Diary of a Lesbian Housewyfe

Are you just another day older? Or am I getting too “Les Miz”?

I feel older this week. On Monday, we got a call from my sweet honey-bunny’s sister letting us know that one of our acquaintances killed himself over the weekend. I knew him, but I didn’t really know him, and I find that I keep coming back to the sad fact that someone that I knew felt such despair that he ended his life. Who knows what he was feeling, but isn’t there some sort of responsibility there? I mean, that he didn’t feel like he could contact anyone who would reach out to him. The people who really knew him all thought he must have been drunk and taking some drugs in order to do that.

Of course, mostly what I feel is anger knowing that his sweet old dog, Emma of the deep brown love eyes, probably sat at his feet until someone found him. How can you leave this world knowing that, even if no one else does, your dog loves and depends on you? So selfish.

Like I said, I didn’t know him that well, so I was able to divert myself with a new cell phone for which I am currently creating new ringtones.

I’m so shallow.

Okay, so I think that my dog, Cappy, is pretty darn cute. He’s also strong and young and a pain in the ass. Especially over the last couple of days.

Right now, he’s lying on his bed and panting. Sometimes I think the panting is just a way to move rather than anything else. He seems to move almost constantly until he passes out. Part of this is just his age and breed (18 month old border collie/australian shepherd mix). I am actually hoping that most of this is his age. I know. I live in a dream world.

He’s been trying my patience for the last couple of days by leaping and jumping and nipping at heels and bumping my keyboard tray back under my desk. Just this morning, he decided to bark instead of poop during his 6AM outing. 6AM! If I was one of my neighbors, I just might snap. Of course, I pulled him inside (by his lead!) pretty quickly, but still. I am blessed with good patient neighbors.

I think of him more as a task sent by God than a pet. My sweet honey-bunny says that he is “teaching me to be a leader.” I alternate between feelings of superiority (”I am the leader!”) and whininess (”but I don’t wanna be the leader!”).

I know that soon he will be past this puppy stage and his brains will come in and I’ll have to work harder to make sure that he has enough exercise because he will be happy to sit at my feel while I knit and crochet and read. For now though, I’m not sure I’m embracing this task sent by God. My little not-Lassie is definitely pushing my buttons this week.

But he’s still so cute.

New baby bumps are cropping up! One of our sales reps and another friend have both shown up pregnant! I’ve been kind of out of the loop with the rep, because she’s due in June. Whoops! I had no idea that pair of baby socks already had a home. She only stops in once a week. I don’t know how I lost track.

My friend dropped by with her husband and their daughter. Oh so cute! That child has rosy cheeks. Little spots of red high on her cheeks just like a cartoon character. This is, of course, so adorable that I could hardly stand it.

I can’t believe I’ve become so obsessed with knitting & crocheting for children. I mean, I’m not very good with children, and I hate holding babies. Really, I’m afraid I’ll break them. I know, I know. People always assure me that I couldn’t possibly break the baby, but I know if I was the first person in the world to break a baby, and it was their baby, they would absolutely positively never speak to me again.

Ever.

I think the obsession, now that I think about it, has to do with the fact that the projects are tiny and cute and completed quickly. I’m a patient person, but not too patient, and I believe that leads me in the direction of baby projects - especially for knitting. I have enough patience that I don’t mind ripping back a few rows to fix a small issue, but I just don’t have the patience for knitting an afghan (yet!). Perhaps I will leave the afghans to my crocheting side. With crocheting, I don’t usually have an issue with patience.

Of course, we are entering the tennis season and that means I’ll have some time set aside to sit and yell at the television and work on an afghan or two.

Luckily. Who knows who else is pregnant and hasn’t told me yet!

I mean really. We all whine. I know I’m a whiner. But this is really getting out of hand. I feel like every conversation I have begins and ends with someone whining about something. The classic conversation in Steamboat is about:

1) Affordable Housing

2) Living Wages

3) What Other People Are Doing About The Issues Above

And I’m tired of it! I’ve decided not to engage in these conversations any more. Now I’m not saying I’m not a whiner. I’ve had plenty of these conversations and even started some of them. I have a couple of years of existential angst on my record. After all, I was a theatre major in college. I think that requires some off-stage drama at some point or another.

To get to the point of my story, my friend Joanne wrote her column last week and inspired me! I couldn’t help but go directly over to the Cafe Press site and set up a store for her. So, save the drama for the stage and go over and get yourself a fabulous mug or sticker or something fun that says “Stop the Brutal Whining!”

I think it’s a pretty good message to put out there in the world.

One of the advantages of owning a liquor license is that people show up and want you to drink free wine. Just a taste, and the person is trying to sell the wine to you, so you are expected to put out at some point or another.

However, free yummy (usually really yummy since they want you to buy, buy, buy!) wine. Yeah baby.

After the first day, I learned how to taste and spit. I tried to just sip the first day and ended up buzzing the day away. Not the best state for starting a new business. There’s just too much to do!

So, to taste and spit successfully, follow my directions. I can’t effectively discuss wine because a cold several years ago destroyed my ability to smell discerningly (ie. Our Wine Buyer, “I get eucalyptus and back cherry.” Me, “I smell wine.”) and my palate is for shit. I can *look* like I know what I am doing, so that’s what I’m telling you to do here. If you want to really know how to do this, a good guide can be found here.

First, allow the person to pour your taste into the glass. Usually the amount is just an ounce, and you don’t want to ask for more until after you’ve tasted.

Look at the wine. To truly get a sense of the color, you can hold something white up to it. Tip the glass so you can see the gradations from the light. If you are like me, you’ll need to practice your “studying” look in a mirror. Decide what colors you want to see and then base your reaction on that. Generally, a pleased look arrives from a dark purple (verging on black) color for red and a pale golden for white.

Swirl the wine in the glass to release the aromas. Smell your wine. Get your nose right down into the glass. Sniff like you’re sniffing lilacs or roses. Draw up as much of the scent into your nose as possible. Try to find one (or more) scents so you can add to the conversation. Don’t worry about whether or not you’re right. Everyone smells something different and, especially if you are talking to a salesman, someone will agree with you. If you’re worried, just agree with the people around you. Everyone likes to have someone agree with them.

Taste the wine. Take a nice mouthful and swish it around. Let it hit all parts of your palate. Taste what you can. The same rules apply for tasting as smelling, so mention if you want or agree as necessary. If you are playing the advanced version of this game, then pick some outrageous taste and argue you can taste it. Fun! (Especially if you want to annoy the wine snobs. hehehe)

Finally, to spit or to swallow. If you are tasting lots of different wines and need to drive home (or return to work), then spitting is the way to go. At a party or a benefit “wine tasting” or at a restaurant, swallow away. Remember though, one glass of wine is five ounces so during a big tasting it’s easy to overindulge without even knowing. And overindulgence can lead you to give yourself away.

I’ve been know to say that I have a “palate like a sailor’s ass.”

Just mentioning.

The income tax deadline is almost here and, as I listen to Amy bitch about finishing her boyfriend’s taxes, I’m just basking in my complete lack of things to do.

You see, because we have investors and own the business and all of that doo-dah, I have to get our taxes finished in January.

Yes, you read that right. January.

Makes January quite the horrific month of late nights and waking early, but my April is fun and can be fully dedicated to the celebration of spring.

Today, I’m relishing the fruits of my labor.

Maybe later I’ll go down and look at the line at the post office.

heeheeehee.

Calder (the little guy with all the new socks) dropped by today with his momma and sister. At only three weeks out, Momma has lost almost all of her baby weight! I guess he’s sucking her dry. We’ve been calling her Elsie occasionally, and to give her credit, she laughs and then looks a little sad. I think that the quick weight loss is helping with the laughter though. Whitney has a body made for pregnancy though. She doesn’t really start showing until the sixth month. By the eighth, she’s huge and walking around saying things like “rip it out of me” and “I’m dressed like a hobo.”

But now - three weeks after the birth and she’s fitting back into her regular jeans? Jeans! I just think she’s made for having babies.

Luckily, she doesn’t make me hold them.

Baby, I’m hooked on baby socks. I can’t help myself.

This obsession started with, unsurprisingly, an impending birth. My friend Whitney announced her pregnancy and I was on a roll. I have a usual gift, a crocheted baby afghan in a simple pattern I created myself. I ordered that yarn, and then began to explore the world of baby knitting during the interim.

Then, I found Ann Budd’s “Better than Booties” baby socks at Knitting Daily. Little did I know that I’d started an obsession. They just looked cute. This is a good way to get into socks, I thought to myself. I’ll try some baby socks for Whitney’s baby.

Meanwhile, without my knowledge or permission(!), two other friends got pregnant. More excuses for baby socks.

I took a quick walk over to my closest local yarn store (The Fiber Exchange) and picked out three skeins (orange, teal and brown). The sales lady gave me a quick glance of disbelief when I plunked the size 0 needles on the counter. “These?” She asked.

“Yeah.”

“They’re so small.”

“I’m making baby socks.” I gave her a smile that tried to say “I can do this. I’m a fearless knitter!” but I think only said “I think I can.”

“You’re brave.” She rang them in and took my credit card.

Ooops. I don’t know if I’m that brave.

Okay. I sat down with all my materials and started looking over the pattern. Ruffle Rib socks. I began working on them. I cursed them. I slowly knitted them up in my lovely peachy-orange. Teeny-tiny-itty-bitty stitches. Row upon row. Finally, a teeny-tiny sock emerged.

Ohmygoditssocuteicanhardlystandit.

After that one came its mate. Then another pair (Cable Rib) and then another (Chevron Lace). I looked at the little row of socks and immediately ordered the Interweave Knits back issue (Fall 2000) which contained the other two patterns (Braided Cables and-be still my heart-Hugs and Kisses).

Now that Whitney has five pairs of baby socks (and has emphatically said, “enough!”), I’m working on socks for the other yet-to-join-us babies. With the last pair I finished, I’ve had to admit some defeat. My fingers are beginning to give way from all those itty-bitty stitches. My new plan is to alternate with the next baby afghan and then some cross-stitch.

Ruffle Rib baby socks in a striping yarn.

I will take breaks. I will take breaks.

The mountain closed and everyone (who could) left town, or will leave town. Mud season was supposed to arrive this week. Sales are showing it, but the rest of life is not. Snow falls every day. Temperatures insist upon an almost instant melt. Today, during my frisbee session with Cappy, the snow began to fall but nothing has accumulated. All that, plus we have a few crocuses emerging from the mud by the front door.

Springtime in the Rockies. Gotta love it.