R is for ...

Retirement!

Yesterday was my last day of work. I'm officially retired. Well, from the law. I don't expect to ever retire from mommyhood. I'm not sure how I feel about this end of my legal career. Mostly excited. I think. If it sucks, I can look for another job later. But I really want to try this retirement thing out. So, in order to push myself firmly into the pro-retirement camp, I thought a celebration was in order. Unfortunately the confluence of events leading up to yesterday evening resulted in a busy husband and busy friends so that my celebration was a celebration by one, me. Even Lady Bean was asleep by the time I amped up the party. Which sounds a little pitiful. And, if I had taken a picture ... leftover office funfetti cake, topped with a brownie from a box mix, a half a glass of wine because that is all I had left, and a bestselling vampire romance novel, for teenagers ... well, my celebration may have actually been a little pitiful. But it's all good. I have years no-work-in-the-morning-I'm-retired weeknights to yuck it up with full glasses of wine and bestselling vampire romance novels written for adults!

Unusual

Today is the first day of school and this morning, while I was driving to work, I was behind a school bus. The bus driver must have been lost or confused or high because at each corner where there was a kid, she would put on her lights, stop, and ask which school the kid was attending. The kid would answer and she would shake her head no. Then she would turn off her lights and drive away. Well 'away' to the next corner where another kid was standing. Wash, rinse, repeat. I was stuck behind the school bus for thirteen very long minutes and seven stops where she never once picked up a kid.

After getting away from the bus, I was on my way. Two blocks further, I had to stop at a red light. While waiting at the light, I noticed something in the road. It was a toupee. There was a toupee just sitting on the ground in the middle of an intersection.

Q is for ...

Qat:
\ˈkät\ noun
a shrub (Catha edulis) of the staff-tree family cultivated in the Middle East and Africa for its leaves and buds that are the source of a habituating stimulant when chewed or used as a tea.

and

Qaid:
\kah-eeth, kahyth\ noun
(in North Africa) a Muslim tribal chief, judge, or senior official; a Berber chieftain; an alcaide.



I love playing Scrabble. Even as a kid with a limited vocabulary, and shit for spelling (which actually, as an adult, has not gotten any better solely due to my reliance on spellcheck), I loved playing Scrabble. In the last few years my love has turned a little more cutthroat as Joan opened my eyes to Scrabble strategy.

Now don't get me wrong, my strategic skills are pretty cheesey and I don't think I could do very well in a Scrabble tournament as my memorization skills are only surpassed in lameness by my spelling skills. Which is a roundabout way of saying I can't remember fancy words and if I can remember them, it doesn't matter because I can't spell them. Nonetheless, in my attempt to expand my strategic skills, I have memorized several words that start with Q and don't require U. Such as qat and qaid. Both of which can be pluralized (pluralized, probably not a real word) with an S but are flagged by spellcheck. Go figure.

P is for ...

Progress, or, to be truthful, lack thereof.



My progress has been sucktastic due to many things. But, um, basically it's due to the fact that I just haven't been knitting. Not with my ladies and not at home. I haven't been knitting at home because of another P. Phelps, Michael Phelps. I have found it difficult to knit when I am bouncing up and down on the couch, or, someone around me is jumping up and down screaming "Go Michael! Go Michael! Go!" at the television. Crazy, yo sé.

One might think I have a Summer Olympics addiction, and one might be right. I love me some Summer Olympics. From the beach volleyball (which IS a real sport, thankyouverymuch Husband) to the decathlon, I love it all. But I especially love it when there is drama. Real drama. Not some corporately created schlock. Dara Torres kicking ass at 41? Awesome! Tyson Gay failing to qualify for the 100M? Holy crap! Michael Phelps going for eight. Booyah! America can fence? Who knew! Needless to say, I have been glued to these Olympics. I have DVR'd these Olympics and re-watched performances. Hell, I even have googled the athletes to find out what they have tattooed on their bodies ... and for the record, the Olympic rings was a cool tattoo the first ten times I saw it, but now? They are the Olympic athlete tramp stamp.

So P. It is for pathetic progress. But it only happens once every four years, so that's okay.

Alternatives

Sunday afternoon I needed to do some work and had Lady Bean with me. I had left the house in a hurry and didn't have a blanket. In the car, however, was my Clapotis. I grabbed Clapotis as a "just in case" baby blanket, never figuring I would need it, as I planned for LB to sleep the entire time I was working. She, however, had other plans. Plans that were the opposite of sleeping. I still managed to get a lot of work done though because Clapotis, it seems, is brilliant in the rolling on the ground and amusing the baby category.




I'm not sure that Clapotis will ever be the same after its romp with Lady Bean and I'm really not sure how I feel about giving LB a hundred dollar baby blanket. But I am sure that she loved it, no, LOVED it, all caps, all the time, there was that much love.

A while back one of the woman we knit with had a baby and several people in the group knitted individual squares which were made into a baby blanket. I knit an anchor square, but had initially thought about doing a lacy square. To say this idea was frowned upon would be a HUGE understatement. One would have thought that knitting lace for a baby blanket was tantamount to child abuse. There was much concern for little fingers and toes and the lace holes. After watching Lady Bean cavort with Clapotis, I am going to go out on a limb and say that this concern was misplaced.




She loved the Clapotis holes. Her fingers and toes were drawn to the holes like white on rice. In fact, she amused herself for thirty solid minutes by slipping her fingers and toes in and out of the Clapotis holes. She screeched like a monkey at the holes (I found this a bit trying but she totally enjoyed it), she cackled like a loon at the holes, and she even cried when I took Clapotis and its glorious holes and put it away. So, my point, if I actually had one, which really, not so much, but whatever. My point? Don't be afraid of the lace blanket for babies. Obviously your don't want a hole big enough for the head (even I can figure that one out). But smaller holes? Finger and toe holes? Brilliant!

Dammit

So the one day when I don't have the camera and I don't have my cell phone with its camera is, of course, the one day in which Crazy brings me a new present! Could this be the start of another run of presents?

Confused

It seems that I gave birth to a screecher monkey. A cute drooling screecher monkey, but a screecher monkey nonetheless. I'm not sure that my eardrums will ever recover. The dog feels the exact same way. I thought we received sign language books and DVD's as a way to learn to communicate with LB before she could speak. Now I realize it is because we, and everyone within a sixty mile radius, are now deaf. I've tried squelching the screeching (trying saying that real fast, squelching the screeching, squelching the screeching) with duct tape but that didn't work (FYI, all the drool prevents stickage). What, you have a suggestion? A way to stop the incessant screeches? If only I could hear you over the permanent ringing in my ears.

Preparing for Joan's Arrival

Twists and Turns

I am all over the place with this one. On Friday, I gave Crazy my letter of resignation. I gave her two weeks notice and planned on saying sayonara on August 15, 2008. I had wrapped my brain around this and was finally comfortable with the decision. I had made peace with resigning. Which may seem surprising as I have bitched and moaned about this place for the last six years, so you'd think I would be turning cartwheels at the idea of leaving, but not so much. I'm okay with leaving Lady Bean in day care. I don't think day care is evil and your child will be screwed up for life. I like working, though not necessarily at my current job, and the thought of not working, well, it was a bit nauseating. Also, I love my daughter to bits but spending twenty-four/seven with her (or anyone)? Also a bit nauseating. But whatever, I got over it and was ready to move on. Stay-at-home-mommyness, here I come. But, considering I work where I work and with the people I work with, it should come as no surprise that I couldn't actually outright resign. NOTHING IN THIS PLACE IS STRAIGHTFORWARD.

I feared that once I gave my notice, I was going to get kicked out of the door on the spot and not be eligible for our bonus. Or, maybe Crazy would be all crazy and how-dare-you-leave-after-all-I-have-done-for-you and the last two weeks would be pure torture. But this is not what I got. No, I got a oh-no-I-am-going-to-miss-you-what-will-we-do-without-you-can-you-work-part-time-for-a-little-longer-while-we-replace-you-we'll-pay-you-lots-more. Yes, in case you got lost in that run-on sentence, I was asked to work part-time at a decent hourly rate, a rate better than what I make now, for an extra two weeks. Even though I was told I couldn't work part-time EVER, AT ALL, when I was setting up my maternity leave and at that time I was only asking for a few weeks part-time at my current el-cheapo salary rate. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Initially I was thinking all NO, FUCK NO, I AM NOT DOING THAT. I planned to quit and quitting I will be. But then I learned that my COBRA insurance was going to be well over five hundred dollars a month (To which I replied, "The hell? I'm the young one. The one that had the baby, not the near death experience. The healthy one. ARE YOU LOOKING AT THE RIGHT PERSON'S RATE?" And was told, "Yes. I am looking at you. Suck it."). So now I am all conflicted.

I could work three hours a day, several days a week, for two weeks and pay my COBRA for the time I will need it and maybe even have a few bucks left over to feed my addiction. Heck, I might even be able to feed my other addiction and buy some yarn (yah, yah, I don't need it, whatever) for Mystery Stole 4. I'd even get to knit during the day since my home time would be during the long afternoon nap (oh knitting how I miss thee). But then I would STILL BE HERE. I busted my ass and cashed in all sorts of favors to make things work out child care wise to get us to August 15, which now would seem somehow lame, like I am a big whiner crying all "I just need to get to August 15" when in fact August 15 is now a regular day of no import. Not that I would need to tap anyone else, in order to make this work, Boo would swoosh his schedule around (yet again for like the eleventygillionth time). But I would be missing him on the days I do work since we would be passing like two ships in the night. There is also the chance that Crazy would find out I am looking at a real part-time job. I did tell her I am looking for something part-time but I forgot to mention that I was looking right now and that the job I have my eye on is the part-time version of one that she applied for and did not get. So that could be bad. Real bad. The job is a political appointment and she could, well, I dunno, she could do something and that something would be bad. But even as I type this drivel, I think, asshole, you want to work part-time, so what's the real downside? Crazy? Dealing with jailbirds? Actually having to work?

Whoops

"What's that smell? Did you spray something?"

"Huh?"

"That smell? It's like bug spray and air freshener combined to form a nuclear mushroom cloud that then rolled around in three-week old garbage that contained rancid citrus."

"Oh, THAT. It's Investigator's new cologne."

Churning Away

I can't believe I wasted seven whole months! Since Christmas I have had the instrument of deliciousness sitting in my basement collecting dust. Unbelievable! Anywho, now that I know what it can do, I've been putting the ice cream maker to good use. My latest project? Cinnamon ice cream. Like the Chocolate Sorbet I made, this recipe is also by David Lebovitz and found in his book The Perfect Scoop.



Several years ago I had the best cinnamon ice cream ever. It was at Rhythm Cafe and it was insane. Simply sick. It was sweet, it was spicy, it was delish. When I saw this recipe I knew I had to give it a go since I doubt the boys at Rhythm are going to tell me their secrets.

In the first part of the recipe, David tells you to steep an assload of cinnamon sticks in milky goodness. I did this as instructed but found the result not a cinnamony as I had hoped. There was a nice cinnamon flavor, but not the spiciness I was wanting. So, in a move that could have been disastrous, I added a HUGE heaping tablespoon of ground cinnamon to the mixture. The results were great in that I got a whole lot of cinnamon flavor but not so great in that I never got the heat. I am not sure if my cinnamon is shit (quite possible since it is run of the mill grocery store stuff) or if I needed to use something like cinnamon oil. Whatever the cause, I got great cinnamon flavor, but not the mild kick I had in my mind.

Even without the heat, the ice cream is great and a huge hit at our house. It is especially nice over a heated oatmeal raisin cookie.

And can I just tell you how awesome I am. I am so awesome, I made a traditional custard base for this ice cream and didn't scramble the eggs. Initially I was a little scared of the custard thing and the whole scrambling of the egg yolks, but then I decide that the internets were just being pansies and that it wouldn't be that hard. Reality is somewhere in the middle. I stirred my little heart out and followed the directions to a tee but I did have a little egg residue at the end when I strained.



But it was little enough that I said, "Self, you rock!" If you have a hankering for some sweet cinnamon ice cream this is the way to go. It is creamy cinnamon yummy.

In addition to churning away at the ice cream, I am churning away on my Bee Fields Shawl. Unfortunately the Bee Fields is a lot slower and the final result is going to take more than a few hours.

Wowsers

It's taken me seven months to use my ice cream maker. But let me tell you, IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT!



I never liked chocolate. It use to be that the only way I would eat chocolate was if it was in the form of a Peanut Butter M&M or a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. So how is it that when I am moved to crack out my ice cream maker for the first time, it's for chocolate sorbet. I KNOW. Total three-sixty. Must be some sort of post-partum hormonal change. But after reading this entry on SmittenKitchen I decided I had to make the Chocolate Sorbet recipe from The Perfect Scoop. And I had to make RIGHT NOW.



I can't say it any better than she did. It's just pure rich chocolate goodness. And, because it is sorbet, it is basically health food, so if you eat half of the enitre batch in one setting, you don't really need to feel bad about it!

O is for ...

Orange Straw of Goodness, or rather Orange Straw of Addiction.



Hi, my name is Jenna, and I am a coffeeholic. I blame my new found addiction on my baby. I am an awesome parent like that. I've always enjoyed coffee ... as a milk and sugar delivery system. Coffee in and of itself as a daily desire? Meh. Once I was home on maternity leave, however, it was no longer an issue of enjoyment but rather a need. I needed my morning milky coffee concoction like Crazy needs mental health meds, which is to say a WHOLE LOT. Every morning I would make Lady Bean a bottle and me some coffee and we'd drink until our hearts content. And that was all fine and dandy until you know, maternity leave ended and I left the house and went to work. Because let me tell you, it already takes me over an hour to wake up, nurse the baby, shower, dress myself, do the hair and make-up thing, change and dress the baby, feed and water the cat, feed and water the dog, let the dog do her bidness, pump the boobs, pack the pump, et patati et patata. I mean come on. How am I suppose to squeeze in coffee making and drinking time? I'm not!

I tried to wean myself of my morning love, and well, it went bad, real bad. So instead, I decided to make the drive of shame to Drunkin Donuts where I could get my fix. Once that orange straw gently passed my lips and started delivering the ambrosia of the gods, all was good. Except when I was broke. And this leads us to the part where I disclose just how far I have been willing to go to wrap my lips around that orange pole of pleasure. And let's just say that my husband mentioned another pole of pleasure which he would let me wrap my lips around for money, or Drunkin Donut and Starbucks gift cards. Which, in and of itself, whatever, husband paying wife for sexual favors, only slightly pathetic. Except that one of those gift cards was a FREE one he got at a Yankee game with only $2 on it. Yes folks, I'm all about dirty deeds done dirt cheap.



Oh, and the irony of this addiction ... I drink decaf. I KNOW. Who is addicted to decaffeinated coffee? A freak, that's who!

Good Thing

It's a good thing I figured out my issue with the Bee Fields Shawl and the SM when there was no M to S because it came up again! And, just like last time, my method worked perfectly. I really do wonder if this is something that a real lace knitter would now about and not have blinked over.

Lame

I've only been back at work for a week and yet I find myself pumping more often than I might normally do, just so I have an excuse to close my door and be left alone, well sort of alone. Now, if I could only pump and work on my Bee Fields Shawl at the same time ...

So Smaht

I figured out my problem with the Bee Fields Shawl. I had been told to SM when there was no M to S. I was sure I had messed up somewhere and just not caught it but for the life of me I could not figure it out. Finally I just decided to place a marker there and move on. And yah know what, it worked out swimmingly. I had not, in fact, messed up the previous row in some undetectable way. There were just a bunch of marker movings going on. I'm not sure if this is a typo in the pattern or if it just standard language when you are starting a new increase of pattern repeats that people use SM and not PM. Maybe it is just me being a novice lace knitter and I no understand words. Charts scary. Whatever the reason, I am cruisin' now. Well, as much as one can cruise on such things.

Gifts

Gifts are a funny thing. There are those things you give because you have an obligation to do so, whether it be due to an occasion (I got your name for the holiday gift exchange, enjoy the WalMart gift card, ya douche bag) or a relationship (you're my husband, it's Christmas, enjoy the underwear) and then there are the other gifts. The gifts you give because you care about someone and you think they will enjoy the gift (like a homemade music CD, given just because). Sometimes the two intersect, and you have a gift that you think your person will enjoy, but hey, it also works for an occasion. Kismet! Which ever way it happens, I generally find gift giving very stressful. If it is an obligatory gift, I worry that the person can tell that I really don't give a shit and am just buying something because I have to (Gah! Ending a sentence with a preposition! Bad!). If it is a random, thinking of you gift, I usually am so pleased with myself that I then worry that the person won't really like it and I am coming off as a weirdo-stalker-doesn't-respect-social-moraes-and-boundaries-a-la-Crazy*. If it is a gift for an occasion and I think the person will really like what I got, well, then I worry that the person won't like it and not only will my gift suck in general, it is the big loser gift for the occasion. No one wants to be the giver of the holiday dud. Yes, I am insane.


All signs point to no modeling career for Lady Bean. Can you say uncooperative?
And, refusing to smile? Oh, and manhandling the merchandise?

I am also blathering on, instead of getting to my point, which is: I knit a hat, a very specific baby hat, for my friend as a shower gift and then I had second thoughts about actually giving it as a gift. So why so anxious? Well, first, I am insane. We know this. Moving on. What if it sucks? Can you give a handknit gift to another knitter and not have it be perfect? (Apparently yes, if the giftee is very nice and kind.) I do have to say that part of my anxiety belongs at the feet of the Yarn Harlot. You see, I was catching up on my blog reading when I saw this post of hers. This post where someone knit what looks to be a modified version of the Bee Fields Shawl as a baby shower gift. Holy Fuck People! SOMEONE KNIT THE BEE FIELDS SHAWL AS A BABY SHOWER GIFT. This shawl, I love this shawl. But it is KICKING MY ASS. (I am stuck on row eleven in case anyone cares and wants to help! I don't have a marker to slip where the pattern says to slip ... um, hello?) Anyway, I can not imagine giving that shawl to someone as a gift (mostly because I am greedy and would never want to give it up if I ever got it done). Also, and somewhat unrelated, who do I have to befriend to get gifts like that? Anywho, talk about setting the bar HIGH. So I see that and then I think, if that is what you give as a shower gift, well then my little viking hat? Feh.


I put her where she can't move to get a decent picture and she's all indignant!

The hat confounded me because when I followed the *&@^%!# pattern, I ended up with a hat that fit my head. A head much larger than any baby could sport. To quote Boo, "HOLY CRAP! Birthing a baby with a melon that big would kill her!" I had to fidget with The Mathes. The Mathes who laugh uproariously because I need to use my fingers when I count/add/subtract/etc. I had to use my kid as a model/test dummy. My kid with the odd shaped head that requires physical therapy. I had to learn new techniques (though I must say, hellllllloooo i-cord, I love you). I had to be innovative and 'make it work' with a three-needle bind-off. I had to seam and I had to sew, which HA! Oh, and HA! Depsite all of my insanity, and my knitting hurdles, I am pleased with the hat and hope Jr. enjoys it.



Yarn: Lion Brand Wool Ease in brown and beige. The grey area with the rivets were done in something from my stash that was a wool, acrylic, nylon blend. I have lost the tag in my travels though, so I can't give the name or the color.
Needles: Susan Bates Circs, size 3.75 mm (US 5), which I actually snapped in half and now are no longer cirs!?!
Pattern: Chile Con Yarne's Baby Viking Hat.
Modifications: Oh where, oh where to start? I cast on fifty-six (I think, it was some number divisible by eight) stitches instead of eighty. I knit the body of the hat for only and two and a half inches (as opposed to five inches) before starting to decrease. I decreased every row to make the hat more head shaped, based on my kid's lumpy head shape (which could prove to be problematic for a normal head-shaped baby but let's just ignore that). I knit the body of the hat double stranded to make it more stiff and able to hold up the horns. I used i-cord for the side strings on the flaps because my crochet chain was GAWDAWFUL. I didn't knit the "seven more rows of stockinette" for the horns because I was worried they would be to big and heavy to stand up if I made them that big (I knit three rows of stockinette instead). I also ended up picking up the stitches on the edge of the horns and using a three needle bind off because I could not seam them together without making a vomitous looking mess.
Time: 3 months.
Care: Hand wash, dry flat.

* Speaking of Crazy and gifts, I received yet another animal. A zebra. A black and white zebra. A black and white zebra just like the other black and white zebra we already have.

Open Your Eyes

So Lady Bean is still breast feeding. Well more like breast snacking, but whatever. You get the idea. And, since I am back to work, I've been pumping. I've told everyone in the office this, you know to give them a heads up, just in case. So. You'd think that since I have my own, non-shared, private office, this would be a pretty painless endeavor. You'd think the big NEON ORANGE (like, Hi, hunters wear this color so they don't get shot) sign posted at eye level would be a hint, a hint that you shouldn't walk in my office without at least knocking.



But no, you'd be wrong. One of the other lawyers just walked in on me and my pumping frankentitties (have you seen what a pump does to one's nipples? Frankentitties). Dumbass reads the sign, knocks and then, without waiting for an answer opens the door. The best part: when he knocks, I start yelling, "No! No! Nnnnnoooo!" and yet, he keeps opening the door and then looks around it to see me. Unreal.

So far my boobs have gotten more action at work (groped by boss, ogled by co-worker) than they do at home.

N is for ...

Not looking.


Me no lookin' at the camera. You can't make me!


Nope, not gonna look! Wahhaaahaha!



For some reason this saved as a draft and never published so I am posting it now! But I am on schedule for the abc-along, I swear!

The Bloom Is Off The Rose

I got absolutely nothing done at work on Monday. I didn't answer a single letter, I didn't even log my mail. Actually, that's not totally true. I did manage to take a legal call and I answered and sorted the sixty-four e-mails that had accumulated while I was in Miami visiting with my uncle before his surgery. Oh, I also got a cheap thrill. But work-wise, nada. And the day, it flew by. It was fun and it was over. All of a sudden it was 4:30pm and I had done nothing but relocate two piles of crap work. Yesterday, I got some work done. Clients' crap correspondence was organized, I devised a plan of attack to get stuff done and I even finished three or four of those things. And in the end, the day, it didn't fly by, but I wasn't staring at the clock counting the seconds either. Which brings us to today, apparently the slowest day ever. I've pumped the boobs (exciting), eaten breakfast (ham, egg and cheese on a multi-grain bagel, yum), caught up on my celebrity gossip (Justin Long, you slut!), read my e-mail (hi boo!), written to two clients (you crazy fuks), chatted with Mr. Cool (bad knees suck), and yet it is only 8:31 a.m. How is this possible. It should be like 10:00 a.m.

And, is it just me or is my use of the word "got" totally ghetto? I write like I speak and well, maybe I need to take a remedial English class or something. Yowsers. Ghettoness aside, I can't believe how slow this day is progressing. An inchworm moves faster than time in my office. Prof. Larson's business law class moves faster than time in my office. Invasive anal examinations performed by knowledge seeking space aliens move faster than time in my office. Gah.

Also slow, my ability to blog about Miami. I brought my camera with me and took some great shots of Lady Bean on her first boat ride and playing at the Stiltsville house. I had planned to blog about the highlights of my trip (afterall my uncle's five hour surgery, not a highlight, though surving the surgery was) but I am slow, however, and have not managed to upload any of the good ones. Instead I have this one ...



... a comparison of what I brought to Stiltsville for me (on the right) and what I brought to Stiltsville for her. I had my phone, camera, knitting, sunscreen and a hat, whereas, she, she had two bags of stuff.

I also have these two pictures...




... which should be accompanied by my mental soundtrack of "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? How much longer?" I have several pictures of Stiltsville, but none of the trip out there. I was trying to get some shots that would capture my mounting excitement as the houses got closer and closer. I didn't really do that.

The last picture I managed to upload is from the front patio/deck of the house looking at the city of Miami ...



It is one of the least interesting pictures I took. I really need to get my butt in gear and get those pictures off of the camera. And, if I had brought the camera to work today, maybe I could do that to pass time because even with all of my blathering .... it is still only 9:02 a.m.