BARRED

“...So I am improving...and now GingerMan is turning his attention to his annual Spring Migration to Ireland...”

OR not.  Bags were about to be packed, Days out from Departure numbered T-3 and counting.

It seems no matter what I did to scrub my hands raw or disinfect switches and faucets as I went, GingerMan caught the plague.  The Sunday before his trip.  It started in the morning, so I bundled him into the guest room, donned apron and gloves and scrubbed the house top to bottom with bleach.  Called the doctor, told them what the ER Angels had given me, they called in a scrip Monday morning and he was well on his way that evening.  Pissed off, but way better off than I had been.  My hands, on the other--um, hand--- were puffy, red, raw, scratched and stinging.

Enter Lavishea Lotion Bars.  In the interests of Equality, I will also mention the gorgeous Bar Maids Lo-Lo Bars.  What the Whaaa? You ask?

A lotion bar.  Comes in a little round tin, made of various oils, waxes, natural stuff and it was not until this utter catastrophe struck and my Yarn Posse texted en masses that I realized I had run out of these about a year ago and never stocked up again. They are ingredients formed into a small cake, which you pop out of the tin, rub on the affected area and pop back in the tin.  No Muss, No Fuss.

 I am a dedicated follower of Bar Maids lip balms, they are now the only ones allowed in the house.  When GM and I first met, he had, possibly, the Worst Lips in the World.  The US, even in the humid regions, is a drastically dryer place than Ireland.  By a LOT.  In the Old Country, you leave bread out, here, that's Death.  When we go home for holidays, we never use lotion and my hands look 10 years younger, here my skin falls off if I don’t moisturize every 6 hours religiously and after every hand washing.  

So we are on a strict balm regimen, with happy smoochers to show for it. Lately, I have had specific skin allergies which have reduced me to one specific type of body lotion recommended by my doctor, but before that, I knocked my bad self out with the panoply of scented wonders from these companies, even when I couldn’t use any other scented products on the market.

Their ingredients are pure, and great for all skin types.  Lavishea bars are a little dryer than the Bar Maids to the touch.  Bar Maids has an entire line of cool stuff including several facial products, a natural baby line (tested by my niece, the Intrepid Danger Mouse), and the O For Feet’s Sake bar.  I am a makeup and body-care ‘Ho, and love them all, so I can’t honestly give you a preference for one over the other.  

DID I MENTION-LO-LO Has Luscious Flavors???? OOOO YUMMO!

OH!! And this is the NUGGET OF KNOWLEDGE, hidden like those stupid morals tacked on to the end of a He-Man- Masters of the Universe episode: 

FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY IN THE UNIVERSE, WASH YOUR HANDS.  DOCTOR STYLE.  PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR FINGER TIPS AND WASH ALL THE WAY UP THE WRISTS.  

IF SOMEONE CLOSE TO YOU HAS NORO OR A RELATED VIRUS, USE A BLEACH CLEANER TO CLEAN YOUR KITCHEN, THE BATHROOMS AND ALL LIGHT SWITCHES, REMOTE CONTROLS AND FAUCETS.

ESTABLISH, IF POSSIBLE, A “CLEAN” BATHROOM AND A “SICK” BATHROOM AND KEEP THEM SACRED AND SEPARATE.

IF YOU HAVE A REFRIGERATOR WATER/ICE SPIGOT, BE SURE YOU ARE CLEANING THAT WITH BLEACH BETWEEN EACH USE.  ALL PARTS OF IT.

IF POSSIBLE, DO NOT ALLOW THE SICK PERSON TO USE THE KITCHEN!!!!

So, otherwise, yes, this is nothing but a shill, but only because it’s been a grossbuckets two weeks round here, and these literally saved the skin on my hands and made me a bit happier. They are available at many local yarn shops and online at http://www.lavishea.com/ and https://bar-maids.com/.  Also, if you are attending any local fiber festivals, knitting conventions and whatnots, check to see if the Bar Maids are in attendance--you’ll hear the whooping and laughter a mile away!  They are more fun than a barrel of monkeys and you will love supporting a great company by treating yourself.

Herein ends the sermon, I am knackered.  I’m even skipping knitting today.  I’ve cleaned and tidied and worked all week and I am just gonna droooool today.  Except I keep coming up with things to do.  So Still Not Bored.  Then there’s Treadmill Time.  OH!  Okay, next time I’ll tell you about all the movies I’ve watched in the last week and a half!  

As Calvin said to Hobbes, the days are just packed!  

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"WOULD YOU LIKE A LITTLE ICE CREAM?"

So I’m going to tell you my little story, and give you a link to one of my favorite stories.  I want to you watch it, with lots of tissues.  Don’t be afraid.  Just do it.  You know, cuz your allergies might act up--happens to GingerMan, like when we watch ST II Wrath of Khan.

THIS week, I got Noro virus. Tuesday, Hoooorah.  Which officially makes GingerMan the best partner ever, as Wednesday night was spent in the ER, after which I was deposited at home, still nauseous and disgusting and by then wanting to cry, at midnight.  Midnight.  At which time GingerMan goes right back out to the 24-hour Understaffed, Overworked, Manned by Angels Walgreens Pharmacy.  Mid. Night.  Goeth the man who still has not eaten, after a full day at work, after working from home the day before to make sure I didn’t die falling over or something.  (BTW-While we were gone, MaryKay Carol dropped off Clorox Cleaner with Bleach-proven to kill the virus, and Jedi Jasmin made Chicken Ginger Broth, proven to kill everything evil and fill your world with rainbows.)

He turns in the prescription for what the ER nurse described as the anti-nausea “Miracle Drug.”  He waits, with a bag of Doritos and some trail mix in the car for another hour or so.  Then he comes home, pills me, eats and then asks if I’m good so he can go to bed.

I was lying at the precise angle that prevented me from yakking, and garnering all my reserves to not cry and said yes go to bed.  The meds took hold in the night and I actually slept for 4 hours. Still on the sofa, but with my shirt on.  Oh, patented system--and you don’t want the explanation.  But still...

So I am improving.  By Thursday night I ate some yogurt and GM could turn the TV on without turning me green.  Friday, Day 4, was TOAST DAY!  One whole plain piece!  Life is improving from there, and now GingerMan is turning his attention to his annual Spring Migration to Ireland.

I like me some time alone. I watch movies and cook Dinner for One with impunity.  I knit, I read, I go out with friends, and I can say what is usually applicable to my life--I am never really bored. I do it well. Better than he does, but I’m not bragging, because honestly--very, very honestly, I have a paranoid inner anxiety that maybe it means he loves me more and I can just get right along.

Except for my even deeper inner anxiety that he will die on a trip.  It grinds into me, burrows further down the farther in advance he plans.  Something will happen and the very one person in the world I have loved more than things, more than places, more than any other person, more than breathing, will be gone.  In 2002, when we were going to try on my wedding gown, my mom asked if I had been in love with my first (insert any ol’ words you like here) spouse and I said no, without having to consider.  Because I didn’t have a clue what the concept even was.  After GingerMan and I met, I forgot what life had been before, at Warp Factor 9.  Twelve years later it is possible to remember times and events, but no sense of living without him.  I have an ice-cold fear in my heart and soul that I could never get along without him.

I’d stick it somehow.  It occurred to me recently that I have finally accrued a bit of mileage, a bit of experience and some small portion of confidence.  I’ll fall right the fuck apart, but, well, what the hell do you want?

I’ve watched this particular short film many times.  It was featured on PBS as part of a nationwide story-telling project, shown at the end of features, and Danny and Annie remind me of us (link here JIK:  http://youtu.be/WNfvuJr9164). A schlub (me) and a catch (GM), and how a rag-tag duo found happiness until the end.  And then dealt with the end.  I know all of this sounds maudlin and macabre, but I’m an atheist and a realist and like to just deal with the scary shit.  I have lifelong severe anxiety about loss and loneliness and this film has really served as a training video, of sorts.  Whenever GM heads for the airport, the cold, black fear grips me, and then I think of Danny and Annie.  

Our affairs are in order.  We say “I Love You” so many times in one day you’d think we wouldn’t hear it but we do.  One night I wrote “I Love You” on little sticky-notes and stuck them in a heart shape on the counter around his morning cereal bowl and juice glass.  I was sick on Valentine's Day so he drove 40 miles round trip to get the flowers he’d sent to my job, even though I’d get them the next day.  Sometimes he picks up some Pretzel M&M’s (TM) at the grocery store just to see me giggle. 

“...She lights up my life when she says at night would you like a little ice cream...”

We each think JEEEEZUZ I was never good enough to catch you!  But that can only possibly be true one way and we’re each sure it’s the other way so we’ve reached détente and just swap pandas and “discuss” what to watch on TV during dinner.

Well, come to think of it, you don’t really have to watch it, but please do anyway, Danny and Annie are lovely people, with a lot to say about love and living.  Doesn’t apply solely to partners, there’s a lot of us in Friend Webs out here, and you know we’d be there with you in the ER at midnight when you need us, and definitely, definitely tell you to eat more ice cream--

--it’s medicine.  And Love.

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OF BUST DARTS AND BOOBAGE

Diddly dum, it's January, diddly doot, Here's February! Oh dear, I've caught The Flu. No, not THAT flu, the one I was vaccinated for, the OTHER one, as I presented myself to the doctor, stuffy, snurffly, completely exhausted.  "Weeeeellll-- itmayhavestartedasviralbut it'sdefinitelybacterialnow.  Here's your antibiotic."  Which worked very nicely, but for being so knackered I learned the intricate weave pattern of our high-thread-count sheets over the next two and a half weeks. That's most of February done by the time I crawl back to work, but then ZOMG,  it's 

STITCHES WEST 2013!!!!

A total yarn-gasm, five days of fiber-y awesome. This was my fifth Stitches since I started knitting in 2009, and it was a blow-out-- Helen Devine came from Pittsburg, Knit Cafe Abby camped out with me, CogKnitive Podcast's Dr. Gemma bunked with the Knitmores and Bèbè Knitmore made several extremely cheerful and well-behaved public appearences, with her handler the Most Excellent Daddy, Andrew.              

A whole mad bunch of us filled out Lily Chin's Bust Darts class thursday, then Mary Kay Carol and I carried on to Marly Bird's fantastic Curvy Knits class friday. Both of which collectively count as The Best Class I've Ever Taken.  We explored the nature of being fuller-figured.  Busty.  Plump.  Of following patterns faithfully, having taken the requisite few standard measurements, namely bust and maybe waist and upper arm or shoulders, but not often, then just zooming along.  Then ending up with: A jumper which is puzzlingly shorter in front after absailing sometimes prodigious boobage. One which fits like a sack due to poor shaping when the designer can't be bothered; or has a neckline ample enough for a two-headed baby calf because the pattern writer took their lovely size-6 pattern, plugged it into a computer program which extrapolated from bust measurements and made no appropriate decreases over the shoulders to the neck as per standard human anatomy.

We graphed.  We did Geometry.  We did Maths.  Just before the break in Lily's class I nearly had a nervous breakdown, but Carol talked me off the ledge.  A 'Dart', if you will examine, perhaps, your favorite fitted dress or skirt, properly distributes fabric around curvy areas of your anatomy.  It seems easy with sewing--pinch the extra material from the inside, secure and sew. The trick with knitting is, you're working with negative space.  You literally chart out a triangle of negative space, stitches you will never knit, then knit a Curve in the Fabric of Space and Time. Stephen Hawking's got nuthin' on me now.

Next day in Marly's class we were given a magnificent packet full of segments containing a woman's form, diagrams of a specific area of measurements and the maths for that area. As with Lily's class, we learned that measurements are everywhere--lengths of everything, distances between, well, ya know...everything. Shoulder to shoulder, Shoulder to hip, nip to...yup, everything.  Unless you want 1963's On-Trend Bullet Boobs, you better measure those "Bust Points".  Meaning that I now hold the Keys to the Jumper Designing Universe.  I can take Lily's Short Row Bust Darts, insert them into Marly's Chart 5, Do a Little Dance, Eat a Little Pie, et VOILÀ! Have a sweater design, including properly designed set-in arms, which will fit who I really am.

So who am I?  I'm the girl who was insecure and pointless four years ago, and laid off from a law firm, so I walked into a yarn shop and said Howdy.  I'm the girl who is weird and wonderful and crazy-ass and colorful and strange, but never knows who she is from the inside.  A dreamer, yes, but tidy and practical and reassuring.  I am a Virgo and an Earth Ox.  I love to cook and party and knit and party and hang out and party because four years ago I entered a weird and wonderful and crazy-ass family of colorful and strange people, and Stitches is our Woodstock.  I'm the girl who yells out in Lily Chin's Short Row Bust Darts class:  "SO--BUST DARTS ARE HEEL FLAPS FOR TITS!!!!!" 

 Eureka.

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