FemiKnitMafia

Sorry everyone, but my immunities are fighting off laryngitis right now, and my mouth is trying to accept the “be quiet” dictate.  It’s taking all of my energy to be quiet, which leaves zero energy for blogging.  Hrumpf.  I have chosen a winner, but I must leave you in suspense for the time being.

Lastly, everyone say Hi to Xifey [raises hand and waves].  She’s reading again, and called me at work this morning to tell me how much she enjoyed your well wishes in the Mix Tape comments.

Lest you think I’m miserable all the time, I have happy stuff planned for Favorite Things Monday. But today is My Knitting Sucks Sunday. See … I signed up for a swap thinking that I’d need something complex to keep my mind off my life. (red flag #1) I selected a pattern. I ordered yarn. I bought the pattern. I swatched. I got gauge. And I cast on. Again and again and again. (red flag #2) Each time I got the wrong number of stitches. I was getting discouraged, so I left the knitting alone (red flag #3) and bought a condo and a car.  The deadline passed. I felt guilty. So I tried again tonight.  I poured a glass of wine. (red flag #4)  I cast on properly with the correct number of stitches! But ( … wait for it … ) it’s too big. As in, I’m trying to knit a knee sock, not thigh highs.

Frig a dig!  I should rip it out, right?

Despite my intention to live vicariously through your fantastic suggestions for the Mix Tape note but not do anything, there was an unexpected resolution to the matter last Tuesday night.

10pm: I come home from class, after babbling at Terry for the entire trip from Boston (thanks Terry!), to find Xifey sitting at the dining room table playing on her laptop. And right in the middle of the table is the Mix Tape#4 note.

STILL on my dining room table! A full 15 hours after I found it, and 13 hours after I asked Xifey to hide her love letters (a small request, me thinks). So I …

Put my bag down
Walk calmly into the kitchen
Grab the wok
Walk back into the dining room
Place the wok on the table
Pick up the note
Stick the corner of note into the candle flame
Watch carefully as it ignites, and
Drop it in the wok.

Xifey: “Are you f*@^ing crazy?”
Mafia: “Nah. It’s a piece of paper, safely burning away in a wok. It’s not like I set the house on fire.”
Xifey: “I’m outta here!”

Stay tuned for a prize announcement on Monday. There are so many good ones that I’m having a really hard time making a decision!

Here’s a choose your own adventure for a lovely Tuesday morning.

The situation: you wake up, shower, help your Little Man brush his teeth & select seasonably appropriate attire, starch a stripey button down, slip into your dykey-est shoes, and bounce down the stairs, feeling pretty sexy. You glance at the dining room table and see only two items: your Xifey’s laptop and a yellow piece of notepad paper, folded once. You pick up the note and immediately recognize the hand-writing, which is not your Xifey’s.

What do you do?

All answers in the comments will be judged based on humor, sass, plausibility, implausibility, insanity, righteous indignation, use of curse words, and the nastiness of said curse words. The favorite comment, as judged by a panel of distinguished bloggers, will get sock yarn from the stash, and if there’s nothing in the stash that I’m willing to part with, I’ll buy you something.

ETA:

1) Oh my god, I love you guys. I walk away from the computer for a couple hours (to submit a deposit on a condo!!!), and I get 53 comments? I like totally seriously love you guys, and if my mom ever gives me 5 freakin’ minutes on the computer, I’ll make you a dope mix tape.

2) I’m in a quiet little Borders cafe right now and I’m quiet-laughing so hard that my chest muscles are sore. I don’t know how I’ll choose just one comment for a prize.

3) Comments to this post & the contest will remain open until Friday morning at 9am. Good luck!

It was my first Rhinebeck. And with all that’s going on, I was bouncing around in anticipation. Danielle and I rode together and shared a hotel room, and met up with MafiaMom, who shared a bed with me.

[sidenote: alas, there was no chance of a torrid Rhinebeck love affair for the Mafia, what with my work-wife in the next bed and my Mom snoring away at my side. not that I was hoping for a torrid love affair or anything. nope. not me. ahem. argh. and a little grrrr. and another apology to everyone i flirted with over the weekend. it can't be helped. terribly sorry. I will not be better behaved next time. i lie promise.]

Anyway … back to the beginning … Danielle and I dashed out of the office a wee bit early on Friday evening, so we could compensate for Danielle’s slow ass driving - sit in traffic with 1000 of our closest friends get a head start. I loaded all my gear, and got in the passenger seat. On the floor was an enormous bag with a fat envelope that said, “open the bag first, then this.” I opened the bag. I saw miles of knit squares. I read the letter, and the spreadsheet(!) of names and blog addresses. And I said:
Holy Shit.
Oh my God.
Are you Kidding?
Are you Serious?
How the Hell?
Oh my God.
This is Incredible.
Did you really?
What?
How?

I was in total and absolute shock. The best kind of shock. The kind of shock that says I’m being held up and surrounded and loved and snuggled by this not-so-imaginary crowd of generous friends, many of whom I’ve never met in real life. How can this be? How can I be so lucky? Really? What have I done to deserve this unbelievable expression of support:

-a mere 2/3 of the Maf-ghan seen here, being held by my favorite LYS maven-

I wanted to roll around in those miles of wooly squares. I wanted to wrap the blanket around and around and around me, like a shield. An amulet. A protective coating. A skin. Giving myself a layer of lanolin that would keep the rain drops from reaching me. And then sit in front of a fire, knees drawn to my chest. Let the heat penetrate the knit stitches and get trapped in there. And watch the flames dance in the fire. And see the flames morph into lovers-to-be and adventures-to-be and learning-to-be and Little-Man-growing-older and my-whole-life stretched out in front of me. Knowing that each of those stitches, trapping heat against my body, represents the kindness of people in far distant homes.

Then Danielle started telling me the stories. And I read the cards and the tags. And then I came upon Danielle’s square, which looked so familiar. I saw the yarn at her house, she explains. It was the first yarn she spun on her new Schacht! Oh my god, the first yarn from the wheel? That’s seriously important yarn! With that realization, I lost it. The floodgates opened and I cried (and I.do.not.cry.I.just.don’t.). Deep heaving sobs. All over Danielle’s handspun square. All over the Maf-ghan-in-progress. All over every single one of the 80(!) squares sitting in my lap. [sorry guys]

While driving, she hugged me (thank you Cambridge traffic). After getting it together, ahem, I spent the next hour fondling each and every square, reading every single card and tag and present, and listening to stories about how I almost discovered the project on countless occasions, and how many people were involved, and about various seaming parties and conversations and well-wishes. And I cried a little more. That’s how the rest of the trip to Rhinebeck went — I fondled, I cried. I fondled, I cried a bit. I fondled, I teared up. And so on. Until we stopped for dinner and I got it together. Then the clouds broke open and the sky cried on my behalf, while I drove white-knuckled through torrential downpours toward the Hudson River Valley.

At Rhinebeck, I hugged a LOT of people. And thanked them. I occasionally checked the spreadsheet (that Danielle … she is seriously organized) to see if so-and-so participated, to be sure that I wasn’t hugging and slobbering all over someone who had no idea what I was talking about. For someone who.does.not.cry, I told a LOT of people about the crying. I bought fiber, two of Maryse’s cards (including the one featuring her Maf-ghan square), and a Golding spindle. I spun. I knit. I met and hung out with a whole cast of incredible people. I misbehaved. I drank at every opportunity (thank you yarn-company-sponsored open bar at the Ravelry party). I spent some hardcore Q.T. with some of my favorite people on earth, including MafiaMom, who wore the poncho I finally finished. I taught MafiaMom to spin on Julia’s wheel. Julia’s wheel was clearly built to teach; it’s the Jonathan Kozol of wheels.

She took to it, but the fiber complained a little — Mafia on the right. MafiaMom on the left. Telephone cord: like mother, like daughter, even the same fiber.

I got an early birthday present from MafiaMom, who found his beautiful antique yarn winder at an estate sale

I brought some beautiful Cider Moon sock yarn from the stash, promptly tangled it, was thankfully rescued by the ever-generous Team Cheryl and Terry …

only to wind it into a center-pull ball so tightly that no amount of tugging would release the center. Even Sara couldn’t pull the center out with a crochet hook. Perhaps that’s a sign that I need to relax?

I watched Cate cut her Autumn Rose.

Which is when I met the awesome crazy Canadians that I tailed for the rest of the weekend.

And, since it is now 1:59am, the Sox have won the World Series again (yeah Sox!) and Xifey has finally returned from her nightly jaunt to the next door neighbor’s house, I need to sleep a bit before I’m expected to act like a professional human being in a few hours.

There will be more blogging about Rhinebeck, because I still need to do the link-fest. As well as more blogging about the Maf-ghan, including links and pictures and the stories behind each and every square. And there are a couple of other AMAZING bloggy prezzies to post about. But right now, I’m going into radio silence as I:

1) wait to hear about the used car that I’m trying to get at auction (i.e. half price), and

2) wait hear if my offer was accepted on a very cute condo. gotta get outta this place, if it’s the last thing I ever do**.

Please send some of that amazing loving energy to the condo deal. Remember how we got Ms. 1890 together? Let’s do it again. If the Maf-ghan is any indication, then clearly my peeps are capable of incredible acts.

*extra points to the person who can identify the post title without googling it. big points to the person who can say the next line. kisses to the person who knows this one**.

*** ETA: Danielle would like me to add … if anyone is still interested in knitting a Maf-Square, there are a couple open spots. Email her at ASwimInKnits AT yahoo DOT com.

*** ETA #2: Danielle says that the remaining spots are now taken. Thank you to everyone!!

I packed too much yarn and not enough clothing last night.

I tossed the antique wheel in the car* this morning. It’s going to visit Dave for a little TLC. On the way to daycare, Little Man decided to play with the wheel. Testing his knowledge, I said:

Mafia: Little Man, can you point to the flyer?
Little Man: Here it is.

Mafia: Ummmm. [gulp] Can you put it back now?
Little Man: Yeah, sure Mom.
[and he did. properly!]

Danielle and I are hitting the road at 4pm. We’re meeting up with my Mom, who’s newly enthralled with needle felting. If you see this bag, you’ve found me.

Watch out Rhinebeck! Here we come!  And for all those who promised to buy me an alcoholic bevvie this weekend, consider it a date.  See you in a few hours!

* Please give Danielle some extra props because she and her wonderful husband insisted (and I really mean insisted) that I borrow his car so I can get home from grad school at 10pm instead of 12-midnight. Apparently they think I “have a few things going on” and could benefit from getting some sleep. It’s an incredibly generous gesture and I’m eternally grateful. Meanwhile, my car shopping is bolstered by some excellent suggestions from Cheryl, the queen of the late-model luxury car. In fact, go see Cheryl’s Imogen. It’s stunning!

As if I didn’t love Maritza enough already, look what she’s done now!

It’s Freddy the Bat!

Clearly her timing is impeccable. Now, if only I didn’t have a g-d-mn lawyer expecting a big fat retainer … sigh … and a shitload of people lining up to buy this little guy.  Grrr. Argh. Want. Want.

*** photo taken by and copyright of Maritza Soto and borrowed with permission from her Flickr photos ***

You wonder why the bats are suddenly a design feature for the growing tattoo? Well … because I got this email from a friend mere days after Xifey dropped the bomb. Reading it sent chills up my spine. I post it here with her permission.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dear Mafia,

Ever since you started blogging about the bats I’ve had this deep, strong desire to contact you about it, but put it off (”that’s queer,” “she doesn’t want to hear it,” “you’ll sound like a know-it-all,” etc. etc.) but now I can see that I need to tell you what I was going to say. It’s not too late to do so. I hope you can feel all the love and support and concern and respect that comes along with these cold, paltry words on a screen.
In my younger days I spent more than a decade studying the ‘neo-Native’ spirituality with Native American elders in both Eastern and Western traditions, but mostly with certified teachers of the Seneca Nation Wolf Clan. The grandmother-elder of this clan spearheaded the resurgence of animal totems through ‘medicine cards.’ The basic premise behind totems is that Native spirituality believes that The Divine is in everything, so that anything that comes across your path can be carrying a message for you from Great Spirit, particularly animals. Each species carries a general message related to its characteristics, as well as a specific message, usually in the manner in which it is conveyed.

The bat represents death, not in the literal sense, but figuratively - the death of an old way of thinking, of living, of being in the world. We must go back into the womb and come out again to be reborn. It’s a natural transition, one that’s necessary for ongoing life. Going into that black hole is terrifying, but once you’re in the process, there’s no way back; kicking and screaming only makes for a rougher ride.

The fact that these bats had left you sh*t that invaded and was destroying your home meant the contrary of the message - that there was some ‘death’ that was meant to be accomplished for your family that simply wasn’t being allowed to happen. You guys were just wallowing in old sh*t and making yourselves sicker by ignoring it or wishing it away or making it ‘cute.’ The bats kept coming into your house, trying to tell you to move through the terror and move on, to do the thing that you thought would kill you, but it was too late - the very walls of your structure, your relationship, were already festering and crumbling.

In the days to come, it may help to hold the energy of those initial messenger-bats with you as you walk through the dark cave of grief and loss. No matter what’s on the other side waiting for you when you emerge, blinking and wincing at the light, rest assured it will be so very much better than where you have been. Consider the cave your feelings create, and your very home itself, not just as a grave where you bury the old dead past, but as your own personal ‘womb,’ a place to rest, to process, to incubate. Don’t be afraid to walk the path - the bats will guide you through your dreams and terrors with their night-vision. Bats are able to fly high above the wreckage of human psychology and emotion to understand the objective and see the whole path of the process. They will show you the smoothest route to your rebirth.
…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Today is Xifey’s birthday, and tonight will mark 28 days since the bomb. I gave up nail-biting in 1996, but I’ve started again, and my nails are chewed down to stubs. And even after a whole 4 weeks, there’s still a dent in my ring finger. Though the dent is less defined than it was a month ago.

Today is my 6th wedding anniversary, and since I’m still legally married, I’m going to celebrate. On the docket so far: starting Cookie’s Rhiannon sock (sans cuff); a meeting with an MIT administrator about flex-time; a meeting with Xifey and a mediator/lawyer to start working through the custody disagreement (fun times, there); and therapy with the best (new-to-me) therapist a girl could ever want. Have I mentioned that she specializes in art therapy and was delighted when I asked to knit through the sessions? Yep, she’s a keeper.

Speaking of keepers, I’m slowly starting to accept the end of this relationship. This shift is allowing me to consider what I’m learning through this divorce, as well as what I’ve learned in the marriage. On this, my 6th wedding anniversary, it seems like a great time to note a few of these realizations in hopes that I’ll be better equipped to evaluate the next potential partner (should I ever.ever.ever desire another partner). If I ever love again, the object of my affection will:

1. Love me and my child.
2. Love learning.
3. Support my learning.
4. Love to travel and explore.
5. Have hobbies and interests.
6. Support my hobbies and interests.
7. Hug me. Cuddle me. Share physical affection.
8. Calm me without conscious effort.
9. Know herself.
10. Grow and develop.
11. Support my growth and development.
12. Act creatively.
13. Laugh.
14. Communicate.
15. Work hard on all relationships.
16. Honor ambition.
17. Acknowledge failure.
18. Accept support.
19. Accept my imperfections.
20. Engage with the world.

I’ve also been dreaming about ink lately. It seems that every major life change should carry a mark on my body. A mark that will guide me toward the future. At this time in my life, I need a reminder that I’m strong, smart, loving, and dedicated. Conveniently, my most recent tattoo:

never felt complete. I adore it, but that nagging sense of incompletion has been tickling the back of my brain for months. Now I understand why. And I’m shopping for ideas to make it whole.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you why the bats are showing up here.

Xifey and I split custody** of the house and Little Man for the weekend, so LM and I hit the road. We imposed upon two very generous friends for an overnight in Ithaca NY, and were graced with a in-person performance on the Cornell Chimes at the McGraw Tower. Despite huffing and puffing up 161 steps, this was a very cool experience. I’ve never been inside a giantic clock, nor have I ever seen the bells, the instrument, or the effort required to play it. Fascinating.

It requires both hands and a foot to play this thing.

This is the practice room, so LM got to play.

Here’s the inside of the clock, a 1875 Seth Thomas clock with a 14-foot long pendulum and huge gear-driven mechanical workings.

And the Bellfry, which houses 21 enormous bells.

And the View of Ithaca from the Bellfry

The next morning, we explored the Sciencenter, an incredible children’s museum that was nearly as fun for the adults as for children. My favorite/most embarassing moment: The Scream Chamber.

That photo was taken mere moments before I closed the door, screamed as loud as I could, and opened the door to a crowd of people staring at me. Yeah, the booth was apparently NOT soundproof. So I acted like that was all part of the plan: I read my score of 117 on the scream-ometer, and partnered a congratulatory fist pump with a “yes!”. Then I quickly disappeared to privately experience the horror of screaming bloody murder in front of a crowd of peace-loving-Ithaca-hippie parents. Well done, Mafia, well done.

* Northampton is, of course, lesbian mecca #1.

** Custody was only decided for a 5 day period, and there is much gnashing of teeth and butting of heads about the long-term plans.