Our big, bad clothes dryer is on the fritz, which meant I had no reason to feel inadequate about the backload of laundry just sitting there all weekend.

So what did I do with all that free time? I stared into space some. I started a new knitting project. That brings the total number of works-in-progress to eight (8!). Watched the kids play outside in the unseasonably nice weather and shouted at them repeatedly to stop pointing sharp sticks at each other. The neighbor boy came over with the neighbor dog to play, and Finnegan got to sniff more doggy behind than he has in quite some time.

But by far the most thrilling thing to happen all weekend, at least in the World According to Gert, was the phone call she got from her cousin Valerie.

Valerie is getting married in October. Valerie wanted to know if Gert would be the flower girl!

"Yes, please," answered Gert, all shyness and polite with both hands cradling the receiver. Then, with Valerie still on the line, she lowered the phone and looked at me and shouted, "MOM! COUSIN MALIDIE ASKED ME IF I WILL BE HER FLOWER GIRL! AND I SAID YES!"

She put the phone back to her ear. "Thank you," she said demurely. Then she handed the phone to Gary and started jumping up and down. She squealed and jumped down the hall and back. She bounced around the kitchen. She jumped through the living room.

"A flower girl! A flower girl! A flower girl!" she sang.

It was a day filled with glee and abandon.

The next day, the anxiety set in. I had to repeatedly reassure Gert of the following:

• Valerie was not going to forget that she'd asked Gert to be her flower girl.
  
• No, we hadn't missed the wedding.
  
• No one would be mad at her if she made a mistake.
  
• She wasn't going to trip. And it would be okay if she did trip.
  
• No, I promised we hadn't missed the wedding yet.

Her only disappointment is that she'll have to share the spotlight with a ring bear. Bears are cute, after all. But they cannot be trusted with flower petals.

Did you know that after my wedding day, on which I wore a white, lacy, sequined, beaded, floofy wedding dress that I loved, I took off that dress and shoved it into a large, white trash bag?

Not immediately, or anything. Just after it had been hanging in my closet for five years and I wanted the closet space back. That's five years of staring at it every freaking morning, people. And feeling guilty that I hadn't yet bothered to have it professionally cleaned and preserved, which I guess is what you're supposed to do.

Did you know I would have had to pay in the neighborhood of $187 to have it cleaned?

Did you know I bought the dress on eBay from a wedding shop closeout for $200? I mean, come on. It's not like my daughters are going to wear it on their wedding day.

Um.

Recently Gertrude has discovered Our Wedding. She pores over the photo album. She wears Matilda's flower girl dress. She begs to try on my ring. Her eyes light up when she sees pictures of me in the wedding dress.

"Oh, Mom! You look so beautiful in this dress! I just love this dress. I'm going to wear that dress when I get married to Daddy."

Oh, did I forget to mention? She's entirely convinced she's going to marry her daddy. Not a man like her daddy. Him.

I knew the Daddy worship was strong in our house, but I didn't realize it was this strong.

"Sweetie, you can't marry your Dad."

"Yes, I can."

"But he's already married."

Gertrude thought for a moment and mused, "You can't be married to two people..."

"Not in these parts."

Gert had an ah-ha moment and held up her finger. "You will have to find a different man to marry."

"But…!" I protested.

"That's okay, Mommy," she said, with earnest sympathy. "I'm sure you will find someone."

Was that the sound of a wedding dress laughing at me from inside its little trash bag cocoon?

I know I tend to make things about me even when they're not (*cough* codependent *cough*), and I try to catch myself when I'm doing that, but here's one that really does seem to bleed the line.

When someone's going through a tough time, I'm a terrible listener.

I listen, yes. I truly empathize. Then it gets to the part where I want to fix everything. And I want to say Just the Right Thing. Instead, I just sit there and stare at you because I'm mentally composing the Right Thing to say that will make it all better. And then I'm rejecting each half-formed composition because it's not right. My hands sweat. My throat closes up. And I blurt out something like, "That really sucks!"

Sometimes "That really sucks!" works passably well. (Not so much if you're distraught over your broken Hoover.) But it feels woefully inadequate, which makes me want to try even harder to find something better to say, and need I tell you what a vicious cycle that is?

Instead, here's what I'm proposing. I'll offer a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on for as long as you need it. Vent all your frustrations, whatever they may be. And then, rather than trying to fix the unfixable with words that never come out right, I'll match your problem to the perfect handknit item, which I will then knit it for you. Wouldn't a new pair of socks or a beer cozy go a long way toward improving anyone's outlook?

Please don't say no, because I'll have no response to that.

My department just had our first annual celebration of Festivus. There was the airing of grievances, followed by feats of strength, and suchlike.

I started jotting down several of my grievances, and found it rather cathartic. You should try it.

Lion Brand Yarn, you have disappointed me in the following ways:

• Homespun. Home! Spun!
  
• Not all knitters think Fun Fur is such tremendous fun.
  
• 90 percent of the free patterns you offer are ponchos. There are only so many times you can spell out the directions for knitting a pocho. 1. Make a rectangle. 2. Seam it. The end!
  
• There are way too many knots in a skein. You appear to be hastily tying broken strands back together again and hoping no one will notice. That's just not okay.
  
• You discontinued Cotton Ease yet introduced about 500 new novelty yarns. Damn you.

[Insert Unnamed Marketing Manager Here], you have disappointed me in the following ways:

• Five minutes before a brochure was supposed to go to print, you completely butchered every inch of copy and laughed it off as you handed it back to me saying, "Revise now, or revise later!" Eff you, you effing gap-toothed bastard. There's a black smudge where your soul ought to be.
  
• And then a few days later you asked MY BOSS when you were going to see a new draft of copy. Because apparently I have nothing else occupying my time. How about... when I effing feel like getting around to it? Is that good enough for you, Satan?
  
• Oh, and let's not forget how in the middle of the last sales meeting rush you insisted that I devote large and unnecessary chunks of my time to putting together a presentation that no one in the building actually wanted to go to. That was useful.

My skin, you have disappointed me in the following ways:

• You broke out in times of stress, just when I needed you most.
  
• As soon as the cold weather hit, you dried up like a cactus.
  
• You did not heal on contact, as promised by the bottle of Lubriderm.
  
• You remained pale and pasty eleven months out of the year, and the rest of the time you were red and blotchy.
  
• Stretch marks. Necessary? I think not.

I cleaned my bathrooms for the new year, and then (in what I believe to be a direct correlation) a tornado warning swept through our neighborhood at 5 a.m.

Never again, I say. Mildew-free tubs are not worth the suffering of millions. I will not be held responsible. For all I know, vaccuuming my basement was what caused Hurricane Katrina.

I've never had to usher the kids downstairs in response to a siren in the middle of the night before. Poor drowsy Matilda dutifully wrapped herself in a blanket, shuffled down the steps into the yarn room, and then curled up on the floor. But little Gert was a different matter. She was already in our bed because of a bad dream. She already had expressed a fear of tornados. And fires, and monsters*, and the basement, and loud noises, and many other things. She sat wrapped in a blanket on my lap, literally trembling for the entire fifteen minutes we were downstairs. But considering that this little kid was being confonted with several of her biggest fears in the middle of the night, I was surprised at how calm she was. She just nuzzled up in the blanket and kept asking if there was a tornado. No, we told her, the sirens just mean there might be.

I really hope that's the most excitement we can expect from 2006. But at least now we know two things: it's fortunate that I'm married to a paranoid man, because I would have slept right through anything short of a tornado tapping on my window and asking to borrow a cup of sugar. And watching a 12-hour binge of the Twilight Zone is a surefire way to make anything that strange seem plausible.

*Sidenote: for Christmas, Gert's grandpa gave Gary a laser pointer (aka laser-guided monster destroyer) and that has greatly reduced the number of monsters.

Looking back on 2005, I did pretty well on the resolution front. I eat plenty of fruit. I let go of the more minor annoyances. I'm more embracing of my own personality quirks. Bonus: we started practicing Buddhism, making this my most spiritually rewarding year to date.

I'm happier. I think I'm more open and easygoing. I'm also about fifteen pounds heavier. But whatever. I'm still cuter than Janice Dickenson.

This year, my plans involve getting in shape and then being content with whatever that shape may be. I also plan to paint several rooms in the house, invest more in friendships, knit my deserving husband the perfect sweater, cultivate compassion and loving kindness for all living beings, formulate a clearer sense of my career path, and take a daily multivitamin.

Bring it on, 2006.

Gertrude just told her father, "My name is Ashley. And I've killed. I've killed a lot of plants."

Of course, earlier today I told the dog, "Back off the candy, Booty McFresh."

And yesterday Gary emphatically denied all connections to his Ninja past.

And her sister claimed to be a flying fish.

My favorite part about Christmas is the end of it, when everyone has something to play with, read, or do. No one is hungry or bored or anxious about where we have to be and when. It's peaceful.

Matilda was helping me form cookie dough into cookies yesterday, and we were listening to a CD of Christmas music. I said one of those things that always makes her roll her eyes at me. I said, "When people talk about wishing for peace on Christmas, what do they mean? What does peace mean?"

Matilda rolled her eyes and plopped a piece of dough on the baking sheet. "Um. I don't know. Probably like, people not fighting. Not arguing with each other."

"Not yelling?"

"Not feeling angry at anyone."

"Does it mean just sitting there and being quiet?"

Matilda considered. "Sometimes."

That's good enough for me.

Here's my biggest problem with this time of year. It's cold. I'm cold. And being cold makes me crabby. Therefore, the answer is yes, I am the ice bitch.

You might think the answer to the cold problem would be putting on an extra sweater. But then my fingers are still cold. And what about my feet? So I put on two pairs of socks and a pair of gloves.

This is inside, mind you. The thermostat says 72. But it lies. So does the fact that Gary is wearing a t-shirt. He's just acting tough.

So then, I stumble around the house in my three sweaters, four socks, and clumsy gloved fingers feeling utterly ridiculous and uncomfortable until my dry skin starts to itch, and then I rip off several layers to get to my fingernails. But then immediately my fingers freeze again and I'm wondering how my toes can possibly remain individually frozen blocks of ice inside all of those socks. It's like they bring their own refrigeration unit to the party.

From about mid-October through late April, I can't get warm. I have three extra blankets on my side of the bed, slipper socks, sweatshirts, fleece pants, and a robe. I'm wrapped in a layer of cold, and anything I put on just traps the cold in next to my skin.

If you see me sitting in a parked car in the heat of August with the windows rolled up and a silly smile on my face, it's because I'm finally starting to get the feeling back in my extremities.

Gary promised me we can move to a warmer climate as long as there are good bike trails nearby. Arizona, maybe? New Mexico? I like lizards…

Dear clients,

Happy holidays! I assume you know it is the holiday season because you have been filling my inbox with presents in the form of work orders. In the future, please include a gift receipt so that I may return them. I already have several dozen just like them.

In the past, I may have mistakenly given you the impression that I am both a mind reader and a miracle worker. For those of you now seeking Christmas Miracles from me, please know that in the spirit of the holiday season I would like to use my weekends for things like shopping, gift wrapping, and reacquainting myself with my family. Your emergencies simply aren't as important as my four-year-old's letters to Santa and my ten-year-old's help in the kitchen baking cookies.

Next year they will be five and eleven. They'll never be four and ten at Christmas ever again. What I have with them right now is a one-time opportunity to see this Christmas through their eyes. There will be other Christmases, but never again this Christmas.

Therefore, if my skewed priorities cause your brochure to go to print on December 28 instead of December 21, forgive me if I don't lose any sleep over it. I have to buy my littlest one the "footie pajamies" she so desperately wants before she grows up and learns how hot and uncomfortable they actually are. That's important. That's the kind of miracle I want to be working on right now.

Christmas teaches you things about yourself. I used to always say, "I'm going to get up early on the day after Thanksgiving and get all my shopping done by 9 a.m.!" But by now I know better. I know I'm going to put it off till the last minute. And that's okay. Because I'm not one to enjoy being trampled by middle-aged women with bargain lust.

I should start Christmas shopping early. But I don't. I know this about myself.

I haven't yet learned that if I want to make everyone on my list something precious and handcrafted, I really need to start doing that in July. Not December. July.

Like that's ever going to happen.

And so this year I looked at the calendar in early November and made a conscious decision NOT to knit for friends and family this Christmas. It was going to be a store-bought holiday. There is no shame in that.

But now that it's creeping up on me, I'm feeling the lure of the impending adrenaline rush. Just how many socks could I get knitted before Christmas eve? Is it impossible to knit a lace scarf in a week? Wouldn't it be cute to knit everyone little mitten-shaped tree ornaments? Imagine how much cuter a store-bought stuffed animal would look with a hand-knitted sweater on it!

Please talk me down from this madness. There's no reason to start knitting for Christmas now except that I'm so used to feeling stressed out and over-committed that I can't cope with the absence of it.

Maybe I just need to bake some more cookies. And eat them. Join me?

The other night, I was reading Gertrude a bedtime story and I couldn't get out more than three words at a time because she kept interrupting me. Apparently, she was really enjoying the illustration style of this particular book.

"Who drew this book?" she asked. I closed it and we looked at the cover.

"Robert Munsch wrote the words..." I said.

She giggled. "Ha ha! Munch!"

"Sheila McGraw drew the pictures."

"She colored them too! That makes them look very pretty."

I agreed, and tried to keep reading. Three words later she said, "Did someone draw this baby?"

There was a picture of a mother holding a baby wrapped up in a blanket, sitting in a rocking chair.

"Yes, they did!" I said. "Sheila McGraw drew this whole entire page and everything on it. The mom, the baby, the rocking chair..."

"How did she draw such a cute baby???"

"Well, like this, " I said. "Give me your finger."

She held out her pointer finger and I helped her trace it around the illustration. "This part of the baby is round like a circle. Then you'd draw a small little baby head. And that part connects to the mama's arm here..."

She had a fascinated look on her face.

When we finally got the end, Gert said very sweetly, "Good job, Mom! You read that book very beautifully!"

"Well, thank you," I said, somewhat amused.

She patted me. "That's my girl!"

Welcome to the Nanowrimo ICU, where, if you listen closely enough, you may be able to hear the whoosh of life support and the death rattle of my Nano novel.

I think it might have pulled through if it hadn't been for ISBN-13.

Instead of taking time off to write, I've been stuck at work converting ISBNs in a catalog to ISBN-13.

It's evil. We call it... "the trece."

This is not to be confused with my designer counterpart and teammate, Tracy.

So when I'm going around telling people "the trece" killed my novel, please don't misunderstand.

Oh well, I think it's a decent idea and I'd like to actually finish it in a way that doesn't embarrass me. I'll put it on that shelf downstairs next to the sweaters I intend to finish and the t-shirts I'm going to someday cut up and sew into useful things like underpants for the whole family.

Now that my little green car has fully recovered from having been driven headlong into a PT Cruiser, I feel that the only way to make up for his trauma is to reward him with presents.

Like this.

And I may have to knit him a cozy.

Can cars be turned gay?

Although my word count has all but crawled to a pathetic halt, please don't let that fool you into thinking that I'm Not Going to Finish the Novel. Because I am! It's only that first I am compelled (by arrangement with my employer) to write the infamous Nursing Catalog before we break for the holiday.

Ironically, the Nursing Catalog is currently at 45,880 words... eerily close to the 50k I need for the novel, don't you think? Hmmm. Is there enough drama born out of the publication of a new edition of the textbooks more nursing instructors trust for complete coverage of pathophysiology? Oh, and what about the introduction of all these NEW online courses? Exciting! Makes you want to read it cover-to-cover, eh?

Erm.

[changing subject]

Hey!

Did you know there are knitting podcasts? I just finished listening to this one and it's really entertaining. It almost made updating page counts in the Nursing Catalog tolerable! Here's another one to check out (it's next on my listen list).

Remember, I AM going to finish the novel. I'm 30 now. I can do anything.

Check it out! My lovely and talented eldest daughter will be showing off her brilliant! acting! skills on Show Me St. Louis tomorrow at 3pm. Apparently she and another little 5th grade miscreant have plans to hijack the show while the hosts aren't looking. Watch it! You'll be able to say to yourself, "Hey, I know that kid! And she's darn cute!"

My story has suddenly taken a very dark turn. (Maybe it's all the goth crafting.) I keep trying to steer it back, but that seems to be the way it wants to go.

It's like taking your dog out for a walk and then finding yourself being tugged along behind because he wants to chase squirrels.

Pretty soon someone is going to come along and make the joke, "Hey, are you writing that story or is it writing you?"

We'll both laugh as if it was a charming and original thing to say. And then I'll flip the idiot off behind his back. And then my arm will be practically yanked out of its socket as the story races off in pursuit of another plot twist.

While I'm away pushing for 20k (say it out loud, it rhymes! Oh, the bliss!) this week, I believe you should go check out this new little knitmag: The Anticraft

Because while on the surface I may be a fun-loving, nature-hugging mother of two, in my heart I'll always be a troubled little goth teenager who knits!

Although... I didn't actually knit as a teenager. And... goth wasn't technically my scene.

But it's cool stuff!

Little-known rules of marathon novel-writing:

1. Never stop writing at the tidy conclusion of a scene, because you'll have really no motivation to move on to the next piece of action.

2. Never decide you're good on word count so you're just going to knit through lunch instead of write, because you will find yourself siezed by an idea at 3:06 p.m. and no time to write any of it down.

3. Don't let your characters smoke inside the novel, because the non-smokers start coughing and waving their hands all around and making a big scene about it which, frankly, is just upsetting to everyone and does nothing to further the word count.

PS, why do I feel like everyone's already reached 10k and I'm just treading water here?

All right, 80% of my department are playing a violent round of Hot Potato right now, so I can take a minute to tell you the state of my novel. I've effectively beaten my inner editor into a bloody pulp and she is huddled in a corner over there shouting things like, "stop ending sentences with prepositions!" So streams of crap are freely flowing through my computer unchecked, and there seems to be a shred of plot taking shape.

I have a list of characters and very nearly killed one of them off today, but she's the only one holding on to a certain piece of information, so I'm keeping her alive in a nearby hospital for now. My main character is a 17-year-old girl, the co-dependent caretaker of her self-medicated mother. There's a dead baby buried in the back yard. But that's only one layer in a network of family secrets that are about to be drawn out into the light.

It's a story about the nature of identity and what happens when you discover that you've only heard one side of the story.

Yes, much to my chagrin this plot line seems squarely lodged in the Chick Lit genre, and my only hope is that it manages to play out as more Bastard Out of Carolina and less Lifetime Movie of the Month.

But I do have a working title. And it is: Tripping Over Sleeping Dogs.