I tagged myself for Veronica’s “uncool” meme

Because I’ve been sick and preoccupied, let this tide us all over for a bit. When you finish here, why not check out Veronica Mitchell’s original post? I won’t tag anyone tonight (because I’m sleepy), but feel free to copy and paste and leave me a link in the comments so I can read all about you, too.

Movies I rented because the cool people liked them, but I never could finish:

1. Mulholland Drive.

2. Trainspotting.

3. We don’t actually rent movies very often, so this was a tough one for me. Really, that’s all I’ve got.
Movies I watched with the cool people but secretly hated:

1. Any movie that could conceivably be described with the phrase “romantic comedy.”

2. Harry Potter & The Order of the Phoenix. Oh, wait. I wasn’t secretive about that – I bitched about it for weeks to anyone who would listen.

3. Sin City. Artistic? Wildly. Unnecessary? Absolutely.

4. Oh, and Evil Dead. That was ten years ago and I’m still traumatized.

Movies I secretly like but might deny in front of the cool people:

1. The old school, original Batman, with Adam West, complete with spandex and “Pow!” graphics. This isn’t technically a secret either, but it is pretty uncool.

2. Musicals in general are awesome, but not necessarily something to brag about.

3. And, yeah. Underworld.

Books I started because the cool people like them, but I could never finish:

1. Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, by Hunter S. Thompson

2. 1984, by George Orwell (I did read this all the way through once in high school, then tried to reread it a few years ago and realized that I didn’t like any of the characters. Proceeded to put it down promptly. Haven’t looked back since.)

3. Rabbit, Run, by John Updike
Music I tried to like because the cool people like it, but really it makes me want to puncture my own eardrums to escape the pain of the irritating, cat-mating howling:

1. Reggae. Can’t do it. Don’t know why.

2. Modest Mouse.

3. The Beatles. (I know, I know! I’m sorry!)

Music I secretly sometimes like, but don’t want the cool people to know:

1. Justin Timberlake. I mean, he did bring sexy back, right?

2. I do have Britney Spears’ “Toxic” on my iPod, and I have been known to listen to it from time to time…

3. Linkin Park. Godsmack. System of a Down. Cold. Anything in that category, really. I love crunchy guitars.

Foods I secretly like, even though the cool people sneer at them:

1. Doughnuts, especially in multiples of two.

2. Butter. Real, fat-laden, sweet cream, Weight-Watchers-unapproved butter. I wish I could tell you that I use it sparingly, but that, my friend, would be a lie.

Thank you! And you, and you, and you…

To everyone who voted for the What’s Up! Awards (at my shameless prompting and otherwise), thank you! As it turns out, I actually won the Best Axes of Folk award, which still makes my heart go all fluttery whenever I think about it. The award itself is an old album, decorated beautifully by a stencil of Aaron Brick’s, and it’s sitting on my dining room table right now, with my name on it. Holy smokes.

The award show itself was loud, hectic and fun. Though I suspect we took off before things really revved up, we made it count while we were there: we visited with people we hadn’t seen in ages, watched some awesome bands (The Braille Tapes!) rock the Nightlight, and thought up creative ways to use my drink tickets (cranberry juice!). Because I presented a few awards jointly with Bug Jerome, I actually got to say “And the winner is…” into a live microphone. It was surprisingly gratifying.

Thank you, thank you, and thank you again.

Oh, the things my little bro does

He’s the boy drum major, the one you see first.

How many months ’til March?

For all the time we’ve spent battening down the hatches around here, keeping ourselves reasonably dry and un-accosted by the wind, rain and pervasive dark, yesterday showed up like a lovely, white truce flag, waved by our friend The Rain. Though Mitch was still bedridden, I braved the outdoors and walked to church, and the first thing I heard upon stepping outside (the very first thing!) was a small chorus of chilly-sounding birds, singing from hedges and eaves and rooftops.

Aah, I sighed, and put my mittens back into my pockets.

Later that afternoon, I convinced Mitch to bundle his sick self up and take a walk with me – after all, it was fifty degrees outside! Barely cooler than our apartment!

As we walked, all sorts of small things made me spontaneously nostalgic, or optimistic, or giddy, and I cannot blame every single mood shift on pregnancy because yesterday was, as Mitch said, the sort of day that reminds one that winter does not last forever. Indeed.

On my newfound love of knitting

I’m not sure what, exactly, has kept me away from knitting for so long. Despite my penchant for hobbies involving wire and beads, paper, paints and charcoal, something about the fabric crafts has been lost on me and, after a few failed attempts at sewing, I quit and never looked back.

Somehow, though, it’s happened at last, and after years of professing that I had no need for knitting, I succumbed and took up the needles and yarn in a gesture that I suspect has equally to do with pregnancy and the many, dark hours of winter.

Something else informs this decision, I suspect: a desire to sit and count, to run yarn through my fingers and watch rows build, one on another, into something that (ideally) has a shape and form. Knitting is a way to fill the busy space of waiting with a rhythm, a steady count.

The urge to knit came over me abruptly, as most urges do these days, and so my brother (who is, as we know, a champion knitter) bought two skeins of yarn and two sets of needles for me as a Christmas gift. We packed them in our suitcases, took them to Hawaii with us and spent at least one evening on the lanai at sunset, learning to cast on and master the knit stitch. I knit and unravelled several rows, again and again, feeling very much like less dramatic Penelope, though sunburnt and plied with iced tea as I worked.

I took my project, in various states of assembly and disassembly, to the beach, and knit beneath the shade of a beach umbrella. I took it with me on the airplane, to the pool, and worked steadily on weaving something even and complete, even if it was only the tiniest of finished squares, which it was: I gave the final product to Mitch, who uses it now as an awkward but orderly wine-colored bookmark.

I have since begun work on a scarf, a process that the cats find fascinating. While one hangs by two teeth from a needle, the other stalks, pounces and bats at the twitching skein of yarn, and I knit 2 purl 2 my way through a stash of yarn the color of plums, working stitch by stitch and row by row.

I suppose this gives me something to do with my anxious, fluttery hands while I wait.

Sick house

Mitch hasn’t left the apartment in three days. In fact, he’s barely left the bed.

Empty glasses, formerly containing water, tea and orange juice, sit prettily on the nightstand, while the bed is cluttered with cats, DVD cases, laptop power supply cables and my knitting scraps. We’ve had a Star Wars marathon (up next? Return of the Jedi), while Mitch, having succumbed to an insistent fever, gazes blankly at the laptop screen and I, between coughing sprees, teach myself how to purl.

It’s been a long, dull, unpleasant weekend, actually. Mitch has come down with the worst of it – fever, aches, chills, cough and so on – while I’m just tired and phlegmy, but three days have come and gone, during which I’ve made a trip or two to the grocery store and a run to the video shop to rent (what else?) Knocked Up, while Mitch has contemplated, for twenty foggy minutes, whether or not it’s worth the trouble to get out of bed to grab another glass of water. Usually, it’s not.

The promised post

I’ve never liked knowing the end of things before I’m meant to. I’m not one to read ahead or snoop for presents or eat dessert first or answer people honestly when they ask me to just tell them if Harry dies – they’ll never read it, they swear. To me, book snob and lover of structure, an ending taken out of order is also taken out of context, and therefore seems somehow slighted when not prefaced by the anticipation and knowledge of everything that rightfully comes before.

All of which brings me to my point: even though we were tempted, we did not find out the gender of the baby yesterday morning at our ultrasound. It’s not our time to know quite yet.

The ultrasound itself was wonderful: when we had our last one, at ten weeks, it had been too early for me to feel the baby move, so it literally took my breath away to see the little creature flip-flop on the screen, waving its tiny fists at us, but by now I’ve been feeling the baby kick for at least six weeks, which made yesterday’s appointment feel less like an introduction and more like a visit with someone I’ve already met (but still don’t know that well). The baby’s mannerisms were more apparent, little indicators of the personality forming along with those lungs and ear drums.

Everything was right where it ought to be. The baby is tall, and a week-and-a-half ahead of schedule, length and weight-wise, which explains why I also, in belly-size, am growing a bit ahead of schedule. They haven’t changed our due date, but apparently everybody’s growing just fine.

If I had the functioning technology to do so, I would post the pictures for you – but I don’t, so instead imagine a ghostly, black and white profile of our baby’s face, one hand lifted as though to rub its eyes, the mouth closed. There you have it.

Hack, hack. Wheeze.

I have all sorts of fun posts to write for you, really I do, but a bad cough has Mitch and I down for the count this weekend.

Maybe I’ll muster up the strength to post. Maybe.

Or maybe I’ll drink some more orange juice, hack up a lung and go back to bed.

Here’s a taste of what’s to come:

First childbirth class. (Deep breathing, candid discussions, the sounds of labor in the next room. Mitch wins the class over with a cute joke, says something sweet about “glowing” pregnant ladies, and then baffles everyone but me by mentioning “the h-anger.”)

The BIG ultrasound. (Our baby has long, long legs, clearly inherited from Mitch, and is in fabulous health! It is still a singular baby. The gender remains a mystery. Mitch takes some nighttime cough syrup just before the appointment and is loopy throughout, but thrilled. Thea cries a little bit because, let’s face it, ultrasounds are damn cool.)

Also, expect a post on My newfound love of knitting. It’s possible that I might also work up an homage to The Flight of the Conchords (band and TV show), because I’ve had at least one of their songs stuck in my head at any point during the last three weeks. Currently playing? “Mutha Uckers.”

Like a job, but without the paycheck

Had you picked up a copy of this month’s What’s Up! magazine, you might have noticed, snuggled in the back amid the CD reviews, in itsy-bitsy italic print, my name, under two of this month’s reviews.

To all of the many things happening in the life of Rosenburg right now (baby! graduation! new job! moving!), I’ve added this: I’ve begun writing for What’s Up!, an event that fills me simultaneously with joy and terror. But mostly joy. And enthusiasm. I’m looking forward to listening to even more local music and then writing about it.

This, my friends, is my writing degree at work.

To Hawaii and back! A recap (with photos)

First, we packed our suitcase, an endeavor complicated by the fact that our cats attempted several times to stow away in our luggage.

Then, we travelled and travelled and travelled, in the company of my mom, step-dad, brother and step-sister, until we reached Kona, Hawaii.

The air was warm! The beach was near! The sun was occasionally visible! The view from our condo was gorgeous:

For that matter, the view inside our condo wasn’t bad either.

What did we do to amuse ourselves in Hawaii? We visited farmer’s markets and went for long scenic drives, we prepared and consumed several spectacular meals:

 

I did an awful lot of this:

We visited the Painted Church, on our way to the Place of Refuge.

And, of course, we visited beach after beach after beach, where we played in the water until our hair smelled of salt.

 

Then, we relaxed in the sand for a bit.

Actually, we looked an awful lot like these guys:

On our last day there, Mitch and I walked to a beach where the sand is black, and we waded in the water and felt picturesque.

We watched the sun set…

…and then we came home.