It's Finished!

And yay! I have a new digital camera so I can take pics and post whenever I want!

LIZARD RIDGE IS DONE. FINITO. All knitted, bye bye.

There were times I nicknamed it Lizard Bitch because all the short rows were eating my soul. Several times I wanted to throw it into the fire. And whenever I blocked the panels, it smelt of wet Japanese sheep. MMmmmm...

But it's done now, my friends, and I have my Knitty buds to thank. Because being the non-forward thinking person I am, I really didn't check to see just how much Noro I had. Hence I found myself about half-way through with not enough yarn for the task at hand, and I put out an APB on the Swap O Rama board. The skeins came flying to me like homing pigeons from all over the place, and many swaps took place.

I got about 20 mini skeins from Polarg which really blew my mind. None of them were the same dye lot, so I just picked one up, and when it ran out, I found a matching colour in another skein and carried on. The resulting colour runs made the panels very unique.

I edged the whole thing in brick red CotLin that I got yonks ago in Michigan.

Behold the beauty that is my own personal Lizard Ridge...


A shot of The Finished Beast. Because I added one more repeat than the pattern called for, the panels were longer. So when I was done stitching it together, it came out very long and very narrow. I added another five panels up the side, and now it's about the size of a twin bedspread.

Large shot...



A close up of one of my favourite panels. I don't know why, but I really like the way these two panels came out.

And this one...reminds me of a sunset in the mountains of North Carolina.

One of the 4 Polarg panels I made...


From the beige part up, it looks like a desert sunset. From the gray down, it looks like our old family dog Otto (minus the hot pink stripe). Otto was a mini Schnau and the same gray/black colours.

I'm getting to the point where every panel tells a story.

Saturday evening we had a Garden/Street Party. This started back in 99 when we were living in our first house in Harrogate. We were still unpacking and trying to figure out what we'd gotten ourselves into when two of our neighbours, Jenny and Helen, rang the bell and said, "We're having a barby in a few weeks. Come along, bring whatever hooch you fancy, and pack a brolly in case it pisses down."

We nodded politely, thanked them, shut the door, and said, "What the hell did they just say to us??"

We lived five years in that house, and our neighbours became more than our friends. They became our family.

The first annual Southway Barby was a smash. I had no idea my neighbours were so utterly insane. So many memories were created that night that have now passed into folksong. The best, however, and the one that still tops them all, is my Audience Participation Story.

You see, my neighbour Iris was the first to introduce herself to us, and I had mentioned off-handedly that I'd been to Scotland in 89 as a missionary and really loved the British Isle. Somehow that got translated into, "She is very religious...be careful not to offend."

Well, at the first ever barby, I completely blew that reputation out of the water. After about 2 glasses of wine (and even more port, the love of which I discovered I shared with our neighbour Jenny), I stood up, announced I had a story to tell, and my rather intoxicated neighbours said, Sure!!

If you've ever been to the MD Renaissance Festival (or probably any RenFest) you'll know The Knight and the Dragon Audience Participation Story. At key words, you perform certain hand/arm motions and even sing a bit. It's impossible to relay how funny this story is, esp. when you have a bunch of drunken people trying to keep in mind what to do when.

Anyway, I got up to do this story, and when it came to the punch line, there was a dead silence, and I thought, oh fuck me, I've completely blown it with these people forever.

The pause was only a shocked silence, as everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) then burst into insanely loud laughter. It was an immediate hit, and every year, I've been asked to perform it yet again. It's lost its humour with me, mostly because when I worked at the RenFest the summer of my senior year, I heard it so many times that it was like being poked with thousands of tiny dull sewing needles over and over.

For a few weeks after I told that story, people would pass by me in their cars as I wandered down the road yelling, "Yay, Patricia! WOO HOO!" and I'd think, "Egad, did something happen that I can't remember??"

I became known as the Southway Raconteur.

Most of the old crowd has moved off of Southway...very few of the Originals are left. It's a rare moment in time when you're friends with so many different people at once. There were a few families on the cul de sac that didn't appreciate our rather boisterous get togethers, but mostly, we were great friends. And I'm certain we will remain so for a very long time.

So last night, for the first time in two years, #13 threw a garden party, and we all came from all over the area (two from their new home in Nairn, Scotland), and we had a reunion. It was wonderful. It was amazing. It was full of laughter, good food, and (surprisingly) a modest amount of booze. We caught up with one another.

And I told my story, along with another great joke about an American and two Russians on the Russian front during the cold war. Sadly, it's another joke that involves a lot of physical comedy, so it won't translate well here.

Jenny always requests a cheesecake, and I obliged her willingly. She inhaled a huge pile of it, then took home at least three more pieces "for brekkie, lovey". Where she puts it is beyond me.

I have a way with cheesecakes. They seem to speak to me. I am a rotten cook, but for some reason, I can bake like nobody's business. My great grandfather was a baker...maybe it's in the blood.

Behold the Cheesecake of Glory...





Thanks to my mad cake decorating skills, it looked absolutely wonderful. Half of cheesecake is in the presentation. I actually had people ask me where I bought it and how much it was. The marbling on the top apparently looked like posh. Hubby said it was magnificent, and he is NOT easy to please.

In my mind, the taste didn't match the appearance. This is not to say it wasn't yummy. It was really, really amazing. I just wanted the almond flavour to come through a bit more. But that's just me.

Earlier that day Max had gone to a costume birthday party. I had fretted about what costume to do for him because I really am not into buying something for him to wear one time.

Luckily BHs had a PC outfit on offer for 9 quid, so I bought it. As soon as we were out of the shop, Max put it on, and man, he was so face slappingly adorable I couldn't stop grinning. We met hubby in town for dinner, and hubby said when he saw this little kid dressed like a copper running toward him he was like, "Who is this kid??"

And I'm happy to say, he won an award for one of the best costumes. GO ME.

Max and his best buddy Brandon. These two together really are the Gruesome Twosome. They chase each other like little chattering squirrels.

Playing Musical Statues.

Enjoying his costume prize.

"Really, mum, would you just piss off and let me eat my food?? It's like dining with Annie Liebowitz here..."

All in all, a very good day.

Another Rough Night

Because of the stress of the upcoming move and everything that goes with it, I haven't been sleeping well.

Actually, it's more accurate to say I haven't been sleeping. I get maybe 3 good hours, then it's sleep for an hour, wake up bathed in my own sweat, sleep for an hour, wake up in the middle of an anxiety attack, etc.

Usually I can work through these attacks with the techniques I've learnt from CBT, but last night it felt like waves were smacking me up and down and all around. My stomach was tied up in knots, my chest was constricting, and the thoughts racing through my mind were not to be believed. Have you ever seen a kid just get pummeled by those big red rubber balls in dodge ball? He keeps ducking, twisting, and turning, but no matter which way he faces, he keeps getting whacked? That's why my mind was doing to me last night. No amount of creative visualisation or thought re direction was working. The anxiety was coming too fast and hard, almost like a series of small seizures.

I tried taking the mebeverine (the IBS drug) because it seems to loosen up my gut, but that wasn't working. Sleeping wasn't working either. In fact, nothing was working, and I knew what I had to do.

I broke down and took 1/4 of one of my leftover Diazepam pills. After about 1/2 hour nothing was happening, so I thought, Fuck it, that's why you HAVE drugs for times like these, and wound up taking the rest of it.

Within an hour everything had relaxed, and I was dozing peacefully. Of course, now I'm not safe to drive a car (not that I was planning to anyway) and I'm lurching about the house not blinking. What is it about Valium that makes you not blink?? At least my stomach's not knotted up anymore, and even though I have a lot of stuff going on today and I'm exhausted, I think I can make it through the day.

Official Pack Out starts on the 15th of July, still about three weeks away, and I think I might have to lighten up on my expectations. I guess it was realistic to want the entire house organised top to bottom. I'll get as close as I can because the less stuff we have, the less we have to pack, obviously. I have one more boot sale tomorrow, then whatever doesn't sell gets donated.

Meanwhile my thyroid has decided it's not going to work which is probably why my weight loss has stalled, so my thyroxine level is getting upped. I'm hoping it'll increase my energy as well. And I've switched to the Core plan at Weight Watchers which I'm finding incredibly difficult but my body likes better, as it cuts out white rice, breads, and all other sorts of carbs that I don't seem to do well with, being the insulin resistant girl that I am. I'm allowed pasta, but I don't eat pasta as a rule because it messes with my blood sugar and makes me bloat.

Hubby raised his eyebrows when I told him about the bloat and gave me a meaningful look. "Maybe you should get tested for celiac," he said.

He spent the rest of the evening picking vegetables out of his hair.

And So On and So On...

The tests turned out just fine. There's nothing to worry about, and I'm greatly relieved.

The doctor examined my boobies first, then sent me down for a mammogram and an ultrasound. I've never had a boob o gram before, and I must say...it was an experience. My mother once described the experience has having one's boobs Xeroxed from the top and the bottom, but man, nothing prepared me for the sight of my tit squashed between two sheets of glass.

I started snorting and giggling to myself when I glanced down and saw my boobie mashed to about 1 inch thick. It was deeply unsexy. I had to put my hand on a handle somewhere in the next room, lean in until my ribs were kissing my spine, and hold that position for about 2 hours, and the whole time I swear I heard air being expelled from my nip in a steady PPPPPFFFSSSHHHHH. My boob looked like a chicken fillet ready for the grill, all flat and pink.

Then I got to do the same thing again on the other boob. All the while I kept thinking, "If men had knockers they'd've come up with a WAY better technology than this. They'd NEVER subject their willies to this sort of humiliation." I mean, come ON...how seriously was I supposed to take this whole thing when the machine itself was called the Mammomat 3000? That right there tells you there's a man behind this whole operation. No woman would name a machine that. She'd at least call it the Tit O Gram or the Boob Operator (Boooooob Operatuuuuuhhh...).

After that I had an US on the boob in question, and the scanning guy kept asking me, "Now WHERE am I looking again??" He concluded that it was normal breast tissue, nothing to worry about, and thus I was spared another needle biopsy.

The worst part of the whole thing was being the same room and on the same machine as when I saw a 6 week old Christopher's heart beating. The memory of it rattled me so much that I could barely make the 45 minute drive home, and I wound up taking the rest of the day off and just shaking in bed until I had to go pick up Maxman. Simply holding him is so very life affirming, and I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing that I'm clinging to him so much right now. He's not aware of it, of course, because I'm normally very affectionate with him, but there are several times during the night that I get up and just watch him sleep. I swear that child is the only thing keeping my head together sometimes.

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The Big Move to Germany is coming along. We have orders, we have a house, we have a pack out date, and we have a lot of insomnia. Rather, *I* have insomnia. I'm averaging about 5 hours a night, and when I do sleep, I'm awake every hour from nightmares. Last night (or rather around 5 this morning) I had a dream Max and I were walking on a bridge over the water, and he fell in, immediately swallowed up by the silt. I dove in after him, frantically looking and groping, but I couldn't find him. Just like that, he was gone.

For someone with an anxiety disorder, this kind of dream is terrifying. It plays over and over in my head all day, and I'm just filled with horror of the unknown. I recognise the symbolic nature of the dream, but that is of little comfort.

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And on the SMIL front, there is news.

Remember how SMIL was recently diagnosed as being Allergic to Everything? Wheat, corn, gluten, dust, pollen, alien spores, tact, shutting the hell up...? She's drastically changed her life to try and get herself sorted, and all props, she has. She's much healthier, feels better, and as a result, is far less bitchy than ever.

Then again, that's like saying Himmler was the nicest Nazi. He was STILL a Nazi (not my original quote).

SMIL called last night to announce it's 98% certain she has celiac disease. She's had The Test, and it's come back positive.

Of course it has. Nothing else makes sense.

However, she got the news right as Doofy was leaving to go do a service project at their church (they love them some service projects), and she had no one to share her good news with, so naturally she called up my hubby and droned on to him for 45 minutes about celiac disease and all its permutations.

And being SMIL, two things are sure to follow (and believe me, they did): 1) she instantly becomes An Expert in the disease because she's either read about it or has it herself, and 2) She believes everyone around her either already has the same disease because (see above) she is now An Expert, or everyone should get tested for said disease.

Yeah. SMIL's got a new hobby. She's now wearing the Celiac Awareness Sandwich Board, and any minute now I expect my inbox to be flooded with "FWD: CELIAC DISEASE--FYI" messages.

Because just like everything else Max has supposedly had over the years (acid reflux disease, hip dyplasia, YY Chromosome, autism, deafness, PKU, lead poisoning, one leg shorter than the other, twisted spine, and weakness on the left side...no, wait...that's the right side), I'm certain she'll be on about getting Max tested for celiac. Because he clearly displays the symptoms; how could I have missed them?

Here's the kicker: she has three other grandkids with genuine medical problems, all far more indicative of celiac than Maxman. M has very strong food allergies to peas and eggs, and had severe acid reflux for the first two months of her life. Ju, the middle kid, has the worst teeth in history...the boy's already had about three root canals, no enamel on his teeth, and has spent more time in the dentist chair in 8 years than I have in my entire life. Another sign of celiac.

And Jo has stomach troubles, although I'm attributing that to having a peckerhead for a father. So there should be meat a plenty for her to sink her fangs into with that family, but NOOOOO...Max must be tested.

And the worst part is, hubby agrees (fancy that). His logic is, the earlier celiac is dx'd, the early the treatment can start.

I looked him square in the eye and said, "Shit on that, my love. I have bigger problems right now. I have an entire house to get ready for a move, and fuck if I'm gonna go get my kid jabbed to satisfy your mother's paranoia and lack of anything better to do. Tell her to shut the fuck up and go get laid."

Actually, I didn't say that. It would be nice if I did, but things being as tense as they are, I know when not to pick a fight. What I said was, "That's going to have to wait for a very long time because Max shows no symptoms, and we don't have time right now to fool with you mother's latest malady. I know how she is: if she's got something, the world has the same thing."

You can bet, though, that August will be Celiac Awareness Month (that's when we're visiting), and the leaflet campaign will be never ending. Neither will the not so subtle noodging to get Max tested ("It's just a simple blood test.."). The last thing I need is to subject Max to another doctor's visit, esp. when he's about to live in a new country, start in a new school, and is still so shook up by what happened in December and his surgery last month that every time he visits a doctor's office he thinks it's because he's dying.

I'm feeling vindictive enough to sprinkle gluten ever so carefully on all surfaces of the house when I visit. MUHhahaha...

ETA: not five hours after posting this did I get Message #1 in my inbox, packed with information about how celiac is to blame for all the ills in her life, her mother's life, and her grandmother's life, and how she really wants to get all the grandkids tested straightaway.

Bite me, lady.

Tests

Tomorrow I'm going in for a consultation with a specialist because I've found a few lumps in my right boob. They've been there for a while, in fact...had them checked back on 02 when I first found them, and they were classified as "benign" or whatever the lowest ranking is for these sorts of things.

But they're still there, and as I'm getting older, I want these things to be examined more closely. Plus my dad's mom had cancer in both breasts and had them removed. It's an understatement to say I don't need that sort of thing right now, esp. when we're getting ready to up stakes and start all over in Germany very shortly.

I'm pretty sure nothing's amiss, but then again, I was pretty sure my baby was fine. So as I've said many times before, I don't believe in odds or numbers any more, just facts. And if they tell me tomorrow they don't like what they see, I'll deal with it then.

One fact I do know--Max needs his mummy. So I'm investigating this as much as I can because I want to be with him for a very long time.

Keep me in your prayers, please. I'm stronger now than I have been in about 10 months, but I'm not stable by any stretch and can easily be hamstrung.

And if you look to your left...

...you'll see a new status bar until the title of "Iris' Log Cabin Blankie".

Iris is the very wonderful woman we lived next door to when we first got here. It's impossible to describe her with full credit. She's like a fiery cosmic storm wrapped up in a tiny OAP's body. We never got to meet her husband, Neville, as he died a few years before we arrived after a lengthy illness, but she mentions him in every conversation, and they were apparently very, very close.

She once told me she was nicknamed The Galloping Hairpin by her brother, referring to her boundless energy, and it's certainly true. Up until a few years ago, she could out walk even hubby, clambouring around the Yorkshire Dales, up hither and yon, without even breathing hard. She is incredibly spirited, independent, and positive minded, despite some of the very sad things she's been through.

What's most amazing about Iris is that even though she comes across as a very lively and proper British lady, absolutely nothing can shock her. This is a direct result from being in the Army during the Reconstruction after WWII. Whenever someone tells an off-colour joke or remarks on how youth today seem to be drinking and having sex more than at any other point in history, she just shakes her head and says, "Oh, please...I saw far, far worse in the Army..." She has no problem discussing any sort of female problems with me or anything to do with sex or indeed anything at all which is shocking at first, then quite comforting. And she does it as a friend, not as a "listen to me, I am your mother" attitude.

Iris' father was a botanist who traveled the length and breadth of England in his studies. As a result, Iris knows the English and Latin names of just about every plant in the British Isles. She can tell you when it will flower, what to do with the seeds, and how to cultivate it. When I lived next door to her, I had a herb garden with about 16 different varieties growing in it, and we shared what each plant could do (there were some things she didn't know about, but those times were very, very rare!).

In her long life, Iris has seen about three wars, given birth to two sons (even though she wasn't supposed to be able to) and a daughter who, sadly, was a stillborn, adopted a daughter, lost a husband way too early, travelled the world, most likely walked the length of England several times, and lived all over this fine island. She has never worn high heels or drunk alcohol or smoked. She has also not adopted the "Hh, I'm old, woe is me" attitude even after countless painful surgeries and a stroke. Instead, her attitude is, "Get on with it, Iris..."

She was also the only one to visit me in hospital after I had Max, trekking across the frozen tundra of the Harrogate District Hospital parking lot, and holding Max with a confidence born of handling children and grandchildren. Since day one she's called him Little Treasure and has adored him immensely, telling me that he's a special kid, you could see it in his eyes, and he will be an amazing individual (and so far, she's right!).

Lately, Iris' life has not gone well. After a recent surgery to alleviate a long-standing problem, she's actually worse than she was before, and in severe pain sometimes. She can't go walking anymore, and health problems are limiting her life in drastic ways. She hates getting old...resents it, in fact (for her birthday one year I gave her the book, "Growing Old is Not for Sissies"), and tells me as much. She's watched the members of her family and her friends slowly dying off, and she's becoming very down at heart.

I go over with lunch and Max to try and cheer her up, but it's only a temporary fix. On a recent visit for a lunch, I tried to do as much as I could for the meal because it was clear she was in pain, but she kept saying, "If I don't stand up and prepare the meal and tidy the house and all the rest of it, I'll slow down and stop. And that's just not something I will allow myself to do."

Although Iris has a safe amount of money to live on, not to mention having a very nice house in a VERY desirable part of town, she's getting colder and colder in the evenings and is edging into the Heat or Eat situation that so many OAPs find themselves in these days. Fuel is expensive, and she tries to economise, but so many times she's just plain cold in a way that hot cups of tea just won't fix.

So when I started my very first Log Cabin Blanket and realised how thick it was turning out to be, I thought I'd give it to her to curl up under at night. It makes my lap sweat when I work on it, so I know it'll keep her warm. She probably weighs all of 8 stone, maybe less, so I don't think it would have to be very big.

I will keep updating the status bar as the blankie progresses, and with any luck, I'm getting my own digital camera tomorrow so I can take pics of it. Until then, please keep Iris and everyone like her in your mind and if possible, do what you can to help someone in a similar situation.

Fully British at Last

The other day after school I took Max to a local tea room called Just Desserts. I usually have a small shortbread cookie and a cup of tea, and he has whatever appeals to him (within reason) and a glass of milk. I take him maybe once or twice a month just so he knows he's special to me.

That day he had a jam tart, and apparently he was rather hungry because he inhaled that puppy faster than he could chew. It was like watching a duck eat bread: the mouth moves, but you're pretty sure pieces are going down whole anyway. After his final swallow, he reached for my cookie and started plowing into that, despite my feeble squawks of protest.

So I asked the waitress for another jam tart, explaining that Max had basically hoovered up his first and was starting to give the sugar packets thoughtful looks. She laughed and brought another one out, then stood, slightly baffled, as Max plunged into that tart as well. The then sucked down over half of his glass of milk in one go and wiped his mouth on his sleevie.

"Hungry, were you?" she grinned.

Max let out a small hiccup, pardoned himself, and nodded with a grin. He then scooted out of his chair to go look at the model motorcycle on the shelf behind him. When he was done doing that, he came back to the table and pulled the sugar packets out of the container and put them into number order (the packets all had numbers on them, for some reason). Then he neatly stacked them back into the ceramic holder.

"Well, thank you," said the waitress. "That saves me one job to do tonight."

Max smiled politely and said in all seriousness, "You're very welcome."

Afterward we walked down to the park, stopping on the way to purchase sausages from SBM (hehehehhee...heeeee), and Max ran round for a while. Next to the kiddie park is a big bowling green, and you can usually find someone trimming the pitch or playing the baffling game of lawn bowling.

Now I know it's a popular game and a good source of moderate exercise that seems to attract OAPs, but I just can't understand the rules. Como sa:

A bowl may curve outside the rink boundary on its path, but must come to rest within the rink boundary to remain in play. Bowls falling into the ditch are dead and removed from play, except in the event when one has "touched" the jack on its way. "Touchers" are marked with chalk and remain alive in play even though they are in the ditch. Similarly if the jack is knocked into the ditch it is still alive unless it is out of bounds to the side resulting in a "dead" end which is replayed though according to international rules the jack is "respotted" to the center of the rink and the end is continued. After each competitor has delivered all of their bowls (four each in singles and pairs, three each in triples, and two bowls each in fours), the distance of the closest bowls to the jack is determined (the jack may have been displaced) and points, called "shots", are awarded for each bowl which a competitor has closer than the opponent's nearest to the jack.

Did your eyes start to glaze around the word "respotted"? That's when my brain checked out altogether. It seems like a simple game, but I feel like a total fuckwit because I can't grasp how it's played.

At any rate, Max wandered over to the green (you're not supposed to walk on it, and there are signs saying as much all over) and was investigating how short the grass was when an older boy, probably about 9, came over and said, "Hullo Max! Would you like to play a game of bowling??"

This happens all the time here. It's a small village, and all the kids seem to know each other. What's odder is that they all seem to know Max and will call out a cheery hello when they see him. Max can't remember their names but he CAN remember where they sit for lunch, what they eat, and what year they're in at school.

The kid's name was Kai, and he got the groundskeeper, Paul, to open up the large building that serves as the shed. Quick as a wink, Max was having his first bowling lesson.

Paul and Kai were very, very patient with him. The bowls are hard to roll, esp. with little paws, and they found a smaller set for him. Pretty soon the green was full of young boys all rolling jacks about which made me grin. Eventually Max got the hang of it, with Kai helping him, whilst I sat and watch, tickled to no end, involuntarily donating blood to the local midge population.

At one point Kai perched himself on his hands and feet, arching his back into a bridge, and called out, "Try to get it under me, Max! This will help your aim!" and darned if Max didn't wing the bowl right under him. Even Paul was impressed. *I* was impressed that these two virtual strangers had spent over an hour with a 5 yo helping him to bowl. It's one of the many things I will miss about the village, that neighbourly attitude and a genuine friendliness that exists because it feels nice to be kind. Where I grew up, such things are weaknesses to be exploited until exhausted.

Kai told Max he was welcome back every Thursday afternoon and on Saturday mornings. We missed it yesterday because we were cleaning his playroom (looked like a toy store threw up in there), but we'll go Thursday evening.

Next I'll teach him Cricket. I'd love for him to explain to me how to throw a googly, execute a hook, or recover from a bumper.

gggeeeaaAAARGH!

So I paid $10.00 to rent this table at the Table Top sale today. I was told I could have a free lunch if I was selling. Coolio.

The Table Top sale was part of the "Welcome, Summer!" festivities at hubby's work, a really big deal with hundreds of people coming from all over to play the bouncy castle, see police dog demonstrations, have games on the giant lawn, that sort of thing. There was even a massive marquee set up with a stage and about 200 folding chairs next to huge area for "kid activities".

Except no one informed the weather of this event. All week it's been rather pleasant and even warm. Today, however, the average temperature was 48 and raining just hard enough to keep people indoors.

So I reasoned, they'll still come for the free food. And seeing as how said free food was right next to the Table Top Sale, I thought SCORE.

All this sounds good on paper. What actually happened was that people swarmed in for the free food on their lunch hour, ate, walked around, looked at everything, and left again to go back to work. Then...nothing. Tumbleweeds blew through the place, and all of us there selling just stared at each other for about two hours wondering if it was worth staying.

And the "free food" on offer? Hot dogs that tasted like ass, a frozen bun, and a packet of Walker's crisps. Whooo, good times. When I got there the man in charge said I could have a drink, so I grabbed a Diet Pepsi. When I went to get another one, a lady informed me the price was now $2.00. Cheapass.

All told, I made about $31.00, less $10.00 for the table rental. I was furious. It was such a f*cking waste of time. I had housework I could've been doing, laundry, ironing, more cleaning, ANYTHING. And you know things are bad when I'd rather be cleaning house than sitting and knitting.

As the local American school has let out already, there were kids running all about, and some numbnuts got the idea of giving them farting balloons...the long kind that when you blow them up and let them go they issue a high-pitched squeal and go zooming around the room. That noise, combined with the rain on the roof, the constant crying of someone's baby, the kids screaming with laughter, and someone's insistence in playing Celine Dione really did my head in, and I was near to screaming, "I want my money back!!"

On the plus side, as I was grumbling to myself and hauling everything back to the car, a lady who had been selling across me and asked politely how much I wanted for the push chair. Jackpot! I finally, finally got to unload that jogging pushchair I got for Max 4 years ago. It's big, bulky, a pain in the arse to haul round, and I unloaded it for $10.00. She thanked me, and I said, "No no...thank YOU..."

Off to do another boot sale on Sunday if the weather changes...*sigh*

Of Boot Sales and Sunburn

Friday evening I loaded up Blue Van (that's what we call our Zafira...we're not so much with the creative names for cars round here) full to bursting with crap seined from our house to sell at a Boot Sale.

If you're not familiar with Boot Sales, they're FAHHHHHHBULOUS. You find out where one is (usually a farmer's field or a racecourse parking lot or even a cricket ground), show up early, pay a small entry fee, park your car, open your boot (trunk), and unload all your stuff for sale. You sit in a lawn chair or otherwise, chatting with passersby, selling whatever there is to sell, occasionally nibbling an ice cream or a pork pie or whatever else is on offer there. It's a very friendly atmosphere.

People here go to Boot Sales the way my mom used to take us Garage Sale-ing in the summer. One summer when I was about 6, my brother found an old Super Eight movie camera, stand up screen, and projector for about $10.00 complete. It was a major score, and for years after that he spent his spare time taking movies of me, his friends, and learning about stop-frame animation.

In fact he got so good at what he did, he wrote, filmed, and produced a stop-frame animation film called The Very Strange Chess Game that cleaned up at the county and state Animation Festival.

So, to sum up, you never know what you'll find at these sorts of sales that could pique anyone's interest. I'm all the time turning on the telly and hearing about people who picked up something at a Boot Sale for a few quid, taking to an antique dealer or summat, and finding out they've scored a major find.

Boot Sales are anything and everything. There were about 5 tables selling nothing but potted plants, like tomatoes and veg for one's garden. The guy next to me sold old mechanical something or others (looked like engine parts for a 56 DeSoto, really) and people were poking round like buzzards sniffing a dead gazelle.

Really, it's a very interesting short-term field study of a very narrow section of society, as rabid Boot Salers really are interesting folk. I should know...I was raised by the American Version of one.

As we clean out our house pre-move, we keep finding more and more things we can pawn. And it's a difficult frame of mind to neutralise: once I get going hunting and gathering things for sale, nothing is immune to my mental pricing gun. I even found myself looking at Max and wondering if I could rent him out and if so, how much I would charge.

It was then I went to make a glass of Calm Down Juice and do a spot of knitting.

Early Saturday morning, I rolled Blue Van to the nearby cricket field/festival grounds/sheep pasture and set up. People show up to these things at the ass crack of dawn, and I wanted to be ready.

I'd put maybe three things down on the tarp, one of which being this very large octagonal tin with a 18thC-esque painting on both sides (you know the kind...the two people are sitting in a garden in tall powdered wigs and impossible clothing...a few fat cherubs are wafting above their heads...that sort of thing) when a man loped over from a neighbouring stall and gave it a good thorough inspection. Boot Sales do have the occasional antique dealer, and he probably thought he'd found a diamond in the rough.

This tin came from my Hubby's Grandmother's estate, and SMIL foisted it upon me saying, "It's from a certain era for these sorts of things...I don't think it's worth anything, but it's very old."

So's a lump of coal but it doesn't mean I want it. I took it anyway, intending to use it for Max's crayons, but I thought if I could score a few quid from it, even better. It was one of the first things to sell and for two pounds. Hubby had researched it on the web for value and found it was worth bupkiss, so I felt safe flogging it. Besides, it was ugly as sin.

So the sale ebbed and flowed...sometimes I'd be swamped, other times there were several tumbleweed passing the table. People bought the oddest things: hand shaker used to sprinkle icing sugar over top desserts, a picnic basket I got at Pier 1 YONKS ago that's divided into six sections for cutlery and napkins...one little kid even paid 5p for the marker I used to mark the prices on the tags. That was pretty bizarre.

The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky, there was a pleasant breeze, and a cricket match was proceeding not far away from my ear. I sat and knitted when things got slow, and I spun with my drop spindle when I grew bored of knitting. The day was marvelous.

Round 12.00 a large golden retriever wandered over to Blue Van. He belonged to the lady at the stall across the way and seemed friendly. As I reached out to pet him, he turned round, lifted his leg, and took a whiz on my left rear tire.

It was time to go home.

In her defense, she did come over and toss some water over the pee to rinse it off and dilute the smell, and she had the grace to look abashed. But I was done with the sale and everything else and so began packing up my items. I didn't sell what I thought I would and sold a lot of what I thought I wouldn't, always an interesting phenomena, and in the end made about 40 pounds, not bad considering all I was shooting for was 10 or so.

I got home exhausted, ate lunch, listened to what Max and hubby did in my absence (hubby took him up the hill which is very, very steep, and for a walk where they saw many rabbits and--really cool--several stoats). It was then I realised that I'd caught some sun.

Actually, I did more than catch some sun. My arms looked like they'd been dipped in pink paint. It was so incredibly painful I spent the remainder of the afternoon rubbing them down with sunscreen (it was all we had) and moaning quietly. I couldn't even go near a heat source or into the sunlight without them flaming up again. And they were so achy I couldn't even knit.

Later on, we heard a band playing, so Max and I headed down to the park where we caught the tale end of a brass band performing in a gazebo. We ate ice cream and boogied a bit to the music--I tried to teach Max the YMCA motions--and enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Afterward, Max said he liked the drums, so as the band were packing up, we went to the back where the drummer was towelling himself off. Max asked what sorts of drums they were, and the young guy was very helpful in explaining the the different sorts of cymbals, drums, and other things. Max was entranced, and I learnt a lot too. I had no idea there was a cymbal called a Smash, did you?? The things you learn...

I then took him to where the musicians were putting away their instruments and showed him all the different woodwinds and brass. One flute player was especially nice and blew on her flute as he pressed the keys. She then offered him the mouthpiece and tried to get him to blow into it, but all he could do was giggle. It was a lot of fun.

Apparently the sun wasn't quite through with me, for when I got home my face and ears were bright red, like a signal flare. When will I learn? It's just that strong sun is such a rare occurrence here in Yorkshire that you tend not to believe it can scorch you when you're not paying attention.

And today the weather is exactly the same. AND...the gentlemen came round to replace my washer that's been broken for two weeks, so I don't have to haul my laundry to the manky laundromat nearby anymore.

It's been a good weekend.

So How Goes the German, Yorkie?

I got a book out of the library yesterday called German the Easy Way. When I saw the title, I thought, now that's just the sort of book I need.

I took it home and immediately began reading. My friend Claudia (pronounced CLOUD ee ah...isn't that a neat way of saying it?) is from Germany and has offered to tutor me a bit, saying I'm better off learning the basic phrases first before I faff with the grammar and vocab. I'm actually better off doing it old school because that's how I learnt not only to speak Spanish but to THINK in Spanish. And Italian. And French. Now I'm throwing German into the mix, I'll be illiterate in 4 different languages.

So far I've been able to say in German, When shall we go swimming?, What are you doing tonight?, and I would like to rent a mitten.

Hubby speaks passable German, and when I told him the last phrase, thinking I was saying something completely different, he frowned and said, "You'd like to rent a mitten??"

I burst out laughing so hard and long I gave myself a bad cough that lasted the rest of the night.

This is going to be tough.

ETA: oh, and btw...I'd like a set of these, please. To go. With sauce for dipping.

Reason #119 Why I Should Not Be Let Out in Public

Today is the North Yorkshire County Fair right here in my village. I didn't go to the one last year (I think we were in Germany when it happened), so I decided that Max and I would pop down and take in the sights.

And in true Yorkshire Spring fashion, the temp is about 60F and raining.

Didn't really stop us, though...we just put on our wellies, raincoats, and brollies and moseyed down the High Street the showgrounds (which also serve as the cricket grounds, a makeshift parking lot, and a pasture for grazing sheep...think small village here).

As it was raining--not hard enough to keep people inside, just hard enough that you needed your hood pulled up and maybe a brolly from time to time--the crowds were greatly reduced. Fine by me...less people to curse inside my head as they get in my way.

We immediately headed for the craft tent, and after looking over the handmade jewellery displays, lo and behold, I saw a spinning wheel. And baskets of roving. And some felted items! AND A LARGE SIGN THAT SAID "FIBER GUILD"!!

*bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz* (that's the sound of me making a beeline for the display)

The lady there was very, very nice and as we chatted about spinning and what I might be doing wrong with my drop spindle, she kindly showed me how to comb my newly purchased Wensleydale roving (GODS, I love me some Wensleydale, so much that it's almost unnatural) and even spun a bit for me on her wheel, making it look as easy as crapping off a log.

Max's patience was reaching its limit, so we parted and wandered back out of the marquee and enjoyed the rest of the sights. I was sorely tempted by some wellies with pirate skulls all over, Max got a dolphin balloon on a stick, some doughtnuts, and a few bites of a freshly made porkpie, and we generally enjoyed ourselves, weather not withstanding.

They had a display where you could hop into a HAC digger and test your skills at lifting up a tire then placing it on a pole (not NEARLY as easy as it sounds, believe me). The other craft tent was still being judged, but from a distance we admired the floral displays, the "Decorate My Shirt" entrances, and all sorts of other things you'd expect to find at a Yorkshire County Show.

It was on the way out that I really put my foot in it with my mouth, so to speak.

There was a fire engine near the exit with its sides pulled up so you could see all the bits inside: the hoses, the crash gear, dials, and I don't know what else. Max nearly wet himself in excitement, and even I was impressed with how much stuff was packed inside the truck.

A friendly fireman lifted Max into the truck and put a helmet on him. Max was tickled pink and really enjoying the whole experience. Being so focused on Max I didn't really notice the fireman who was speaking to us. Once I turned and got a good look at him...well, I'm not ashamed to say that my glibness left me in an instant, I blushed like a school girl, and my tongue went into Maniac Babble Mode.

He.

Was.

HOT.

Y'know how they have those calendars with the sexy firemen in their fire pants and suspenders and their tanned, chiseled chests looking meaningfully at you as if to say, "Battling the hot, potent force of nature leaves me so very lonely at the end of the day...I'd really just like a good cuddle whilst you play every so gently with my man nipples"??

This guy coulda been on the cover, in every picture, and fashioned as DIY cutout paper doll on the last page, and I STILL would never get tired of looking at him. And when he smiled, he had dimples.

DIMPLES.

And as he stepped onto the truck to put Max on the seat, his Little Fireman was right at face level. It was almost too much. I had to clench my fists to keep from batting playfully at his Hose Brigade.

I did manage a few lines of coherent conversation, but all I could think was, "I WANT TO BE SPRAYED BY YOUR HIGH-POWERED HOSE. I WANT TO BE RESCUED BY YOUR LONG LADDER. I WANT TO WINCHED TO SAFETY BY YOUR GIANT HAND-CRANKED HOOK. DEAR GOD, HELP ME, I AM PRACTICALLY MY OWN TOWERING INFERNO HERE..." on and on until I was certain that something would spill out accidentally. My whole face was hot, and I wouldn't be surprised if my eyes had flames in them, something like this:


Honestly. It was awful. I felt like Mrs Robinson.

So when I asked him what sort of engine it was, I thought I'd stumbled onto safe territory.

"It's a Volvo," he replied with an impish grin that melted my knickers.

"Uhm...no no..." I said, flapping my hands and blushing. "I mean, is it a pump truck? A ladder? That kind of thing."

"OOOoohh..." he said. "Well, our brigade has these types with several functions...you can see the ladder up top, and yes, there is a water tank inside...there's rescue gear on the other side for crashes..."

I said, "Right, right. See, I grew up near a fire house (I did, that's the truth), and I remember seeing the giant pumper trucks that can shoot water seemingly from miles away. That's what I was wondering about...those trucks are massive."

He nodded. "Yep, we have some of those high pressure pump trucks in Scarborough and parts of Leeds. I know what you mean. In fact, we used some in the Huddersfield floods a few years back. Not to add water, but to take it away."

"Ah!" I exclaimed. "You mean they can blow as well as suck??"

Yeah. I really said that.

I turned bright red, and he giggled at me, watching with undisguised mirth as I slowly crumbled into a burning ball of shame, much like the Wicked Witch of the West. I thought, I gotta get the hell outta here before they have to use the Jaws of Life to prise us apart. I thanked him for his time, grabbed Max, and we went to the other side of the truck before I accidentally dropped any other sexually charged bombs about long hoses full of fast flowing liquids.

Eventually Sexy Fire Man wandered over, but I was safely in conversation with another Fire Man, not nearly as sexy but very amiable and fun to talk to. SFM was showing a few other kids who had gathered some of the crash equipment and what it did.

Max said, "Erm, excuse me...can it fight a Dalek?"

SFM blinked up at him. "I'm sorry...a what?"

"A DA-