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.

Frankly, Scarlet

Last year, I cast on the Oat Couture Prairie Blanket and got 12% into it before something more interesting grabbed my interest.

Cascade 220 Superwash, because I'm a realist.

I had wanted to knit one of these when I was 15 years old, but the first time I tried it, I wasn't as capable of reading the wrong side of my knitting or following a moving texture pattern, never mind doing both simultaneously. I've done a little more knitting since then.

It's not for SharkBean. The red isn't speaking to me for SharkBean, beautiful as it is. Also, after watching Shark Week, it is vaguely reminiscent of chum. Not a bad thing, just an observation.

(Side note: Beth had a great name for the color, "Blood and Romance". It had nothing to do with chum. Unless she meant "Fish blood and guts" in the "blood" bit.)

I have someone in mind, but really, until she tells me that she's expecting, I'm not handing over this beauty. It's not the next "hardest thing I've ever knit", but I like it for lots of reasons.

It's a brilliant variation of the classic dishcloth blanket, which I knit 7 million of in high school (for the NICU at the local county hospital, the same folks who get all of our Head to Toe hats). The dishcloth blanket, according to my Aunt Constance, is the ultimate in blankets-that-stay-on-babies. But dishcloth blankets are SO BORING TO KNIT.

Miles and miles and miles of garter stitch, which is either (a) what hell is like or (b) penance for doing something horrible. It's the knitting equivalent of having to write lines. ("I will not say nasty things about acrylic yarn.") Over and over and over again until your hands fall off.

Somehow, the traveling rib on the second border (because there is a small garter border on the outside, THEN an eyelet, THEN the traveling garter rib!) makes knitting this a particularly potato-chippy knit. Also, it's a really sophisticated design, especially for something as utilitarian as a baby blanket.

A really cool baby is going to do all sorts of unmentionable things to this beauty. Probably in a leather jacket and sunglasses, like in "Look Who's Talking?". (Wow, dated movie reference, much?) Or in a suit, like a mini Tim Gunn. (Phew! I hope that gives me some cool cred back.)

Why a baby blanket if it's not for SharkBean? Everything else in my UFO bin is either (a) a fitted sweater or (b) a boring vanilla sock. This is literally the first thing I was excited about working on. Not because it's a baby blanket, but because everything else feels a little pointless right now. (Also, it was the first thing that I grabbed that I could just grab and knit on. I might be a fickle knitter.) I see a lace binge in my future. (See? Told you.)

I tried starting a baby sweater, but it didn't work out. I'm going to wait for a pattern to physically attack me before I try knitting for SharkBean. The question is, do I knit a vent for the dorsal fin, or an incorporated cover? (Just in case.)

Research is power

A month ago, while we were out running errands, Mom and I stopped at a bookstore in search of parenting books. Specific types of parenting books.

Who am I kidding? My life is an open book. I was looking for books on attachment parenting and co-sleeping. (Suggestions greatly appreciated, for the record.) I was raised by hippies, I married a hippie, and despite my (former) denial, ladies and gentlemen, I AM A HIPPIE. A hippie who likes to do her research. 

When we were talking about adopting a dog, I read about dogs. Dog training, dog breeds, dog health. I even watched the Dog Whisperer, until I realized that it was the owners that needed retraining.

Anyway, we get to a Big and Noisy chain bookstore (which I NEVER shop at, for the record), and while standing in the "parenting" aisle, we were approached by a teenage employee.

Before I continue, please note that I love teenagers, especially employed ones. The ones that are engaged enough to ask "Is there anything I can help you with?" cheerfully are in danger of being attack-hugged. They are unicorns.

When I asked where the attachment parenting and co-sleeping books were (because I could find *zero*), RaisedByYuppies asked what attachment parenting *was*.

Mom, being the cheerful educator, attachment parent, and former lactation counselor, briefly explained the precepts of attachment parenting to RaisedByYuppies. (You would brag, too, if she was your mom.)

RaisedByYuppies then informed us that it's more fashionable to raise babies using the "cry it out" method, and that babies need boundaries. Given that I haven't been my sharpest the last month (or so) I ignored her ignorance, and Mom and I left, me in a huff. I'm still annoyed that I didn't say something smart and caustic to her. I did not ever claim to be a nice person.

Though, I suppose if I had punched her in the face while screaming about how important nurturing is, she may have missed my message. Maybe it's a good thing I restrained myself.

It was then, in the car when I was ranting about uninformed opinions and that as a matter of form, I don't take any advice from a teen working retail, that I realized: Librarians are smart, and libraries are full of books. Books they will cheerfully let me read FOR FREE. Without offering opinions.

This might be obvious to you, but I keep forgetting about the amazing resource that IS the local library system. Also? The Sunnyvale library has a KILLER selection of cookbooks. It's a great way of deciding whether or not you HAVE TO HAVE a specific cookbook in your collection.

We zoomed over to our local library, where I picked over the parenting shelves, hunting for books that appealed to my hippified self. For the cost of ZERO dollars, I checked out a dozen parenting books, which I have slowly been picking my way through. Some have been "eh", one was awful, and one has been GREAT. So great, I think I'm going to write the author a fan letter and give the book its own blog post.

Given that all experiences are opportunities for learning, here are mine:

- Never go to a chain bookstore. Buy locally from Recycle Books, on Amazon, or not at all.
- Libraries are amazing, but I'm so sad that they have DVDs there now. They might as well say "Watch a movie, literacy is doomed anyway."
- My hippiness has its limits. And that limit is Elimination Communication.

A reconciliation

Once upon a time, a knitter named Jasmin knit her [then] magnum opus, and it was called "Mariah". She knitted the body in a flash, and not even the sleeves managed to slow her down:

I understand your sleeve envy.

She installed the zipper all-by-herself (using the tutorial from Splityarn), and even though it was hot and humid out that day, she put it on proudly so that she could take a picture of herself in it.

I look like Mom when I make that face.

If you recall, she hated it. She sulked for a while about it, and in a fit of holy-crap-it's-early-and-yoga-starts-soon induced urgency, she grabbed Mariah to wear to class. Because that's what you do with ugly/ill-fitting clothes. You wear them to yoga.

(Can we go back to first person? This third person business is exhausting and frankly, confusing my poor, addled brain.)

So I did. I got *SO* many compliments on Mariah, it was unreal. All from non-knitters. One woman from class liked my Mariah so much that she is LEARNING TO KNIT. I'm totally serious.

I'm not normally someone who is swayed by public opinion, but when they're saying really nice things about a sweater that you created, stitch by stitch, it counts more. It just does. You could say that Mariah and I have found a place where we can cheerfully coexist. And that place is yoga.

I do need to order a better zipper, and "let" Mom help me apply it (no reflection on Caro's tutorials, more on my lack of mad zipper-installing skills). For now, this story finally found its happy ending.

Oh, also? I cut off (almost) all of my hair:

I call this "pink steel".

The whole not-bleaching-your-roots business was driving me crazy, and I've always wanted a mohawk. Suzy (my amazing stylist, since I was 6 years old) refused to give me a mohawk, because (a) I would never blow my hair out to have it be mohawk-y and spiky and (b) even if I did, the sheer WEIGHT of my hair wouldn't stand up.

This is our compromise- the curly ladyhawk. Depending on my product mojo, some days it's more hawked than others. Sometimes when you have an extreme change in your life (like perhaps, a SharkBean in progress (thanks, LizzLizzLizz), and extreme 'do usually follows suit.

Because that's how I roll.

The Three Musketeers - A review

Event: The Three Musketeers, Shakespeare Santa Cruz


Cost: Our tickets were comp'ed, but you can buy yours here (Tickets range from $14-$50)

“All for one, and one for all!” The Three Musketeers (Kit Wider, Allen Gilmore, and J. Todd Adams) with D’Artagnan (Leigh Miller) in Shakespeare Santa Cruz’s 2011 production of “The Three Musketeers” (photo by rr jones).

The review:


I read The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas when I was nine or ten years old, unabridged, because my mother was a teacher and didn't believe in sugary cereals *or* abridged books. I tore through it an a day (ah, summer), and despite the fact that it's been almost 20 years since, I remember enjoying it.


I also have seen two of the eight million film adaptations, my favorite being the all-star Disney Cast. Feel free to lose all respect you ever had for me, I also LOVE the first two Mighty Ducks movies. And Newsies.


If you have somehow managed to miss any references to The Three Musketeers, it's basically a story about bros, brawls, and babes. I might paraphrase.


Let's talk about the acting first, shall we? There were lots of familiar *voices* from previous productions at Shakespeare Santa Cruz. I say "voices" because this is a Hair and Costume drama. SO. MANY. HAIRPIECES. I know it's necessary for historical accuracy, but the wig budget for this show must have been through the roof. It also obscured a lot of the familiar faces, which is a pity since the actors are *so* handsome. Repeat attendees with an ear for voices (ahem, me), will recognize many of the distinctive voices onstage.


The acting was stellar- Charles Pasternak, who was my favorite Romeo EVER (take that, DiCaprio) played an utterly foppish and convincing King Louis. (Andrew didn't recognize him at ALL, which speaks to how much Pasternak changed his voice and carriage for the role.) J. Todd Adams (who has been in every production in the Festival Glen I've had the privilege of seeing) played a soulful and (occasionally) tortured Aramis. Kit Wilder plays a delightfully lecherous Porthos, and Allen Gilmore plays Athos with command of the stage, and presents the major plot twist towards the end of the show with sincerity.


I thought that Katie MacNichol could have played the Countess de Winter as more of a villain, but to be honest, after seeing Rebecca DeMornay's performance, it's hard to out-villain her. (Side note: Does DeMornay EVER *not* play a villain?)


Leigh Nichols Miller played the young and enthusiastic D'Artagnan well, my only complaint was his *incredibly* distracting hair. Among all the wigs, here was D'Artagnan with what was either a poorly done bleach job, but looked more like an experiment with Sun-In gone wrong. If the lighter hair was an intentional costume part (to represent youth, light, all that is good), I wish they had done a better job. Or covered that hot mess up.


The interpretation of the book - which I'll admit, is no easy task - was entertaining, but choppy and disjointed at parts. It felt like the folks adapting the novel were just trying to include *too* much. There were quite a few 30 second scenes that could have accomplished the same amount of exposition with an explanatory line instead of a scene change and an incredibly short scene. 


I would have traded all of the shortie scenes for more development of the characters- like how D'Artagnan kills a man, and only seems troubled over it for the few moments between then and then end of the scene. Not only did they completely disregard any real conflict he may have felt, but it mostly left me feeling cheated out of any real exposition there.


Was it better than a movie adaptation? It was different. Despite what I felt were adaptive shortcomings, I still really enjoyed the production, and I would recommend attending. If you're a slave to the original, this might not be the play for you. If you're up for a fun show with sword fights and camaraderie, go for it. Purists, re-read the book and NEVER see an adaptation of a book, they'll always leave you cold.

Probably not a shark

If you're not a friend of mine on Facebook (or if you don't follow the podcast on Facebook or Twitter), chances are good that you haven't heard the news.

Ultrasound from 6/17/2011, Baby's ETA 2/2/2012

I'm growing a person. While we are EXTRA excited with Thrilled Sauce on the side, the actual growing of the person has been more or less uneventful. It's tedious to complain about the side effects of pregnancy, so I'll spare you. You're welcome.

I did have the following discussion with one of the nurses the day of the ultrasound:

Me: I don't understand why I'm feeling so LOUSY. I do yoga four times a week, I eat nutritious, homemade food that I cook MYSELF from scratch. I should feel AMAZING.
NurseMotherofFour: Yeah... It's good that you're excercising and eating well. It just doesn't work like that.
Me: Well, it should.
NurseMotherofFour: [Uproarious laughter.]

Shortly after that, we went into the room where the movie magic was going to happen. I had this idea, again, that it would be this incredibly special appointment- and it *is*, because there is PROOF that we MADE A PERSON- but it was really just a more public pelvic exam. With extra toys. And a short film at the end.

So, they show us the "baby" with the heartbeat, and really, it just looked like a flickering kidney bean to me. With a yolk sac. I wasn't really expecting little fingers and toes, but I also wasn't expecting... a legume.

Dr. Stirrups (my OB) pointed out that the flickering was a strong heartbeat, and oh look, there's the yolk sac. Yolk sac. As in chickens, rays, and SHARKS have yolk sacs. I nodded at the appropriate times, but in my head, all I could think was "YOLK SAC. BABY SHARK."

Andrew and I left, and over lunch we had the "which gender are you hoping for?" discussion. Andrew pointed out the benefits of having a girl, the benefits of having a boy, and then concluded that he was just excited we were having a baby.

When he asked what my gender preference was, I answered, "As long as it's not a shark, I'll be happy. I'm not prepared to parent a shark."

Bonus protein- apple edition

I may have mentioned in a previous post that our yard is positively rich with fruit trees- we have more than a dozen various trees/bushes, all of which produce fruit. Considering the tiny plot of land we have, it's pretty excellent.

Among the trees, we have two varieties of apples growing, which are starting to ripen now. On Tuesday, all I wanted was an apple. I wanted an apple in that crazy, obsessive way that I have always craved *specific* foods. So, I ventured out into my yard in the heat, and picked two apples. One for me, one for Mom (who was making lunch).

We don't use pesticides in our yard, and other than some homemade compost to supplement the dirt, we don't use any fertilizer. (By "we", I am assuming the royal "we". I don't do any work in the yard, other than the occasional fruit-picking task.) You could consider our fruit organic, I suppose.

Being that we don't use pesticides, our fruit is occasionally does not  have the most pristine appearance. It sometimes has been taste tested by a bird, a squirrel, or a worm. For quality control, of course. The trees produce a LOT of fruit, and I am not petty enough to begrudge the local fauna a nibble here and there.

(Don't get Andrew started on the battle with the squirrels for the loquats. Last year, I caught him in the yard hurriedly eating loquats off of the tree, and laughing in triumph at the squirrels whom he had finally bested after two years of not getting a single loquat off of our tree. I don't judge.)

I brought the apples in, washed them in the sink, and took a paring knife to the "pre-tasted" section of each apple, and carved out the tunneling. Nobody poked their head out, so I took my apple to the couch where I fired up The Secret Life of the American Teenager on the TiVo (because there is something deeply, deeply wrong with me), and cheerfully munch away on my apple.

Towards the end of the apple, as I went to take a big bite, I saw movement. As I glanced down, I saw the former occupant of my apple frantically protesting his eviction. In a very wormy way, of course.

I shrieked in a way that is normally reserved for horror movies- when the monster (predictably) jumps out and grabs a character, that shriek. Niki, ever my diligent protector, climbed onto my lap to try to figure out what I had shrieked about.  (Fun fact: If I watch a movie that makes me shriek, he'll growl at the TV until I tell him everything is okay. He's a good dog.)

Someone who is more woman than I am would have simply tossed the Very Hungry Ex-Occupant of the apple into the compost and soldiered on, but alas, I am only a weak woman. I can't hunt my own food, and frankly, while I can cope with an ex-creepy crawly on my apple, I don't want food that has been walked all over in front of me. It's a real shortcoming of character on my part, I know.

After assuring Niki that I wasn't in any imminent danger from my apple, I walked it over to the compost bin, worm-and-all, and dropped it in. Since I normally eat everything on the apple (but the stem), I got a strange look from Mom when I tossed what appeared to be a perfectly good couple of bites in the compost bucket.

"There was ... unexpected protein in my apple," I explained. "Still kicking. Eat yours carefully."

The Comedy of Errors - A review

Event: The Comedy of Errors, Shakespeare Santa Cruz

Cost: Our tickets were comp'ed, but you can buy yours here (Tickets range from $14-$50)

Antipholus of Ephesus (Mike Ryan, left) bestows orders on his servant, Dromio of Ephesus (Brad DePlanche, right) in Shakespeare Santa Cruz's 2011 production of "The Comedy of Errors."

The review:

I'm going to start this review by saying that this isn't a play I've read or seen before. I would like to thank my high school AP English teacher for pointing out that Shakespeare's work isn't meant to be read, it was meant to be watched. So there.


The play starts with a one-man-band (Jonathan Shue) providing ambient music, and Carly Cioffi playing an Adelaide-esque director, scrambling to put together a skeleton cast for this play- seven players playing twenty roles. Totally do-able.


Most of the initial exposition is brilliantly accomplished using an overhead projector, which is ridiculously funny and incredibly effective. All of the cast-stretching methods were equally funny and effective- using glasses to differentiate between twins, quick (and occasionally incomplete) costume changes- it was all comic gold. Especially if - like me - you have the sense of humor of a (not very sophisticated) 12-year-old boy.


Without giving too much away, if you like slapstick, absurdist humor, or dudes in dresses, you'll enjoy this show. The *one* slight issue I had with the play was Susan Engbrecht's performance (who played Adriana). It felt like she wasn't familiar enough with the script to do more than really yell her lines and beat her castmates with a purse. I'm not saying that I could have done a better job, but the caliber of her castmates was pretty high, and she stood out as a considerably weaker performer.


The only other *slight* disappointment is that this isn't being performed in the Festival Glen. (I would attend a reading of the phone book in the Glen, for the record.) 

Despite my love of the Glen, this play is still totally worth attending. If you're in the mood for a good date play, this is a great way of spending an evening- especially if you grab a nice dinner first.

(To get your Festival Glen fix, you'll have to attend another show. Fortunately for you, I'll be reviewing all the shows this season.)

Green with avocado envy

As part of my Valentine's Day gift, Andrew set up raised beds for an herb garden for me.

Cilantro. It's over 5 feet tall now.

I love my herb garden. When I'm cooking, I can wander out to my garden, trim what I need, wash it, and throw it in my food. It's more flavorful than it's overpriced, store-bought counterparts, too, so that's an extra bonus.

I should also mention that I do ZERO upkeep on this garden. Not my department, folks. I'm just the little woman, doing the cooking. I don't know anything about watering, weeding, and whatnot.

As part of the "garden upgrade" (which also included 4 different breeds of tomatoes), I had requested a pair of avocado trees, since Summer Winds has mature ones and we could have avocados in two years. Or less. TWO YEARS. 

Raised beds were assembled, herbs were planted, tomatoes were caged. Alas, where were my avocados? I assumed that Andrew would plant them later, since the raised beds were a weekend-long project, start-to-finish.

Weeks passed, and no avocados were planted. The word "avocado" never passed Andrew's lips. Had he forgotten?!

A friend of mine posted on Facebook that her little avocado tree was going to have a small yield this year. A tree that they got from Summer Winds. You could say that it brought out my inner green-eyed-and-avocado-flavored jealous side.

Last night, I turned to Andrew and was subtle. You know, like I'm known for.

"What's the story with my avocado trees?" I asked him, straight out.

"Where do you want to put them?" Andrew asked.

(It's worth mentioning that on our small plot of land, our little piece of suburbia, we have a dozen fruit trees, all which came included with our house.)

"I don't know. What about taking out the tree that doesn't have fruit and put them there?" I suggested.

"You want to put avocado trees, which need a LOT OF direct sunlight, in the part of the yard that gets basically NO sunlight," Andrew pointed out.

"Hm, " I thought for a moment, "How about we rip out the stupid mimosa tree and put the avocados there?"

"What?! What's wrong with the mimosa tree?" Andrew asked.

"It's messy. And it doesn't actually produce any mimosas," I answered.

"Maybe it needs another mimosa tree to make mimosas," Andrew suggested.

Just another night in our house.

A formal "thank you"

I am incredibly fortunate to have awesome people in my life, whom I am even more fortunate to call my friends. I know that they're my friends, because they do things like weave scarves for me, wave them around all weekend while I'm lusting away after them. This forces me to fight the urge to knock them to the floor and steal the aforementioned scarf off of their bodies until they are done teasing me and bestow Things of Beauty upon my completely undeserving self.

Like this one.

Scarf woven out of Abstract Fiber Matisse on a Schacht Flip Loom

The picture doesn't come close to doing the scarf justice, but it's the first picture I've taken of a scarf I've had for over a year. I've been wearing it at every opportunity, and I loveloveLOVE it. I love it so much that I match my eyeshadow to it. (You can't really tell in the photo.)

I'm ashamed to say that I simply forgot to send a "Thank You" card to the charming and talented creator of my favorite scarf. I was remiss in my manners, and for that, I am utterly mortified at my own boorishness. I blame the bright colors for distracting me, you know how I am.

 Dear Evil Jasmine,

Thank you for my beautiful scarf. I love it and wear it all the time.

Love,
Wicked Jasmin