Green's Hill-Amy Lane's Home - News

Tuesday, January 18, 2022

There Will Always be Knitting


A couple of months ago, I started to put it together. I mean, for a while, I was puzzled. "How did I hit my finger? Why is it stiff and bruised? Wait, that's gone, but now my thumb hurts. Well, shit. I mean, I can still knit and crochet, but opening jars is sort of a job for someone else now. And seriously. The Advil bottle? Oh cruel, cruel irony. Cruel, cruel fate." 

Also, at night, when it's cold and damp, my fingers grow cold and stiff on the keyboard. Whatever digit or two that's feeling frisky that night complains loudly when used--and beating up my keyboard with passionate dialog isn't a good idea.

I started to worry. Oh Lord. My mother's family has suffered from arthritis terribly. My grandmother complained of it--not often, but we knew she was in pain. And about four years ago, I'd been diagnosed with it in my knees. My response had been to up my exercise regimen--and I stick to that--and to not take the gabapentin that was given to me in a giant bottle because the side effects were boggling.  For the most part that worked, but something about this stiffness in my fingers was terrifying.

A friend of mine--also suffering from arthritis--offered me her yarn, and while I am usually the "YES SEND IT ALL TO ME AND I SHALL HOARD IT LIKE THE DRAGON I AM!" friend, this time I... I hesitated. My fingers hurt. My thumbs hurt. And I was a little scared. I told her about another friend who knitted and suggested that she get this unexpected bounty. (She did, and she was very happy about it!)

And the repercussions of the refusal built up an awful panic. What if I couldn't knit? What if I couldn't crochet? Oh my Goddess, WHAT IF I COULDN'T YARN?

And Christmas was coming up. 

I mean, of course I could make stuff for Christmas, right?

So I made the gnomes. The silly, absurd, goofy little gnomes. And the baskets for fudge--and gnomes. 

I made some hats. Some keyhole scarves. Some hand warmers. Started on a shawl that I really love but I don't know who will get it.

I mean, I kept busy. 

There was stiffness in my hands--not going to lie. Bought some arthritis gloves--they help. Took some Advil. Also helped. Ergonomic crochet hooks--and sticking to crochet and small yarn--also helped. Kept crocheting and knitting and somewhere in that Christmas industry, I was reminded that it helped too. If I could get past the pain--and remember to stretch out--keeping my hands busy helped to keep my joints healthy.

Some of my panic receded.

I wasn't out of the game yet. I wasn't ready to start shipping all my yarn boxes to charity. I could still do this thing that has kept me sane since 1998.

Last night another friend messaged me. She had ordered some yarn that she really loved but she hated to work with. "Would you like this yarn?"

I pulled out a shawl that I was half finished working, done in this exact yarn. I adored it. "Yes! Yes I would love this yarn!"

And a part of me gave a tremendous sigh of relief. I was still doing this. It was still part of my identity. I was still in the yarn chain of give and receive, and I was still making things for people that would surprise them.

At the moment, I just need my husband to open the spaghetti sauce jars, that's all.

Someday, it might be different. Someday, I might not be able to work past the pain. But for now, there is knitting (and crocheting! Mostly crocheting!) and I am grateful.

The reminder to be grateful for the time I have with the activities I love--and the people, and the fur-babies, and the music and television and movies and audiobooks--has not been in vain.

And when it's over, here's hoping I have wonderful friends to whom I can pass it on.

It would be wonderful if there could always be knitting.

Tuesday, January 11, 2022

Dear Uptight Woman...

 Dear uptight white woman who yelled at me from her driveway today as I passed with my dogs--

I hesitate to use the term Karen because I know and love several WONDERFUL women named Karen, and to call you "a Karen" would be giving you too much affection. 

But I think everybody gets the idea.

Anyway, I was carrying one of my dogs and keeping my other dogs off your lawn after you yelled at me from your driveway as I was passing by, and I didn't really assimilate what you were yelling at me about until after you huffed off.

So let me see if I can address your damage. 

First of all, I'm sorry your dogs bark and wreck your home when my dogs walk the sidewalk in front of your house. My dogs frequently bark at people from the house--the UPS guy, the Amazon delivery guy, cats coming in from the backyard--I usually make the assumption that this behavior is either the dogs' fault for being idiot dogs or my fault for not training the idiot dog well enough. I do not--repeat NOT-- blame the UPS or USPS or Amazon people, because they are just doing their jobs. Much like my dogs are just doing theirs when I walk them.

As a caveat here, I'd like to ask "You let them destroy the house?" I myself am not the most stringent of dog owners, but my dogs don't knock stuff over or tear apart the furniture when we get mail, so that really does sound more like a "you" problem than a "me" problem.

Second of all, no, I'm NOT CROSSING THE STREET when I come by your house. Sorry. Not gonna do it. I cross the street if there's somebody else with dogs coming near me, or a mother with a kid in a carriage because my dogs bark and that's more comfortable, but I'm not crossing the street because your dogs INSIDE YOUR HOUSE bark at them as we walk by. I bet you expect the rain to part for you as you walk under the clouds, too, don't you sunshine?

Third of all, after you huffed away, my daughter, who was a little ways ahead of me and heard the entire conversation, pointed out that the last time we passed your house was JANUARY 2ND, you cranky whore, so if you think my dogs have been making your dogs bark every day this week, you' re totally fucking wrong.

And last of all--and I hesitate to bring this up because this was my daughter talking and I think she might be the teeniest protective--I would like to add that I did talk to your husband that January 2nd walk. He was cleaning up Christmas lights, and he was totally pleasant. My daughter thinks you're feeling threatened by me, and while I'm very fat and sorta gray and not particularly fuckable,  you may rest assured that I do have a man of my own and do not need yours. Although if you're as unpleasant to him as you were to me today, I can see your worry.

So, let me see if I can restate the salient parts here: 

A. I'll deal with my dogs if you deal with yours.

B. I don't want to fuck your husband.

C. You were a total and absolute twat.

D. If you yell at me again my adult daughter may fuck you up--that's just a guess, but she was pretty pissed.

E. If you don't want your dogs to tear up your house, you should maybe tell them no. Hey--it worked for  us--Ginger finally stopped trying to find the vagina in all our blankets and hasn't fucked a pillow to death for over two months now.

Thank you so much for your time-- 


The pissed off fat woman with all the fucking dogs

Monday, January 3, 2022

Dog Park

 Happy New Year!

Okay--so this blogging thing--still working on it a little.  Trying to find a balance between "Blogging is draining my soul" and "What is this thing they call blogging?" (after fifteen years of blogging!) is maybe not as easy as it sounds.

But our Christmas was lovely--frenetic, but lovely. Our New Years was quiet--the kids got sparkling cider and that's really all they've wanted out of the deal.

ZoomBoy has started work at Raising Cane's chicken fingers, and now he's brought home a fever and a cold--although I know it's not Covid because he heard we brought home Volkswaffle and practically booty-bumped two people and a cat in the hallway getting out to get himself one. Given that it was the only time he moved all day, I felt sort of proud of that.

Squish enjoyed Christmas--and is on a new medication regimen that seems to be working. I'm much relieved.

Chicken is looking for a new job because she's unsure of her financial aid status right now, and Rubio's is draining her soul.

And Mate... well, he's sort of made me a basketball widow over the last two weeks. On the one hand, I can't blame him because the Kings are SO BAD this year, he's like, "It's a train wreck, but it's one I'm personally involved in and not only can I not look away, I want front row seats. I mean, I have to settle for what my season pass gives me, but still--if I've got the tickets I'm going to watch them self-destruct. It's intoxicating. Like heroin."  I've got no words for that, really--but it does make my thing with yarn a lot easier to understand. I hope anyway. "It's wool, and I just want to touch it. It's intoxicating."


Anyway--to get to the title of the post, we took the dogs to the dog park today, the one where they get to run around and play chase and act like dogs.

I was quite surprised, really. 

I'm pleased to announce that after a couple of those weird alien stretches Ginger does--and one time of peeing and showing the world she was not assembled correctly and has some odd skeletal glitches--she ran around and barked and chased other dogs.

As Chicken told me, "You can do this when your feet or knees hurt and you can't walk the dogs at the park."

It was a nice thought--and I'll keep it in mind. But remember Christmas? One of my gifts to myself was a pair of crocs. After giving myself fasciitis twice--once after Thanksgiving and once after Christmas Eve-I decided that I needed something on my feet if I was to spend the entire day cooking.

The Crocs arrived December 27th, and they may not change my life--but I'm impressed so far. 

But if they don't completely stave off the fasciitis flare ups, I've got to say it--Crocs. Who knew.