Afthead Reading Totals for 2017

On a whim last year I started keeping track of the books I read.  Fast forward to this year, and all my friends are telling me about their Goodreads goals for 2018.  Pshaw, I muse, that was so 2017.  Except I didn’t set a goal, I just counted books.  Also, I didn’t do it on Goodreads, which I feel bad about since Goodreads helps authors.  Oh, and Goodreads has been doing this for awhile, so I’m not actually starting any trends.  Therefore, in 2018 I realized I’m a backwards, behind the times book reading list keeper.  Huzzah.

However, before I dive into this new-fangled Reading Challenge, I still want to review what I read in 2017.  The list is easily discovered by clicking the “Reading” link above.

I read 83 books in 2017, and for a working mother going to graduate school, I think that is pretty darn impressive.  Now, you may disagree with my accounting, so let me break it down for you:

  • 38 books were read in my head just by me
  • 22 books were audiobooks
  • 23 books were read out loud to Afthead Junior  (my rule was they had to be chapter books which took more than a day to read)

However, if you look at the numbers above and think I read 38 grown-up books, or read/listened to 60 grown-up books, you would be wrong.  This Afthead loves children and young-adult chapter books herself.  Here’s my breakdown by age category:

  • 31 children’s books
  • 9 young-adult books
  • 43 adult books (16 listen/27 read)

Now, another funny tendency I have is to listen to books right after I read them.  I’m a fast reader and often miss out on details when I read in my head, so I turn around and listen.  Many times it becomes a different book to me.  For example, as much as I loved Pierce Brown’s Red Rising series, I could only listen to the first two.  The combination of a reader I didn’t love and violence I glossed over in my head made it a hard audiobook for me.  But I still counted both the reading and the listening as different “read” books.  The duplicates are:

Finally, not all of my reads were first time reads.  Not only do I listen to books I have read, but I also reread books – always have and always will.  I can’t tell you how many books became different stories when I read them at different times in my life.  The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver, stands out as the most changed story between readings for me.  As a mom, the message was much different to me than pre-kiddo, but I loved both versions of the story.   So books that were read in 2017 and also before 2017 are:

So, depending on how you count I read somewhere between 83 and 27 books this year.  However, this exercise was as much about reflecting on my annual reading as it was about counting.  Looking back, the year broke into a few themes:

I’ll cover those over the next few days.  Now, off to go finish my second book of 2018: Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore, by Matthew J. Sullivan.  Have you read it?  So far it’s great!


If you want to follow along with me this year on Goodreads, I’m at http://goodreads.com/afthead, but I’m also keeping my good old blog list up to date too.

RIP Zombie Hamster

img_2150

It wouldn’t be the holidays around the Afthead house without a pet dying. Yesterday, when my husband was looking for things to do I suggested he check on Lula, the zombie hamster.  He disappeared into the basement and shortly returned shaking his head.

“She’s really dead this time?” I asked.

“Had been for awhile from the looks of her.”

And like the dope I am I burst out crying. She wasn’t my favorite pet, but death is sad.  We had a quick burial beside the dead-bunny-bush where Lula joined the baby bunny who died in our window well several years ago.  No words were said, because it was 20 degrees out, but her tiny body curled neatly into the hole I managed to spade out of the frozen ground.  She looked very Lula-esque as I sprinkled dirt on top of her.

The last time I knew she was alive was December 14th, because she tried to run around on her wheel while I was working at home:  the tumor on her hindquarters made movement difficult.  I gave her a slice of apple which she nuzzled on for a bit before drinking and heading back to her purple cave.  It was a nice final hamster human interaction.  (Yes, she could have been dead for two weeks in there, but I was dealing with a cancer scare at Christmas and couldn’t bring myself to check on her.)  The last time my daughter saw her was at our Christmas craft party where one of Afthead Junior’s friends suggested feeding Lula to her pet snake.  I can’t say that would have been a worse ending for Lula, but my daughter balked at a Lula death by snake swallowing.

This morning, I did a little research.  Lula’s life expectancy was 1.5 – 2 years.  By my calculations we had her almost 3.5 years.  So she lived an entire lifetime as a hamster, then another as a zombie hamster before the zombie-hamster-tumor took her agility, then her sight, and finally her life.

My last hope for Lula is that she and the bunny don’t start some mini Pet Sematary in my back yard.  I really hope she rests in peace back there.

My favorite Christmas Present? A Benign Biopsy

My new favorite word is benign.  Say it with me: benign.  It’s a little choppy and doesn’t really flow off the tongue;  there may be too many syllables for the length.  It wasn’t a word I’d given much thought before last week.  In fact, if you’d asked me before that, I would have said I liked the word malignant better.  It has a force to it, a weight, and a power that is scary as heck when it might be related to your own body.

Last Friday I was presented with that glorious word, benign.  All day I sat by the phone waiting for my biopsy results.  Before the biopsy, the mammography center had warned  that I might not hear the results until after Christmas, but the surgical center seemed certain that I’d hear on Friday.  My husband and I had discussed the uncertainty and decided that if the sample was cancerous we didn’t want to hear until after Christmas.  I rationalized that I could fake my way through the holiday not knowing, but would likely ruin everyone’s Christmas if I did know.  However, when I discussed my plan with the biopsy nurse practitioner and doctor they looked at me like I was crazy.  “I mean, I’ll have questions and I’ll need to know what the plan is if it isn’t benign.”  I told them.  They assured me that there would be a plan – nay a whole team ready – if the sample was not benign so I capitulated and agreed that they could call, which seemed to satisfy their need for procedure and protocol. (“Not benign” is such a stupid euphemism.)

My arms were deep in the sink, soaking my brother’s Christmas scarf for blocking when my daughter ran in, “Mom, your phone is ringing.”  I dripped while sprinting into the study and grabbed my phone.  Better to ruin my phone with soggy hands then miss this call.  They were going to tell me if the turtle ripped from my body was a good turtle or an evil turtle.

There is no situation that is beyond the absurd in my life.  While I was laying face down on a surgical table, my clamped and bleeding boob protruding through a hole, the doctor put up the image of the sample taken from my flesh.  It looked exactly like a turtle with a bulbous middle, a head, and four smaller blob appendages.  Of course, I shared my interpretation of this image with my medical team.  Appeasing me, they pointed out the lighter squiggles on one turtle foot.  That was the sample they wanted.  The worrying parts of the turtle were now outside of me ready to be analyzed and tested.

The call had no preamble before the nurse practitioner – the one who convinced me that I wanted to talk to her no matter what she was going to tell me – said, “I have good news for you.  Your sample is benign.”

That moment is clear in my head.  As unclear as the medical guidance given to me by my doctor during the biopsy procedure.  He was very kind, but the nurse assigned to me seemed hellbent to ensure any medical information provided was covered up by cheery banter.  She entered with the doctor and was “there for me” in some role perfectly clear to her.  At the moment the biopsy was about to happen the doctor said, “I’m going to take the sample now.  You might feel…” but whatever I might have felt was drowned out by the nurse screaming in my face, “WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CHRISTMAS COOKIE?” I still don’t know what I was supposed to feel, but Nurse Rose knows I like sugar cookies the best.  Her question wasn’t a total non sequitur.  She’d drowned out the anesthetic information by asking me my plans for the day, which involved making Christmas cookies.

Sure, maybe making Christmas cookies they day you get a biopsy might seem a little strange, but that’s what happens when you get an irregular mammogram less than two weeks before Christmas.  My brother’s scarf was carried with me from waiting room to procedure room to waiting room the day of the biopsy, because I had knitting to finish before the holiday.  My potential cancer worries were all wrapped up with holiday concerns – pun intended.

The decision to have the mammogram right before Christmas was an odd one for me.  In a flash of uncharacteristic optimism I took the appointment offered because, after my first irregular mammogram in June, my doctor and I looked at the films together.  She’d assured me that the worrying spots had been on my mammogram in 2015, disappeared in 2016 and were back in 2017.  She said it was probably nothing, but cautioned me that I needed to go every 6 months, just in case.

At the time, the mammogram didn’t seem like it was “just in case,” but in hindsight the lady doing my mammogram got less and less chatty as she took more and more pictures.  Since this was my first followup appointment, I just figured she didn’t find my demeanor charming.  Or maybe she was also unsure how she was going to get everything done before Christmas.  When she asked me to sit in the waiting room I didn’t wonder, but when she asked me to come back into the bowels of the mammography center I got concerned.  She led me into a dimly lit room with faux leather chairs around a small conference table and I panicked.  The room looked exactly like the special room my vet has for euthanasia appointments.  When the radiologist arrived and didn’t bring me a warm blanket and a cocktail of life-ending drugs it was a relief, until he suggested a biopsy.

The warm blanket came right before they strapped my legs to the biopsy table and raised me into the air on the worst amusement park ride ever.  Nurse Rose did not find my amusement park ride jokes funny as the table made herkey jerks and my boob was smashed and smushed and poked.  I feel like being “there for me” should have involved laughing at my jokes.

The benign call ended awkwardly.  When asked if I had any questions I mentioned that I thought the incision was bleeding more than it should.  The nurse practitioner seemed taken aback, like the invitation for questions was rhetorical.  I was supposed to just hang up in a blaze of relief and joy.  When I told her that the bloody spot under my bandage was much bigger than a dime or nickel she said, “Well, if it’s still a problem on Tuesday give us a call” then said goodbye.  My Christmas cancer worry was replaced by a smaller bleeding-out worry.  Nothing I couldn’t fake my way through, but enough to make me drift off to sleep with images of bloody wounds dancing in my head.  (Spoiler alert, I haven’t bled out yet.)

When people ask me what I got for Christmas this year I go blank.  I got benign, but almost everyone doesn’t know I had a biopsy.  A few friends and family members along with an astute coworker who caught me at a bad time know, but I didn’t tell anyone else.   When was the right time?  During the band concert?  The school holiday party?  During our work calendar exchange?  At my friend’s dad’s funeral?  Had the ending been different I would have had to tell, but now I’m just awkwardly hugging on one side and randomly asking people to carry heavy things for me.

img_0540

Along with my constant appreciation of the absurd are my rose colored glasses.  Even after my Magic 8 Ball told me I didn’t have cancer (this was before the actual diagnosis) I couldn’t help planning for the worst.  The silver lining of the cancer scare was my evaluation of the things I was afraid of losing:  my family, my friends, my book, my stories and – surprising to me – my Master’s degree.  In the week between mammogram and biopsy I planned how to transition my work role to others, write my book at chemo so my mom could read it, and make countless videos and knit objects for my kid to remember me by.  (Because a box of hand-knits is almost the same as having a mom, right?)  I also hoped I would feel well enough during treatment to go to school.  It’s interesting the things that rise to important when you are considering th….

“WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CHRISTMAS COOKIE?!?!?!”

Now when things start to get serious around here, you’ll understand why I’m screaming cookie gibberish.  My surgical pamphlet tells me that one in eight women develop breast cancer and four in five biopsies like mine end up benign.  That means many women are having these procedures and it’s all okay, but for each four of me, one other woman is dealing with all the fears I had the past two weeks.  If you find yourself in this same uncomfortable situation, my hope is that your turtles turn out benign and your warm blankets just make your uncomfortable amusement park ride a little bit more pleasant.

Christmas Tardis Scarf

My brother is a Doctor Who nerd. Now before you tell me about other people you know who won’t stop talking about the new Doctor this season, let me assure you, he is a nerd of a higher level. Before he was 40 he was on a panel at some sci-fi convention speaking as an expert on early Doctor Who. He’s been watching since William Hartnell (the first Doctor) and Tom Baker (the fourth Doctor) were PBS regulars at our house along with Sesame Street and 3-2-1 Contact.  He has obtained his 10,000 Doctor Who hours several times over.

So when Jimmy Beans Wool and Lorna’s Laces released their limited edition Police Box yarn in March I started planning. I looked for patterns that looked like the Tardis–the magical police box in which Doctor Who travels the galaxy–and settled on the Blocks and Squares Scarf by Tetiana Otruta:  a modified basket weave pattern with a nice border to keep the scarf from curling.  To me, the pattern looked like the rectangles on the side of the Tardis.

My plan ready, I started knitting with the anticipation that the scarf would be done for my brother’s birthday in November.  However, scarf knitting always takes me longer than I expect. The monotony gets to me.  I missed his birthday so had to get my knitting mojo going for a Christmas delivery date.  By December 22nd, I had the final garment finished and ready to block.

img_0590

When knitting, I often miss the forest for the trees, so I was shocked when the blocked scarf revealed an unexpected cosmic sinusoidal wave. This miraculous pattern is enhanced by the fact that I joined two skeins of yarn mid-scarf, and as far as I can tell I accidentally did it perfectly.  It’s not the multicolored scarf that was Tom Baker’s trademark, but the scarf feels very Doctor Who and  “wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey”ish.

The scarf was further improved by the addition of a tiny Tardis charm, a stitch marker, also purchased from Jimmy Beans Wool, which was released the same time as the yarn.  It’s subtle, yet ensures that the careful observer knows this is a scarf for a time traveler aficionado.

Now, I have never knit a present for my brother, so this whole enterprise had me a bit worried.  I assumed he would love the gift, but his knit-worthiness had yet to be tested.  So after taking a few artistic shots of his present on our fence that needs painting, I carefully wrapped the gift.

To ensure he understood the full meaning of his present, I wrapped the two yarn sleeves around the scarf, proudly displaying the “Police Box” name along with the tiny silver police box charm.

Christmas day I anxiously watched him open the gift.  He studied it for a bit before I started blabbering: telling him about the yarn and the charm and the pattern I picked.  He unwrapped the scarf and put it around his neck.  “It looks so nice,” he said, “I thought it was commercially made.  Do you mind if I show it to some of my Doctor Who friends online?  They are going to be jealous.”

Such magical words to a knitters ear.  Of course he could share it.  Then he asked me how to wash it and didn’t flinch when I said it should really be hand washed.  All early indications lead me to believe that this won’t be my brother’s last hand knit present.  Which is good, because I may have picked up a few skeins of Bigger on the Inside this spring too.  Time to start planning for next year’s knitting gifts.

Here’s hoping all your holiday knitting was loved and cherished.


Knitting Details

Pattern: Blocks and Squares Scarf by Tetiana Otruta

Yarn: Lorna’s Laces Police Box from Jimmy Beans Wool

Ravelry Link: https://www.ravelry.com/projects/afthead/blocks–squares-scarf

 

The Wet-Willy Guide to Platonic Touching

adi-goldstein-339915

I was born from a non-hugger, so all this current rigmarole about “can I even hug my coworker anymore” has me baffled.  From childhood I learned the discomfort that hugs can cause, and was progressively raised to ask permission before initiating physical contact with another human being.  If you come into my office at work crying I will stand up put my arms out and ask, “Are you a hugger?”  If you are, then you are welcome to step into my hug.  If you are not, then you can shake your head, continue weeping, and I will offer you a tissue.  However, I will not force a tissue upon you and wipe your face, because what if you don’t like tissues?

One of my best friends is also a non-hugger.  For ten years we have worked alongside each other, raised our girls together, and I have never hugged her.  I’ve watched others hug her and seen her tolerate the contact.  She’s never pushed back or rejected the hug, because she’s a polite person, but I always wonder why others’ need to hug is more important than her desire to not be hugged.  Especially when she is in crisis, I marvel at how people unknowingly make the situation worse by hugging her.

As I troll the social network scene I notice person after person commenting on how uncomfortable this “no hugging” mandate makes them, and I think about all the people who have been made uncomfortable by their hugs.  So I have come up with a rubric for hugging which I call “The Wet-willy Guide to Platonic Touching.”  Here is how it works.

The Wet-willy Guide to Platonic Touching

Put yourself in a hugging scenario.  Maybe a colleague has just returned from medical leave and you want to welcome him back.   Perhaps you haven’t seen a client in a year and you find yourselves in a meeting together.  After twenty years you see your old lab partner from college at the grocery store.  Before you hug translate the action of hugging into a wet-willy.

For those of you unaware, the wet-willy is the process of sticking your finger into your mouth and thoroughly coating it with saliva.  You then remove the dripping finger from your mouth and place it into another person’s ear and wiggle your finger around a bit.  It’s a common practice among elementary aged boys.  

So now, consider each of the scenarios above.  Would you give that person a wet-willy?  Of course it will depend on the relationship.  If you and the colleague are good friends outside of work maybe an impromptu spitty finger in the ear will be fine.  The client situation?  Probably never a good idea.  The relationship plus the public venue makes for an unlikely successful ear rooting.  The old lab partner?  Maybe the two of you enjoyed a carefree relationship in the past, but do you know where her ear has been or where she has been?  Maybe she’s just been released from an anger management program and you could cause her to relapse into her old unwelcome bludgeoning ways.  Maybe she’s joined a religion which does not allow for physical contact outside of marriage.  Either way, probably not worth the risk to you or her.

Personally, I would not wet-willy in any of these situations.  It just seems too perilous.  If I’d had a prior wet-willy relationship with these folks, I might ask “Hey you wanna wet-willy?!?” or even stick my finger in my mouth and offer it, allowing them to run forward with their ear proffered.

Assuming you are in normal healthy relationships, there are probably situations where you don’t have to ask, and those will differ by person.  I’d totally wet-willy my kiddo.  I’d also do it to my husband, who would hate it, but it’s within the norms of our physical relationship.  There are a few friends, and that’s about it.  Now, consider who you would unabashedly wet-willy your life.  Maybe you have a more physical family than I do, in which case your your brother, your sisters, your parents, your spouse or your child might love wet-willy contact.  (And your brother will probably do it regardless just because it makes you uncomfortable, because that’s what brother’s do.  Sibling relationships are based on forgiving cruelty.)  If the person isn’t on your wet-willy list then don’t enter their ear without asking.  Sure, you might get rejected, but a “no thank you” response and the shot to your ego is better than the alternative.

Now, let’s say you assumed incorrectly and the person you thought was accepting of wet-willies is not.  You stick your finger in their ear and they shriek, “Oh gross!  What the hell is wrong with you?” There is an immediate and appropriate response.

You say, “I am so sorry I made you uncomfortable.  I won’t wet-willy you again.  Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

Do not explain to them how you like wet-willies or how you thought you had a wet-willy relationship or how most people really like your wet-willies.  No.  Do not get mad at them because you are embarrassed they rejected you.  Don’t shame them because they do not share your affection for spitty ears.  They don’t need to know about how in your family wet-willies are the epitome of caring.  Finally, in no circumstances is it okay to wet-willy them again, to show how really inoffensive your wet-willies are.

Now, go back and read the wet-willy instructions as hugs.  Hugs aren’t that different.  It involves even more body contact and on sweaty days or in crying situations there’s an exchange of bodily fluids.  A hug can be just as invasive to an individual.  So before you hug, just ask yourself, would I give this person a wet-willy without asking?  If the answer is no, than it’s really simple to say, “Do you want a hug?”  Wait for a response before acting, and respect the wishes of the person you care enough to hug.


Photo by Adi Goldstein on Unsplash

Embarrassingly Excessive Advent

I have a confession to make.  I have an obsession that has gone into the realm of embarrassing.  Do you have one of those?  Maybe a penchant for shoes or purses or coats beyond what is reasonable for your budget or your closet size?  Maybe this desire even contradicts your core beliefs?

My addiction is advent calendars.  Not those paper ones where you open for a new picture every day.  Not the felt ones where you stick a new ornament twenty-four times.  Not one where you get a festively shaped piece of chocolate every day.  Not even the cute ones with little drawers that can hold a Hershey Kiss.  Folks, all those enabling Advent calendars have been part of my life, but I’ve moved beyond those.  My problem is much worse.

Behold!  My daughter’s advent calendar!  Purchased from The Land of Nod several years ago it has been the instrument of my decline.  Note that every day in December, up to and including Christmas – totally Advent inappropriate, having a pocket for the 25th – my daughter gets a gift.   I’d like to say that they are just little trinkets, and there are some.  However, there are Lego sets in there, my friends.  Small Lego sets, but Legos nonetheless.  There are objects too big for the calendar, thus the “box” cards, which direct my little girl to an extra box of wrapped gifts.  For example, today she got a book, which is too big for day 1 pocket.  I confess that there are even articles of clothing in some of those numbered pockets.

If I step away from this monstrosity and look at it objectively I’d tell you that I live in a tiny house that doesn’t need more stuff.  We are a family that values experience over things.  My daughter will get tons of Christmas from our extended family, if I didn’t get her anything she’d have more gifts than the average kid.  I’m sure, in confidence, my mom would tell you that I’ve made her feel bad about buying things for her granddaughter because I’m so anti-stuff.  In fact, the commercialism of Christmas is just obscene and my favorite part of the season is our celebration of Hanukkah, where we light the candles together as a family and quietly say a prayer as the lights burn down.   I love that moment of togetherness and quiet.

(But I also REALLY love the Advent calendar.)  I love that there is a day where the cookie cutters I bought her in Minnesota will remind her of our family vacation.  I love that there are Nutcracker leggings for the day she’s going to the Nutcracker, and brass instrument leggings for the day we are going to go see a brass holiday concert.  I adore how she springs out of bed every day in December to see what I got her.  Her joy and gratitude are an amazing way to start the day.  I love the planning involved:  making sure her crafting gifts are delivered just before our annual crafting party.  It is excessive and ridiculous and I can’t stop.

I CAN’T STOP!  Last year the Advent Calendar issue took a terrible turn, because my favorite online knitting shop, Jimmy Beans Wool, started offering a knitting Craftvent calendar.  I couldn’t resist and I loved getting a knitting surprise every day last year.  So I bought it again.  Gak!  There’s not even any thoughtfulness in this one.  It’s pure unadulterated Christmas commercialism and I love it so much that the guilt just slips away.

I refuse to calculate it, but I may spend more on my daughter’s Advent calendar than on her Christmas presents.  My husband is a stabilizing force with the actual holiday gifts.  I know I spend more on my Craftvent calendar than he spends on my gift.  It’s this weird annual sickness I have: excessive advent celebration.

I cannot wait to see what we get tomorrow!  And the next day!  And….

Hamsters – not the pet for me

I’m calling it.  Hamsters are not the pet for me.  Here’s why:

  1. Hamsters are nocturnal, so really not awake and fun when humans are awake and wanting to play with hamsters.
  2. Hamsters have little personality due to their little brains.
  3. Hamsters are bitey, with no ability to learn not to bite.
  4. Hamsters are small and can easily escape to become short lived cat toys.

In particular, I’m starting to think our hamster Lula is not the pet for me because:

  1. She is a zombie, and I’ve never really trusted her since the hamster zombie apocalypse.
  2. She is now growing a hamster tumor growth thing out her butt, which is probably not related to the zombie thing, but who knows.

Really, that last one is throwing me over the edge right now.  I’m a pet owner who goes way above and beyond to care for animals.  Some might say I go too far, and they might be right.  However, this hamster pet cannot really be cared for.  The vet will see her, but the normal $120 vet charge will apply and while they could do hamster tumor removal or hamster chemo on Lula she was only a $60 pet to start with (including her cage) and she’s well toward the end of her expected lifespan.  And when I consider taking her to the vet even I can’t justify it.  I’m sure they’d perform hamster euthanasia if I really wanted them too, but she doesn’t really seem to be unhappy.  She just looks gross and can’t run on her wheel anymore because there’s this thing growing between her legs.  So I just watch her waddle around drinking water from her drippy straw thing and digging for peanuts in her hamster chow while her tumor and my guilt grow.

I hate hamsters.  They are not the pet for me.

The Perfect 1-Year-Old Gift

IMG_1256
Afthead Junior, many years ago.

Do you have a wee one in your life?  A child between 9 and 18 months who needs a gift soon?  While a variety of retailers will tell you which book, toy, or puzzle to buy while outlining all the brain development you’ll be stimulating, I have a gift that is guaranteed to delight.  The pre-toddler will abandon all other gifts for yours, if you follow my plan.  Best of all, it’s inexpensive.

Are you ready?

Every one year old is scolded for partaking in an activity that really, we’d all love to do.  When they find an opportunity the object is removed from them and set up high on a bookshelf to taunt them.  But you, the favorite gift giver, will end this cycle.

Go to any grocery store, drug store, gas station, or convenience store and buy a box of tissues.  Not just any kind, but the kind magically gives you a new tissue each time you remove one.  Do not wrap up the box, but just remove the perforated cardboard protector of the tissues.  If you must, pull the first one up, then hand it to the child.  Watch as they pull out one, then another waiting for the yelling.  When it doesn’t come, pure joy will emanate from the child as they methodically empty the box of magic.

I’m looking forward to tissue shopping this week.  I think my niece is ready.

A Knit Dilemma of Presidential Proportions – One Year Later

Last year, in Afthead world, tiny knit Hillary Clinton won a hard fought battle for the presidency against tiny knit Zombie Trump.  On this election day, I like to think that their camaraderie, their willingness to work together, and their ability to bring together toys and knit folks of differing opinions is a model worthy of emulation by us non-knit folks.

If you live in the United States, I hope you exercised your rights and voted today.  However, regardless of where you live, if you need a little more whimisical fuzziness in your politics, you might enjoy the Knit Presidential Dilemma series:  https://wordpress.com/page/afthead.com/17068.  It’s one of my favorite pieces.


Post in a series of tiny knit presidential dilemmas.  See the sixth post here, fifth post here, fourth post here, third post here, second post here, and the first post here.

Thank you to Anna Hrachovec for the amazing patterns!  Please visit her site at http://mochimochiland.com/.

Hot Beverage Rant

Dear hot beverage drinkers,

What in the hell?  Are your tongues made of stainless steel?  Is the reason you must dump sriracha on everything because your morning coffee has burned your taste-buds into oblivion?

img_9530.jpg

Okay, sorry, I didn’t mean to come on so strong.  But really, on Monday I met a recent graduate for a mentoring session at a coffee house, because that’s where you do such things.  My typical morning beverage of ice cold Diet Dr. Pepper was not available (Oh God, yes I know drinking artificially sweetened soda is going to give me Alzheimer’s) and it was snowing out, so I decided to get myself a nice warm Earl Grey tea.

I let the tea steep, added a smidge of sugar, put the adult sippy cup lid back on and took a tentative sip.  I could feel the individual taste-buds searing off as the boiling tea traveled from my lips to my esophagus.  This happens every…single…time I drink hot beverages.  Seriously though, it had been 15 minutes since my tea was served, and I was starting to feel awkward not drinking while the student guzzled his coffee with apparent delight.  I did not start screaming or rush to the barista to demand an ice cube – I am a grown up after all – but I wanted to.

Adult sippy cup lid, with boiling tea seeping over the edge

I’ve got to be some kind of weird mutant.  My tongue must be made of some delicate recessive tissue which cannot withstand boiling liquids like the normal tongues of the 21st century.  (I think it must have come from my dad’s side of the family, because he doesn’t drink hot beverages either.) Every morning I witness hordes of coworkers drinking their cardboard sweater wearing beverage – because otherwise the cup is too hot to hold SO WHY WOULD YOU IMBIBE THE CONTENTS – and I wonder if I drink differently than others or is my physiology fundamentally flawed?

It’s been three days since my hot beverage encounter.  I can almost feel the center of my tongue again and am hoping my taste will fully return by Thanksgiving.  Until then, I may have to become one of those weirdos who eats dressing on their salad.  Maybe the sliminess won’t bother me so much without nerve endings in my tongue.

Anyway, congratulations on your ability to drink hot beverages.

Sincerely yours,

Afthead