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Archive for February, 2009

TSA and Crazed Knitters

And here’s another reason I don’t fly!


They want me to give up my needles?!?!?! Say it ain’t so.

There is a slight chance I might have to fly in the month of May. I thought it would be good to find out some stuff since I have flown only once, when I was 14. True. Been grounded all those years… So I found this article which states that “some” needles might make it through security but it is such a gray area that a TSA agent can mark you as a possible maniac-knitter and not let you take them on the plane. They even suggest you bring a mailer just in case so you don’t have to surrender those $18 bamboos. Now really, it would make sense if they caught me on the day I pulled “the” sock apart for the 8th time… yeah, by TSA standards it was pretty much a slight maniacal episode… but for the exception of my grandmother who used to take a jab at us kids with her size 13 metal afghan weapons, I’ve never really met anyone who might actually use them for anything more than a seed stitch, or at best, a cable stitch.

And this just in: you can’t carry them on jury duty either… One crazy knitter ruins it for the rest of us! I have jury duty in March for the first time ever. My first thought was, ‘Oh no. Hours and hours of sheer boredom interrupted by bathroom breaks.’ I’d rather sit in a cubicle all day and pretend to be busy everytime the boss walks by.

So I called the courthouse and this very sweet lady who has worked there since the Stone Age said she was terribly sorry but they don’t allow knitting needles.

What?

True… no knitting needles. I asked her if she was in a cubicle.

BUT what I CAN carry is my laptop. Now let me get this straight…. I cannot take my circular 16″ needles with half a baby hat attached, but I can bring an electronic something that could possibly be a you-know-what!

Seriously?

So here’s the deal: I have been adding stuff to my laptop to study while I’m in the clink… well, not the “real” clink, more like the ‘No Knitting Needle Zone’. This, being a place I never thought I’d be…

On the heels of that terribly dreadful response from the courthouse was this story about flying with knitting needles. Woe to the knitters everywhere.

We should have our own airline.

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The Boy and The Boy Jr.

I thought I’d post these just for fun… these first two are The Boy, my son, who was four weeks old in the first picture and a week old in the second.


And now for Asher:

at one week

at three weeks



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Ok, so where would you find such a thing as cool as this? The hospital gift shop, of course! I was visiting someone today, stopped in the gift shop (they always have neat stuff) and yes, now I have The Bracelet that tells everyone that I’m a new grandparent… I have tried to tell everyone on the planet, but just in case I’ve missed one or two here’s the way to get the word out!

It is pink AND blue, so it is just right if we ever have another new one, which is probably safe to say “when” rather than “if”.

Anyway, there is a website on the inside of the bracelet and it is a cute site… check it out here And it was only $2… much, much cheaper than a megaphone!

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Developing the DSP: Doggie Stimulus Package

I called one of those 800 numbers to order my dog’s heartworm medicine.

When I heard the total cost I was not happy. I have a new budget for our two Boston terriers, and the medicine bit a chunk of it. Of course, they are worth every dime, but some changes are in order, and they are not going to be too excited about it.

The problem is, my dogs are needy. They think they need a new ball or toy on a regular basis and treats at least three times a day. Since chasing the ball cancels out too many treats, we tend to indulge them by keeping them well-stocked in both.

Kerby, our rather plump girl dog, likes to dress in fancy clothes. She isn’t very ladylike because she snores and snorts whether she is awake or asleep. Putting that package in the tight pink raincoat our daughter gave her and watching her waddle and snort around the house is better than cable television.

Hoover, the male, isn’t as high maintenance but loves one particular rubber toy shaped like a stick. His rubber toy costs about $10, and he needs a new one once a year. It is amusing to watch him run after it because he is more than a little clumsy and sometimes trips over his own four feet.

I sat down with the two of them to explain the recent cutbacks.

“OK, pups,” I began, while they stared bug-eyed at me, Kerby snorting with every breath. “We’re trying to boost our family economy so we don’t suffer a dog toy recession.”

They blinked. I’m pretty sure they were very interested.

“So I’m going to have to turn off your electric blanket, and you’re going to have to cut back on treats.”

Kerby ran to get her tennis ball, brought it back and dropped it at my feet.

“That’s right, Kerbs,” I said with as much sympathy as I could muster, “This is the tennis ball that you tore into the day you got it. You shredded the outside and it is all floppy now.

“Hoover, you know that rubber stick you like so much? Well, you shared it with friends who chewed the ends off. We might have to go with a ‘real’ stick in the near future.”

Hoover hung his head and licked a paw while he was at it.

Kerby grabbed her ball and shook it, making the shredded parts flop back and forth. Hoover tried to jump in my lap, missed and landed on the floor. It was just adorable, and my eyes became misty.

What was I doing? These precious little beings that ask for nothing and give so much in return! Oh, the horror! What could I have been thinking?

That’s why I couldn’t do it. Recession or not, there can be no cutbacks in this area. I’ll give up something else, I decided. Fancy hairdos, dinner out, movies and driving even! I’ll sell the farm! Wait. We don’t have a farm. No matter, whatever it takes, I’ll cut my budget somewhere else and indulge the pups.

It was then I had a moment of genius and developed the DSP, or Doggie Stimulus Package.

“Never mind pups!” I exclaimed as I jumped from my chair. “We’ll get more, even if you tear it up and are not in the least bit remorseful. We’ll give you treats and winter coats and snuggly blankets. You don’t even have to work! You’ll run and play and sleep even more than before. You know those new bacon bites we got for you? We’re going to call that a rebate!”

The three of us went happily jumping, tripping and snorting through the house. Of course, the celebration ended when we got near the treat cabinet, but I was excited to have devised a plan that would prevent cutbacks in one area so indulgences could continue in another. It was all very democratic, and, yes, the ones who actually work are the ones who will pay, but, gee whiz, we’ve mastered that plan since we do that every day with our taxes.

I patted their big heads and gave them each a bacon bite. Kerby snorted in gratitude, and I watched them curl up on their electric blanket.

A recessed economy means more creativity on the part of those running the system. As for this government, our inflation will be in the heart that swells with love for these pups.

And that’s a stimulus package we can’t resist.

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Asher makes the news!

click here for Asher’s birth announcement!

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Tuesday, February 10, 2009 at 12:30 am
by Kathy Bohannon
Savannah Morning News

When I first met Asher I didn’t feel like a grandmother. I just turned 50, for heaven’s sake.

What, by the way, is “feeling” like a grandmother? I thought of a few criteria. Knitting? Check. Dying the hair? Check. Saying things like, “When I was young. … ” Check.

Yeah, I do all those things, but still, I didn’t feel like a grandma yet.

Asher’s dad is my son, who is best known by readers of this column as The Boy. He has grown up on these pages and has been The Boy since I first began writing about him in 1985. The Boy was born John Bohannon III, but we have always called him Bo, The Boy, or a variety of other nicknames. I’ve already nicknamed his son The Ashman.

On the day of our grandchild’s birth, The Boy handed me a swaddled bundle – his first born – Asher John-Ryan. Even though the child was just hours old, he lay quietly in my arms, locking eyes with mine and looking around to check out his other new relatives. Whenever someone would speak, Asher’s eyes would look for the voice. Because of this, I’m pretty sure he is the smartest kid ever.

But then again, I’m the grandma, so I would think such a thing.

Over the past week I have had the same question over and over again: “Do you feel like a grandmother yet?” My answer was always “No,” because I wasn’t sure how a grandmother should feel.

That’s when I started running the checklist through my head. Wearing two pair of eyeglasses on top of my head and looking all over the house for them? Check. Never, ever, staying out late? Check. Wearing “sensible” shoes? I confess, though they are often tennis shoes. The grandmother in me was nudging ever closer, I could tell.

A few days after Asher came into the world, we visited The Boy and his little family. Husband John and I held The Ashman, marveled at how bright and alert he is, compared his features to various family members and took as many pictures as possible. My job was to keep him awake between feedings, and I was delighted to oblige. He liked to sit facing forward so he could see what was going on in the room around him. I think we entertained him rather well because he seemed to take everything in. He is already very curious, which I’m pretty sure means he passed the first requirement on the genius test with flying colors.

He sat in my arms looking at everyone, making a few faces and shortly thereafter he began to protest a little. Time for a diaper change, no doubt. Daughter-in-law Emily took him into her arms, and in no time he was dry and happy, and sitting with me again.

It was then that I felt like a grandma.

“You can spoil them all you want and give ’em back when they need something,” my older sister told me several weeks ago, and she should know since she has several grandchildren.

It was quite a privilege to get to hold the baby when he was at his best, and though I wouldn’t have minded changing him or helping with anything else, it wasn’t too disheartening to have him carried off and then delivered back to me, all spit-shined and happy again.

“So what does it feel like to be a grandmother?” a friend asked me yesterday. I was able to answer this time. I explained it was very much like driving a beautiful Rolls Royce, perfect in every way, and you notice a speck of dirt on it or it needs a tank of gas. “I’ll get that for you, Ma’am,” someone says, and you simply smile, sit back on your oversized rocker on your oversized porch, adjust your wide-brimmed hat to block the sun and sip your iced tea while you wait until it is returned all perfect again.

I know, I know. It won’t always be like this. I hope as time goes by I’ll be helping out with all sorts of things and that there will be plenty of hands-on time for this grandma, where I pinch-hit for Asher’s mom and dad. Whether it is an hour here or there, a weekend, or days and days of non-stop helping, it doesn’t matter; I’ll be there for whatever they need.

I am, after all, the grandma. And, you know, this is just what we grandmas do.

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