Woolly Mutts

Tales of Naked Barbies.

I am a feminist.  Not the burn-my-bra sort of feminist, but rather the sort that would like to see women have the choices necessary to reach whatever potential they wish to achieve.  Being the mother of a daughter, I strove to try and lead her away from stereo types of what society tells us women should be and toward ways of thinking that would offer her a broader, choice filled life.  Yes, well,  lets just say it was society 1, forward thinking mother zip, zero, nada.  Not that she did not turn out just fine in the end, because she did.  The road we took to get there was just a little less feminist mom and little more cheerleading, Hooters, and a basement full of naked Barbies.

Ah, Barbie, you and I never could quite see eye to eye.  Even as a child I chose other dolls over your pose-able, bend-able, comb-able self and as a mother I REALLY didn't want you a part of my daughter's life.  They could dress you up in every fashion and uniform out there; give you glasses and a fake job at NASA, but beneath it all you were still the 12 inch waisted, pointed boobed, bimbo with great hair and an unhealthy tan. (Take that Malibu Barbie!)  You even kicked Ken to the curb, and after all the years he was loyal to your perky arse.  I told him he should have joined the military. But, despite our negative history, there you were, all packaged in pink at my daughter's third birthday party and her eyes shone like diamonds as she attempted to pry you from your over packaged and insanely secure box.  On that day I knew I was fighting a losing battle.

As the years past the Barbie population grew....and grew....and grew.  There were Barbie houses and cars and teensy little 4 inch heels (that's Barbie metric) to match every fashionable Barbie outfit.  The basement play room became Barbie central and I tried to look the other way until one day I glanced over to discover that the floor was littered with Barbies AND they were all naked.  It looked like the Barbie Apocalypse down there.  Some were even bald (egad!).  When asked, my daughter sort of shook her head and said she got tired of getting them all dressed.  Poor Barbie, exposed and broken by the burden of fashion.  Let there be light. (cue heavenly choir)

At that point  we had a basement of naked Barbies, a defined lack of interest in clothing them, and a brother that had had just about enough of bringing his friends to play and getting razzed about the mass nakedness in the basement.  Something must be done.....and you know....for the life of me I can't remember what exactly was done.  Maybe they ended up at the curb in a garbage bag (oh sweet revenge) or handed out to other friends, but in the end the basement play room become a naked Barbie free zone.  That is not to say no more Barbies entered the family, but they met with a better, more fashionable life than their predecessors.

So, the other night I turn on BBC America to watch the hilarious Graham Norton and what do I spy on the desk behind him??????   NAKED BARBIES.

Not a grand photo, but the best I could find.  Look over his right shoulder and there they are. This pic is just a small representation of the display.  I bet the table is 4 feet long and covered with naked Barbies.  Hysterical.  Absolutely brilliant.

Take that Barbie, you unrealistic b*t#h.  No girl can live up to the body proportions, not to mention jet setting lifestyle you exemplify, but you won't see us proper women standing, en masse in our birthday suits on a British talk show with our hair all a shambles.  Eat a sandwich, for heavens sake, and get real.

I dreamed a dream of days gone by.

Last night I dreamed of Dunham Lake.  I was floating on the cool water with the sun on my face.  The loons swam nearby and the eagles flew overhead.  It was a remembering dream.  Memory imprinted in the cells of my being as the perfect place in the perfect time.  A place that I know and that knows me.  Or knew me, once upon a time.

Dunham Lake, near Siren, Wisconsin is where my father's parents immigrated from Sweden and Norway and where my parents eventually retired to. I spent every summer and Christmas holiday on that lake from the day I was born until my parents sold the place when I was in my thirties.  I grieve it's loss like I do any loved one lost to me. Perhaps more so. Dunham Lake, and the woods surrounding, were my best childhood friends, sanctuary, teacher, and protector. 

But here's the thing; I've dreamed about my lake a million times and each time I wake up feeling sad and lonely.  Today, I woke up feeling peaceful and grateful to have the privilege of such a memory and the opportunity to dream of it in such detail.  What changed?

For the past two weeks I have been meditating 3 times a week.  I found a Gaiam DVD, "Meditation for Beginners".  It begins with 15 minutes of yoga followed by 20 minutes of guided mediation and the honest truth is I pretty much suck at meditating.  My brain cannot stay focused on my breath for more than a minute without wandering off in all directions.  During the meditation the guide talks about how the positive results of this practice may not be readily apparent, but after time you will begin to see subtle changes in your life, emotions, dreams, or sleep patterns.  I have to admit that my response to that was to be a little skeptical.  After last night I'm beginning to have a bit more faith in the process.

The discipline of meditation does not come easily to me.  Just the act of sitting still for 20 minutes makes me a little crazy.  As with any thing new, time and practice lead to improvement (I hope) and I'm a little excited to see what other changes may come about from this new venture. 

Twenty eight years.

Twenty eight years ago was a Sunday.  I remember this because the Super Bowl was on television and my husband (at the time) kept going back and forth from my room and the waiting room to keep up on the score.  I was busy concentrating on my focal point, which happened to be a photograph of a nest of baby bunnies.  I think there were dandelions in the photo, also.  It was an induced labor; fast and unfriendly, but the product of the experience was a six pound baby boy who we gave the family name of Karl August.  I hope he can forgive me for the August part. :-)

He was a deeply unhappy newborn and a ticked off toddler, but then something happened, I have no idea what, and he became this angelic child that took my breath away when he smiled.

 

From that point on he was, and is just simply lovely.  Loving, kind, generous.  I love to tell the story from his first grade Christmas when each child in his class was asked to bring a gift to give another student.  As all the children opened their gifts one of the girls, a particularly impoverished child from a struggling family, opened her gift and discovered that it was broken.  Karl immediately got up, crossed the room and gave Joy his gift.  I recall that all adults present had themselves a nice old cry.  He still has that sweet, tender heart.

 

I am endlessly grateful that he and his sister have always had a beautiful relationship.  Karl is a good big brother, always looking out for his impetuous sister and she for him.

And today he is twenty eight.  Engaged to be married and looking for a house to begin their new life together.  Volunteer fireman and EMT and all around great guy.  There are no words in this mother's vocabulary that can truly express how much he means to me and how incredibly proud I am of the man he has become.  Of all the things that I may have done right in my life, my children are at the top of the list. 

Happy birthday (ha...remember when forgot the "r" in birthday on your cake? :-) )Karl, and many, many more to come.  Your mother loves you and always will.  Have a grand day. If there was ever a guy worth celebrating, you are surely him.  xoxoxox

Angels with attitude.

In search of somewhat mindless entertainment Amazing Husband and I went to see Legion last night. Ever since, alI those many years ago, A Knights Tale  I have really enjoyed  Paul Bettany and all of his widely diverse rolls.  And, well, there is something sort of awesome about a guy in wings.  Unless you too enjoy men in wings and mindless entertainment, you might want to save your dollars. Not that it was all bad.  We laughed quite a lot, though I'm guessing not all the parts that we laughed at were supposed to be funny. 

The synopsis is that God has gotten tired of all the human bulls*%t (their words, not mine), decides to wipe them off the earth and that Michael is just the angel for the job.  Mike, because he's kind of infatuated with humans, discovers an unborn child that could save the world and, disobeying God, comes to earth to protect above mentioned child from up coming apocalypse. Are you getting the Terminator vibe here?  Yeah, me too.   So, when Mike won't finish the job, God sends Gabriel (who is the actor who played Keamy on Lost...could not get past that) and there is an emotional, and funny Michael/Gabriel smack down.  Apparently the whole "soldier of God" gig comes complete with some serious weapon training.  Heavenly Special Forces. Who knew.  Also wings, being pretty and necessary for flying, also repel bullets and large, sharp objects.  I really need to get me some of those.

So, in closing, basically horrible film that can actually be rather enjoyable of you don't take it seriously.  A possible candidate for the Netflix que. Or not.

On the needles

Along with movies and work and still feeling crummy (along with the majority of the Midwest) there has been knitting.  Currently on the needles:

Basic feather and fan comfort shawl using some stash Silk Garden.  Colors are a bit more intense than in the pic.  Love the pattern and how fast it grows, but not sure I'm completely in love with the colors.  Don't hate them enough to quit.  Great tv and movie knitting as the rows are getting long and only one in four require any sort of thinking. Hope blocking defines the pattern a bit more.

Boheme for baby CJ as a Valentine's Day gift using Briar Rose Grandma's Blessing. Last year's V-day included the very first knitted gift to a newly preggers mommy to put away for baby to come.  Cambria has already out grown them and a tradition of knitted offerings has been established.  Boheme is a sweet little baby vest that I'm hoping will fit now.  Sizing begins at 6mo so I went with smaller needles and a prayer of success to get something closer to a 3 mo size.  Nice pattern, especially after I figured out that YF is the same as YO.  Only had to rip back 3 rows.  I think I'm cruising along well now.  

I'm really trying hard to knit mostly from stash and it's easier than I expected. I still lust after the new and wonderful and plan to do some damage at Sheep in the City come February at the Briar Rose booth, but overall there is no reason I could not knit for years to come using only what is stored in the yarn closet. 

Contemplating making a purchase of a set of interchangeable needles and am leaning toward the Addis. Anyone have an review of them, or any other set, they would be willing to share?

And again with the movies.

Saturday it was southwest to "A Single Man" (Colin Firth was robbed last night at the Golden Globes, I don't care how good Jeff Bridges was.) and Sunday north to "The Young Victoria". After previously cursing Rockford for it's lack of film variety, I do have to admit that it is quite conveniently located between Chicago and Madison.  I'm a glass half full kind of girl. :-)

So anyway, The Young Victoria.  Oh, how I adore a good costume drama.  Seriously, any time period, any subject matter, if they are dressed authentically I'm all about it.  Cultural history is endlessly fascinating to me.  Put them in costume and then tell me about how they loved each other......brilliant, and it was.  Where Saturday's viewing was constrained, quiet, and deeply emotional. Sunday's was huge, historical, overwhelming in detail.  I adored it.

Emily Blunt, who I have always enjoyed, was really wonderful as Victoria.  Rupert Friend (who I first fell in love with in "Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont" and is a must-see if you haven't) was the perfect Albert, conflicted, surprised to feel genuine affection, and then completely in love with Victoria.  Theirs was an epic time in England's history and an epic love.  At the end of the film they tell us that the two were together for twenty years and had nine children. Albert died at age 42 and every morning for the rest of Victoria's life (she died at 81) she had her maids lay his clothes out to honor him.  That choked me up a bit.  

There is a good bit of political maneuvering and were I better student of English history I would have enjoyed it more, though I was more than able to ignore the who-is-who-and-why to enjoy what they were wearing. :-)  Still, it was a beautiful story about a young queen and the love of her life.  You really can't ask for more than that. 

A Single Man

Once upon a time Rockford had a theater with multiple screens that played exclusively what they classified as "art house" films.  Regrettably, Rockford didn't have enough people, like myself, that enjoyed the artsier films and they closed it's doors.  Bad, bad Rockford.  You're gonna have to break out of this conservative box eventually, or, I'm gonna have to move.  I imagine it will be the later. This being the case, Amazing Husband and I frequently drive north or south to see films.  Yesterday we traveled to Barrington to see "A Single Man".  

Set in 1962, A Single Man follows George, a gay man who has recently lost his partner of sixteen years, through a significant day in his life.  It is filmed in a very stylized way with the colors going from warm to cool depending on the emotion, and this film is all about emotion.

Colin Firth is brilliant. More than brilliant.  If he doesn't get every award out there I'll be surprised.  Watching the scene where he receives the phone call that his partner has been killed, delivered by a cousin because the parents of the deceased refuse to acknowledge George as part of Jim's life, just broke my heart.  Broke. my. heart.  I admit to having a soft spot for Mr. Firth, but in this film he transcends everything else I've ever seen him in.  He plays George with such grace and depth that it's simply beautiful to watch.  Heart breaking-ly beautiful.

Tom Ford has done a fantastic job with this quietly profound story.  The colors, the costumes, the music, everything you see and hear are pieces of the story that are necessary to tell it.  I can't imagine how he edited it or let any image go.  I've read other reviewers report that the film is a commentary on being gay in the sixties, and certainly it opened a window to that, but for me, it is about love and life and the beauty of those things.  

I recommend it highly and in the theater rather than putting it on your Netflix que.  It needs all the theater has to offer to fully absorb it.  If you've seen it I'd love to hear your review.

We are what we think, having become what we thought.

I don't have the reference for the quote above, but I wish I did.  Some deep stuff, there. I think a lot.  I analyze and plan and contemplate and while that in itself is not a bad thing, perhaps I take it to an occasionally unhealthy level. So what to do?  I certainly don't need more thinking.  An action is required.  I've decided to commit to meditation.

I have meditated before without much success.  It's the thinking thing.  The desire is not so much to learn to control thought, as to set it free.  To achieve a level of awareness that is not constrained by the thought.  Easy, right? :-)  Yeah, not so much.  I'm ok for the first 10 minutes or so and then what we're having for dinner, or what is on the schedule for this week or whether the dogs are out or in.....too much thinking.

After a cursory search it appears that Rockford doesn't have much to offer in the meditation department, and please, if you're local and have a resource to share do so.  Lots of yoga, which is in no way a bad thing, but no mediation. I would love a yoga class for old, uh.....squishy...women, but that's for another day.  I need a guided meditation class.  Please.

In the meantime, while I decide whether I'm willing to drive to Madison, or the suburbs to find a teacher, I have a DVD and a library full of books.  And a brain full of thought.  It's a place to start. 

Our resident klepto.

Madagascar Moon Schmidt, a.k.a Maddie.  Black fur, gold eyes, last seen dragging yet another knitted item down the hallway. 

We have three cats.  Each cat has its own little set of quirks.  Frank is the King of cats and don't you forget it.  He is the oldest, wisest, and grumpiest.  Magnolia is the beauty queen who prefers not to have her fur ruffled because it takes so very long to get it back the way she likes it. Frank and Nolie are an item. Maddie is a loner and, except for the little stealing problem, the most normal of the cats.  Normal is such a relative word. 

Maddie likes wool.  Any knitted wool item left without protection will be pulled on the floor, dragged down the hallway and then kneaded and chewed.  When we first noticed this problem it was sort of cute.  After having to put countless projects back on the needles after she dragged it away and mangled it, not so much any more.  All knitting must be put back in bag; all yarn balls must be put away in room and door closed.  It is now a way of life to protect all wool from the claws of Miss Maddie.  We thought we had dealt with the issue.

Last week my bracelet was missing.  A friend had beaded me a beautiful black bracelet for my birthday.  It is the perfect size and I wear it frequently.  Bad habit of mine is to take off my jewelry as I sit at the computer.  Not the best practice, but I generally know where to go looking for what I can't find in the jewelry box.  I looked everywhere and no bracelet.  I happened to look out in the hallway and there was Maddie dragging my bracelet in her teeth.  What followed was the cat chase/fight for the bracelet.  I won. This time. 

So what is up with this new development? Is she now attracted to shiny things like a big furry, black crow?  Does it have something to do with my scent?  We will probably never know.  Good thing we're cleaning the basement cuz I bet she has a stash down there.  Who knows what we'll find!

A person has to eat.

I am not what one, under any circumstances, would call a good cook.  I'm not completely without skills and did manage to keep my family fed, but it wasn't pretty.  For me, the major product of cooking is not food,but rather, a mess.  No dishwasher (never have had one) and a small kitchen make that mess hard to ignore, and believe me, I've tried.  Amazing Husband is a better cook, and an overall better (less picky) eater than I am and does more than his share of the cooking and dealing with the mess. Along with the cooking and the mess, we also have an issue of having too much left over and then a freezer full of stuff we never eat.  I never really transitioned from cooking for 4, plus whomever else showed up at the table (usually boys who eat mass quantities without much care for what it is) to cooking for just the 2 of us.

We say again and again that we need to become more organized with our meal planning, preparing, and storing.  Neither of us are big on the resolution, but this new year we've decided to take a slightly different direction.  In one of my moments of cookbook fascination I purchased the book "Don't Panic - Dinner's in the Freezer". The idea here is that take a day, do a mass cooking of favorite dishes, and then freeze.  Dinner planning rolls around and all you need do is pull it out, defrost, and cook.  Viola! Dinner.  It has some great ideas for the freezing process along with some lovely recipes...which generally serve six with the calculations to increase that number.  You get the idea.  

I like the mass cooking idea, but for now we are taking whatever we are making for dinner, cook it for six, pop enough for the two of us in the oven and put the rest in a freezer bag.  Last night was our first go with beef stew.   There it is, in all it's gelatinous glory.  Next time stew comes up on the menu we are covered.   Should work equally well for lots of our favorite meals.  I think we may be on to something!  There is still the small matter of the mess, but every light bulb moment has a few dark areas. 

Heading out now to the doctor for the latest lung report.  I think progress is being made, though slowly.  I must work on patience. :-)