South Paw Blues

Once upon a time a few years ago, I was trying to convince my friend Danielle to take up knitting. I was sure that she would enjoy it. It would help her relax, meditate, be one with the universe. I did my best to sell knitting as a cure-all, but Danielle was hesitant. She was too left-handed, she felt, to be crafty. Too left-handed? Is there really such a thing, I wondered?

Over the years I've come to the conclusion that when it comes to arts and crafts, the answer, quite possibly, is yes. Left-hander that I am, I, too, have struggled with all manner of crafting, from pottery to crochet, cross stitch to quilting. I think it's possible that some of my, shall we say, limitations as an arts and crafts girl are related to my status as a south paw.

What I've learned is that I just have to work harder than other crafty girls. I'm going to make more mistakes, misread more directions, and generally just get it plain wrong more often, than my less challenged sisters. I've learned to anticipate where I'll be most likely to mess up. I transpose knitting directions onto a legal pad, writing things out, drawing charts, so I understand what I'm trying to do. But if I don't mind starting over, over and over and over, I can get the job done and feel pretty good about it.

My latest endeavor, as I've mentioned in earlier posts, is sewing. Yesterday, I spent an hour or so working on the throw I'm making. As always, I'm learning. My first lesson: I was an idiot not to buy a seam ripper the minute I bought a sewing machine. In fact, I think there should be a law that all sewing machines have to come with seam rippers scotch-taped to them. Why did I think I could live without one?

Imagine me last fall, novice sewer, stitching up my aprons with the smallest stitches possible--I thought it looked pretty that way, sort of french--sewing the most crooked seams you've ever seen (I'm thinking about having little labels made up that read "I was not drunk when I sewed this item"), and then picking them out with scissors. That right there is the reason it took me over a week to make an apron that was essentially an oversized handkerchief with ties.

Yesterday, I sewed plenty of crooked seams (though I also sewed some straight ones--I'm getting better with practice). With my handy dandy seam ripper, it took me about thirty seconds to rip them out. Genius!

The View from Saturday

My dream of a perfect Saturday consists of this: A crisp fall day, a brisk hike, enjoyable errands—a run to the yarn store or the fabric store (or the wine store or the shoe store). A little leaf raking, a little bonding with the neighbors. A cookout planned for the evening, or else an outing to a restaurant. There would be reading time, knitting time, time spent chatting with my husband about all the amazing things we’re going to do with our house and yard over the years.

And the entire time I’m engaged in all of this pleasantry, my children would be in the woods out back, building a fort.

Understand this: the construction of this fort would in no way involve my driving to Home Depot to buy supplies. I would not be the one who came up with the exciting idea of building a backyard fort. Maybe Fine Young Son No. 1 would have thought of it himself after reading a book about some kids building a fort in the woods. Maybe Fine Young Son No. 2 would have found a two by four in the garage and yelled to his big brother, “Let’s build a fort!”

Together they would procure their supplies. They would go out into the woods and find large fallen branches. They would come up with an ingenious way to secure those branches into some kind of structure. Periodically, FYS1 would send FYS2 into the house for snacks.

Together they would decide that in fact what they were building wasn’t a fort at all—it was a pirate ship, and FYS2 would come in asking for black construction paper and white crayons, so they could make a pirate flag. FYS2 would come in and ask if they could take a couple of knives and pretend they were swords. I would suggest cutting swords out of cardboard instead.

They would work on their fort all day. They might squabble a little, but for the most part they would work together. FYS1 would finally realize that what we’ve been telling him for ages is true: if he is nice to his little brother and includes him in stuff, his little brother will worship him like a god.

At the end of the day, they would ask to sleep in the fort. My husband, the camper, would get them set up. Around nine, FYS2 would wander back into the house because he heard some strange noises. At ten, my husband would go out and collect the fast asleep FYS1 and deposit him in his bed.

It doesn’t seem like such an impossible dream, does it? But so far it hasn’t come to pass. Mostly I blame myself: Despite our limits on TV and computer, my children spend too much time indoors, immersed in their technological lives--or waiting for me to entertain them. I should do what my mother did: Kick 'em out of the house. Don’t come in ‘til dinner, I’ll tell them, and then I’ll bar the doors.

But maybe not all is lost. Maybe the idea of a fort is just beginning to ripen in my children's minds. It just needs a little more time to come fully to fruition. Fall is around the corner, the mosquitoes will die off, and our little woods behind the house will cry out to be explored. In an age of miracles, my children will abandon their Leapsters, their infernal Nintendo DS's, and run outside, free at last. And in the best possible way, I’ll be free, too.

Subversive in the Suburbs

My last post garnered a comment from Isabella in the 21st Century herself, in which she writes, "I am the Internet's foremost suburban subversive." I just have to say I love that so much. Because the thing is, it's so common to be subversive in the city. Everybody's doing it. But out here in the suburbs? You're on your own, kid.

It's actually one of my favorite things about the suburbs: If you've ever had any desire in your life to be bohemian or radical, this is the place to do it. It doesn't take much. Start a compost heap in your backyard. Homeschool your kids. Grow your own tomatoes in your backyard or buy them in the farmers market. Sit down one morning and write a poem. Or read one. No tattoos necessary! Nipples? Leave 'em unpierced.

I remember one time last summer, driving to the farmer’s market, I saw a sign for a yard sale, only it read “yART Sale.” This pleased me to no end. The sign was in an old suburban neighborhood, brick ranch houses circa 1960, a little bit shabby in spots, but one I’d suspected might have a little something going on underground. And it turns out I was right: in one unassuming little ranch house there lives an artist, and this artist has artist friends, and on this particular summer Saturday they decided to gather together and put on a show.

This kind of thing is right up my alley. I am in love with the local and the idiosyncratic, and anything that’s homemade and interesting to look at (or eat) will get my attention every time. I’m pleased to report that the art was good and so were the prices. I got myself a quilted pillow case, a simple pattern with beautiful fabrics, ivory and pale pink and ocean green, for a whopping fifteen bucks, and baby, it was a bargain. And I got to see somebody’s lovely backyard garden and look at some very nice prints and jewelry, to boot.

Most of all, I got to enjoy the fact that sometimes things can get funky in the suburbs. Admittedly, this particular suburban neighborhood had a higher funk quotient than most, because it’s a little older and so there are tall trees and variations in the houses, and it’s the sort of place where an artist on a budget who’s got a couple of kids running around might land.

It’s easy to get down on the suburbs. Not enough yART sales, for one thing. Too many SUVs for another. Funk quotient: very low. There’s a book out now called Death by Suburb that I’ve been meaning to read, just to confirm all my prejudices.

But one time when I was watching my son’s soccer practice (yep, I’m a soccer mom, yep, I drive a minivan), just as I was about to launch into a silent tirade against suburban folk, armies of which surrounded me on all sides, I realized everyone around me seemed like pretty decent human beings. I mean, it was nice that all these people had come to watch their kids practice soccer. Slightly insane, maybe, but nice. They sat on those collapsible chairs you can buy at the hardware store or Target and chatted with one another and handed their kids icy water jugs whenever the coaches called a water break.

It would have been easy to make fun of them (somehow, even though every Wednesday I was doing exactly the same thing as all the other soccer moms and dads, I didn't count myself in their number, maybe because I was doing the artsy-fartsy knitting thing while I was sitting there, maybe because I had a Drive-By Truckers CD cued up in the van, maybe because I’m too stupid to notice that I was there watching my kid practice, too). What a cliché, right? A bunch of overprotective parents who can’t bear to drop their kids off at the soccer field and let them fend for themselves. Everyone is middle class or upper-middle class, nobody’s got any fashion sense at all, ninety-eight percent of the conversations are about the kids—this one’s just been diagnosed with ADHD, that one is gifted in math but has no social skills, the baby still isn’t sleeping through the night. It couldn’t be more banal.

But the fact is, they were there. Some of them clearly left work early to take their kids to practice, others were stay-at-home moms like me and looked slightly frazzled after a long day of running errands and yelling their heads off or trying like hell not to yell their heads off. They were busy, they were stressed, who knows what was going on at home, but they got their kids’ butts to soccer practice every week at 5 p.m. and they cheered and signed up to bring snacks for the game on Saturday. They showed up. Maybe they showed up too much, I don’t know. But at least they were trying as hard as they could to do the right thing. Not everybody does. A lot of people don’t.

I have many days when I wished I lived in some cool downtown arts and crafts bungalow and had neighbors who could discuss the new Drive-By Truckers CD with me. None of my current neighbors can. I’m pretty sure none of the women I’m friendly with at the gym can, either. I’m downright positive nobody at church has the slightest idea who the Truckers are. It makes me feel a little lonely, if you want to know the truth.

But here’s the thing: living downtown, a yART sale would not yield the same delightful surprise it does in the suburbs. Of course you’d find a yART sale downtown, with all sorts of angel-headed hipsters milling about, making knowing comments and sarcastic asides, wearing supercool shoes. What fun is that? The big fun is when life pops out where you least expect it. Big flower decals on the side of somebody’s minivan, the cramped comic book store tucked in between the Harris Teeter and the TCBY, the guy who looks like your basic corporate pawn, but whose tee shirt on closer inspection reads “Rednecks for Peace.” Downtown, nobody would give that stuff a second thought. In the suburbs, it makes you happy to be alive.

The Revolution Begins

There was an interesting post the other day over at Isabella in the 21st Century (http://www.isabellainthe21stcentury.blogspot.com) called "Women's Work and the Simple Life." Ultimately it's a pean to women's traditional skills, why they should be valued, and why those of us who employ them or seek to learn them are countercultural, practically revolutionary.

It's fun to think that every time you knit a sock, you're sticking it to the man.

Reading domestic histories, where I'm confronted by the amazing skills women (and men) once had to possess in order to run a house, I feel sorely lacking. I confess this Blog's title is somewhat of a misnomer. Instead of "Left-handed Housewife," it should be something like "Left-Handed Homebody Who Wishes Somebody Would Clean Up Around Here."

I do cook, and I knit, and I have an herb garden. I would like to learn how to can vegetables. My husband's Aunt Jean is a major league canner, and I'm hoping we can get her over here for a tutorial one of these days.

Nowadays my dearest wish is to learn to sew. I bought a machine last fall, but haven't done much with it. Two aprons to be exact. Today I started sewing the throw I've been working on. I'm not sure I'm coordinated enough to do this. In fact, I called my mother the other day to ask for tips for machine sewing little squares of fabric onto a piece of muslin approximately the size of Rhode Island. I was having a hard time visualizing how one does this, shy of investing in a room-sized quilting frame and a church full of elderly women with bifocals and sharpened needles.

My mother has machine sewn a number of quilts. She is a skilled seamstress in general. She has one of those amazing computurized sewing machines that you can sew a modular home with if need be. I knew she would clarify things for me, unlock all the secret mysteries of machine sewing. After all she is right-handed, which is to say, her brain functions in an orderly and systematic fashion. Unlike some people's I know.

"You just kind of scrunch up the fabric as best you can until you get the part you need to sew under the needle," was my mother's sage advice.

And you wonder why I can barely tie my shoes.

But you know what? It worked. I scrunched everything up and manuevered it here and there, back and forth, and I actually got two pieces sewn on before it was time to go pick up Fine Young Son No. 1 from school. And really, the profanity was at a bare minimum. Just enough to keep things interesting.

I doubt I will become an ace seamstress any time soon. I'd like to think that one of these days I'll sew myself a shirt. Certainly some napkins. Maybe even a sun dress for my goddaughter.

But no matter what great heights of housewifery genius I aspire to, I will never, ever be able to twist the head off a chicken.

Just thought I'd be clear about that from the get-go.

Banana Pudding: The Final Days

There are those who believe that summer ends when school begins, even if school begins the third week of August. These people are wrong.

There are some who believe that summer ends September 23rd, the official first day of fall for 2007. My third grader, legalistic child that he is, belongs in this category. He is wrong.

There are some who believe that summer ends in February. They live in Australia.

But I believe most of us, at least those of us in this particular spot of the Northern Hemisphere, believe firmly in our hearts that summer ends the day after Labor Day. And we are correct.

That is why on Labor Day, it is important to serve Banana Pudding, before it's too late. Because after Labor Day, Banana Pudding is no longer allowed. It is a thing of summertime. Oh, sure, it can make an early appearance, along with potato salad, at Easter or Passover celebrations, but really it's to be brought out on Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, and any day in August where you're feeling that late summer malaise. Verily I say unto thee, Banana Pudding will cure what ails you.

Against my better judgment, I'm going to share my Banana Pudding recipe with you. Please do not take this as permission to make Banana Pudding off-season. I'm only sharing this now because I have the recipe out, and because some of you reading this may be from Australia, and therefore are at perfect rights to serve Banana Pudding in the upcoming weeks.

Note: This recipe is for chilled Banana Pudding, a very different creature from baked Banana Pudding. I like both, though I only make the former. Be forewarned, once your children have chilled Banana Pudding, they will be more than likely to turn their noses up at baked Banana Pudding. Baked Banana Pudding, while often delicious, is not as visually attractive to children. Also, it lacks copious amounts of Cool Whip in its makeup. This can be fatal when it comes to attracting a child's attention and securing his or her gustatory love.

Creamy Banana Pudding
(Makes 8-10 servings)

Ingredients:

1 (14 oz) can Sweetened Condensed Milk
1.5 cups cold water
1 (4-serving size) package instant vanilla pudding mix
2 cups whipped cream
36 vanilla wafers
3 medium bananas, sliced and dipped in lemon juice


In a large bowl, combine sweetened condensed milk and water. Add pudding mix; beat well. Chill five minutes. Fold in whipped cream. Spoon one cup pudding mixture into 2 1/2 quart glass serving bowl. Top with one-third each of the wafers, bananas and pudding. Repeat layering twice, ending with pudding. Chill thoroughly.

When you make this--next summer--you will be among the beloved. I especially recommend taking it to church suppers or neighborhood potlucks. You will be the most popular girl on your block. Trust me.

Whacked

So Saturday I'm in the shower, multitasking. I'm conditioning my hair and scrubbing away mildew between the wall tiles with an old toothbrush. I hate cleaning the tub, and I try to do as much as I can while I'm actually in it. What I really hate is cleaning the tub while fully dressed, especially the part where I'm rinsing away Ajax with the shower head. The water always goes up my sleeves. Brushing away mildew while I'm showering is a stroke of housewifely genius, as far as I'm concerned. I can hardly stand how brilliant it is.

I finish the job. I put the toothbrush down in its little corner of the tub. Then I turn and straighten up--and whack my head against the side of the hold-steady bar on my shower wall. My head must have been going forty miles per hour, because it is a serious whack. I've hit my head close to my right eye. Later, I will wait to see if a shiner surfaces, it was that close. But I can't even find a bruise.

I have a little bit of a headache for the rest of the day, about what you'd expect. But Sunday when I wake up, my head really hurts. The spot where I hit my head is tender to the touch. I feel vaguely ill.

Nothing touches the headache, not ibuprofin, not napping, not ice packs, not wine. I clean some and write some, but mostly I just lie on my bed and read and rub my head near the crown. That seems to help a little.

I'd planned on going to church and the grocery store. I'd planned to spend the afternoon at the sewing machine. None of this comes to pass. I read the middle grade novels I checked out of the library last week to get me motivated as I start a draft of a new book. I finish Easter Everywhere by Darcey Steinke. I read Letter to a Young Teacher by Jonathon Kozol. I read and read and my head aches and aches.

When I finally go to bed, I worry that I'll wake up to another day of my head hurting. So when I wake up Monday morning and my head feels fine, just a little sore at the spot where I whacked it, it's like getting a gift.

The best part is, I'm so happy about being back in a good head that my usual morning anxiety stays undercover. I have always had free-floating anxiety in the mornings, from the time I was little. When I was a kid, the anxiety manifested itself as a general nervous feeling that gave me butterflies in my stomach and made eating breakfast difficult. Nowadays it comes in the form of worry, mostly about things that are far off in the future--my parents are coming to visit in November and the house is a mess!--or things that in reality I know will be fine, including author visits to schools and school field trips when I'm the volunteer driver.

I don't have anxiety every morning; in fact, I go for long stretches without it. Interestingly enough, I never get it at the beach. And when I do get morning anxiety, it's easy enough to disperse. A brisk walk usually takes care of it (too much coffee, on the other hand, is a big mistake--with enough caffeine, I'll feel anxious until lunch).

Nonetheless, it's a real bummer. Negative thoughts come at me and I bat them away. I tell myself that in thirty minutes it will all be over. But there's always the fear that the anxiety won't go away, that today is the day it will finally make itself at home, set up shop, sit a spell. So there's anxiety on top of the anxiety. Great.

I'd had one of those anxiety weeks last week, where every day I woke up and thought, "Oh, no, there's so much I'm not getting done and I need a new bra and new clothes and I haven't done anything for Start-up Sunday and I have to get my teeth cleaned in two weeks ..." So when I woke up Monday, my head clear, my heart light, no worries, it was so lovely that I walked three miles and smiled at everybody, and when I came home I took the boys to the pool for two hours, even though I had lots to do at the house.

Although I hate that sometimes it takes a whack on my head to set me straight, it does seem to be the case that having a real problem--in this case, a deabilitating headache--cuts through a lot of noise. It gives you perspective. The things I get anxious about aren't problems at all. And while staying in bed all day because you have a headache is pretty minor league stuff (though it did make me feel awfully sympathetic to my friends who get migraines), it's real enough to kick the make-believe problems out the door.

At least for a day or two.