S is for Stepmother

Marjorie, my stepmother, appeared in my life when I was 14. I wasn't all that thrilled to meet her, as she represented change, and teenagers hate change even more than normal people do. Life was thrusting quite enough changes on me, thank you very much.

As time went on, however, I mellowed. For an agent of change Marjorie proved remarkably staid: sensible, practical, as willing as any mom to embarrass me in a good cause, and, eventually, equally willing to play the heavy when I needed one.
(Me: Can I go camping with Larry and his sister?
M: How old is his sister?
Me: Um... 24, I think.
M: Sure, I guess.
Me: Please rethink that answer.
M: Oh, in that case, absolutely not.
Me: Thank you.)

By the time I went off to college, we had long since become friends. When I called at the beginning of junior year to wish her and my dad a happy anniversary and to tell them that, speaking of weddings, I had some news for them, she said, "Oh, that's great, that's wonderful, I'm so happy for you, you're too young" — all in one breath, and meaning every word. I married him anyway, as you know, although we did graduate first. She wore chiffon to the wedding, and she and my dad gave us an Oster food processor. We still have it: solid and dependable, the damned thing refuses to quit so I can replace it with something sexier.


In the fullness of time she has reveled in becoming a grandmother (especially without going through that icky diaper phase, although she didn't get to escape it the second time around), even going so far as to Frolic with llamas.

At one point she and my dad signed up for a home-exchange program, and she asked me for a picture that they could send to prospective exchangers to prove that they were nice normal people.


For some reason she wasn't too happy with the results. (Yeah, I know, I could have done a better job on the antlers.)


A woman who could put up with me all these years obviously deserves a pair of handknit socks, don't you think? (That was the year I knitted something for everyone, finishing barely in time, and spent the rest of Christmas Day weaving in ends.)

As Snow White and Cinderella could tell you, a good stepmother is hard to find, and I'm immeasurably lucky to have found Marjorie.

They're Ba-aack

And I am so happy to have them, even if they are slightly grumpy from lack of sleep (the cast party was last night at my SIL's house). Achilles is thrilled to see Miss B. Callie is not pleased to see either of them, but she'll have to lump it. Grant is watching House, and, being in the same room, I am watching too and wondering how this man could ever survive five minutes on the job, even with his alleged brilliance. To say nothing of the fact that there's no such specialty as diagnostic medicine. Not to mention that he routinely brings people to death's door by treating them for the wrong disease, or two or three. And on what planet does any doctor have only one patient at a time? One thing is for sure: if I ever have a mysterious set of undiagnosed symptoms I am not going to that hospital, where merely uttering the words "you're fine now, and you can go home as soon as we process your discharge papers" causes the patient to start bleeding from every orifice.

I'm still working on the circle thing. The canonical increase rate seems to be four stitches every row, but wool at least is forgiving enough to let you fudge that a bit. You can increase 24 stitches (which seems to be what I'm working with), for example, and then work five rows even. I think 60 stitches may be too many to increase on one row. Do not ask how I found this out.