Fiber Artists

My wife has recently come to learn that knitters are now referring to themselves as "fiber artists". If you people don't see the humor in this well then you're just all sorts of wrong. But anyway; so my nerd, Drakey, has taken to calling herself a "fiber artist" because she knits, obsessively, during "knitting season" which is generally from about mid Nov through January. Now... it's important to note that her royal-"fiber artist"-ness, though immensely diverse and talented, chooses to only knit the same thing over and over and over again. The lucky beneficiaries of her fiber-artistry? Dogs. She knits dog sweaters. A new sweater for each dog, each season. She refers to them as the "Fall 07' season sweater collection". I mean, what respectable (lest we forget fashionable) canine doesn't need a new Fall season sweater each year, no? Surely no sane person would argue this fact. Which leads me to another totally mundane but appropriately tangential tidbit into my life. Once a week, every Sunday night all year long, Drakey and I host "knit club". We've been sticking to this tradition/club meeting for probably over a couple years now and rarely have we missed a Sunday. Knit club consists of our friend (just the one) coming over, sharing some dinner and some wine, watching a few token shows (Amazing Race and Brothers and Sisters; only during prime time season, mind you) and for a couple months out of the year, Drakey sits and knits. Sometimes we sit at dinner during the non-Drakey-knitting months and refer to "knit club" (cuz that's totally what it's called) and just crack up laughing. Cuz I mean really... we honestly don't do much of anything but the fiber artistry on these evenings is really, seriously lacking. But we think we're clever nonetheless and knit club will remain a greatly treasured tradition. Anyway... side track end.

Drakey surprised me the other night at knit club when she announced, unsolicited, that she couldn't wait to knit sweaters for baby Reilly. Me and undisclosed friend (to protect the identity of the innocent; so let's just refer to her here on out as "she who stands taller than I") shot her a look of profound confusion, both thinking...
"WTF?? but you knit dog sweaters! only dog sweaters!"
Currently she's knitting my formerly fat dog a sweater with a bright yellow lightening bolt on it in honor of her recently found lightening speed she's displayed now that we have her on the BARF diet and she's no longer as rotund. Anyway... I'm all over the place here but my point is - Drakey, the fiber-artist in the family, may actually branch out when we eventually have our half-breed midge. Surely this is important. Yes? So tonight I drink to fiber artists and daring to dream beyond dog sweaters! Yes.

white space

Well... I managed to get through the Thanks Giving holiday without catching sight of a turkey baster.

On all other accounts, I'm just boring. Totally, senselessly, mind-numbingly boring.

This is me being cheesy

My mother passed this letter along to me (via snail mail cuz she's still kinda cool like that) today. My dearest mother, who is kind and affectionate enough but not normally cheesy or overly sentimental at all (kinda like me) found a way to make me feel well... overly cheesy and sentimental too. So I'm passing this along to you people. Because I find it may be helpful. Or maybe just to be overly cheesy and sentimental. Just roll with me here. Or hell... don't read it if you don't want to. I don't care. I'll probably be embarrassed that I posted this after today. But from time to time, the occasion arises to justify overly cheesy and sentimental. And so here you are for no other reason other than I happened to find some meaning in this. and even if it's all bullshit, it still provokes thoughts. and who doesn't need thoughts?

To give proper credit where proper credit is due - this is a passage out of a book called "The Way of the Fertile Soul" authored by Randine Lewis, L.A.c., Ph.D.

and because I couldn't find this crap online... I'm retyping the ENTIRE thing here. Because that's how cheesy I'm feeling; and just how much I care.

Dear Mom and Dad, *** Blogger's Note: because I'm feeling overly cheesy and sentimental, I'm not even going to take offense at the all too presumptuous "dad" reference here. okay that's all from me. i promise.

Taking it from the top:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I know you're there. Sometimes, when you let go a bit, I can feel you. And yet, to you I feel like an unfulfilled wish, a memory that hasn't yet occurred.

I think you know I'm here, too. I know at some level you can feel my pull. Perhaps it's what keeps you going on this path that has been so hard for you. It doesn't have to be, you know.
You don't have to force me to come. The laws of the universe are not altered by struggling, groveling or prayers of desperation.

Remember, I am a miracle, and I'm looking for light.
I'm looking for an opening. Receptivity. Softness. The life force needs an opening to express itself.
Sometimes I see yours, but your struggle closes it off before I can reach you.
Relax your body and quiet your senses. Return to your deepest self. That's what I'm drawn to.

I don't care about your doctors, your BBT charts, lab results or your FSH levels. I don't care if you have a nursery for me, a job, or how much money we will have. I don't care how old you are.
I don't care how often you get acupuncture or massages.
I won't come because of your effort or your desire. And I won't come because you're doing everything right.

It doesn't matter to me if you think positive thoughts all the time. Be who you are. Be where you are, not where you think you should be. Honor yourself. When you are angry, stomp your feet. Yell. When you are sad, cry. When you are frightened, see beyond to the miracle. Clear the way.

Please don't force yourself to do anything that feels like it will hurt you in order to get me. I won't come that way. It doesn't matter that you nourish or care for yourself. Only you can be responsible for your well-being, and I want you to be here for me for a long time.
You won't be able to accept and love me fully and without conditions until you can first do this for yourself.

Pay attention to that still small voice inside of you that longs to experience unconditional love. And express that love where you are, now.
Don't wait for me to come before you live your life.
How can I love being a part of your life if you don't?
How can I love you if you don't?

Remember, I'm a miracle, and I'm looking for your light. I'm looking for an opening, for your receptivity.
There must be space in your lives, for you and for me.
If you scramble about in search of me, you will lose me.
Pay attention to your deepest self. That's where the light is. That's where the opening is.

I can see your light when you're laughing, when you're dancing, and even when you cry.
I see it when you're real.
Please stop listening to all the outside voices telling you what you should do.
Nobody out there has your answer.
Listen to the still, small voice inside that still knows that miracles occur.

I am a soul, and I'm drawn to your soul.
You don't know how or when I'm coming to you.
I may be coming through you.
I may be coming to you through another.
But I will come on my own time, in my own way, if you let me.

Loosen your grasp. Lower your expectations about how it's all supposed to look. Whatever your expectations, I'll never live up to them. I am not your image of me. I am so much more. Remember, I am a miracle. I am a whisper of possibility that arises out of the depths of nature's way.

Consider the possibility that I am orchestrating this entire journey so that you can learn to open up to me and to you.
Parenting is about loving and learning to let go.
Love and let go.
Hope. Trust. Open.
Remember, I am a miracle.
So are you.
I love your souls. Love my soul. Allow me to enter in my own time, in my way.
Stop fighting, forcing, pleading, yearning and praying for me. I come when you stop trying.
I come out of Grace.

The End.

*** Blogger's Note: So much for my theory on pineapple consumption.

The Tale of the Incredible Shrinking Egg(s)

Sit back with a shot or three of tequila (and maybe a main line, depending on what your poison is) ladies and gents, and permit me to relay to you an enchanting tale of the incredible shrinking egg. This tale started one crappy rainy Seattle Sunday morning when delightfully sweet Erin Rae and her charming and oh-so-good-lookin' illegal lezbo wife companion woke up at the ass-crack of dawn on their day off to go play "stirrup queen" to Dr. Evil at the Hades clinic. This was Day 12 of Erae's cycle and even though she knew there was no way in Ikea her eggs would be large enough to warrant a successful ultrasound visit resulting in a LH shot and subsequent next day knock-up procedure, Erae occasionally just rolls with the punches and does what she's told and hell... who needed that $250.00 bucks anyway, right? So as predicted, her eggs measured a whoppin' 10 millimeters or nano-buckets or whatever the hell unit of measurement they are called which was quite drastically off from the 18 nano-buckets it needed to be at in order to proceed with the shot. "Come back on Wed." Dr. Evil said. Now those of you who know me know damn well that I'm a wee shy of being a mathematical genius but let's see here... you say that eggs grow at 1-2 nano-fuckin'-buckets a day and I'm currently at 10, needing to be at bare minimum 18. Today is Sunday... hmmm... look, genius, that ain't WED. So I insisted that Thurs would be the earliest I would come in and shell out another $250 for a g-d ultrasound. Thursday arrived and delightfully sweet (and did I mention ridiculously charming?) Erae and her painfully gorgeous illegally-wedded once again rose at the ass-crack of dawn to pay Dr. Evil a visit. She was her usual 30 minutes late and didn't whisper any sweet nothings into my ear before yielding that slimy wand at me and low and behold, what did that ultrasound reveal? could it be? my eggs are now 8.5 nano-buckets. Down from 10? WTF??? So I'm unsure if there's a medical term for this shrinking egg business or if Dr. Evil is just an incompetent asswipe but either way you spin it, the same crappy result persists. And that is: I am fucked 6 ways from Sunday and certainly not getting knocked up anytime soon. Yeah me! Way to over-achieve!

I'm starting to realize that I may be a little bitter. This isn't a total shock because I guess I've been known to experience bitterness before, on occasion, but well... I may have reached my personal best with this one.

So once again on a mandatory and much unwelcome hiatus from this endeavor. I'll have to come up with more B.S. to write about here I suppose.