kitchen, did as much of a chaturanga as one can manage at 19 weeks pregnant, and this is what I saw:

Dog toy? Home invader? Who can tell.

I looked again, because it wasn't very clear. 

That is NOT just dog fur.

As I looked into the face of evil and terror, I might have yelled something like "OHMYGOD. THERE IS A POSSUM IN OUR KITCHEN!" I also may have jumped up on a chair, mouse-in-the-house style. (Are you as impressed with my bravery as I am?)

Andrew and I briefly brainstormed on how to deal with our home invader, while I intermittently praised Niki for being such a GOOD DOG and finding the nasty little thing. Andrew dreamed up a plan about how to get it out of the house and I summarily dismissed it, since all I could imagine was him getting mauled and killed by this monster, and in a few years, having to explain to SharkBean that she lost her father to a vicious opossum.

(At some point, I also clarified to Andrew that we have opossums in our area, not possums.)

I decided to call Animal Control, since they seem to cover this type of thing, and I got an answering machine. I left a slightly panicked message, which ended with, "I look forward to speaking with you very, very soon. VERY, very soon."

I assumed, since it was a holiday weekend, that they might not be in the office. I called 311 (non-emergency), and that call went a lot like this:

Me: Hello, there's an opossum in my kitchen. Is this the right place to call?
311 operator: In your kitchen?
Me: Yes, under my stainless steel rack.
311 operator: Hang up and call 911.
Me: 911? This is an appropriate 911 call?
311 operator: YES. Hang up NOW and call 911.

So, I called 911. Apparently, this was her first opossum in the house call. She connected me to a real, live person at Animal Control who told us we were the VERY NEXT pickup on their list. Animal Control also told us to keep an eye on the opossum, because should it get loose in the house, they wouldn't be going on a search-and-rescue mission hunting it down.

I assured her that there was nothing more compelling to watch in our house than the opossum. Mom took the dogs over to her house, so that they wouldn't continue to antagonize the Wild and Vicious animal in the house, and we held Opossum Watch 2011 in our very own kitchen.

So, for the next hour, we watched the opossum. Andrew named him (presumably "him", I didn't do an anatomical scan) "Bandit", and then insisted I look up information about opossums while we waited. He also declared them "cute" and informed me that we should buy SharkBean a stuffed opossum.

Then, the paranoia kicked in. We're working through season 5 of Dexter, and one of the antagonists is an animal control person.

"What if we're inviting a Boyd Fowler into the house?!" I might have freaked out.

Andrew and I decided it was worth the risk, since I had also declared that we needed to abandon the house. (I made the same declaration when I found out that we have black widow spiders in our garage. Which apparently, we had at the last house, too, Andrew just never told me.)

I was pleasantly surprised when Officer Rick (my new, personal hero) showed up, smiling, and was as friendly as could be. He told us that the opossum was likely much more afraid of us than we were of him, to which I responded, from my perch on the chair, "I seriously doubt that."

Officer Rick assessed that we had an adolescent opossum, and then talked Andrew through how to safely extract one from the house, should we have another uninvited visitor. I may have told Officer Rick that I loved him forever.

Bandit was a little skittish, and got tangled in the phone cord that lives under the stainless steel racks. Gentle as a lamb, Officer Rick untangled Bandit in a flash, and then lowered Bandit- who was the size of a HOUSECAT - into a cage.

Officer Rick also assisted in the photo-op.

After a short discussion of what Bandit's fate was, it turns out, that unless there is a suspicion of rabies (there was not), they just release opossums back into the wild. Since our neighborhood lacks wilderness, and I didn't think any of our neighbors would appreciate the gift of an opossum in any of *their* yards, Officer Rick offered to release Bandit at the perk ponds nearby.

[SIDE NOTE: Apparently, this is NOT Animal Control policy. They trap the critter, and it's up to you, the homeowner, to find a place to release it. I think it was the terror in my voice that may have changed his mind. Maybe it was telling him that I loved him forever. Who can tell?]

Officer Rick shared a fair amount of opossum facts with us, including:

- Mama opossums have 13 nipples, and incidently, have litters of 13.
- A litter of 13 means that there are 13 MORE opossums running around our neighborhood.
- Opossums love fruit that falls off of trees. Especially apples and tangerines, which we have in plentiful supply.

As he was on his way out, Officer Rick took a look at Bandit, and said, "You said you have dogs, right?"

"Yes..." I answered, not freaking out because our dogs are current on their vaccinations, and Bandit showed no signs of rabies. (We also thoroughly checked the dogs for bites, scratches, etc.)

"Do they play with stuffed toys?" Officer Rick asked.

"...yes."

"Hm. It looks like this little guy has been mouthed at. See how he looks a little wet?" Officer Rick pointed out.

That is one moist opossum.

After assuring us that Niki would be fine, just have horrifically stinky breath, Niki went from being the hero of the day, to being QUITE POSSIBLY Bandit's escort into the house, QUITE POSSIBLY bringing a playing-(o)possum-Bandit through the dog door like any other dog toy. Any other stinky, interactive, mouth-full-of-terrifying teeth dog toy.

It's like finding out that a heroic firefighter caused the fire. Doubly so if that heroic firefighter may have given you nose kisses after CHEWING ON AN OPOSSUM.

Oh, and once the dogs came back? Niki was incredibly unhappy that we had his new toy removed. I might have told him he has the meanest mom in the world, and then asked Andrew to brush the opossum funk off of Niki's teeth.

Funny enough, the last two mornings have felt so much better, since there HASN'T been an opossum in the house. It makes a dead rat seem trivial by comparison.

You have got to love relativism.

Direction and management

Lest you think (from my Math post) that we live in squalor, surrounded by disorderly piles of yarn and fiber, let me assure you, we do not. It's all organized and shelved, there is just a *lot* of it. (I once had a guest who remarked, "LOOK! It's all labeled so you know what you're stealing!")

I can still pull stuff out of the closet (and off of the shelves), but lifting has become a bit of an issue, so a lot of things get pulled out until I can get help putting them back away. Lucky for me, I married up. By "up" I mean "tall and does my heavy lifting".

We spent a lot of this last weekend with me directing Andrew on where to move things that I had intended to take care of, but really couldn't manage on my own. While I prize my "Lady Hulk" title, I am learning to ask for help when I need it. And ask I did.

I'm used to making lists, and systematically accomplishing things on the list. It's incredibly satisfying. However. If you make a list for someone else, someone who (perhaps) works full time and is your Lovable Beast of Burden, it can make you feel like a bit of a jerk. Especially when by the time your Lovable Beast of Burden comes home, you are SO TIRED and can not be on your feet for ONE MORE SECOND.

... Especially if you *might* be giving directions from the couch, where you might be knitting and watching TV, or laying down with the TV on. There has been a lot of TV involved, along with obsessively reading about how to not be a terrible parent. Or vampires. You know, to mix it up a little. (I know, I know. For true literary balance, I should be reading about the zombie apocalypse, too. My shortcomings are many. Thank goodness I'm cute.)

Instead of feeling guilty (because that's not my forte), I'm using my project management skills to work out what needs to get done in order of priority with Andrew. I don't actually make the lists, and I'm learning to be okay with it when things don't get done RIGHT AWAY. I see it as practice for when the SharkBean joins us.

I'm not letting everything slip- I've been working with the dogs on some training that has needed to get done, since that's all about being consistent and not about muscle. On top of that, I'm trying to teach Elphie how to fold laundry, since she is Very Interested in clean laundry. Unfortunately, she lacks some dexterity, so this hasn't worked all that well. Proof that not all ideas are good ones.

She sticks to doing what I fondly refer to as "furmanent press"- which is rolling all over warm, clean, flattened laundry. Considering what I've heard about what *other* dogs like rolling in, I'm 100% okay with her rolling on clean laundry. What's a little dog fur between friends?


SIDE NOTE: I was reading one of the parenting books y'all suggested (I've checked them ALL out, and I'm currently powering through them), and the one I'm reading now seems to have followed my mother around and modeled their "ideal" solutions around how she raised us. When I asked her, she claims to have neither read nor written the book. Further proof of my mother's innate awesomeness.

Math

I have a very, very special houseguest visiting next week. A guest SO nice, I said "very" twice. My guest room looks like a Jasminian Devil has been let loose in it. Which is actually *exactly* what happened.

It's a very nice guest room/office/stash den; there is an EXTREMELY comfortable bed (ask Mom or Dr. Gemma), a flat monitor hooked up to a DVD player and an Apple TV, a nightstand with speakers for your iPod and a little lamp to read by. Sounds idyllic, right?

There is also A LOT of wool in there, in its various forms. Like, enough wool to realize that the outside walls of the house aren't insulated. (This is exactly why we all need a million fleeces, by the way.) Enough to get me on "My Strange Addiction", or "Hoarders Lite". (Is there a "Hoarders Lite"?) It's all special and I NEED ALL OF IT.

Ahem.

I stashed with a purpose. I planned for my time home as an artist. And then I promptly lost my mojo.

So, here's a little math that has become increasingly apparent to me, in the form of a word problem:

If you buy ANY yarn/wool, and don't knit (or spin), the amount of stash GROWS.

Many of you, being intelligent people are saying, "Duh. You can do math, Jasmin."

Yes. Yes I can. The problem is that in my mind, I can knit a sweater in three days and spin a sweater's worth of wool in a week."

In theory. The problem is the application. Hopefully my Very Very special houseguest will find it in her heart to forgive me. And not take photographs of the room for blackmailing purposes.

Beauty, love, and dual fuel

I have a weakness for beauty.

A well-made piece of clothing, a stylish shoe, a stunning skein of handpainted yarn. My wardrobe - and my stash - did not end up the size they are on accident. This goes doubly for food.

I'm sure you're not surprised- do a search on Flickr for food, and you'll find enough glamour shots of food to make the most moderate eaters feel like gluttons. Check a foodie blog and you'll be drooling and gaining weight just *looking* at all the goodies.

This last week, everything I bought at the farmer's market was beautiful. Slender asparagus, perfectly round and cheerfully colored turnips, and multicolored potatoes.

I know. The potato is a humble vegetable, and the object of much anathema, given the carb-negative feelings people have these days. I love me some carbs, so how could I resist a bag of these beauties:

Purple, red, gold

I didn't have an idea of what I would use them for, but I HAD to have them. The gal in the booth thought I had LOST MY MIND. They were perfect and tiny - fitting comfortably in the palm of my hand, and SO beautiful. This picture doesn't do them justice, but my enthusiasm wouldn't allow me to photograph them one second earlier.

Speaking of beauty, I should introduce you to the newest man appliance in my life, Richard Blaze. But first you need to know what happened with Luke.

For those of you who were Luke fans, here's what happened. Luke was ailing. His temperature sensor had gone, and his timer was going. It was time. We called our home warranty folks to see if he could be fixed, but he was so old.

They suggested we send Luke to go live on a farm. A farm where old ovens can live out their days burning food without fear of reprisal. It was really what was best, hard as it may have been.

So, at the suggestion of the contractor, we made a pilgrimage to Airport Appliance, and lo and behold, there was the range and oven I have been waiting for my whole life.

Readers, meet Richard Blaze.

It was love at first sight. We saw each other across a crowded room, and that was that. It was meant to be.

He is named for my favorite Top Chef, Richard Blais [WARNING, noisy site]. In fact, the finale is tonight, and I'm rooting for Richard.

Permit me to wax poetic for a moment. I LOVE when people are good sports on shows that are effectively creative competition. Richard (the namesake) is affectionately referred to as "The Professor" or "Professor Blais" in the Top Chef kitchen, mostly because he's willing to help out his competitors when they need it. This means that everyone is competing at the top of their game, and that's more interesting for everyone.

He's totally brilliant, his dishes are inspired, and he is completely adorable. AND! He's going to have his own show on the Science Channel, Blais Off, which is the answer to the trainwreck that is Marcel's Quantum Kitchen. (Time for the tinfoil hat- I was complaining that Blais should be doing a show on molecular gastronomy, not Marcel.)

But back to *my* Blaze. He's a dual-fuel range and oven, and I love him. We have spent a lot of time getting to know one another. I read his manual and he delivers on all his promises, Itellyouwhut.

And see that drawer on the bottom? It's a BAKING DRAWER. I can bake one tray of cookies or biscuits without heating the whole big oven!!! And convection baking! I can't tell you how cool it is to bake three sheets of cookies or cupcakes at once. (The neighbors can vouch for it's coolness, since I've been sharing the cookie and cupcake love.)

Now, for the next frontier in earning my kitchen savvy merit badge: molecular gastronomy!

We are loved

Last night, Andrew was making dinner, and the smoke alarm went off. Normally, you open some windows, fan the smoke away from the detector, problem solved.

Well.

The previous owner of our home had a home alarm installed. If the fire alarm or the home alarm was triggered, it would broadcast the alarm to the whole. Entire. Neighborhood.

Despite all of the stuff I've burned, and all the smoke I've managed to get going in the house, I have never triggered the smoke alarm. It took us a few minutes to realize that the smoke alarm wasn't just annoying us, it was alerting the whole. Entire. Neighborhood.

There was a bit of drama getting it quieted down, but the heartwarming thing is this: all of our neighbors came to make sure that we were all okay. There was three waves of concerned neighbors, which means that everyone checked for themselves, instead of assuming that "someone else" would check.

I have incredibly strong feelings about "someone else". I'm usually the person who says something, makes the call, or goes to check. I know that in the horror movie version of the world, this dooms me, but it's just who I am. I'm terrified at the thought that we'll all "someone else" and while everyone stands around with a concerned ear, passing the buck to "someone else", nobody will help.

I always think, "Well, I *am* someone else."

So, while Andrew was working on finding the code again (which he did), I got to chat with the neighbors and assure them that we were fine, and tell them about our few days in the house. (How the POLICE came to check while I was moving the first load of stuff into our new house, alone, looking punky and disreputable with my pink hair back in a bandanna.)

Our newest neighbor mentioned how glad she was to see all the turnout for our alarm, and how much better it made her feel. I'm really glad that our neighborhood is extraordinary in that it's full of "someone else"s.

The magic fridge

As I mentioned earlier, LukeWarm and I have had some... speedbumps in our relationship. After realizing how much he was smoking, Mom suggested I help him quit. Mom's suggestion, as always, was right.

Smoking, as we all know, is bad for us and those around us. Especially (in my case) the people who I was trying to impress with my mad pie skills. Nothing gives your guests confidence in your culinary abilities like an surly oven billowing smoke. Even if you insist that it's *supposed* to do that.

This morning I put on my battle gear (cow print apron, gloves, headband), and LukeWarm and I spent some quality time working on getting him to quit smoking. As I started giving LukeWarm his spongebath (part of the terms of him quitting), I realized that I have never seen my mother scrub her oven.

Lest you think poorly of my mother (and her housekeeping), there are lots of things that just happened around the house. The oven and fridge magically cleaned themselves, and more than that, the fridge would magically fill itself.

I discovered that my parents had a magic fridge when Andrew and I first started dating. I would take a glance at my options, take something (or not), and that was that. Except that unlike my parents' fridge, nothing good magically appeared after a couple of days. 

I have known for years that the recipe for a magic fridge involves a responsible adult going to the store and filling it, but there is nothing more disappointing than realizing that you're a terrible fridge fairy.

Like any skill, earning your fridge fairy wings takes practice, effort, and knowing the needs of the people in the house. A good fridge fairy should have:

- Components to cook with
- Nutritious snacks (premade, like string cheese, applesauce, or delicious fruit)
- Yogurt/cottage cheese
- Milk
- Sandwich stuff
- Ice cream, vanilla plus another flavor
- Pot stickers (in the freezer)

(Why yes, despite my attempts at being an adult, those are staples in our house. If we don't have dessert, the terrorists win.)

So, in any case, today's lesson was that a pot scraper, Dawn dishwashing detergent, a new sponge, a few paper towels, and a heavy dose of determination will get the job done.

It also helps to have a Mom who shows you how to avoid all the work next time, by lining the oven with aluminum foil. Which explains why I never saw her scrubbing out the oven.

Good enough to eat

For a few years now, I've been fooling people around me. People seem to be under the impression that I am an adult. It's an elaborate deception; like an adult, I went to work, I paid my bills, I did my laundry, but I never considered myself to be an adult.

I still eat ice cream for breakfast in the summertime. When I see kids begging for candy at the grocery store, sometimes I buy it not because I WANT candy, necessarily. I buy it because I *can*, and there isn't a thing anyone can do to stop me.

What really convinced me that I am a total fraud is cooking . I do a fine job with executing recipes, but I can't look in the fridge and compose dishes by memory or invention. I watch other people (I call them "adults") glance at the contents of their refrigerators and divine up brilliant and delicious dishes. Not me.

Meal planning is another challenge, mostly because my inner six-year-old wants something different on Wednesday than I did on Sunday (when I was trying to be an adult an plan my meals).

I confessed to Laura that I am a fraud, after she complimented a dish that I had prepared for a pot luck, and she laughed hysterically at my heartfelt, shame-filled confession. Maybe I hadn't been clear enough.

"I don't know how to throw things together. I look up what I want to cook, buy the ingredients, and make it," I explained.

Laura laughed even harder, then declared that EVERYONE is a fraud, and that there were no real adults. Apparently, everyone is guilty of perpetuating an elaborate social ruse. Who knew?

Mom told me that it wasn't about any secret that I didn't know - it was my cookbooks. I picked my cookbooks based on specific dishes or skills; I bought Soup: A Way of Life for the Quibebe recipe, the America's Test Kitchen cookbook for the tomato soup recipe, and the Williams Sonoma "Meat" cookbook for the Texas Chili recipe.

(Yes, there are loads of great recipes, but those were the clinchers.)

"You need a good, basic cookbook," Mom said, "A Fannie Farmer, or the Joy of Cooking. You do the complicated stuff well; this will be a breeze."

Laura mentioned that she had a few copies of The Joy of Cooking, so I asked to borrow one to flip through before investing in a Very Large Cookbook. To my great surprise (and intimidation), Laura GAVE me one of her copies (yes, still plural) of Joy of Cooking, along with a few of the Better Homes and Gardens recipe binders.

A few nights ago, I made meatloaf for the first time. It's not a big deal for most of you, but I am ridiculously proud of myself. I prepped the meatloaf, threw it in the oven, then worked on getting the sides (steamed carrots, green beans, potatoes, and gravy) prepped and timed to be ready when the meatloaf was done.

Before you start admiring my adultitude, wait a moment.

Like with knitting (and everything else in life), with cooking you should read the directions all the way through FIRST. Had I done that, I could have knit through an uninterrupted repeat on my Cece cardigan, instead of trying to figure out why my oven refuses to actualize its potential. (It seemed that while the knob reads one temperature, the oven itself runs 75 degrees colder than the knob claims.)

While I can appreciate LukeWarm (my oven's name)'s desire to tell me that he's hot and ready for my tasty morsels, he's just too small for my needs, and really takes too much time to get me what I need. Which is (in case you weren't clear on it) hot, delicious food in a reasonable amount of time.

(Don't tell LukeWarm, but I've been trying to burn him out with my constant attention so that I can move on with Prince PipingHot. I need size and heat and will accept no substitutes.)

In any case, after figuring out how much I need to compensate for LukeWarm's lackluster performance, when the time came I held my breath for the moment of truth: How is this dish?

A rousing success! Plates were cleared, and for the first time in almost five years of marriage, Andrew went for seconds. Then joked about licking his plate. I thought it was pretty good, too.

With the help of friends and family, I think I might just earn my adult badge someday. Or at the very least, a really convincing fake.

Tour de Fleece 2010, Day 21: Everyone loves clean laundry

Between dealing with jerky-scented packages and today, I swatched up my singles:

One is a four-ply, one is a five-ply. The four-ply matched gauge, and frankly, the math on mixing the Lorna's Laces merino and the Susan's Spinning Bunny BFL worked better for four anyway. It looks like I'll have seven or eight skeins (which translates roughly into "More than enough yardage for my cardigan").

While I'm plying, I'm using my good ergonomics skills that I learned in the inimitable Carson Demer's class. I'm not stretching every 20 minutes, but I *am* multitasking when I stretch every 52 minutes.

"Why every 52 minutes?" you might ask.

Because that is how long it takes my washer/dryer to do its thing. I saw that Stephanie has decided to shear time off her day by opting out of laundry and housework, but I have found a way to do it all. To have it all! To spin and ply like a champion, and use the laundry and housework to extend spinning time. Lest you think I have lost my mind and allowed the Donna Reed dresses,epic fake pearls, and heels-made-for-vacuuming go to my head, give me a second to explain.

So, here's how it goes:

Step 1: Start a load of laundry. Set the kitchen timer (or in my case, cell phone timer) for the length of your wash cycle.
Step 2: Spin/ply until the alarm sounds.
Step 3: Move the wash into the dryer. Move a fresh load into the washer. Reset timer.
Step 4: Spin/ply until the alarm sounds.
Step 5: Unload dryer, move wash into the dryer. (If you have more laundry, use the timer and continue the rotation.)
Step 6: While the laundry is still delightfully hot from the dryer, lay it out flat. Once the pieces have been flattened and stacked, fold, using big mock-yoga movements. (Bonus points if you put the laundry away once it's folded.)
Step 7: Spin/ply until the alarm sounds.
Repeat as necessary.

This system has served me well, no repetitive stress injuries, happy back and shoulders, and clean laundry. Because let's face it, everyone loves clean laundry:

Shiny sink

A shiny sink means being able to block, wash a sweater, or set skeins of handspun with no prep first.

You're right, Mom.

Project Workspace: Step 1

... or, as I like to think of it, "A garage of one's own".

(It doesn't sound as glamorous as "A Room of One's Own", but let's face it, I'm no Virginia Woolf.)

Andrew and I have been talking about some upgrades we want to do on our house, which includes the usual stuff like tearing out the ugly wallboard and painting. Talking is the easy part- it's agreeing on what needs to be done when and how that appear to be the issue. Ah, marriage...

(For the record, I hate the wallboard, I've hated it since the instant we walked through the house. Now? The wallboard mocks me with it's ugliness. Once the weather decides which direction it's going, the wallboard is coming down. Mark my words.)

However, the one thing we can agree on in the garage. It needs some love, and it's the kind of work we can do on the house ourselves- for less than a bazillion dollars. Andrew has convinced me to help with Project Workspace (which I've termed it) because I could easily set up a table for the sewing machine and the recording equipment- once it's fixed up. The man has a knack for knowing what motivates me.

Really, it's space to work. Especially when it comes to things like sewing- where you need space to cut, pin, and to leave your machine set up. I know how I am; if it's not set up, it always seems like a huge hassle to get it set up, and the machine I have right now is seriously heavy. I don't want to set it up in the kitchen, because I've already declared a jihad against the existing hot spots around the house.

Step One of Project Workspace is to get rid of the Loom of Doom- the epic floor loom I bought a couple of years ago in hopes that I would become an amazing weaver. Margit (the FiberFiend) has graciously offered to help us with Step One.

I'm going to take pictures of the whole process, but I won't post them until the whole story is done. It can be so discouraging (not to mention, super embarrassing) to post pictures of something like a garage-in-progress. I mean, the closet was bad enough, but those "after" pictures totally made it worth the time.

For now, Step One is done.

Fickle

Dear Weather;

Please decide what you're going to do. If you're going to be sunny and keep me from doing a Mondo-style montage for my Seneca, please at least stay sunny long enough for my sweaters to dry. I did not appreciate that you decided to downpour as soon as my back was turned. I do appreciate the timing of the rain, since I just got a sassy new raincoat, but as for the rest, I could stand some reliability. I'm not even going to mention the California humidity.

Please, decide what you're going to be and stick with it. I'll love you either way, but seriously, you're driving me crazy.

Love,

Jasmin

Just call me Braggatha

This morning when I left the house, Our Favorite Electrician came over. While the dogs were at their Auntie Colleen's house for a marathon playdate with their favorite Akita cousin, Hana, and I was at work, magic was happening at my house.

After work, I picked up two VERY tired dogs, and came home. The change in our home is amazing. Our Favorite Electrician installed canned lighting in our living room and dining room, and Andrew mounted the speakers to the walls. I can comfortably knit with JUST the lights on, no extra lamps are necessary. A-MA-ZING. (Also, the surround sound is AWESOME.)

I haven't tried knitting with black yarn, which will be the real test of how fabulous the lights are, but I'll do that.

Between the lights, and the new-and-improved closet, I am SO pleased with the work we're getting done on this house. I'm so pleased, I'll walk into a room, turn the lights off, and then turn them back on. It's like when I would stand and admire my new closet. (I'm still doing this, by the way. It's that good.)

Not to brag, but I might be married to the best man EVER. Now, what to get him for his upcoming 30th birthday...

For my next trick...

Impressive disappearing trick I did, no? Andrew and I both took some time off of work, and took the oh-so trendy "staycation", where you take time off work and stay home. This economy is AWESOME!

Andrew started this off by building me a new closet.

Before:

Before you get all judge-y, remember that I'm only 5'1", and have an unparalleled love of shoes.

After:

Fancy, right?

Now, After and full!:

Huge difference. I can reach all of my "everyday" stuff. There is room for all of my shoes. Andrew also redid his closet, and I've been offered some real estate over there as well.

I have a drawer for my shawls, and my "special" shawls (my Alison shawl and my Orenburg) have their own sweater box and shelf, and I am in OCD hog heaven. Andrew is also thrilled, since he usually got stuck putting a stack of sweaters away, since I couldn't reach them. Now there's even a little room for my stepladder. (Look to the space at the far right. It's there.)

My next step is to build the closets for seasonal clothing storage, and move my spring dresses in where my suits are hanging. (Suits. As in four of them. How did I end up with four suits?) This way, my heavy winter coats won't monopolize our hall coat closet, and our guests won't have to pile their things behind the couch. Very civilized.

There has been knitting. There has been spinning. There has also been some crazy awesome organization. Stay tuned.

Oh Steamy, well you came and you gave without taking...

I posted the picture of my Twist blocking, but you didn't get the whole story. Before I actually got to any sort of "pinning" state, I hunted ALL OVER our house for my Scunci steamer.

(Yes, I saw it on an infomercial. This shouldn't color your judgment of me or my beloved Steamy. For $60, I got Steamy and his floor kit. It was love at first steam.)

During the initial stages of my hunt, I asked Andrew if he had seen Steamy. Andrew, being the naturally jealous type, denied having seen Steamy, and told me that Steamy was in my office. Then, to add insult to injury, Andrew asked when the last time was that I used Steamy.

You have to understand this: Steamy and I have a love that transcends the simple quantifiable nature of many relationships, which depends on frequency of visits. People, it's not about how much time we spend together, it's the quality of the time we spend together. I knew you would understand, even if Andrew doesn't.

(In all fairness, I think Andrew has always been a little jealous of Steamy.)

You see, Steamy and I meet, often in B&D circumstances: I bring Steamy out once my sweater has been thoroughly restrained, and together, we block until the sweater uses our safe word ("Moth!").

You've been reading this blog. You know that the only blocking I've done in the last few years (ahem, two and a half) has been lace, which requires wet-blocking, not steaming. Like I said before, our relationship is about quality, not quantity. Given my resolution to block my knits, I knew Steamy and I would be seeing more of each other.

After two hours of hunting, I gave up. Steamy was AWOL. I worried that he had been misplaced in the move, or heaven forbid, "accidentally" donated by one jealous husband. I picked up his second cousin, thrice removed, Presser.

(Presser and I have a long history, but one of familial relationships, rather than love. He was our family iron while I was growing up, and he came with me to college. He's now the official iron in our house, slightly less neglected than Steamy, but considerably less loved.)

Presser and I have an adversarial relationship, and I'll be honest, he's burned me in the past. He knows that when it comes to my beloved knits, Steamy is the one who I really want to be sharing the moment with.

Presser deliberately makes blocking difficult (and frankly, unenjoyable and tedious), and because of his refusal to do what Steamy does, I end up with aching muscles in my hand from having to pump him for that precious steam.

So, I had Andrew work Presser for the steam. Only then did Andrew realize that what Steamy and I have is unique and special, and promised to aid in the search for our missing Steamy.

Yesterday, while I was hunting through the trappings of our material existence (read: "the junk in the garage"), the very moment that I gave up hope and was climbing out of a pile of boxes with the express purpose of finding myself a new Steamy, there he was. Under a roll of blood red pleather yardage. (Not joking.) I squealed with delight, and brought him directly into the house.

Steamy has decided that he wants to sit on the shelf, next to the cashmere. I think they might have a thing, if you know what I mean.