I'll be the first to admit I'm the fairest of fairweather fans, but... go Cards! Our bottom-of-the-twelfth, two-out homerun had me shrieking like an inebriated redneck. This morning I went tearing through loads of unfolded laundry to pull out anything red for the girls to wear.

Matilda, being nine, is starting to find her sense of style, and right now she's using me as a guide. That is, whatever I pick out for her to wear is not what she should be wearing. I tossed a red t-shirt at her as she came out of the shower. "Here, support your team!" I said.

She then gave me her requisite list of reasons why she should not wear that particular shirt: too long, too loose, too cold, too red.

"You have to wear that shirt," I told her. "It's your lucky shirt. The Cardinals have never lost a game when you've worn it."

Matilda looked at the shirt in her hand. "I've never worn this when they've played."

"Details," I said. "Look at me, I'm wearing my lucky red sweater.

"Mom, I don't think that sweater was very lucky for the person who started knitting it."

"Details!"

Anyway, not to end on an unrelated downer but this sort of thing ought to make intelligent people ill.

Were you ever a kid plagued by an itchy tag in the back of your shirt? I think we've all been there. Both girls find tags to be a real buzz-kill, but lately little Gert has become intent on hunting down and killing the tags, wherever they are.

Sorry, our debate viewing came this close to turning into a drinking game. Activist judges! Top one percent! Anyway.

If the tag thing is annoying during the day, it's intolerable at night. Every night we put on a fresh pair of pajamas, get Gert nicely tucked into bed, flip off the light, and just when we think she's dosing off, we hear this ear-piercing, horrified scream:

"MOMMM! I HAVE A TAG!"

Usually this means I'm supposed to leap into action and grab the scissors, haul her shirt up by the scruff of her neck, expose the tag, and snip.

But lately the tags have become as predictable a bedtime stall as the third drink of water, the last-minute trip to the bathroom, the shadows that look like monsters or spiders, and the need for that one last kiss goodnight. I'd had enough with the tags.

On schedule last night, we got the call. I remained planted on the sofa. "I'll fix it in the morning," I assured her. "Just try to go to sleep."

Silence. Then I heard the quiet, resigned weeping. Feeling like crap, I got up to get the scissors. I stopped outside her door for a moment and heard that she was talking to herself.

Sob. "It will just be itchy forever and ever." Sob. "Mom never will fix it." Sob. "It will just be too itchy forever."

I think they write about people like me in fairy tales when they need a really terrible villain.

Today I have a serious day of copywriting ahead of me, which leaves no time for my usual routine of skipping around my favorite blogs, checking my email six times, rooting through Freecycle for today's finds, and feeling morose about the fact that I have nothing to blog about, which usually leads to me hugging myself and chanting affirmations about how creativity is a fragile spark and should not be thrown too soon to the harsh winds of scrutiny.

Today I will embrace the I-have-nothing-to-blog-about moroseness for what it truly is: an excuse to get some work done.

And in case you're not quite sold on how boring I am right now, I'll tell you the single most exciting thing happening in my life today. I'm eating dinner at McDonalds. There. Now everyone, please check your pity at the door and thanks for not laughing behind my back.

October marks this blog's 25th month of blog entries, and to celebrate the occasion I've decided to give everyone names.

Husband's name is Gary, as most of you already know.

Taking a cue from his very successful and popular blog, I think I'll stick with his names for the girls. They seem to fit.

Youngest shall hereafter be known as Gertrude.

Oldest is Matilda.

And my name, of course, is Penny Barcelona. Nice to meet you.

Now that the formalities are out of the way, we can proceed. The highlight of our weekend had to be running into Jeff and young MC at the grocery store Sunday afternoon. With our carts pulled up side-by-side, Gert and MC had a nice moment of toddler interaction.

I should add that Gert already has a rich fantasy life surrounding MC – in her mind they have gone to the zoo together, shared a fear of lions, exchanged laughs, and continually hung out. So Gertrude was all, hey man! Good to see ya! Check out my baby doll. Nice bib. I like your shoes. Your pants are sparkley. What are you doing for lunch later? I hope this place has free samples. Stores are cool, yeah? Okay, call me!

The second biggest event of the weekend was that the sound on our TV went out, necessitating an emergency TV purchase. It went down like this.

Me: I've just finished paying the bills. For some reason, we are not behind on the budget. In fact, we seem to be in fairly decent shape for once!

Gary: Shut up! They'll hear you!

Me: Who will hear me? What?

TV: What did you say? Oh! Crapping out now. Pppthbbbpthp.

Gary: Damn it! You can't crap out. You're only 1.5 years old. Your peer in the next room is pushing 20!

TV: Can't talk. Crapping.

TV from next room: Feeling a little iffy also…

So before the threats could continue, we quickly purchased a replacement set and restored the natural order of things. Yes, I realize we are being held hostage by the whims of our electronic media devices. There are worse things.

In case the suspense was killing you, yesterday the organizers of Creativity Week reserved a conference room and led everyone in a rousing session of yoga. I don't know if I feel any more creative, but I have several muscles experiencing a very unique and unusual brand of ache.

There are paint fumes in the hall, and the impending threat of volleyball hanging over my head. I don't know why, but every year the company picnic rolls around and I feel the need to organize a volleyball team. Why can't I just be happy and accept myself as a non-joiner?

This is going to go down exactly as it always did in gym class so many years go. I will stand on the court with my hands clasped out in front of me, running after the ball so as to fool spectators into assuming that I have some intention of volleying it. And then I will yell "GOT IT!" several times as the ball passes serenely over my head. If I ever do inadvertently make contact with the ball, you will see me grab my wrist and wince as an unspoken apology to the team for that tragic mis-bump.

Just so long as I make it through the game without wetting my pants, I'll call it a success.

Sometimes when you have a lot of things nagging at you, the best thing to do is ignore them all.

Here's what I'm ignoring today:

Copy for the back cover of an ultrasound physics book.

Headlines for five brochure concepts yet to be concepted.

Unpaid bills.

Unbalanced checkbooks.

Unvacuumed rugs.

Unlaundered laundry.

Because after all, it's Creativity Week in Creative Services! Yesterday we looked at close-up photographs of various surfaces and tried to imagine what they might be. Monday we ate Jello molded into the shape of a brain. Today we had a homework assignment – bring in 5 to 10 photos of yourself growing up, and refrain from wearing a skirt. I'm a little nervous about what the connection may be.

All right, I know the reality is that most people coming onto this site couldn't give a rat's arse about knitting, and you probably think it's for old ladies. That's what is so very punk rock about knitting. You're making assumptions about me, which makes another nice layer of societal camouflage designed to keep the unworthy out of my elite inner circle.

So husband's promotion to Vice President/Treasurer of his company earned him an office move to the executive wing of the basement. It's much larger and brighter, and it has fringe benefits for me. His old office (a repurposed bedroom) makes a much cozier art studio than the garage. What it lacks in Potato Barn earnestness, it makes up for with padded carpeting and fewer spiders. My yarn moved right in and made itself at home. It's kind of like having my own dorm room without the nuisance of trying to squeeze in a bed and a room mate. Unless you factor in the cat. At least I can trust her not to flake out and try to set the place on fire. Ah, college…

Today is one of those days where you wake up with the motivation to eat right and get in shape, and by 10:15 AM you have eaten all the remaining chocolate out of your desk drawer.

However, for five whole minutes I felt wrapped in the arms of a warm, chocolate embrace. So it was worth it.

Note to self: when selecting sweaters to unravel for cheap, re-knittable yarn, avoid chenille. Avoid it! It is nothing but pain, heartache, and clumps of fuzz. Down with synthetics.

On the other hand, I have high hopes for the much-anticipated unravel of a gloriously soft mohair blend I scored from the local Goodwill for $3. I'm not sure yet, but I think I heard it saying something about wanting to become a hoodie.

You will never believe what I have come to possess.

Someone on freecycle offered a partially knitted red wool sweater that she’d picked up at an estate sale and never gotten around to finishing.

My first thought: Hmm. I could use that yarn!

My second thought: Estate sale. This is the knitting of a dead woman.

My third thought: I Have Got To Have That Sweater.

So I’ve created an idea of her, this knitting dead grandmotherly type. In the middle of a stitch, her red woolen knitting fell to her lap and that was that. The picture she held in her mind of what the finished sweater would look like, her thoughts of the intended sweater recipient woven into each neat stitch, none of that was seen by the relative or caregiver who discovered her. It was simply red knitting, set aside and never picked up again. Maybe grandchildren would see it and glimpse a memory of grandma’s fingers on that yarn for a moment.

I didn’t have a knitting grandma. My grandmas taught me to make banana pudding, showed me how to use pastels, raised tomato plants and demonstrated cross-stitch as we watched Shirley Temple movies.

But knitting is my own. It’s something I’ll try to teach to every grandchild or anyone else who wants to learn – because it's knowledge that is meant to be passed on. It's part of a tradition of people who have each calmly and purposefully turned string into clothing one single stitch at a time, like a loud hum of a thousand things working quietly in unison. You infuse potential, ideals, outcomes, and random thoughts into each inch of fabric, weaving in pieces of yourself as you go. It's magic, in the very oldest sense of the word.

And this is all probably why people seek out communities or religion or something, but I'm happy just knitting and knowing it's there.

As I looked through the box of red sweater pieces, I was seized with an overwhelming Amelie-like urge to complete the sweater, locate the person for whom it was originally started, and anonymously send it compliments of the deceased.

It's just been nothing but good news here lately. Congratulations to my brilliantly entrepreneurial husband and his partner, who have just incorporated their business.

I believe this officially makes me a trophy wife.

*Glitter.*

And if that weren't exciting enough, I've discovered the slickest little ballerina-style slipper pattern that knits up in just a few hours and uses a single skein of yarn plus some ribbon. I'd post the link, except that some of you just might be getting them for Christmas, wink wink.

I do believe congratulations are in order!

Dear Tiny Baby Pudding, this silly sentimental blog entry is dedicated to you. Ahem:

Into Being

Be unafraid of jumping.
You are the work of generations
of selective engineering.
You are DNA empowered, engendered, enlivened,
Foreseen from subatomic destiny
to stand on a thousand cliffs without collapsing,
Your atoms fixed securely into a state of undispersing.
Rocks that crumble from the edge were never meant to hold you.

Stitch Klatch meets tonight at 7! (The Coffee House, 177 Hilltown Village Ctr, off Olive -- 63017 if you're into Mapquesting)

Tonight is special. With my sketchy and limited ability to instruct, I'm going to give a go at teaching someone how to knit. I have packed extra needles, yarn, and photocopies of illustrated, step-by-step instructions from a book that is so much better at explaining things than me. So if you want to learn too, come have coffee with us. I can't promise anything except that there will be coffee, and that at some point I will confuse myself and forget what I'm doing.

I feel especially cute today because I'm sporting one of these. His name is Morton and he'll be perching on my hip for the next 24 hours, because apparently when you mention to your doctor that you've been feeling fluttery and short of breath it makes him think of setting the two of you up.

Morton is neither funny nor charming, we have nothing in common, and has already felt me up and elbowed me in the spleen. I want to find an unsuspecting girlfriend to dump him off on and then crawl out a bathroom window, but I'm too polite to do anything but keep glancing at my watch.

I know they're not going to be very impressed with the "symptom diary" I've been asked to keep, either. Instead of writing down things like shortness of breath, my log is looking like this:

9:42 AM. Morton poked me in the side. Intense jabbing sensation.
9:43 AM. Cannot get comfortable.
9:44 AM. Ow! Motherfucker!
9:47 AM. Wires are uncomfortable.
9:48 AM. Shifting position does not alleviate jabbing.
9:49 AM. Morton is being inappropriately familiar.
9:49 AM. Jabbing!
9:50 AM. Ow, quit it.
9:50 AM. Ow, quit it.
9:50 AM. Ow, quit it.

Please do not ask me to show you my electrodes, because I won't.

Look what my dad got me for my birthday! Except he doesn't know it, and wouldn't know what they were even if I told him. And my birthday was actually about 10 months ago. You see, I found the birthday card he'd given me in a drawer just the other day, and there was cash inside! Way to re-present.

But speaking of birthdays, my sibling J$ is another year older. I did not call my brother yesterday on his actual birthday, and for this I now hang my head in shame...

--> Shame <--

...and in celebration of the great event, I'm knitting him this with the aforementioned needle set. (The brightest among us will immediately observe that the link is not yet active, as the item has not yet been gifted. And given the massive amounts of traffic this site sees, who knows how the word might leak out…I think I see someone from CNN reading right now! Ahem. Thank you, that is quite a bold little skirt I'm wearing today, isn't it. Don't pretend like you didn't notice. Why yes, I'd love an on-camera interview.)

Is Ipecac the only over-the-counter medication that sounds like its intended result? Perhaps not, but it is the most fun to say out loud.

I guess I should be glad this isn't necessarily a trend in the industry, where products like Senokot might be named... well, okay. I'm sure we're all creative enough to fill in our own blanks.

In my lunch today:

3 slices of prepackaged deli ham
1 slice processed American cheese
1 tomato, sliced
1 hamburger bun…

354 calories.

1 Cortland apple…

80 calories.

1 package Nabisco Dora the Explorer fruit snacks…

Priceless.

Shazzaam, baby! I just put the final stitches on my very first sweater for Youngest. And it feels good. So good, in fact, that I'm not even going to let the buzz fade before starting on Sweater #2 for Oldest.

You see that little girl in the pink and grey sweater? That's what Oldest still looks like to me when I think about her. She's this chubby-wristed, wispy-blonde toddler with huge blue eyes and eyelashes that any mascara diva would envy. She pronounces "r" like "ahwa" and thinks toe fuzz is serious business.

That kid started fourth grade today. And man, is she cool about it. Except one little moment this morning when the cool broke at 6:15 am, a good chunk of time before she was supposed to wake up. I opened my eyes to her standing beside my bed grinning down at me, about to pop with excitement.

Unlike all the other kids at the bus stop, Oldest did not have a new backpack this morning. She decided to blow her school supply budget on nifty accessories, while "re-upping" her old backpack with glittery fabric paint and artistic flair.

It gave me a moment of guilt to see her beside all the kids with new bags. I would have bought her a new bag. Never mind that the old one was still in perfect shape, if she'd really wanted a new backpack I would have bought her one. I just hoped she really was pleased with the creative option, and wasn't secretly standing there wishing hers was new.

"That's your old backpack," said one of the little boys. "I have a new backpack, and you have your old one."

"Yeah," said Oldest, in her you-are-a-moron tone. "Only, it's not old. I painted it."

And then all the kids gathered around her work of art as Oldest proudly showed it off.

She is not me. I have to remember that.

Because I'm feeling bitter and angry today, and because some bee-otch newsletter editor in the UK is trying to UK-ize ("-ise") the article I wrote, I just feel like complaining.

I'm not going to say who, but someone is this room had a baby right out of high school. She went to college, worked two jobs, and so on. The male component went right on collecting Magic: The Gathering cards and working as a lifeguard for a hotel pool.

Now, I should be glad about one thing. Oldest's biological father has always faithfully paid child support. With the exception of, well, a period of 18 months where he was just sort of, you know, unemployed. But hey, as soon as he got back on his feet living in his mother's basement, he started writing checks again! And they have always been for the same amount. You know, the amount he could afford to pay. When he was a hotel pool lifeguard.

And he still plans to pay back the period of support he missed.

When he can afford it.

You know, after he gets married, goes on a honeymoon, takes a few supplemental trips to various parts of the country, buys a house and some new shoes.

Last time I asked him about the missing support checks, he told me, "I'm working on it. I've been putting it into a savings account for her."

That's great! I said. But I'd prefer you just to pay us back as you get the money.

He said, "Okay." And since then, nothing.

I try not to be angry about it. We all do the best we can with what we have. We're not all born with common sense.

Have I mentioned he filed for bankruptcy after opening a credit account in my name, and then stuck me with a $10,000 charge-off on my credit report? Hhh.

I asked him to buy Oldest's Girl Scout sash and troop number patches. She also needs khaki pants and a white shirt as part of her uniform, I mentioned. We probably have a white shirt. Perhaps he could pick up a pair of pants since she's outgrown her old khakis. He hesitated, but agreed.

Instead of buying a normal pair of khaki pants from K-Mart like a normal, cost-conscious adult, he bought the official Girl Scout khaki pants – you know, where they sew a logo on the pocket and charge twice as much. AND he got her a white GS logo shirt – which cost more than I would ever spend on a single article of clothing.

That was awfully nice of him. Or, it would have been if I didn't feel like it was such an unnecessary waste of money when he's acting like he can't afford to pay the support he owes. Every time he buys her shoes she doesn't need or a shirt she'll never wear, I can hear my own voice screaming in the back of my head: That's nice…Pay Your F-ing Child Support!

Plus, when I told him she wears a size 10 pants, I assume he heard a loud buzzing and some noise where my voice should have been.

"You'll have to hem them," he said. "But they should fit for a couple of years. Right?" he said, nudging Oldest.

She smiled and nodded in a way that spoke to how much she really didn't care to be part of the conversation.

At this point, neither do I.

I'm happy. Work, for once, is being good to me. Plus, there's chocolate in the studio.

And tonight, we knit!

I'm disappointed that by not keeping up with the blogging community I missed an opportunity to meet other area knitters. This is because I secretly think that many of the area bloggers are cool, and I want them to like me.

Knitting is cool. People who think knitting is cool… are also cool. The other day, I had my knitting with me at the doctor's office, and the receptionist said, "Hey, I knit too! I love knitting." See, and that made me think, "She's cool! I like her."

A funny thing happens to me when I knit. It's a strange, happy, peaceful thing. I stop freaking out about stuff. I quit thinking I need to lose twenty pounds. I'm not worrying that no one likes me or that I'm a terrible wife and mother. When I'm knitting, all the things I want to do or be are either reachable or irrelevant. Why else would we waste time wrapping yarn around needles in a time-consuming, often frustrating process of creating textiles? Why do runners run? Why do painters paint? There's got to be some chemical change going on in the brain of a knitter.

Whatever it is, knitting makes me want to befriend people.

That's a big deal. No, trust me. I think I've had like four friends in my entire life.

And now this has just turned pathetic so I'm going to stop. And knit! Mmmmm, serotonin...

"Hey ma, come here," Husband called from Youngest's bedroom. I looked in on the two of them sitting on Youngest's toddler bed, grinning.

"Tell her," said Husband to Youngest.

Tripping on a giggle, Youngest told me, "The sun is in your eyes on a string."

"Oh!" I said, and looked at Husband for a translation.

"Hold on a second," he said, and cupped his hands around her ear.

Youngest listened to his whispering, with the gleeful look of a co-conspirator. She said, "My mistresses eyes…"

More whispering. "…are nothing," she said, "…like the sun."

Later, he lined up both girls at attention, popped quackers into their mouths and quacked orders at the newly formed Duck Brigade to march – march! – into the living room and pick up any toys they found on the floor.

Not only did they pick up their toys, they brushed their teeth when they were done.

While his methods may be unorthodox, his genius is incontrovertible. And you can quote Shakespeare to me anytime, Cpl. Mallard.