Creepers

Okay, here is how the eve before Halloween went. I have been rather lazy and haven't bought a pumpkin to carve. My daughter is at the cusp of teenage-hood and would rather not trick-or-treat this year but have a friend over and watch a scary movie and eat a bag of candy and popcorn, along with pizza and pop. I don't know how their stomachs do it. Anyway, I went to a local farmers market...tiny pumpkins not good for carving. 6 pm. Went to Safeway, no pumpkins left, like it never happened. 6:15 pm. Went up to the other Safeway, no pumpkins either. 6:25 pm. Crap! My kid needs a pumpkin to carve or she knows life will be over. She hangs her head in defeat and tells me "That's okay." I now know that nothing is going to be okay unless she gets a pumpkin. I head to PCC, they have to have something. Indeed, the best pumpkins ever! What does it cost me? $6.66. I kid you not. Creepy, weird, whatever you call it, we were meant to have that pumpkin. Take a gander. She did it all herself. You can't see the back, but there is a carved tail. It's rad!

Did any of you notice the flub of the stocking picture? The dates are backwards. That, my friends is called a photoshop flub-up. Oh well. Next.

As promised here is a picture of my trusty spinning wheel. Her name is Daisy and she is from Australia and I stained her myself. A cherry oak color. I love this wheel. I love that it's a symbol of old. A time when things were very hard on women, and people in general. Clothes were handmade, spinning was done all the time in order to create wool for tapestries and knitted garments. I could go without the cleaning. I've cleaned wool before and that is not a very satisfying job. I'd rather spin. When I spin, I put on some relaxing music, something that is mood-setting like Lorena McKennitt or something and trance out. It's such a rhythmic activity and before I know it, I've spun and entire spool of yarn. It's magic, right through my fingers. I'm not sure you can see the sparkles in this yarn, but it's there. It's a soft yellow and cream-dyed wool with just enough sparkles to shimmer around my neck when I wear it as a scarf. Or, I might make a hat too, (if there is enough)

Then there is the commission sweater I'm working on. I still have to call her and tell her I'm almost done. Thank the fates! Feast your eyes on this puppy.


I call this hideous. I may be too harsh, but come on!
What I won't knit for money. Pitiful. My client will pull it off though. She's a spitfire!

Ho Ho Huh?

Correction on previous post. The quote got mucked up in the blog formatting. It’s from “The Halloween Tree” by Ray Bradbury.

Now on to the fibery things in life; my knitting. I recently finished three Christmas stockings for a client. It has been the bane of my existence since April when he ordered them. I always underestimate the time it takes me to do these kinds of things. I charged him well, but in retrospect, I should have charged him more. $150.00 just wasn’t enough for all the hours of anxiety I went through. I don’t even like knitting Christmas stockings, especially since I don’t celebrate the holiday for the same reasons most people do. But I digress yet again. If I have to look at another green/red combo, I think I might barf. My true satisfaction comes from producing something with my hands and seeing the expression on the faces of those I present it to. He was pleased, to say the least and I’m quite proud of them. I don’t usually toot my own rusty horn, but in the fibery aspects of life, I’m pretty exceptional, since I had didn't have a pattern and had to replicate a stocking from the 1950's that his mother made him.

Next, my long-time client has commissioned yet another garment from me. This time, from an Anny Blatt pattern book from the ‘80’s. Can I just slit my wrists now? Imagine if you will; a bubby blonde in enormous plastic earrings, too much make-up and wearing an oversized garment that looks like a potato sack tied up with ribbon. That is what I have to knit. Pictures to come, I promise.

Better yet, onto my homespun. I need to set the yarn I spun on my Ashford wheel and make a scarf and hopefully enough for a hat as well. My wheel’s name is Daisy. She has served me well and I am looking forward to spinning more in the colder months ahead.

So, take a good look at the stockings. I have indelibly documented it so that I will never forget all the time and effort it took me to create such things and for a measly 150 bucks. Beggars (which is me) cannot be choosers. So I move on.

All Hallows Eve

Halloween. Sly does it. Tiptoe catspaws. Slide and creep. But why? What for? How? Who? When! Where did it all begin? “You don’t know, do you?” asks Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud climbing out of the pile of leaves under the Halloween Tree. “You don’t really know!”

—Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree

I remember it well. I was 29 years old and I had just swayed my way over to alternative religion after delving into several traditional disciplines over the past several years. Traditional Christianity doesn’t make sense to me. Believe me, I've tried to make sense of it, diligently in fact, and to no avail. So after moving to Seattle in 1998, and carefully giving thought to my course of life and how I wanted to raise my daughter, I sought the ancient pagan rituals and principles to follow. No mundane doctrines or boring worship sessions, and above all, no hypocrisy.

A few days before Halloween that year, also known as Samhain (summer’s end), or “Spirit Night” as they call it in Wales, I had decided to look into some holiday events at a local bookstore I often frequent called EastWest. I found out that a local priestess, Judith Laxer, would be holding a traditional Halloween ritual in the store's back room, and for a small fee, anyone could attend. Filled with curiosity and excitement, I paid my fee and awaited the evening of my first ritual.

I know this kind of stuff can be hokey and new-agey, but pagan religion is personal. One doesn't have to subscribe to chanting like a moron and wearing nothing but hemp hoping for enlightenment. I take it seriously. I don’t belong to a coven or even attend a congregation of like minds. That is what is so wonderful about being pagan. You can make it your own and worship as you see fit. I subscribe to the worship of nature; the trees, the flowers, the wind and rain. We are allowed to live here. It is a gift. Mother earth and the Father of the forest should be revered.

The local priestess was wonderful. She made everyone feel at home and the music we sang as a group made me feel as if I were a part of something old and great and real. Halloween is the “thinnest” part of the year. Thinnest meaning that is when the spirits can go between worlds the easiest. All of our Halloween fodder is actually pagan-based. The majority of our modern traditions can be traced to the British Isles.

So as the sabbat approaches, I take in all that is the Fall and begin celebrating one of the most important times of the year…including our modern ritual of SUGAR COOKIES! My daughter and I made ghost-shaped sugar cookies while listening to some Irish folk music Sunday night. It was one of the best evenings we’ve had in a long time. We got flour everywhere and it is of great surprise that we managed to get any cookies at all! They're not very pretty, but the quality time I spent with my daughter is what mattered the most.

Now, sitting here eating my pomegranate seeds, I wonder what will be next on our Halloween agenda. Jack-O-Lantern carving to keep away the bad spirits!

Rockabilly Baby...

A few Saturday’s back, I attended the 20^th annual Rockabilly Ball, put on by our local radio station here, KEXP. I’ve never attended before, but I decided to go for it and buy a ticket to one night of this three-night event.

Now, Rockabilly fans are different, notably so, and I am among the different so that’s okay. My $20 bucks could not have been spent on anything better. Did I go with a friend? A boyfriend? No. I went it alone. Alone and brave. I was a superhero that night for attending a Rockabilly concert, at a small venue, no less, ALONE.

I had my reservations. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was “looking.” That would have been bad especially since I wasn’t looking. I was there for the music, not to go home with someone. So I paid three bucks for a Bud Light and walked the place like I owned it. Brave indeed. Some may have felt sorry for me or thought it was just too bad that I had to be there alone and granted, it would have been more enjoyable had I a friend along, but I was there and I danced and enjoyed a great group of bands regardless.

It’s funny what people do when they are alone to make it look like they have it all figured out. Most of us go to the bathroom first. Then sort of get lost in the mix on our way out hoping that those who saw us come in alone, would soon forget about it. I was no exception. I went to the bathroom, got my beer and pretended I was doing something dramatic and important on my phone, (which I wasn’t) So I drank my Bud like it’s something I do all the time (because I really don’t) and planted my feet in place for the spot in the crowd. I decided to get up close and personal. Showed them that I really enjoyed the music based on the amount of appendages and other fleshy parts that I could sufficiently shake. I needed the comfort of a crowd that night. I'm no longer a 20-something that can stand for hours. I'm in my thirties and standing for hours just about killed me. However, I inserted my cushy earplugs and rocked from 9 – 2 AM in the morning like I do it all the time.

It’s interesting how bands interact with the audience. Since this was such a small place, the interaction allowed for liberties otherwise not allowed. I could have lip-locked the cute bass player if I had wanted to and no one would have stopped me…probably. Anyway, The Mezcal Brothers really rocked my socks off. The Go Getters, a Rockabilly band from Sweden were the last of the line-up of five bands. They were the “dirty” guys; Singing of things that can only be projected over a sound system after midnight…and I’ll leave it at that. Face flushed, I left feeling giddy yet wobbly because my legs were so sore from standing for so long and trying get to my car in a timely manner. Walking past bars with the die-hards just leaving and just-about brawls are really not my scene. I just wanted to get into my car and go home.

People can be very stupid when they drink. The crowd was just as entertaining as the bands and sometimes more. We do things when we are liquored up and dancing. Freedoms that one probably can’t imagine on a regular basis happen in settings like that. Dressed up girls with tattoos that covered almost every inch of their bodies and piercing I could never imagine. Girly-girls dressed up in retro 60’s dresses with the tight bodices, squeezing their way to the front and pushing me back because I’m so short. Everyone was in my way! Then there are the bad-asses that think they are so cool when really they are lame and sad, the lot of them!

The Shake the Shack DJ was drunk off his ass and it was so fun to watch as he made an utter fool of himself as he danced. I sort of envied it though; to be so uninhibited and not give a damn about what others are thinking. I’m tiring of always having a guard up and hoping that everyone I’m around thinks I’m okay and not a complete idiot. Maybe if I had a guy on my arm or a friend there dancing along with me, I wouldn’t have been so guarded. But never fear… I did some shakin’ of my own and I bet no one even cared!

Party in Hicksville...

There I am, minding my own business as I go along in this thing called life…and I get asked to go to a Passion Party at a friend’s house this past weekend. I screw up my face and ask, “What is a Passion Party?” Well, I didn’t need a remedial lesson after that brief explanation. After laughing my obvious blush away, I said “Sure, I’ll be there. Little did I know what I was getting myself into.

My friend is great. Her enthusiasm amazes me and she is always trying to get me to sell Mary Kay. I’m just not havin’ any of it. However, I appreciate her diligent attempts to rope me in. So, she wants me to come see her new place in Lake Stevens. Never been out there, and from last weekend, still never want to be out there. It’s Hicksville with a capital “H.” Flags on every house; enough cul-de-sacs to make me barf and all those gas-guzzling hunks of tin they drive out there make me mad. I was scared I was going to be mobbed by a gun-totin' Republican! Again, I digress.

This requires a back-up; my best friend, who I must say is equal to or more “passion-driven” than I am. I don’t know how that can be, but I deal. We drive 30 minutes out wondering if it was going to be worth it or not. I insist there has to be at least enough booze to make it worth my while or I’m not buying anything. I wasn’t disappointed. Rum and Coke and I’m good to go baby!

We arrive 30 minutes late. They are waiting for us down in the basement. The house smells like cigarette smoke, which immediately turns me off, but we go downstairs anyway. Seven women already drinking, laughing and ready to see the stuff life is made of; Synthetically of course. My friend and I start blending and sit down ready to begin two hours of stuff I never knew existed. Games were played. Words were thrown in all directions and often times slapped me in the face. Knowing smiles were nodded at and it was apparent that these women were horny.

I have to share one game that was played. There was a waterproof massage ball for the bath that the party hostess had and she had a d---o in the other hand. If you got a question right, you got to try the massager on your back. If you answered wrong, you were blessed with this realistic looking d---o, and you had to have it vibrate in your hand the whole time. Well, I ended up holding the thing for an hour, just because my phone rang! They punished me with that because I neglected to turn off my phone. Only I could be so unlucky. But it was rather fun. It was becoming a conversation piece and it became part of my animation as I spoke with others. I finally had to set it on the table. I think I was becoming “too” comfortable with it. It was time to put the toy away.

So an hour later after aromatherapy lotions, pheromone injected rubs and sprays, we moved on to the “hardware.” “Wow!” Is all that I can say. Can anyone say, “Too many moving parts?” I mean really people. What are you doing out there? What happened to just plain old-fashioned passion?

I gave in, bought a few things for the sport of it, you know, like a team player, ate a few chips and dip and chased it down with a brownie and I was good to go. I don’t think I’ll be attending any more Passion parties anytime soon. I have my own devices an left to them, I do just fine.

Konichiwa

That is all I know in Japanese…for now. My daughter is embarking on the world of foreign language at the mere age of 12. It’s an exciting adventure for her.

All of my memories of foreign language ensconced French class with Madame Pier. She wore corduroy skirts, funky striped socks for every day of the week and a long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was a big black split-ended poof and her pointy nose jutted out from her face with indignance and pomp. I digress…French class had its moments…say the foreign exchange student Hugo from Spain. Aaaah, those days were great! Handsome-Spanish-speaking-French-taking tall-lean-beautiful-man that he was!

Anyway, my French name was Claire; making sure that the “r” sounded as if I was hacking up a fur ball. I’ve come to the conclusion that I know a handful of words from 4 full years of hell. I’ll never forget the days where we had to speak nothing but French and we stuttered and mucked the whole thing up until Madame Pier had had enough! We usually went to the local food mart for a treat after those days. I have to hand it to her, she did her best. I was head over heels for Eves (French name). He later ended up being my second husband but that is a different story of which I will not divulge…ever.

My daughter and her Japanese class get to do all sorts of dandy stuff. This past weekend we attended the yearly Japanese Cultural Festival at Bellevue Community College. It was so much fun and even Hello Kitty was there. I remember collecting Hello Kitty paraphernalia like it was gold or something. Recess would come and all my friends would gather and show what they had added to their collection. Smelly erasers, cute pens, pencils, it was all good…and it was all sparkly and pink. Bleah! Soon those days ended. But for my daughter, they are just beginning. Hello Kitty is like the Beatles. She transcends through each generation. I’m old.

So sushi was had, funny candy was eaten and beautiful Okinawan music was listened to and thoroughly enjoyed. Brave displays of Karate were demonstrated and a lot of retail sucked us dry…stuff that she just “had to have.” I have my limits and the shirt with a little sprite was the last straw. (It looks very cute on her though, I have to admit) Then come to find out that the shirt was too small and of course, no refunds, but we could slog our way down to Uwajimaya and exchange it for a new size. So we did, traffic sucked, but all was right with the world once a larger size was found. I love that place. I could spend hours there.

More to come on the crazy bus that is Japanese class…I need to brace myself. Next: The 10^th Annual Anime convention next March. Better start saving pennies now! My daughter’s already foaming at the mouth.