Category: The Mean Reds

Realistically, I’ve got nothing to complain about.  But I’ve been feeling off of late.  The cold that never leaves.  The lack of birthday celebration (yes, I am such a big baby that nearly a month later I’m not over it.  I’m trying to get over it.  But I’m not yet.  Please don’t think poorly of me).  The lack of integrity as a writer. The inability to stay up later than 10:00 at night.  The weather.

The wind is whipping, and although the digital thermometer reads 19.2 degrees, it feels much, much colder than that.  In about half an hour, my dogs will turn their pleading eyes to me, and I’ll bundle up in Neal’s hefty winter coat that makes me feel like I’m wearing a sleeping bag.  We’ll cross the street that people always drive excessively fast on (oh, I’m a bitter soul today), and we’ll enter the woods.  I won’t stay on the path today, though, because under a kiss of snow is ice.  I.C.E.  Treacherous, villianous, nasty ice. 

"Ice," I’d like to tell it.  "Ice, I once adored you.  Remember all those winters in New York when I skated on you every day?  Remember how each November I would begin to visualize you?  Remember how I would sprawl on you and look at the leaves frozen in your grasp?  Remember that one time I was so happy that you were there on Christmas morning that I kissed you?

"Remember all that, Ice?  Well, it’s over."
Ice, of course, being of the cooler personality type, would not really care.  But I would continue.

"You made me fall yesterday in a low-down trick."  Would Ice even blush?  Melt a drop?  No.  Ice pulled one over on me, and as I sit, warm albeit cranky, my shoulder hurts, my hip is bruised, and I’m just waiting for Mr. Sunshine, Mr. Fun, Mr. Temperature-One-Hundred-One to take revenge for me.

One thing has made the shoulder feel better.  You guessed it: ice.

I had planned to post a picture of the KMKS kit I mailed out this week, but I have other things on my mind that need some working out.  Not much working out, but as I teach my students, writing helps me to understand my thoughts and feelings.

I left a good TA-ship at UNM to come back east and live with Neal.  I had one of two gauranteed spots, and although the reality is that pretty much all of the MFA students are offered TA-ships, that knowledge made me feel confident that not only could I do the work as a writer, but that I could do the work as a teacher.  Somebody thought so.  Along with a small stipend and tuition, one of my benefits was medical care.  UNM has a teaching hospital, so the care was really good, and despite my doctor once calling me an aging primate, I felt confident and happy with my health care.

I haven’t had health insurance since May.  It’s a risk I took.  I am, after all, an aging primate, but I wanted to be back home.  I wanted to be with the man I love.  And this May, after our wedding, I will have great health care insurance.  In the meantime, though, I’ve banked on my peasant genetics and robust good health holding out.  I’ve had a few moments of fear when I thought "if I fall down the stairs and need to go to the hospital, I’m effed." 

My birth control prescription ran out.  My doctor in NM refilled it once for me, but I’ve not gone to a doctor here.  I don’t want to incur the expense; my budget is too tight for extra expenses.  After thinking hard about my options, I decided to go to Planned Parenthood, and I spent a good part of the afternoon today there.

I was upset when I got home.  Not because I have to go back next week for bloodwork in order to get a prescription of longer than one month (it’s that aging primate issue again), but because of what being there made me feel.  I’m no stranger to clinic health care.  For years in my twenties I worked numerous part time jobs as did my then-husband.  We lacked health care for a long time, but had a great community clinic to help us out when we were sick or needed prescriptions.

Neal happened to call as I walked in the door, and I growled before it spilled out.

"Here I am, obviously old enough to be the mother of most of the women in the waiting room.  And a girl is crying.  And I want to hug her and assure her that everything is going to be ok, but I don’t know that.  I don’t know why she’s there.  Was she raped?  Is she single and pregnant?  Did she get a disease?"  Neal was sympathetic to me, to the idea of these women. 

It made me think, though.  How much trauma is there in the world because of sexuality?  I know far too many women who have had abortions, who have been molested and raped, who have experienced fear because of their sexuality.  I know women who have been in relationships that lacked loving sex, and in a burst of freedom, acquired a disease.  And, sadly, I know too many men affected by sexual trauma as well.  It boggles my mind.  Why is this aspect of the human experience that is meant to give us pleasure, to help our genetics continue, to be unifying often just the opposite?

It’s a rhetorical question.  But as I sat next to that young woman shaking and fighting her tears, as I longed to reach out and hold her hand but resisted the urge because her body language told me I wasn’t welcome, there was nothing I wanted to do more than to hold her and soothe her fears.  If you have experienced sexual trauma, I’m so sorry.  You aren’t alone.  You are far from alone.

I left the house this morning full of expectation to see my holiday decorations for the first time in years.  See, when my ex and I moved from our spacious rental into our 650 square foot co-op of our very own, we stored a whole lot of stuff at his parents’ place, in the barn that is now a music studio.  Our first Christmas at the co-op, I thought we brought all of the Christmas things home and stored them in the co-op building’s storage area.  After our separation I spent Christmas in Florida with my parents, and then moved to New Mexico the summer after.  I haven’t seen these lovelies since 2002, and in the chaos of my drive across country, I left everything in storage. 

Luckily, one of my best friends knows the super at the building, and last week she arranged for him to bring my things to her at work.  Since I knew that several of the ornaments were from my ex’s childhood and quite special to him, I asked him if he’d like to sort through them before Cheryl brought them to me, and he did.  I had plans to meet my former co-workers for a celebratory lunch, so I arranged with my ex to stop by the studio and pick up my things.  When I did, light of heart, and eager for the sight of all those mercury glass bulbs, I learned that the box with those very special ornaments–ornaments that my mom remembers from her childhood–were not among the little boxes.  We sorted through everything of mine/ours that we could find in the studio storage area to no avail.  Unless they are at my parents’ house, which I doubt very much, they have disappeared.

I’m still too sad to even beg St. Anthony for help, though as a former Roman Catholic, it’s the inevitable next step.  I know in the scheme of life, this is nothing to be sad about.  These are just things, and I generally don’t worry about the loss of things all that much.  But these ornaments are just so special to me, and I feel as though I will have let down my family if I have truly lost them.

If you wondered, the Hudson River is as beautiful as I remember, and lunch was fabu.      

Last year for her birthday, I knit my TN sister a convertible shawl.  I bought the yarn at my favorite LYS, and MB was there to help select it.  I spent a lot of money on these yarns, and they’re gliztier than I would use for myself, but my sister has a lot of panache and can carry glitz in a way I can’t.  So the pattern is just feather and fan with the yarns switched out every few rows.  I used garter stitch across the back and added an edging and ties so she could have sleeves if she wanted.

I just got it back from her in the mail.

I was sick when I saw it, and she expressed a lot of grief and anxiety over the hole.  There’s another smaller hole where it had snagged on a nail or something, but this one appeared out of her suitcase.  She has a lot of faith in my knitting skills (I taught her to knit, so she thinks I know a lot…got her fooled!), so she figured I could fix it.  After a very sad e-mail in which I said I didn’t think it was possible, I rallied and reconsidered my options.  Today, at the LYS, I asked one of the women if she thought I should just rip back and reknit.  She was hesitant to offer me advice, and in the end I decided to frog the whole thing and make a Mix-It-Up shawl, one of the free patterns Marji has available.  It will be knit lengthwise, and I’ll use most of these same yarns.  I went through my stash to see what other black yarns I have available.

And, now that I’ve moved past the distress of having a hand knit object returned with an awful wound, I’m looking forward to the challenge of creating a new beautiful shawl to wrap my sister in love. 

Thank you for all of the thoughtful comments about the future of knitting. 

My brother’s mother-in-law passed away last week, and yesterday we attended her wake and funeral.  I didn’t really know her, so my being there was in no way for my mourning, but completely for my sister-in-law and brother and their kids.  I became emotional at the sight of their grief; we probably all empathize with grief.  My niece, a lovely 19-year-old college sophomore, gave a eulogy for her grandmother.  I was moved by the sweetness of her comments, but also at the sight of her looking like an adult, dealing with adult emotions.  I was proud of her.  I know it is not easy to get up in front of a crowd when you are sad (I eulogized my Gram at her funeral).  She did it with grace and dignity, and I’m sure her comments were a comfort to those who knew and loved her grandmother.

There was a fun part of yesterday, but I wanted to post about this first.  And maybe finish another class’s papers.  Then I’ll show you some pictures.

Koigu.

Yup.

You read right.  Charlie girl helped herself to a skein of koigu destined for my KSKS pal.  I left it vulnerable on the bed as I worked in another room.  I looked in the living room to see a spaghetti-like mess.  I’ve tried unknotting the mess, but I’m just getting little bitty bits.  I have another yarn that I’d planned to send her, but I’m disappointed.  Not in the puppy; she’s only six months old.  In myself for forgetting what thieves puppies are.

At least there is one intact skein.  My pal can use it to make ankle socks, I guess.

This weekend Neal fixed up "my" closet in the office.  I bought a couple of bins for fiber and yesterday was happy to fill them.  One of the two fiber-only boxes had a big tear in it, though.  And now I’m panicky that I may have packed all of my needles in THAT box, and that they managed to slip through the tear somewhere in transit.  I must have $500 worth of needles (I’ve been knitting since ’98, and only recently have I realized that I don’t need to buy needles everytime I start a project…), and I can’t find them.  I still have three large boxes to unpack, and all of the book boxes (shh…don’t tell the post office; I stuffed some fiber in one of the media-rate boxes.  There’s lots of media in the box, just a bit of fiber padding).  Please send good needles-are-in-the-unpacked-boxes thoughts to me.  Otherwise look for me in bed.  Feeling sick about this.  Also lost:  the cone of Kona sock yarn purchased just before the move.  Here’s hoping it’s in one of those boxes, too.

So I don’t end on a sad note, go look at what Scout’s been doing.  Other good news.  The sun is out for the first time in days.  Oh, New Mexico sky, how blue you are!!

Really.  To have a good attitude.  But it’s been a hard day for me.  Three years ago today, my ex asked for a divorce.  Sure, my life has changed in ways that I had dreamed of, but never thought would happen, but the divorce still stinks, in more ways than I’m willing to get into here, more ways than anyone would want to read about.

Except late last night and early this morning I trashed the false starts that I was working up into an essay for my Creative Non-Fiction workshop and wrote about this week, three years ago.  It was painful.  I had to restrain from being nasty, which I wanted to be at times.  You see, my ex is a musician, a good one, one I admire, but he aired a lot of what to me was (is) very private when we were going through a difficult time.  And I resent that.  And now I’m worried that I just did the same thing in writing this essay, but I tried, I really tried, to write it with the compassion that I feel for him, for our failure.  Which is a lot of compassion.  Along with guilt.  And sorrow.  And, weirdly enough, joy.

I have a new relationship now.  Well, not so new anymore, but a different one, with a man who has so many admirable qualities.  But at times I wonder if I can trust myself.  I mean, how do you go from a love that you believe in with all of your heart, a marriage that, despite some big problems, is at least based on love, on even more than that, yet still collapses, to anything else?  It’s a much bigger leap of faith for me to love Neal, a much bigger risk for me.  Yet so much easier at times than it ever was with F.  If I’m not willing to trust my feelings, though, if I don’t at least try to, I would lose out not just on the happiness Neal and I have, but on the part of me that is an optimist, the part of me that wants to believe in the things I believed before F. asked for a divorce. 

Maybe it’s just the semester creeping up on me, giving me the mean reds.  This hasn’t been a fun blog to read the last few days, but the nice thing about the mean reds is that a trip to Tiffany’s usually does the trick.  And while I’m a long way away from Fifth Avenue, I do have my next Sex in the City dvd.  And I may just stay up and watch a few episodes.

I’ll be in Chicago over the weekend.  Think of me at 9:30 a.m. on Friday.  I’ll be reading my paper entitled "Writing Across Communities:  Peer Reviewing Among Diverse Students."  Sure, I know you want to read it. 

Oh, and you want some knitting content?  Here’s a teaser.  I may finish Jaywalker (the first sock, stop laughing, you!) this weekend.  I WILL finish it.  And start on my Sockapaloooza socks.  ‘Cause that deadline’s coming up fast.

And thanks, everyone, for the kind comments about Grandpa G.  His wake is today, and that hasn’t helped matters for me.  I wish I could be there.  But your kind words mean a lot to me.

My mom called me early today to say that my ex’s grandpa passed away on Saturday.  Grandpa G. had a sparkle in his eyes and a mane of thick white hair.  He was smart–one of the best read men I knew.  F. and I would give him books for Christmas or his birthday, and he would smile and tell us how much he had enjoyed reading whatever we’d given him, how he looked forward to reading it again.  He was active in union organizing, an amazing golfer, and a good man.  Please send up a prayer for Grandpa G.