Monthly Archives: August 2009

At 4:17 and again at 4:18 pm yesterday afternoon, my phone had two missed calls in a row from my best friend, Megan, who still lives in my hometown of North Pole, Alaska. At 4:19 pm, I called her back. Our conversation went something like this:

Her: Have you heard?

Me: What? Heard what?

Her: Heather Hack just died in a motorcycle accident.

Me: ……………………..WHAT?! Are you serious?

Her: Yeah…. I didn’t know how else to tell you except to just say it.

[Then began a minute or two where I can’t remember what either of us said, as it really sank in.]

Me: [sobbing, barely able to choke out the words] Can I call you back? I’m going to freak out now.

Her: I love you.

And that’s when I lost it. I started hyperventilating, my entire body was shaking. I was sobbing so hard I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Sam had scooted closer and put his arms around me, but I wasn’t ready for comforting. I forced myself to get up off the couch and sit outside where more oxygen was available. I felt like I was going to pass out. I don’t remember much of the next 30 minutes or so, as I sat outside in a green lawn chair saying, “Oh my god.” over and over and over and over again. I repeated those words until my vocal chords hurt and my eyes and lungs were pained from weeping.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god.”

My cell phone had been buzzing during all this, and I finally gathered the strength to pick it up and read Megan’s text messages suggesting I look online at the Fairbanks Daily News Miner to read the details about her accident. I walked inside, sat down in front of my laptop, and braced myself for the worst. You can click here and here to read the two articles released so far.

As I sat there in front of the computer, tears streaming down my face, sobs racking my body, my mind raced through reasons this cannot be happening right now. Not to my Heather. Not after ALL SHE’S FOUGHT THROUGH the past 6 months. Not just NINE-TO-THIRTEEN DAYS before her husband comes back from his deployment.

About a month ago, Heather told me she was thinking about buying a motorcycle and learning to ride so that when James got back from his deployment, they could ride together. Nearly everyone told her it wasn’t a good idea, that she should wait or not even do it at all, but I encouraged her with every ounce of my being. I told her, “You deserve to do anything and everything that makes you happy! I say go for it! Buy that motorcycle and show everyone that you can do this.”

Less than a week later, she texted me asking that I check out the pictures she just uploaded to her MySpace. I log on to see her posing on what she referred to as her baby – a blue and white 2007 Yamaha crotch rocket.  I couldn’t have been more proud of her, and I told her so.

The last time I spoke to Heather was for nearly 3 hours on Skype just a few days ago. We talked about everything from her struggle with her husband’s deployment to how annoying her dogs were when they jumped all over her when she was trying to sleep in. When we talked, she was upset about so many things, but somehow by the end of our conversation, she felt rejuvenated. Like she was ready to take on the world. She was going to OWN this deployment, dammit.

At the end of our Skype conversation, it booted us off the video chat and forced us to IM our goodbye’s. I told her I loved her, and reminded her that things have a tendency to work out in the end. She reiterated how excited she was for her and James’ visit to our house in October on their way to Kentucky and made sure for the umpteenth time that the Vegas trip Sam and I have planned isn’t going to overlap her visit. She had wanted me to meet James from the moment they met, and I couldn’t have been more excited to finally have the chance. James, I’m so sorry we’ll never have that chance.

Heather has been one of my few best friends since we first met in 2001, when she was a tall, gangly 8th grader and I was a junior in high school. Inseparable for the next 3 years, she is a very big part of the major events in my life leading up to today. I literally would not be where I am today if it weren’t for her.

When things were at their worst, even when I was a human being not worthy of being known, Heather stood by me. And for that, I cannot thank her enough in a million years. Heather, you are an AMAZING human being, and someone I will grieve for for a very, very long time. My heart is broken for you, and it will take a long, long time to heal. My heart goes out to James, your parents, your little brothers, and everyone lucky enough to have known you.

I love you, beautiful girl. And I’m so, so, so terribly sorry.

I am literally shaking as I type this. I can’t even bring myself to type it so I’ll let you read for yourself here. (*Edit: The Daily News Miner no longer displays this story. How heartbreaking.) I’m going back to sobbing and grieving now. I have no words.

Heather and I at McMenamins - December 2008

Yesterday afternoon I stopped by Safeway on my way home to pick up a loaf of Italian bread for a pasta dinner. I also bought a box of granola bars. After yet another nauseous morning yesterday, Sam and I have concluded that an empty stomach is probably what’s causing my morning nausea and vomiting.

I’ve decided to try eating a little something before my morning shower, to see if that helps calm my angry stomach. Today was Day 1 of this test and honestly, I’m not sure it made any difference at all. Not only do I find food less than appetizing the moment I wake up, but after my shower I found myself fighting the same nausea yet again. No vomiting today, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as it’s been the past few days, but it was absolutely still happening regardless of the granola bar.

Of course the more I think about this problem, I immediately go into Worst Case Scenario mode and convince myself that if this is happening, I must be pregnant, diabetic, and suffering from a brain tumor, cancer, ulcers, kidney and gallbladder disease, and Swine Flu. Because that’s what The Internet tells me so - and everyone knows THE INTERNET NEVER LIES.

Please, for the sake of my sanity, will someone take away my Google search ability already?! This is getting ridiculous.

Last Saturday I was lucky enough to catch up with my yarnie friend, Megan (a.k.a. TheBabyMachine and/or “the raddest pregnant chick EVER”, a title she specifically requeseted I refer to her as on my website and she undeniably desreves), for an afternoon of good clean fun. Three hours, six skeins of bare yarn, and two silk-induced yarngasms later, our hands and arms were stained with the telltale splotches of hand dyeing yarn.

Below are my two new colorways, both of which are available in my yarn shop HERE. Click any picture to view it bigger:

Tesseract - Hand Dyed Lace - 100% Silk

Tesseract

True Blood - Hand Dyed Worsted - 100% Wool

Yesterday was a hurricane. No really, it uprooted and blew away everything I had prepared for this week - right out the shattered window - as I watched helplessly, huddled in a corner of the room in the fetal position. Well, that’s what it felt like from my perspective. Today seems to be better, for which I’m extremely grateful.

In other news, I believe that I am single-handedly keeping Lipton tea in business right now, but nothing calms an upset stomach like plain black tea and a few saltine crackers. This morning marked the second time this week that I’ve been sick within 30 minutes of waking up, and Sam and I are desperately trying to find the cause. No success as of yet.

This afternoon, I finally decided to try handspinning with the drop spindle I bought at Sock Summit earlier this month. Though it made just 20 yards, I’m very happy with the results and plan to use some of my yarn shop dollahs to invest in more hand dyed roving.

Since my return from a bittersweet trip in 2007 for a friend’s funeral after his death in Iraq, I have worn a necklace nearly every single day. The necklace started out as a custom ordered dog tag with the silhouette of a troop in uniform and the words “RIP Derek Stenroos” engraved on each side. (You can custom order these with any name here at LaCoque on Etsy.)

For the first month or so after my return, I wore the dog tag together with a peace sign charm on a beautiful beaded necklace (*shown below) made by my talented friend, Sasha. (You can find her jewelry and craftiness for sale here at ZiggyBaby.) That is, until the unfortunate happened. I snagged the necklace on a zipper, sending every bead in a zillion directions all over the carpet of our living room. I collected as many beads as could be recovered, and at first had fully intended to string them back together. Alas, that may have been a little too optimistic for me, as it has sat in an empty coffee can waiting patiently ever since.

From there, I bought a necklace cable (found here on Etsy, though her shop appears to be closed temporarily) and strung both the dog tag and peace sign. This transformed the necklace from elegant to plain, but I do love the simplicity and comfort level of the barely noticeable cable. I have worn the necklace this way for the past 21 months, almost every single day.

Last night, I realized just how worn out and tarnished the peace sign charm had become. I didn’t have the heart to retire the necklace in it’s entirity; it has become a part of me. My own personal tribute to a fallen friend. I’m not ready to stop wearing it. So instead, I carefully removed the worn down peace sign charm, replaced it with a new one, and taped the old charm to his picture frame memorial on our fireplace mantle where it has sat for the last 2 years. Where it will continue to sit for as long as we live in this house.

I miss you, Derek. I hope that wherever you are, you know that you will live on for generations to come in the hearts of those of us who were lucky enough to have known you throughout your short life. Though my heart aches for you, I refuse to dwell in the tragedy. When asked about playing goalie without a mask, the great Glenn Hall one said,

“Our first priority was staying alive. Our second was stopping the puck.”

Next time around, Derek, will you please pay as much attention to the first part as you did the second? Life in general - and MSN messenger! - is dreadfully lonely without you.

*You can read about Derek’s death here, here, here, here, and here.

The acronym WIP is a knitting term for Work In Progress. Though working on more than one project seems to be standard for most knitters, I have found great diversity when it comes to just how many one can tolerate before feeling frustrated and unhappy. For many, having more than a couple can be a stressful, overwhelming feeling of having bitten off more than can be chewed. For others, there is no such thing as too many WIPs. WIP addicts probably tell themselves things like,

“But you know you LOVE it! Just go for it, it will be worth it!” and “You KNOW that skein of sock yarn you just bought would look GREAT in this pattern, so what are you waiting for?! Cast on already!”

So how many *is* too many WIPs? There will never be a right answer, one way or the other. For me, it’s about five projects before my head starts spinning and I projectile vomit green slime across the room. And believe me, I’ve been there.

Once again, I’ve managed to get to the dreaded five:

• Juno Regina - 72″ long stole (basically, a big fat lacey scarf):

• Ice Queen - A lace cowl (a head or neck wrap/short tubular scarf):

• Central Park Hoodie - I have 2 1/2 of 5 panels knit (the back panel is shown below), and then I’ll need to do the hood and button band last:

• Gryffindor House Scarf:

Hemlock Ring Blanket:

Strangely enough, instead of feeling overwhelmed I’m incredibly inspired. Each WIP is something I love; something I can’t wait to relish and enjoy as a finished knit. But until I find enough time and motivation to work the thousands of stitches ahead of me, I won’t be finishing any projects any time soon. Thankfully for me, it’s working each stitch that makes me love knitting as much as I do. The act of knitting is what I love to do - the finished objects are just a bonus.

I’ve spent most of my weekend slaving over the most amazing thing I’ve sewn since I learned to quilt earlier this year. Stay tuned - sneak peek pictures will come soon.

Ever since Sam discovered this game show called Pass Time on the Speed channel, I’ve grown accustomed to happily knitting along side him on the couch, often laughing at the hilarious things people say while on the show.  The game show works like this: regular people compete against each other to most accurately predict the amount of time it takes for a given vehicle to make one pass down a quarter mile drag strip. The closest predicted time to the actual pass time wins cash. The show’s catchy tagline explains it all: “Name the time, win the cash. It’s that easy.”

The host of the show is a friendly man’s-man type of guy, who often says things bluntly and perceivalby without much thought beforehand. The result is sometimes awkward; always entertaining.

In last night’s episode, while making the introduction, the host asks a contestant to introduce himself. The contestant does so with very few words and then stops talking. The host then prompts him with, “And you’re…. ……[wait for it] …. …..MARRIED….” to which the contestant mumbles, “Oh yes, yeah, I’m married - my wife Amanda is in the audience.” The host then goes on to emphasise how IMPERATIVELY IMPORTANT it is to MENTION YOUR WIFE! in one’s introduction on national television – unless of course you are fully prepared to sleep on the couch for a few nights WHILE THE WIFE COOLS DOWN.

After hearing this, I turned to Sam and said, “So, let me get this straight: ALL men believe women are completely unstable, raging, hormonal bitches? And because of this, men feel they must walk on eggshells around women so they don’t piss them off?”

Without hesitation, Sam looked right at me and said, “Well, DUH!”

Dear Gir,

Is it too much to ask for your poop to land IN the litter box instead of on the floor AROUND the litter box? I would really appreciate it if you could just stand lengthwise in the box while you poop, instead of perpendicular to the rectangle box, forcing your butt over the edge and your poops to pile neatly on the bathroom tile. I am very tired of cleaning up after you.

Love,
Mama