Also I am making kneesocks right now. They are a sexy combo of goldenrod with blue stripes, and it was only after I finished the first that I realized those are my high school's colors. Too much school spirit.

The Newsies soundtrack is blasting at full volume down the hall.

My boy and my grandma just came, saw and conquered the sleepy town of Needham. I thought this strange pairing would be unfortunate given Grandma's tendency to judge swiftly and harshly, but they ended up being best friends and she told him her entire life story. But now he is back in Chicago and I'm having trouble sleeping again. Serious case of whine flu up in here.

Second Session has begun at camp. The kids are older, smarter and more well-behaved this time around, but don't have that same ridiculous energy and lack of self-consciousness that the younger kids do. An eight-year-old doesn't think twice about jumping onstage and making up a song about rogue gorillas on the spot; an eleven-year-old twists her hands and smiles embarrassedly before whispering a few words and running off. That said, it's only the second day, and I think it'll still be a bitchin' session. I don't actually feel like I'm making things up on the spot anymore! First time for everything...

Mittens!

Do you know how hard it is to press the camera button while wearing mittens? Now you do.

These are a combination of knit and crochet. I basically just made up the pattern as I went along, ergo they will fall apart before the temperature drops below 60. Oh well.

In that vein, I'm really excited for Vassar winter. It's cozier than winter in the real world, considering you're stuck in building with your nearest and dearest and a whole bunch of alcohol for something like six months out of the year. It's also the only time of year you can feel somewhat dignified for having Christmas lights wound around your entire dorm room.


Subnote: I look like a serial killer in that picture. No regrets!

Slouchy Beret (aka Urban Outfitters knockoff)

This is the beret I just finished and have been wearing everywhere. It's actually starting to smell.

It was knitted in the round with Manos del Uruguay yarn (again with the Uruguay. Who knewruguay?) and a size 8 circular needle. I got the pattern at http://laurennell.com/knit/?p=16. Woohoo alright.

Distinctive Features of Today

- I have been fantasizing about Manos del Uruguay yarn. I'm not kidding- it's 70% merino wool, 30% silk, 100% sexy.
- A tiny girl named Willow Funkhouser told me at camp that she has crush on my brother. I hope they get married just so I can receive that wedding invitation. However, this is unlikely considering he, at the age of twelve, only eats chicken nuggets and chocolate milk, doesn't shower on the regular, and still carries his blanket around. Don't let the newly-purchased Pink Floyd shirts and guitar skillz fool you.
- I love my job. I don't know a whole bunch of people who get paid to write musicals with titles like "Bloopy Bear and his Woodland Friends," or to play Yogi Says for literally half an hour every day.

Back from Chi-town, with a vengeance.

I miss my buddy.

On the bright side, I knit a pair of socks that could fit a gorilla. Look!

(Unfortunately, the "Photobooth and Target bedpread" studio setup doesn't really do them justice. Pity.)

So Chicago-wise, I had a lovely lovely time. Lots of food was eaten, especially of the cheese variety when we went to Wisconsin. I had never been to Wisconsin and was pleasantly surprised to find that the Midwest is just a nicer, flatter version of the East Coast. Who knew?

My darkest moment came in the bowling alley, where I nearly shed tears because I was so bad. During our first game, my boy bowled a score in the 190's. I bowled a 27. And then several well-meaning Midwesterners came up to me to give me pointers and I was embarrassed to be That Guy. Especially That Guy in Rented Shoes. But then I buckled down and got better and my next score approached triple-digits. Maybe someday...

Who knows.

When Jason Roberts killed himself this March, everyone in Needham was surprised.

We weren’t particularly shocked that yet another good-looking young kid had committed suicide; after Kyle and Asya, after Young-Chul and Greg and that horrible car crash that killed both Keith and Igor, nobody thought that the teenagers of our tiny Massachusetts town were invincible.

Instead, everyone from the middle school girls who had pined for him as he played football to the Greek owner of the bagel store wondered aloud why. Why would a funny, confident, popular boy with a spot at Hartford and a new Jeep feel so low that he only saw one way out? “A brand-new Jeep!” the bagel store owner moaned. “Can you imagine!” The people in line nodded solemnly.

I found out about his suicide the same way I found out about all the others; first came a tentative, unconfirmed text message from someone I hardly spoke to after graduation, followed by a small flood of texts, calls and emails from my parents and friends from home. Needham isn’t large and only has one high school, and this kind of news spreads with the speed only a town used to tragedy can muster. We’ve figured out how to streamline the dissemination of information, reducing our grief down to 160 characters or less.

And what I find strangest about Jason’s death was how public the response has been. Everyone I know, in Needham or otherwise, uses Facebook. Jason had an account just like anybody else, and in the days and weeks and months that followed the announcement, hundreds of people logged on to write final messages and goodbyes on his Wall. Because of the nature of the site, anyone with an email account and a fascination with the disturbing can read these sometimes shockingly private notes. His parents, cousins, girlfriend and friends all posted multiple times, always writing as though he has Internet access wherever he’s ended up. It’s sweet and hopelessly sad.

Relatively speaking, I’ve been lucky for a Needham High graduate; although I’ve been affected by all the deaths, it’s mostly been in a muted, peripheral way, watching my neighbors and friends of friends mourn the unending string of losses of people I barely spoke to. In a way, it gives me an enormous amount of respect for classmates I’d written off as petty or ditzy or uncaring, seeing the grief they have to shoulder that I’ve never even touched. I feel ashamed reading the Facebook posts that unabashedly and publicly express raw pain and emotion, like I’m watching strangers strip naked for an audience, but it’s a personal shame tinged with admiration. I’d like to believe that this is the last time Needham will suffer such a blow, but it’s become almost routine by now. Are other towns like this? Is it a product of our wealth, our tight-knit yet suspicious community, our pressure to succeed academically and financially and socially before we even know what we’re supposed to be?

I don’t know. And judging from the desperate, lost, rambling messages I've pored over on Facebook, nobody else does either.