Kiss My Knits!

My husband’s hops are coming along nicely.

Me: “Let’s see, we need some lettuce. ‘Lettuce’ go and get some!”
Em: “That’s a good one.”

Nice to know she’s learned the fine art of humoring her mother.

I’m bringing a little something home from TNNA.

We’ve got a couple of cukes growing. A few other baby veggies, too. And lots and lots of chili peppers.

Em: What are you doing this weekend?
Me: Oh, working in the garden some. I’ve really enjoyed it. How about you?
Em: I’m going to a Justin Bieber concert.
Me: Oh really?
Em: And I’m going to punch Justin Bieber in the mouth!

Cue maniacal laughter.

Evil League of Evil, we’re awaiting your invitation.

Physically, it’s been a crap couple of weeks.

There was the poison ivy which I wrote about a few days ago. It still itches like crazy and now it’s spread to my left hip and is in a few tiny spots on my left arm. I used weedkiller to rain down fiery death upon the poison ivy in the yard, but there’s still more that I didn’t notice during the first go-round. As a rule, I avoid herbicides and pesticides, but when the plants strike the first blow then the rule turns to “show no mercy!”

I’ve also developed some tendonitis in my right elbow. I suspect it’s a side effect of a drug I was taking for yet another temporary problem, now resolved.

Then a couple of days ago I was walking across a darkened room at work and slipped and fell on my butt. I tried to catch myself with my hand but just succeeded in screwing up my thumb. I wound up going to the doc on the company dime. Thankfully, it’s just really bruised. I’m wrapped up in an ace bandage and I still can’t touch my thumb to my pinky. The doctor says I should avoid lifting things heavier than 10 pounds for the next week.

Obviously, this is putting a major crimp in my Jayne hat knitting.

Fortunately, it’ll all be good in time for TNNA in Columbus in June. As injuries go, it’s not that bad. It’s just that it feels like one damn thing after another.

The sign at right, by the way, is tucked away in a corner of the warehouse at work, a relic of the days when the building was a woodworking shop. I feel like I’ve let the sign down somehow.

Oh well. I’ll try very hard not to accidentally injure myself any further. I don’t need any more drips in the Chinese water torture that is my life.

Vintage 1948 Colgate ad

We have quite a few basil volunteers in the garden this year. As usual, we’ll be giving some away. We only need a few big bushy ones – this many will just crowd each other out.

After we found the freaky tobacco hornworm chrysalis four days ago, we put it to the side. I don’t know why – maybe for later dissection. Its abdomen had stopped moving, so I guess I assumed it was dead and therefore not a danger to our garden.

What did they say in Jurassic Park? Nature finds a way?

Today after work I went to water the garden. I looked into the watering can before filling it. And there in the bottom of the can was this tobacco hornworm moth. And sure enough, the chrysalis which had been in a cardboard box several yards away was gone. The creature must have emerged and dragged itself to what it thought was the relative safety of the can before beginning to dry its wings.

It’s beautiful right now. It will probably be less so when our tomatoes are under attack.

I’ve got poison ivy. It’s on the top of my right foot, so when I go to sleep at night and turn over on my stomach, the sheets rub the sores. It’s on the backs of my calves, so no relief from flipping over onto my back. And it’s on my right hip, so I’m screwed on that side as well. It’s been a long few nights. And it’s going to go on for quite a while, because I am very sensitive to poison ivy. There is a reason for this.

When I was about seven or eight years old, I saw a big patch of green growing just on the other side of the chain link fence that bordered my day care playground. My eight year old brain had enough knowledge to know that it was poison ivy and that poison ivy made you red and itchy, but not enough experience to know just exactly how godawful it was to actually get poison ivy. And so, a plan was hatched.

I convinced another kid that we should get some of the poison ivy and rub it on ourselves. We’d get poison ivy and then we’d be able to stay home from school. It was the perfect plan. What could possibly go wrong?

So we reached through the fence, grabbed some leaves, and rubbed them all over ourselves. Part one: check! Later, we broke out in itchy red welts. Part two: check! Our parents were sympathetic… but we still had to go school. Nuts! So near, and yet so far.

My partner in crime, miserable and itchy, told his parents it had been all my idea. I steadfastly denied this. It wasn’t until it came up again a few years ago that I told my mother that yes, I was the ringleader in that boneheaded scheme. Fortunately 30 years had passed so I wasn’t sent to my room without supper.

No, my punishment was that the early massive exposure to poison ivy left me with a tremendous sensitivity which has only gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. I wasn’t barefoot this weekend. I didn’t crouch in a patch of it. Although I thoroughly washed my daughter’s soccer ball after it rolled near some, I’m pretty sure that’s how I was exposed. It got through my socks, I think. I must have brushed my legs and hip with my hand after touching the ball at some point, although my hand is just fine so far.

Meanwhile, my feet are swathed in bandages beneath my shoes because I cannot call in “miserable” to work. So I hide my red, weeping blisters and soldier on – and wish I had a time machine so that I could warn that kid that her brilliant plan won’t work.