martinimade

No "many things" post today. All apologies. I promise that next week's will be extra super fantastic. You won't be able to handle the glee. Or something like that.

When we last spoke, I was in Maine. The Featureless Saint and I have a long standing argument* about whether or not the ideal beach is full of great and glorious rocks. I am pro. He is con. Tell me who is right:

Rocks and beaches are like "hot" and "chocolate." You can have one without the other - but they are so much better together.

On the way home, the rest of the family and I met up in the Berkshires, where we spent the holiday weekend, which mainly involved flinging the kids in various pools because it has suddenly heated right up here. But, as luck would have it (and I never would have put it together had my MIL not mentioned it), last weekend was the weekend of the MA Sheep and Wool Festival (aka Cummington) and we were so very close that it would have been a shame to miss it.**

And so we went:

Who's a handsome boy? You are.

Bob Marley reincarnated?

The Diva wanted a bunny in the Worst Way. We are mean.

The Boy reached his fill of sheep and/or wool early in the afternoon. Here he is near the sheepdog trials. The sheep are those used in the trials; the Boy is playing on my iTouch, because why be in nature if you have no electronic device.

He did rally eventually and made some knitting needles...

.... while the Diva learned how to weave. (And while I might have snuck off to make a purchase - more on that later.)

Compared to NY Sheep and Wool (aka Rhinebeck), this festival is cute and quaint. But in terms of being able to move around and relax, it is a keeper. 

After the past few weeks of non-stop movement, both the husband and I intend to go nowhere for as long as we can. There is no argument about that.

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* The other long standing argument involves Christmas lights.

** This may be the start of another, so to be long standing argument.

We just walked in the door from a fun-filled few days. I, for one, would be content to never leave the house again. Or, at least, until late June.

And so, a quick bit of promo: The Boy and his turban.

More later....

"Democracy is like a tambourine; not everyone can be trusted with it."

- John Oliver, from this bit. (Also: did you know there's a Tumblr blog....)

I promised myself a 40th birthday trip, back when I turned 40. What with one thing and then a semester then a remarkably bleh* couple of months, I never did managed to get out of Dodge.**

Then I noticed that Chris Thile and Michael Daves, both of whom I adore, were playing in Portland, Maine just after classes ended. And so a plan was hatched. 

Some of the things I'd planned for the trip didn't quite work out; some did. The show remained on. Yesterday, I left the kids and the husband and the bleh behind and hit the road.

The guilt was nearly crushing, frankly. Still, the time spent staring at the traffic in front of me, having nothing much to do but get to Portland by 8 p.m. was a nice change from the constant busyness of my life. It was nice to not talk or write or think, really, for a whole five hours. Alone, but not lonely.

Which was why, when I was walking out of a rest stop with a coffee and walked nearly into Thile and Daves as they were coming out of the men's room, I was at a complete loss for what to say. I didn't even manage to take a picture. I did, however, manage to burble out that I was coming to the show. It was a moment of great awkwardness and wonderfulness.***

And the show? Incredible. Words fail. It's a privilege to watch two people do something that they live to do. Recordings really can't capture the nuance and energy. One of the things I miss about living in a larger town is live music (that isn't a college bar band).

Today I'll head further up the coast to visit the Doula Quinn and her family. Then off to hook up with my family in Western Mass. for the weekend. It's been a nice break.

Oh - and the tourist map of Portland the hotel gave me had three yarn shops on it, all within a four block radius. Way to have your priorities in order, Portland. I tip my needles to you.

Speaking of -

A quick round-up of actual knitting, which I accidentally left at home:

The Slinky Ribs sweater now has one sleeve:

This one sleeve sucked up as much time as the body of the sweater did. Stupid, stupid sleeves. Also, the sleeve is too short; I'll have to pick out the bind off row and keep working. This is entirely my fault, however, and sprung from what was going to be a yarn shortage. Another ball in the same dye lot was acquired and all will be well. Except for having to do more knitting on this one dang sleeve. That's just annoying.

I also seem to have started a scarf:

Do I need a scarf? No. Do I know anyone who needs a scarf? Again, no. Yet here we are.

Ah, Noro. I can't quit you.

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* Not bad, mind. Just bleh.

** Or its upstate equivalent.

*** They were driving a red minivan, btw. Which tickles me.

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective lives mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch—either in illustration or word form—and the other would make a companion to the sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise makes both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

I’ve heard every joke there is about a Jew riding a Hog. Yes, it is ironic - but it would be a better set-up if I were trying to eat my bike rather than simply ride it. There are no restriction on sitting on the back of a four-legged hog and using him for conveyance. Ditto my sweet Harley. Thank you for playing. 

The other bikers in my crew say I’m too hard on people, that I expect the goyim to treat me like a bad ass just because of the bike when, really, it’s really all about the joy of riding regardless of faith. But just once I want to make a hotel desk clerk nervous. Once.

All I ask for is respect. I’ve got the ride. I’ve got the beard. I’ve got the leathers and the chrome and the boots. They scan for tattoos, the big screaming skulls, the curvy bikini girls, the eagles. 

But when they see my orange-and-black kippa and the fringe from my tallit, the fear is gone. I can watch it dim in their eyes as they offer me bagels and lox. Then they make a joke about the Jew on the Hog. And I die a little, inside. 

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

* I might have to break out the ancestral pasta machine since Ruhlman makes it look so easy to make the dough.

* It's tough out there for a toddler.

* The science of cheese. Mmmmmm. Cheese.

* The symptoms of Celiac are vast and wide. The Diva got lucky, in that it only took a couple of months to figure out what was going on with her. Most diagnoses take years, simply because the symptoms are so vast and wide. You are your own best advocate. The benefits of finding out, however, are enormous.

* Mme de la Migraine. (And all of her art is gorgs.)

* What I find most astounding about the Flash Mob on my campus is not that it happened but that it is not raining or snowing.

* It's not so much "global warming" as "global weirding."

* Mini-quote from a great essay about depression: "I knew that if anyone other than me was describing these symptoms I would lovingly handcuff them and take them to the hospital and help the shit out of them, whether they liked it or not. "

* Go see Jomama.

* Rich says what I've been thinking about Henry Granju's case. (I also think there's a drugs in high places angle, too. But that's less damning than pedophilia and/or sex with barely legal boys.)

* Welcome back to Bordertown.

* Thanks so much to Trumpet Hill, Robena, Celeste and all the knitters who wandered out on such a gray day. A fine time was had by all, I think, and I can't wait to go back. Which I will, whether they want me to or not.

* I'm having a music crisis and need your help. Most of what I listen to is either bluegrass-based or ten years old, because having kids really put a crimp in how much attention I have leftover for chasing down music. What I need are songs that are poppy and/or rocky and/or hip-hoppy that would be good for running to. Any suggestions?

* And, lastly, on Sunday, we went to the HaSu Ranch's alpaca sheering day, as we do each year.

Here's the before:

During:

I love how their ears are used as handles. The alpacas are OK, by the way. No one appears to be in mortal distress, just resigned.

After:

"It was reported that Iceland had entered a period of national soul-searching in the aftermath of its financial collapse. 'Knitting is the opposite of idolizing money,' said Ragga Eiriksdottir, a former sex columnist who now knits professionally. 'People are also making jam,' said another Icelander."

-- From Harpers' Weekly review

For your listening pleasure (I hope): Sweater Quest Chapter 6.

And while I have you here, a question: Lisa and I have been toying with making the art from this Figs available in some kind of tangible form. But we don't know what form that should be. Would you want art and text? Just art? And on what? T-shirts? Stationery? Exotic underpants? 

The only non-negotiable bit is that there will be no dead mickey on anything that is made. Yes, we are afraid of lawyers. Very, very afraid.

My cats thank you for your response.

Touch the belly. You know you want to.

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective lives mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch—either in illustration or word form—and the other would make a companion to the sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise makes both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

Are those pistachios? I love pistachios. For me? Oh, I simply couldn’t. Maybe just one. 

Did you hear about Pippa? It’s all about Pippa right now. Pippa this and Pippa that. She’s simply divine, Pippa, even when she can’t keep her clothes on.

Maybe another nut, if you don’t mind. 

Did I tell you about Juan? Oh, I simply must tell you all about Juan. He’s en fuego, darling. His milkshake brings all the boys to his yard, if his waxing consultant is to be believed. 

May I take a handful for later? These are simply divine.

I love what you’re doing with your hair. You’ve embraced the gray. I wouldn’t have the guts to look my age.

I’m going to put the rest in my pocket. I simply can not resist them. Hopefully I won’t be attacked by squirrels on my way home. How the neighbors would talk.

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.