I love Lion Brand's higher-end line yarns, the LB Collection. And their New York store is conveniently (and dangerously) only two blocks from my office! Knit Purl Gurl is having a giveaway, as part of the March Madness event on her blog, of three skeins of LB Cotton Bamboo. Check it out:
http://www.knitpurlgurl.com/2011/03/march-madness-giveaway-lion-brand-yarns.html#comment-form
Friday, March 18, 2011
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Bride Wore Black
The bride wore black, because the groom was dead. The bridesmaids all wore black, too. The bride had wanted one of those modern weddings in which she wore white and the bridesmaids wore black. She hated pink and teal and also hated the idea of forcing all the bridesmaids into the same dress, especially since they ranged in size from two to twelve and in shape from cinnamon stick to eggplant. So they had bought black dresses to suit their sizes and shapes, and the bride insisted they wear them to the funeral.
It was not to be a formal wedding, after all, so the dresses were not too dressy, were not gowns or anything approaching gowns. And the bride didn't want her bridesmaids to have wasted money on a dress they would never wear. They tried to remind her that a woman can never have too many black dresses, but she seemed to have forgotten, and it was hardly a time to argue the finer points of fashion. Secretly they suspected that she wanted to pass judgment on the dresses and their appropriateness for the occasion, even though the occasion had changed. The bride always had to be the boss, even in a situation like this, didn't she?
The photographer the bride and groom had hired to shoot the wedding came to take pictures of the funeral instead. He found this odd, but the bride said he'd promised her memories that would last a lifetime, and who was he to say she shouldn't have them? Besides, shooting a funeral would be a break from the overwhelming froth and joy that threatened to drown him every time he dove back into it. At the funeral he could explore the way light played off darkness, instead of spending all day trying not to blow out every shot because of the blinding whiteness of the dress, the cake, the tablecloths, the toothy smiles.
The florist and caterer were more than willing to change their plans a little and help out for a reduced fee; how could they not be? The toasts had all been written and could easily be performed without drink in hand. The tasteless jokes stayed in, including the one about how the groom used to torment his brother by dangling spit in his face then sucking it back upward. It was a day for happy memories.
All in all, the event could not have gone more smoothly. The bride even suspected she would get to keep the gifts, though she no longer had any need for the guest towels or the chip-and-dip set, as she did not intend to host any more events as long as she lived. Afterward she went home, took off her black dress, and hung it next to her white one in the closet.
It was not to be a formal wedding, after all, so the dresses were not too dressy, were not gowns or anything approaching gowns. And the bride didn't want her bridesmaids to have wasted money on a dress they would never wear. They tried to remind her that a woman can never have too many black dresses, but she seemed to have forgotten, and it was hardly a time to argue the finer points of fashion. Secretly they suspected that she wanted to pass judgment on the dresses and their appropriateness for the occasion, even though the occasion had changed. The bride always had to be the boss, even in a situation like this, didn't she?
The photographer the bride and groom had hired to shoot the wedding came to take pictures of the funeral instead. He found this odd, but the bride said he'd promised her memories that would last a lifetime, and who was he to say she shouldn't have them? Besides, shooting a funeral would be a break from the overwhelming froth and joy that threatened to drown him every time he dove back into it. At the funeral he could explore the way light played off darkness, instead of spending all day trying not to blow out every shot because of the blinding whiteness of the dress, the cake, the tablecloths, the toothy smiles.
The florist and caterer were more than willing to change their plans a little and help out for a reduced fee; how could they not be? The toasts had all been written and could easily be performed without drink in hand. The tasteless jokes stayed in, including the one about how the groom used to torment his brother by dangling spit in his face then sucking it back upward. It was a day for happy memories.
All in all, the event could not have gone more smoothly. The bride even suspected she would get to keep the gifts, though she no longer had any need for the guest towels or the chip-and-dip set, as she did not intend to host any more events as long as she lived. Afterward she went home, took off her black dress, and hung it next to her white one in the closet.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Style Gone Wild
Tonight I had dinner in a small Thai restaurant in Chicago, and across from me sat a plump, twentysomething Asian woman with small animals hanging from her ears. I couldn't tell what type of animals they were—possibly pandas or cats or dogs, as they were bright black-and-white. She also wore a golfer's cap, a fluffy vest knitted in rainbow yarns, a short checkered skirt, and brightly colored tights. She carried a large bag with multicolored pictures of little animals all over it—again, I couldn't tell what kind of animals, but that's beside the point.
I like my style; I've learned over time how to choose clothes that flatter my form and suit my taste. But where did that taste originate? In part from my upbringing: my mother has always been so neurotic about her clothing's matchiness that she rarely buys anything that's not black, white, or gray. (The occasional red or burgundy sweater sneaks in.) Far from rebelling against my mom's fashion sense, I nurtured the same neurosis, my penchant for wearing all black and my membership in the theater geek club perhaps having been a chicken and egg situation. Only in recent years have I opened up to playing with color in my wardrobe and mixing tones that don't traditionally "match."
But my newly independent style still isn't an all-inclusive, anything-goes style. I have veered in directions that just plain didn't work: ruffles, pinks, poufy sleeves, and other girly embellishments made their way to the Salvation Army within months. So what is it about tailored menswear-like attire that "fits" me so well? Does it relate to my personality? Is it hormonal, a sign of my place on the male-to-female gender spectrum, like my love of baseball and old Westerns?
Our clothes, of course, affect not only our self-perception but other people's perceptions of us. I knew nothing about the woman in the Thai restaurant aside from her dress, yet I formed a strong sense of her personality and even her lifestyle based on it. The garments we use to cover our nakedness express that personality and lifestyle information in a flawed shorthand.
If I went to Thanksgiving dinner this year in an Outfit of Many Colors, with big, bright earrings and neon tights, my extended family would think something had gone horribly wrong—not only in my closet but also in my head. My coworkers and friends would react similarly. It would be fun to go crazy with clothes on occasion; spending a day in a different fashion persona would be like spending a day with a different personality—freeing and false, enlightening and disconcerting. Would the woman with the animals hanging from her ears like to spend a day in basic black pants and a gray sweater? And if she did, would those who know her think something was wrong—or would basic black be just another notch on her neon-pink, patent leather belt?
I like my style; I've learned over time how to choose clothes that flatter my form and suit my taste. But where did that taste originate? In part from my upbringing: my mother has always been so neurotic about her clothing's matchiness that she rarely buys anything that's not black, white, or gray. (The occasional red or burgundy sweater sneaks in.) Far from rebelling against my mom's fashion sense, I nurtured the same neurosis, my penchant for wearing all black and my membership in the theater geek club perhaps having been a chicken and egg situation. Only in recent years have I opened up to playing with color in my wardrobe and mixing tones that don't traditionally "match."
But my newly independent style still isn't an all-inclusive, anything-goes style. I have veered in directions that just plain didn't work: ruffles, pinks, poufy sleeves, and other girly embellishments made their way to the Salvation Army within months. So what is it about tailored menswear-like attire that "fits" me so well? Does it relate to my personality? Is it hormonal, a sign of my place on the male-to-female gender spectrum, like my love of baseball and old Westerns?
Our clothes, of course, affect not only our self-perception but other people's perceptions of us. I knew nothing about the woman in the Thai restaurant aside from her dress, yet I formed a strong sense of her personality and even her lifestyle based on it. The garments we use to cover our nakedness express that personality and lifestyle information in a flawed shorthand.
If I went to Thanksgiving dinner this year in an Outfit of Many Colors, with big, bright earrings and neon tights, my extended family would think something had gone horribly wrong—not only in my closet but also in my head. My coworkers and friends would react similarly. It would be fun to go crazy with clothes on occasion; spending a day in a different fashion persona would be like spending a day with a different personality—freeing and false, enlightening and disconcerting. Would the woman with the animals hanging from her ears like to spend a day in basic black pants and a gray sweater? And if she did, would those who know her think something was wrong—or would basic black be just another notch on her neon-pink, patent leather belt?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Dear Mrs. Peacock
Dear Mrs. Peacock,
I recognize that, at this point in time, you might be dead. I knew you thirtysomething years ago, and my impression of your age at that time is impressionistic at best. But my guess is that you were in your forties or beyond. So if you're not dead yet, you will be soon. Which makes it urgent that I at least try to communicate to you what I failed to say in that dark room all those years ago.
Have you thought of me? Have you wondered what kind of woman that skinny wavy-haired girl grew into after she left the hallowed halls of Tiny Tots? Did you imagine her, perhaps, as a criminal, a supervillain, a woman who would see a man hanging off a building ledge by his fingertips, cackle, and pry those fingertips off? Or grind her shoe into them, like Martin Landau in North by Northwest? That is more or less what that skinny wavy-haired girl did, isn't it?
I remember two things: the moment of accusation, and then the room. It began on the second floor of the playhouse, where, having exhausted the enjoyment potential of that level, I patiently waited my turn to climb out the two-by-two window and down the red plastic ladder to the floor below. The identity of the child in front of me—boy or girl, bully or innocent—is lost, squeezed out of my memory by you, but that child was the catalyst, crying out, pointing, whining: "She pushed me!"
I denied it at that moment, I'm sure I did, though shyness had already manipulated its way into my personality. When a woman of Mrs. Peacock's standing points her finger, even timidity falls away in the presence of the need to defend oneself against false accusation. "No!" I said. "I didn't!" I said that. I'm sure of it.
But to no avail. My memory jump cuts to that room, upstairs I think it was, which I shall describe as it exists in my memory, inaccurate though it may be. The room may have had pink and periwinkle walls, plush mini chairs in primary colors, paintings of dolphins or Star Wars characters or Thanksgiving turkeys on the wall. But none of that exists in my memory, and my memory is likely the only place that room still exists at all. So I might as well consider my version of it the truth.
I sat in an austere wooden chair, the slats digging into my back. You dimmed the lights, except for one exposed bulb hanging from a rope—100 watts for sure—that shone in my face with the intensity of a flashlight, swinging slowly as if the devil himself was blowing on it. You stood over me, sweat stains in your armpits, baton and cuffs hanging threateningly from your belt, and told me to confess. Or maybe it was to apologize. Either way, your MO was the assumption of guilt; never mind that I had already protested my innocence, sworn that the child had fallen without being pushed (or perhaps, I will admit, another child behind me had pushed me, causing me to inadvertently bump into the child at the top of the red ladder, which could be seen as causation but in no way described as "pushing").
So I was silent. I had argued my case in the urgent chaos of the playhouse and was too afraid to argue it again in the face of your angry certainty. We stayed in that room for hours, staring each other down, proving our mettle by not wiping off the perspiration, by not leaving to use the potty or get a glass of juice, by not giving in. You told me you were ashamed. That if I owned up to my crime, all would be forgiven. Whether out of timidity or out of pride in my innocence—or both—I gave you only silence. The heaviest silence a four-year-old could manage. I wonder how it weighed on you.
Did you change my life that day? Did you give me, at an early age, a taste of the arbitrariness of justice, the uselessness of truth, that would inform my weltanschauung through to adulthood? There must be a reason I remember that day as clearly as I remember the time my four-year-old self opened the car door at 40 miles per hour and almost fell out. Equally traumatic—but we all know, Mrs. Peacock, that emotional trauma has greater life-changing potential than mere physical trauma. So, in an effort to lift some of the weight that has sat on my own shoulders lo these thirty-one years, I give you this: I forgive you. I was innocent, and I forgive you.
What can you do to make it up to me, you ask? If that room still exists, Mrs. Peacock, take no child there without proof. Sit no child in that chair; tell no child she is guilty until proven innocent. Even tiny tots deserve due process.
I recognize that, at this point in time, you might be dead. I knew you thirtysomething years ago, and my impression of your age at that time is impressionistic at best. But my guess is that you were in your forties or beyond. So if you're not dead yet, you will be soon. Which makes it urgent that I at least try to communicate to you what I failed to say in that dark room all those years ago.
Have you thought of me? Have you wondered what kind of woman that skinny wavy-haired girl grew into after she left the hallowed halls of Tiny Tots? Did you imagine her, perhaps, as a criminal, a supervillain, a woman who would see a man hanging off a building ledge by his fingertips, cackle, and pry those fingertips off? Or grind her shoe into them, like Martin Landau in North by Northwest? That is more or less what that skinny wavy-haired girl did, isn't it?
I remember two things: the moment of accusation, and then the room. It began on the second floor of the playhouse, where, having exhausted the enjoyment potential of that level, I patiently waited my turn to climb out the two-by-two window and down the red plastic ladder to the floor below. The identity of the child in front of me—boy or girl, bully or innocent—is lost, squeezed out of my memory by you, but that child was the catalyst, crying out, pointing, whining: "She pushed me!"
I denied it at that moment, I'm sure I did, though shyness had already manipulated its way into my personality. When a woman of Mrs. Peacock's standing points her finger, even timidity falls away in the presence of the need to defend oneself against false accusation. "No!" I said. "I didn't!" I said that. I'm sure of it.
But to no avail. My memory jump cuts to that room, upstairs I think it was, which I shall describe as it exists in my memory, inaccurate though it may be. The room may have had pink and periwinkle walls, plush mini chairs in primary colors, paintings of dolphins or Star Wars characters or Thanksgiving turkeys on the wall. But none of that exists in my memory, and my memory is likely the only place that room still exists at all. So I might as well consider my version of it the truth.
I sat in an austere wooden chair, the slats digging into my back. You dimmed the lights, except for one exposed bulb hanging from a rope—100 watts for sure—that shone in my face with the intensity of a flashlight, swinging slowly as if the devil himself was blowing on it. You stood over me, sweat stains in your armpits, baton and cuffs hanging threateningly from your belt, and told me to confess. Or maybe it was to apologize. Either way, your MO was the assumption of guilt; never mind that I had already protested my innocence, sworn that the child had fallen without being pushed (or perhaps, I will admit, another child behind me had pushed me, causing me to inadvertently bump into the child at the top of the red ladder, which could be seen as causation but in no way described as "pushing").
So I was silent. I had argued my case in the urgent chaos of the playhouse and was too afraid to argue it again in the face of your angry certainty. We stayed in that room for hours, staring each other down, proving our mettle by not wiping off the perspiration, by not leaving to use the potty or get a glass of juice, by not giving in. You told me you were ashamed. That if I owned up to my crime, all would be forgiven. Whether out of timidity or out of pride in my innocence—or both—I gave you only silence. The heaviest silence a four-year-old could manage. I wonder how it weighed on you.
Did you change my life that day? Did you give me, at an early age, a taste of the arbitrariness of justice, the uselessness of truth, that would inform my weltanschauung through to adulthood? There must be a reason I remember that day as clearly as I remember the time my four-year-old self opened the car door at 40 miles per hour and almost fell out. Equally traumatic—but we all know, Mrs. Peacock, that emotional trauma has greater life-changing potential than mere physical trauma. So, in an effort to lift some of the weight that has sat on my own shoulders lo these thirty-one years, I give you this: I forgive you. I was innocent, and I forgive you.
What can you do to make it up to me, you ask? If that room still exists, Mrs. Peacock, take no child there without proof. Sit no child in that chair; tell no child she is guilty until proven innocent. Even tiny tots deserve due process.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
I Saw Something Physically Impossible Today
At the corner of Sherman Street and 11th Avenue in Windsor Terrace. Note: there's stuff at the top of this pole that would make it impossible for the hoop to have been dropped from above. I suppose it has to come apart somewhere, but I didn't see any seam, so I prefer to think it was magic.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Please Don't Pack the Penguins
Seen on a recently received package: a delightful surprise of whimsical shipping iconography. Note the bow tie.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Consequences, Part IV
I am fourth in line in a pass-the-baton online writing game called Consequences, in which 11 fantastic writers each post a 250-word piece, beginning their leg with the final line of the previous post. The posts can be in any form and about anything we want, as long as they relate to a common theme: Abandoned Landscapes. Thanks to Wah-Ming Chang for administering this exercise with her ever-gentle iron fist.
Preceding me were Sam J. Miller, Jade Park, and Jane Voodikon. Next up: Anna Shapiro, who will post on wmcisnowhere.wordpress.com.
I distinctly recalled hearing birds fighting, in normal bird squawk. How did I know they were fighting? No idea. Just one of those things you know even as you know you couldn't possibly, because birds sound the same whether they're fighting or telling knock-knock jokes or discussing politics.
The birds could have been in a dream—did they come before or after the talking deer?—but if I'd heard them for real, that meant the window was open. Which hadn't been the case last night. A telltale breeze blew over me, but I refused to open my eyes and see the other side of the bed. Even with my eyes closed I could tell it was empty. Which also hadn't been the case last night.
We'd known each other for three days—okay, not quite a relationship, but more than a one-night stand, which is something I would never engage in. I'd never even engaged in a third-night stand before, and now I'd woken to find my third-night stand having vacated the bed and escaped out the window, diminishing my hopes for a fourth night.
My apartment was on the second floor, and sneaking out would have been much easier via the front door than via the bedroom window. So how did I know he'd used the window? Same way I knew those birds were fighting, I guess. Besides, I hated to imagine the front door opening and closing—so banal. A leap out the window made the situation much more interesting.
Preceding me were Sam J. Miller, Jade Park, and Jane Voodikon. Next up: Anna Shapiro, who will post on wmcisnowhere.wordpress.com.
I distinctly recalled hearing birds fighting, in normal bird squawk. How did I know they were fighting? No idea. Just one of those things you know even as you know you couldn't possibly, because birds sound the same whether they're fighting or telling knock-knock jokes or discussing politics.
The birds could have been in a dream—did they come before or after the talking deer?—but if I'd heard them for real, that meant the window was open. Which hadn't been the case last night. A telltale breeze blew over me, but I refused to open my eyes and see the other side of the bed. Even with my eyes closed I could tell it was empty. Which also hadn't been the case last night.
We'd known each other for three days—okay, not quite a relationship, but more than a one-night stand, which is something I would never engage in. I'd never even engaged in a third-night stand before, and now I'd woken to find my third-night stand having vacated the bed and escaped out the window, diminishing my hopes for a fourth night.
My apartment was on the second floor, and sneaking out would have been much easier via the front door than via the bedroom window. So how did I know he'd used the window? Same way I knew those birds were fighting, I guess. Besides, I hated to imagine the front door opening and closing—so banal. A leap out the window made the situation much more interesting.
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