Nic Notes

At least I didn't burn the meal

In a super duper show of domesticity after spending the day knitting and running errands at Home Depot (paint chips because I don't care if my father tells me not to, in his new house, I am painting every surface that has bright colored glossy paint on it behind his back because not only would he never be able to have guests over, we'd have to put an ix-nay on the family too) and Target (you have to go every single week to check out the sale selections! Score: one bright red cardigan sweater for $10) , I decided to make a wonderful, splendid, healthy dinner.

I am so wonderful. 

This was a super easy, healthy dinner though. Salmon with a lemon garlic butter & cous cous. The entire meal made in less than ten minutes using my superior salmon cooking technique that I learned in gourmet cooking class (which starts again tomorrow!!) You take a pan and heat olive oil in it on high. Once heated you put the salmon in & pop it in the oven at a preheated 450 degrees. Six minutes later: perfection.

But I missed something crucial between cooking class & home.

The part about not touching the handle with my bare hands after taking it out of the oven.

That was a very important part.

This is a very long post to type with one hand.

Knitting

I spent several hours today combing through knitting patterns to find the perfect thing.

Part of me wants to do the Knitty Arisaig but knitting a sweater on 1s and 2s? Not so much fun. And lace? I'm a wuss.

But then I found a great pattern, one for a knitted uterus, which is exactly what every girl needs. (In fact I'm going to knit some ovaries and beat the living hell out of them.) But there was something a little odd with the pattern. See if you can spot it: click here.

Where do you put the rest of it?

Anyway, I decided to spend my evening knitting swatches of cabling techniques which I would probably be more proud of if I didn't rip them all out. I've looked through hundreds of patterns and still have not chosen one.

Okay, I partially chose one. This one. From knitty. But I'm goingt to do it in black Microspun, which I have to order, and knitting in solid black isn't fun, so I've put it off a bit. Oh, and I'm not going to do the seed stitch and I'm going to make the bottom part longer. So in reality, I still haven't picked a pattern because it's all just too much work.

Oooh, I should make Christmas presents for everyone this year!

Fun!

It would be even more fun if I made everyone sweaters (with itchy acrylic basement bargain discount yarns in questionable colors) and made them wear the sweters and take pictures with them. Fun, fun, fun.

But you know, maybe not. That would be a little time intensive for the ugly. And I would need to be done by October so I can prepare for Nanowrimo. My goal this year is to pick a plot before November. That's sure to give me a leg up. Or at least not make me take my contractions out so I could hit the 50k word mark. Which I did, and then some. And the novel is still half finished. March would be a much better Nanowrimo month. No major holidays that require extensive shopping and cooking. General boringness. Yeah, March would be good...

Moving

Going to college and being away from home is a bit traumatizing. Pulling out of the driveway that day you know that things just won't be the same. But it isn't nearly as traumatizing as having your childhood home move. I'm not saying move out of your childhood home, but having that home move, or change. It's this wonderful refuge that can provide immeasurable amounts of comfort and joy where you've spent so many hours, days, weeks, months doing so many things. Having that change is traumatizing. Yes, having your safety net not be in the same place is a bit tough, but the truly traumatizing part is that you have to go through the years of accumulated stuff.

Years of accumulated stuff.

In my case we've been living in this house for nearly 19 years. I'm going to miss it. I'm not going to lie. I can't imagine driving home to another house. My entire sense of direction will be thrown off until I completely reroute my mental map. The new house is nice. Very nice, actually if you discount the fact that the bedrooms that have been set aside (not intended as a home, but as a visiting spot that can at any moment be swapped for a pool table) for my brother and I are entirely covered in bright baby blue glossy paint and pepto bismol glossy paint, respectively.

But I can fix that.

For the moment though, the main traumatizing factor in my life has been the sorting, pitching, saving, and donating we have to partake in. It never puts anyone in a good mood. Though luckily I had major abdominal surgery three weeks ago and I can't lift a damn box. That timing worked out well, I tell you.

Okay, maybe not so well. I really could have done without my dad knowing the extent of my Beanie Baby collection. What can I say, I was on a mission to get the Princess Diana purple bear and have the most valuable collection of Beanie Babies evah! I even checked their values online on a regular basis and had a printed list for when I would go shopping.

That probably explains a lot of issues.

(They're worth far less now than they ever were.)

Sorting also prompts the following arguments.

Father: When was the last time you played Life?
Nic: I don't know, probably a year or two [five].
Father: If you want to play it again, it's only eight dollars, we're throwing it out.
Nic: I'm poor. I can't go wasting $8 willy nilly.
Father: Then I guess I can play whenever I want.

[Fast forward 45 minutes until I walk back into the room he has now vacated and see a package of empty, vacuum sealed Heineken cans in the 'save' pile.]

Nic: How is it that Life didn't make the cut, yet you're saving two empty cans?
Father: They're the first things I ever sealed in the vacuum sealer!

He was not nearly that enthusiastic when I begged him to save my totally adorable first pair of baby sneakers.