A Confession

OK, I have to admit to this. Since the Knitty issue went live and all of you lovely Knitty readers started linking here from the Sweetpea page, I have been obsessed - truly obsessed with sitemeter. Not because of the numbers at all. I mean, the numbers are nice and everything. It's the world map view, where I can sit and load the last 100 visitors to this blog and see where you're from as dots on this little world map. Australia. Canada. Alaska. Japan, Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Britain, South Africa. Wales! I am a Morgan. I take it seriously. Someday I am coming for a long visit.

It is a wonderful testament to the universality of knitters and knitting. Someday I'd like to come and visit all of you. We can sit at a cafe, or in a park, or a knitting shop and have a cup of coffee - or tea. Or real sushi. The knitting community has created a truly small world of knit-minded people, and I love that. If you'd like to post a comment just saying where you're from, you would possibly push me to thralls of excitement never before known. Even better, if you're currently experiencing a cool meteorological or natural phenomenon as I also have an obsession with weather.

I am going now to get my haircut, but I will be thinking about you all on my way. Where you're from, what you're knitting, and how awesome it is that a worldwide community can be created simply by this amazing medium of technology!

Got Knitty?

Got Sweetpeas? Gotta get 'em!



This has been the most giggle-making week of my life, and I love it! Look! KNITTY!!

I So Lied

It's a rare occurance that I lie. You can ask my kids. Lying is a big no-no around me. But I admit it, I lied. Amazon is nice and all. But proof pages? That's a whole new level. I wish there was some kind of Author Response Warning System. I wish someone had sat me down and said "OK, when you finish the manuscript you will completely forget the name, size, weight and color of every sock in the book. You will become addicted to toe-up socks and not even conside a top-down sock for weeks. Maybe even months. Then, it will seem for a long time as if you never wrote a book, that it was all just some kind of dream. The hours of insanity, the threatning of your husband and remaining child, the dog's swollen bladder, the ignoring of dust and grime will all become a distant memory and you will try to move forward with your design life. Moments will remind you - emails from the editor, emails from the other editor, questions from friends, family and acquaintances. But really it'll feel pretty flat for a while. You'll go to BEA and someone will write Exhibitor Author on your shirt like they mean it. That will be the first clue. Find a place to sit, and call your husband and cry a little. That's a good moment. Next you'll see your cover for the first time and you'll get all teary and feel warm and happy. Then you'll be on Amazon - and we all know you're an Amazon shopper, so that'll feel pretty big. But wait, Miss Bossy Britches, 'cause it ain't over yet. It's barely getting up steam! Your editor will send you an email. She'll say something really casual like 'Hi, Melissa. We're going to have some sample pages out to you by the end of the week.'
When the envelope comes, take your time opening it. For fun, expect 3 or 4 pages to fall out. This will be a moment to savor. Let the whole thing, all 141 pages, just slide out into your hands. Try to remember to breathe. The first page won't push you too far over the edge. It's an endpaper with a title on it, no big deal. But turn it, slowly. See the dedication page? Now you'll bawl."

That's about it in a nutshell, folks. A proof copy, in my hands, in my home. This is IT, this is MY book, MY BOOK. (Did you HEAR that?? My book!)I'd show you more...but don't you want to wait for the real thing? Can you imagine it?? Bound and spiralled and secure in a hardcover?

I just thought of one small drawback. I am probably going to have to dres like a grown-up forever now, aren't I?
I have to go objectively and maturely read my book, making marks as I go - although I am limiting the marking to the white borders only, anything else would be, well..it would be a desecration, man!

In totally other news, Girl made me do this. It's very bizarre, I did not know they let anyone over 30 join up, but so far no one has kicked me off. I am torn between it being another way to talk to people, and another thing requiring my attention. More will be revealed.

You Know It's Real When...

They said they'd be sending me sample pages sometime soon. That sounded exciting. It would be nice, thought I, to see something in progress, something tangible, something real. But then today I got this email from Persnickety, to whom I owe the greatest blast any day has had in a long time. You know you've arrived, you know it's for real, you know they're really serious when you're HERE!

Melissa Takes Manhattan, Part Two

***warning*** this got out of control. We'd call it a "longish" post...
I thought I'd seen it all in Northampton what with the Dalai Lama sighting. Silly me. The Jacob Javits Center in New York is where it's at. Where else can you find LL Cool J, Dr. Ruth, Sandra Boynton and god all under one roof?
So, what's BEA like? Schwag. Endless schwag. Free books every five feet. Or less. Who's there? A whole lot of people. Like a wicked whole major lot of people.
Probably more people than I have ever encountered in one place before in my life, and I think that'll include Disney World (in December, anyway). Most importantly, I saw people with names like Stephanie, Laurie(by the way I LOVE this book!!), Ann and Kay, Debbie Stoller. Yeah, there were "celebrities" too, but who cares when you're in the presence of knitting greatness?? I got free books, some signed. Mr. Wonderful even got some. I found a book on cycling mishaps, kayaking adventures, and a bunch of travel books on NY (hint, hint...a nice long weekend in Manhattan would be fun, darling...).
My handler Amy Greeman deserves a medal for putting up with me. Lookit her, calmly reading her Times at Starbucks while I obsess over my laptop. I have some...peculiarities of character, which can make me an interesting bunkmate. First, I am obsessed with my email. And the lack of (scary, as in "we will be spamming you for life if you connect through us") Internet access in the Gershwin was equivalent to physical starvation. I spent a lot of time chasing free Internet or buying not-cheap Internet. Anything to connect. I have the same affection for my cell phone, so when I discovered that I'd brought Mr. Wonderful's charger by mistake there was a small crisis. Then nearly more of one when it was discovered that a cell charger in Manhattan is not $14.99 like at Wal-Mart.
I saw the book cover, which nearly put me on the floor (note: this photo was taken on Saturday, long after I had adjusted to the cover's presence in the booth). I sneaked onto the BEA floor Thursday during set up to get a preview so I would not bawl in public, smack in front of the Storey booth, when I saw it for the first time. Good call, I think. Mr. Wonderful was supporting me long distance via cell phone as I trawled the floor in desperate concern that I find the booth and that the cover be up. There was this very awesome surreal, slow-mo moment there as I stopped, turned, looking and not finding, and all of a sudden whispered "Oh my God" while crying. There it was, larger than life, right in front of me. It's the first tangible evidence that I really actually wrote a book and someone really actually is publishing it. I should show you the marketing piece. It's something else entirely! Blogless (let's work on that, shall we?) Katy arrived and after a few tries, we did meet up Saturday. It was very good to see a second well-known face. Friends, when you're in the middle of your first trade show wearing an author badge for the first time, feeling a little overwhelmed and slightly confused are a huge gift.
Everyone MUST buy at least one copy of Crazy Aunt Purl. I love it. Love it, love it, love it. And in person she's a warm, wonderful Southern girl. Could just eat her up. She reminds me a little of someone else, another bubbly and happy person that I know and love, not the kind that make you want to scream but the kind that make you want to just hug them.
New York cabbies are something else. Now, this is my first big city cab experience. Whenever we go to Washington we use the metro or our feet, so the whole cab thing was new to me. I managed to learn how to say "27th between 5th and Madison, please" just in case I got separated from Amy and needed to get back to the Hotel Gershwin. Oh, the Hotel Gershwin. I actually think I'll go back. Totally odd, funky pop-art place, complete with original, signed chicken soup can in the lobby, preserved in a plastic box. I walked down the Creepy Stairs (didn't know that, didja Amy? I had to, man) one morning while Amy was showering, and discovered that every floor is painted in a different colorway. It's clean, reasonably comfortable for Manhattan, and cheap - that's a big plus. There's no Internet unless you 1.) pay for it and 2.) allow them to spam the ever-loving heck out of you. At Hampton Inn, wireless if free. I missed the Hampton Inn. But the Hampton Inn is $300 a night. I opted for the Starbucks around the corner for Internet, $10 a day on T-mobile. Also there's this most wondrous place called Cafe 28 around the corner that has everything from soup and sushi to fresh fruit and soda, wine, eggs, coffee, you name it. A veritable treasure trove of a place. If you were out to save a buck or more you could eat entirely at this place 3 meals a day and not run out of options. They even have a hot bar in the back, by the soda cooler. And organic chocolate at the front, by the power bars.
One morning I decided I was a great grown girl, and I walked, all on my own, from the hotel up Madison to 39th and back again, in search of quickie business cards. I have no cards, and this is an issue apparently (Nobody told me. Who knew? Now I know, cards shall be forthcoming!). It was early, and not a lot of people were out and I loved it. All the stuff I've heard all my life about New Yorkers was all wrong, or at least significantly mistaken in most things. The cabbies are polite, and they drive maniacally well, if fast and a little frenetically. But they do the job and they do it well. Some are downright chivalrous, tsking when we're grabbing luggage out of the trunk and taking it from me, and this is after we've paid them, so it's not like they're tip seeking. The "regular" people, like the guy cleaning the street at 7am, seem for the most part warm and welcoming. He stopped spraying the sidewalk for me, and gave me a big smile and a "You're welcome, have a great day!" to my little New England "Thank you". The speed people move at is a little intimidating for a country girl, but if you just move at your own pace, and let them all fly by you, you'll see a lot and feel a lot that they're missing.
Shopping - I have never seen so much extraordinary stuff in my life, some of it causing me moral qualms and reinforcing my opinion of excessive, scary consumerism and American culture. I saw a $7.5 million necklace at Cartier, and diamonds as big as grapes (like green Thompson, not little champagne grapes...) at Tiffany's. Tiffany's diamonds do shine brighter and sparkle more, so you know. There IS a difference. I tried on a pair of $1200 Versace stilettos. Despite the attentive and supportive salesman, I managed to pass them by. He worked for it, too. It's the first time I have allowed a shoe like that on my foot in about 15 years. They were very pretty and sparkly. And entirely too high for me, as in "plummet to your death if you misstep" high. $1200 for a shoe. For $1200 I could feed a small country through Heifer International. Yes, I went to the American Girl store. It was a trade-off. It was that or Disney, and Amy drew the line. Her choice, remember! This too was distressing. I remember Pleasant Company, pre-Mattel, who repaired Samantha for free when Kioshi chewed her arm to pieces, and returned her in a johnny with a hospital wristband. I remember the comfortable history education disguised as play, and the high quality. I own the AG dress patterns, which are excellent. I remember when Bitty Baby had a hand-crocheted layette. Somewhere around here are Samantha, Kirsten, Josefina and Addy. And maybe Molly. And their books, too. And Bitty Baby, of course. This new version of AG is not what I'd like to remember. OK, the doll holder in the bathroom? That's cute.
Last but not least, I confess. I saw the peep show at the Museum of Sex. We had to walk by it over and over, day after day. What's a girl to do but peep? That was one hot chick let me tell you. Un-Bee-Lee-Vable had I not seen it with my own eyes. Totally worth the look! It's something else. Not sure I'd put myself all out there quite like that, but hey, what do I know!? Here’s the attention getting peep-show window, and you can (and you should!!) click here for the actual show – remember, this is a G-rated blog! I did see people entering this establishment to see the current exhibition, entitled Kink. I love sex, I'm actually a big fan. You could ask Mr. Wonderful about this, but if he answered with anything but a blush he'd be killed. God made sex, even wrote a whole book about it, sex is good. I am, in fact, the person my oldest and dearest friends come to when they have clinical sex questions. But my "old-school" notions of sexuality very deeply involve concepts of privacy and intimacy, so the idea of walking through a museum of with displays requiring warnings not to touch, lick or mount with a bunch of strangers is not my kind of thing. A peep show I can cop to. But pay $14.50 to wander through a public exhibit? Not so much my kind of thing.
So that's it in a nutshell, leaving out tons of things, like Hamachi sushi in Grammercy Park, Waitress at Lowe's, the Thursday marketing conference that made my brain hurt, the overwhelming feeling of BEA and yesterday's post combined that forced me to stop, sit and knit multiple times right where I was, the invitation to TNNA from Unicorn Books to sign in January, the incredible beauty of Grand Central, the sadness at the $18 "ride to the top of the Empire State Building" that I just could not make myself pay for, then surreal feeling of the Wedneday I had followed by the weekend I had, followed by the Monday and Tuesday I am currently having, the peace that falls over you when you see a friendly face over lunch (a $7.95 salad the size of my fist) and can talk without reservation about the insanity around you, the feeling of needing a handler, the lack of knitting time, and the pressure of needing to wear things that 1.) are not denim, 2.) are ironed and 3.) match.

The Nature of Life

I debated posting this now, or waiting until after my Manhattan Retrospective. I need to do it now. I needed to do it Wednesday. There has been a bit of death in this blog and in my life of late, from the dog to Kristie and Lynda's fathers, and Now This. On Wednesday morning as I was preparing to leave for New York, I received a call from an old friend. It was a teary message and I knew immediately. She was calling about her daughter Olivia. And she was calling to tell me something horrible. She was calling to tell me Olivia was dead.
1988 was really a great year for me. My daughter was born and I rejoiced and celebrated. I adored Megan from the moment of her conception. Even though I sensed my marriage was ending, I had peace about it. I had been depressed a little before Meg was born and a little after, but in my heart I knew we were in the final countdown to freedom and it felt safe and good and strong. Lisa and her husband had gone to Florida, and she'd returned with her son Brandyn in tow, pregnant and unsure of how she felt about that. Her husband rejected Olivia long before she was born. It's something I can't understand or relate to. I can bond with an unborn child and take it into my heart just on the basis of faith in it's presence. Men are able somehow to discard children they've never met long before they're even born. Maybe, right now, I envy them.
Lisa and Brandyn moved in with us. Quite a household with me and my two kids, my soon-to-be-ex, and Lisa with Brandyn and a growing bump. We laughed a lot. We made cookies. We cried a lot, too. She asked me to be with her when the baby was born, and I agreed. I love labor and delivery, and at the time my sole goal in life was to be a midwife (and how I ended up a knitting teacher and designer and author with a nursing degree is utterly and completely beyond my comprehension). This would be my first birth, and I was very excited. We discussed drugs, episiotomies, and labor practices. Lisa wanted what I call a 'tech-y' birth. She wanted drugs. She did not care if they cut her, in fact she wanted a 'pis. She wanted me there for support, and to ensure that she got her way. Although I am a huge proponent of natural childbirth, I am there to make sure a woman gets what she wants, to support and encourage. We talked about names. Jacqueline. Paige. Olivia. It was like we were having a baby, this all-girl band; as if these two straight girls decided to get pregnant and have a baby of their own. We joked about how I could have given birth to all four kids, since they were all at least 9 months apart. I was The Mommy then, big into being a mom, breastfeeding, into natural foods as much as I could be on a too-tight budget. I took the whole thing rather seriously, and would nurture anything that came my way.
When Lisa began to complain of upper abdominal pain we all dismissed it as "no big deal". But the pain did not resolve. Lisa was admitted to the local hospital with HELLP Syndrome. Briefly, it's believed to be a cousin of preeclampsia and causes a series of very scary things in pregnant women - clotting factors are inhibited, certain blood cells are destroyed. It can be lethal if untreated and requires immediate delivery of the baby, as delivery is the only thing that will stop the relentless destruction of maternal blood cells and the eventual seizures that accompany the syndrome. We spent the evening in a labor room in Springfield with two beds. A series of women in varying stages of labor passed through the other bed in a haze. It was the first time I'd experienced the difference in cultural birth practices, and I admit to a bit of envy. A Hispanic woman will scream things at her husband that most woman only get away with in transition, and then only for a few minutes. One woman came in at 3 centimeters, screaming, calling this man every name in the book, threatening him with a long dry season, dismemberment if he made any attempts, and death if he succeeded. She screamed for over an hour, until they transferred her to a birthing room. "Dios Mio! You ba%$#rd!! Do you see what you do to me?? You are NEVER touching me again! NEVER!! If you touch me I will kill you!! OH!! AYI, AYI, AYI!!" and the muttered reply "I am sorry, baby. I am so sorry. I promise. I will not, no, never again...." (Sure, right. We believe you, dude. Never again. Uh-huh...). I'd have given anything to scream at my husband like that for even ten seconds. It was comical. Lisa being told by her doctors to relax, be calm, and us in this room surrounded by women screaming their heads off all night long.
Lisa was put on a Mag drip. Magnesium sulfate is used in toxemia to halt the seizures that can kill. Understanding that delivery needed to be imminent, we were frustrated that things weren't moving. Get the baby out, everyone lives, we all go home. There was a debate as to how to proceed. With toxemia, cesearean delivery of the baby stops the syndrome and the mother is managed and the baby is fine and life's a big old party. With HELLP, incisions are the last thing you want to create, since a woman will bleed out between the first cut and the time you get the baby free. I will never forget the look on Lisa's face when the doctor gave her the "good" news. No drugs, no episiotomy, no C-section, just one little line for fluids and meds. She signed heavily and looked at me and said, "I hope you're happy. You get your way after all." We were wheeled into a surgical delivery room. It was very cold, sterile, bright and white. It was essential, in case Things did not go As Planned. But things went just as well as one could hope for. A smooth labor, no episiotomy, a bit of pushing and yelling and there she was, this wonderful if decidedly blue girl child. The baby was alive, and would be fine, but as a result of the mag she had an APGAR that would make anyone suck air and not believe she'd still be with us at noon. She looked for all intents and purposes about to die. But she didn't. And wouldn't for another 18 years. And neither did Lisa, who lived to experience the day every mother dreads.
I remember this most vividly of all. I held her for her mother to see, and the doctor said to Lisa "What are you going to name her?" She looked at me and said, "I don't know. I can't pick. You name her." So I did. "Olivia Paige" I said. Olivia Paige Boske. And so she was. So now you know how she came to be here. You have heard how she was born, how she entered the world. You have not heard how she lived. And really, I am not sure it matters. I could wax poetic about how children should not die before their mothers. About the waste of a human life caused by one moment of recklessness. I could talk about how she wanted to be a lawyer and how she wanted a baby. It doesn't matter to me right now. Only one thing matters to me.
On Tuesday, May 29th at around 7:00pm two cars met in the middle of Route 2. Four people were involved, three in a Saturn and one in a Honda. None of that really matters either. Only one thing matters to me. The Saturn contained a life just 18 years short, and that life ended abruptly and without warning. And I loved her. And it hurts. And right now, that's really all that matters to me.
I keep seeing this picture in my head, from when Lisa and I took the kids to Maine for the day, and as I stare at it in my mind, she ever so slowly erases from her feet to the top of her little blond head, just disappears from the photo, leaving the other three on the beach. It haunted me all weekend.

Melissa's Big Adventure Part The First

(Guest-written by handler and quasi-publicist Amy)
The big bad city has not defeated Melissa Morgan-Oakes. We're sitting here in Starbucks observing life's rich pageant and preparing to head down to the BEA floor to snag schwag. I'm finding that someone here doesn't need all the OCD admonishments I keep handing out ("Don't take what the homeless guy is handing out!" "Don't cross the street until ALL the cars go past!" "Are you SURE we have to go to The American Girl store?") and is quite the capable big-city gal. As a matter of fact, someone here who was a little, shall we say, petrified, of being in a city where the blocks are numbered is living quite high on the hog. Yesterday passed in a blur of coffee, Tiffany's, Prada, Cartier (where we saw jewelry that cost MILLIONS), and Teuscher, the high temple of chocolate where we were stunned into silence by a blizzard of champagne truffles. Without being sort of creepily parental and weird, I have to say I'm so proud of the fact that she is not only not intimidated by New York, but she loves it. Which is good, since she figures into my master plan of knocking over several institutes of high finance and using the proceeds to move us both here where we'll go to Tiffany's every day and try on the big diamonds.
I'll end this post here but will continue to update on Melissa's march through Manhattan later this day.

OK...this was supposed to be totally a guest blogger event, but I just have to add one little thing...my handler/quasi publicist has booked me into the lovely Gershwin Hotel...adjcent to the Museum of Sex (which, for the low, low cost of $14.50 I may visit should I choose to). The sign makes it a tempting proposition....