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| Wednesday, February 4, 2009 |
| Push through the carpal tunnel. |
My hands hurt. I'm proud about it.
Sean asked my Monday night if I couldn't make a scarf in a week's time. He has a charity auction at work, a hand knit scarf is the kind of thing they want to put up.
I was very excited, spent Monday night rolling a tangly skein of chunky cotton-candy dyed wool into a ball. $28 yarn (price tag still on) I'd taken from the bottom of a trash heap in my mother's craft room.
About the same time Tuesday I realized I was desperately allergic to that yarn and had to start over, and that when Sean said 'week' he meant 'by Thursday night.'
"I'm sorry," he said, "I should have specified 'work week.'"
Now I'm squeezing a tight stringy cotton blend down my needles, stitch at a time. My hands go numb at the end of each row, and I stop, and dangle them at the wrists until the carpal tunnels open again. I can't believe how slow it is.
Sean says it isn't worth it, but oh god it is. He doesn't understand what an honor it was to me, that he is willing to put something I made in front of all his co-workers. To take the leap of faith that someone would bid money for it. That he thought, "we need some nice stuff, my wife can make it." Because...I write well, but the rest of my accomplishments aren't really the kind you brag about at work.
I really don't have time to be writing this. I'm not close to half done. |
posted by Willy Sue @ 2:02 PM  |
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| Sunday, February 1, 2009 |
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An old picture I've looked at plenty of times. It's tiny and fuzzy but still too damn clear.
I'm in the middle. I have red socks falling down from my knees and a white polyster skirt and a red uni-gender shirt. There are shoelaces in my hair. Everything I'm wearing is ugly, united together to sum parts of greater ugly.
Look at the other little girls. I did, for the first time, when I scanned this photo. Look how their mother's did them up for the Christmas Program.
Sara like a antique doll in blue and white. Moon and Jamie like flashy new wave Mousketeers. You can't see Trish but she's carefully arranged in a red dress that flatters her size, with a swirl of neckerchief and salon-done hair.
I'm mad that my mom dressed me like that. In second hand shapeless clothes. I wasn't the poorest kid on that stage. I didn't have to look so hopeless, dressed without effort or interest to stand in front of the whole town.
It's weird to see photographic evidence that the way I've always felt, that slight off-beat, that not-quite-as-nice-as. Back then I thought it was just cuz I was fat. But that wasn't it.
Now I see the roots of my growing obsession that my daughter be the snappiest dressed toddler in any room. So she can grow a whole new neurosis of her own to write about someday. |
| posted by Willy Sue @ 4:11 PM |
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| Saturday, January 31, 2009 |
| This room has potential. |
There is a lot of white (beige) space to the left, isn't there? Almost disconcertingly so. But I can't control it, I don't know how to manipulate this free template. So I've decided I like it open and blank. Maybe my blog needs a clean spot to look onto.
I wish my girl (sad girl? hip girl? outcast girl? Can you tell?) wasn't so pretty, not quite so willowy, because I'm not, but I so love her despite.
This is my fourth blog. I moved three times. Twice because I was sloppy and someone I knew discovered me, and once because I thought I needed to not blog anymore.
Now I have a safe place to bleed all over again. |
| posted by Willy Sue @ 6:16 PM |
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