the end of the second-sock curse

Yes, it's happened. I'm about a half-hour away from actually owning a pair of socks. Made by me, I mean.

This is the end of an era that produced about twelve half-finished, frequently-frogged listless balls of sock yarn, and I have found the keys to the kingdom:

1) I cannot be bothered to actually read a pattern while knitting; and
2) I cannot be bothered to knit in stockinette.

Solution? Anastasia Socks ! I frigging love this pattern! Plus, it's lacy but not so much so that I feel the work was lost in the variegation I love so much. But I did find out that I do despise short-row toes. And heels. In fact, the only thing I like about them is that I don't fear running out of yarn, and really, in the world we currently occupy, isn't that the least of my concerns?

RIP iBook

Yes, it's true. My iBook, veteran of many marathon nursing sessions, several crappy papers and a whole lot of cheesy music, has ended its useful lifespan. Apparently something called the logic board is no more.

So I blog now for my no breathless readers from the iMac that has replaced its portable self in my fancies: with 160 gigs (ooh), a 17-inch screen (aah) and a frigging remote control (okay, what's up with that?), it's like that new transfer from California in high school. A little bit too cool, inspiring slavering devotion despite the touch-me-not-ness of its sleek flanks, the new computer has claimed my iBook's space by the power strip.

RIP, iBook.

another saturday night..

Okay, so it's really FRIDAY, but let's not get all technical with someone who's working 36 hours out of the next 60, okay? Because I might have to open up a can of whoop-ass.

M1's class made shrinky-dinks this week. Do you remember shrinky-dinks? Mine had Wonder Woman and I was always pleasantly surprised that she stayed her busty kick-ass self through the Fires of Hell, aka my mom's 1976-vintage Hotpoint. M1's was a self-drawn dinosaur, because he goes to a hippie preschool that has banned superheroes. What are they, Communists?

The Season of Easter rapidly approacheth, which means it's time for we pagan hippie types to hide Oestara eggs and try to find a potluck dish for the vegans. It's always a challenge, and I usually give up around about the night before and make a quiche. Vegetarian cliche? Perhaps, but a girl can get desperate.

In the Easter spirit, see Super Bunny from last Halloween.

M2 tried bananas today. Unimpressed with her parents' relaxation of their fascist food policies, she burst into tears and demanded nummies. Apparently, the organic bananas don't taste twice as good, though they cost twice as much.

catching babies on purpose, instead of by accident...

My letter arrived today confirming my acceptance into the CNM program at Ye Olde Alma Mater. Damn. Do you think I could leave that school for longer than three years at a time? I mean, really, my frigging student ID number dates from before most of the current freshmen were out of primary school.

So, yes, after the nail-biting wait, I will in fact be, at some point, a certified nurse midwife, a midlevel provider, and a certified member of the professional class. Hm. Do you think I did all this just to get business cards? I wonder sometimes.

Now the next item on the agenda is M1's IEP conference and kindergarten assignment. I know our district has 40,000 kids (and a racial discrimination case pending before the US Supreme Court), but why the fricking frack does it take so long to assign kindergarten placements? The applications are due in February. Assignment letters are mailed in MAY.

In happier news, I'm making excellent progress on my usual five unfinished knitting projects. I went a little ka-razy at the Knit Happens sale and received confirmation of my splurge's imminent arrival via UPS this morning. Ummmmm....Lorna's Laces sock yarn, CTH sock yarn, Mission 1824 wool, DB Cashmerino and a gorgeous hand-dyed (btu not variegated!) worsted that will, someday, become the Hourglass Sweater from LMKG.

Tiring day.

Outta the blue and into the black..

...is pretty much how I feel after an afternoon at our local kid-friendly coffeehouse. Dayum. The sheer energy of that room could have powered Toronto, but it mostly made me want to lie down and take a nap. Also, what's up with trendy names? Every third kid was named Isabel or Grace, and the boys were pretty evenly split between Aidan, Nicholas and Spencer, all of which pierce my brain when shrieked at top volume by a caffeinated parent.

the waiting is the hardest part (with apologies to tom petty)

Here's where we're at: I'm waiting for my letter of either acceptance (YAY!) or denial (BOO) to the master's in nursing program at my alma mater (all hail the alma mater). Letters come out Monday, so it's a long nail-biter of a weekend to be gotten through, and I'm not even working to kill the time or anything.

In monkey news: Sophie can roll over, eat her feet and bite incredibly hard. She has one tooth in the precise middle of her lower jaw, a) making her look like she escaped from an Alabama penitentiary and b) reminding me that whatever I end up doing in the future, it must have orthodontic coverage. Please God.

Max has learned to clean his room! This would probably be more exciting if he then actually did so, but in the meantime, the fact that he KNOWS how can be used against him in all sorts of devious ways. Catholic guilt does not skip the generations.

I was terribly naughty yarn-wise and spent all the money I was planning on saving towards a tattoo on an online yarn sale. So, while I may go to my grave pasty and without tattoo coverage of the unfortunate cesarean scar, I will go with a huge pile of Mission Falls 1824. Yummmm.

Sebastian has located shop space for after our move, which, though it means I won't be able to use that as an excuse for an impromptu trip to Goodwill (and the, ahem, transfer station), does mean that he won't be so grumpy I need to think about selling him. For one thing, the resale market for husbands has definitely burst its bubble.

Carry on. I'll be over here, hyperventilating into a brown paper bag and contemplating why benzodiazepines aren't available over the counter. Really, it's a good question.

Adventures of the Milk Monkey

I love breastfeeding. I love my job. I hate pumping.

Sadly, the first two necessitate the third.

I was working last night, and getting into a good labor groove with my patient, when I felt something going drip...drip...drip...on my shoe. I thought, "Great! Maybe she's leaking!" But no.

You try explaining to a woman in labor that you need to go because you just leaked milk all over your feet. Trust me: in labor, that is not a persuasive argument.

In other monkey news:

Max will be five on Saturday. That still blows me away, that five years ago I was lying supine, hooked up to IVs and fetal monitors, having spinal needles sucking fluid out of my uterus to see how much longer I could keep my son inside before my body destroyed him. As evidenced by the Magical Mystery Pregnancy Tour of 2006, I remain much better at nursing my children than gestating them. But still, five years ago he was a fetus in that hostile uterine environment of mine, and now he's jumping around the living room doing "Pirates of the Caribbean" plays and yelling about how he can do his milk his ownself.

Sophie, on the other hand, does not do her milk her ownself. She takes it straight from the tap, prewarmed and delivered to her. Lazy babies.