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.

Sparse blogging on the horizon, or at least I assume that will be the case as I attempt to become a novelist for the month of November.

Here's why this is important: from the time I could string sentences together, I had decided I was going to write a novel. I figured I'd have it finished by the time I turned 13. I reached 13 and generously gave myself an extension to age 20. When I was 20, I was entrenched in college and parenting, which I felt was good for another ten-year extension. Next month I turn 30, which means it's pay-up time. I'm good for it. Procrastination is my thing.

After hooking up with a few NaNo folks this afternoon, I'm all full of enthusiasm and purpose. I think I get it now. It's like singing at full tilt in your car with the stereo cranked. You don't have to know the words. No one cares if you're in tune. The point is just to keep singing. All month. 50,000 words' worth.

I have just returned (to my desk) from a great and perilous journey to the farthest reaches of the building.

And let me just tell you right now, the length of this blog is exactly 1,667 words, which is the number of words I need to write every day for my NaNoWriMo novel. So if it seems long, you're right, it is. Bring a snack.

It all started in a meeting on how to promote the 8th edition of a nursing textbook, and the book's editor had an idea.

"Lo, and we shall have a brochure that does depict a grand collage of all book covers of editions past! Editions one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven shall be pictured on the brochure, proudly displayed in their historical significance beside the new 8th edition."

It wasn't a bad idea. We'd never really done anything like it, which is always my first complaint whenever we're asked to execute something that specific. Like, let's put the book cover on the front of the brochure! Same as every other brochure! And we'll show a student.. a happy student… and she's happy because this book is really student-friendly and accessible. But it's got comprehensive coverage of the material, you get me? Are you feeling it? Student-friendly, accessible, and complete! That's our hook. Hell, that's our headline! I think we've nailed it here, people.

After about five of those meetings in a week, I start picking at my wrists with my fingernails to see if I can find a vein.

But this concept might be worth pursuing, and it might even be fun. Tracy, my design teammate, always the pragmatist, asked where we might find images of the covers from such aged editions? Were there digital files somewhere? Did they have hard copies of the books that we could scan?

They handed us editions six and seven, and wished us luck.

Tracy caught up with me after the meeting. "Would you like to accompany me on a little scavenger hunt?"

Our Quest began in the most logical of all places, the corporate library.

It's a gamble what you're likely to find in this library.* Many years ago, it was managed properly with card indexing and a system for checking books out. We had a librarian on staff who was very sweet and willing to help you find a certain book or obtain permissions from other publishers if you were working on a manuscript that included references or tables or artwork from books that weren't ours. Very handy. But after a few mergers and shifts of ownership, our librarian is gone (her office has been converted to a conference room) and the stacks are spottily populated with certain books here and there, with no real logic behind any of it.

But it was a good starting point. I headed for the shelf it should be on, figuring I could begin with optimism at least.

And there, lo and behold, sitting on its shelf in perfect alphabetical order was a beat-up copy of the fifth edition.

This early success inspired us to keep searching. We scoured every tiny little bookcase in every hallway and every abandoned office. We asked managing editors, developmental editors, publishers, even editorial assistants if they had ever heard of the book. Those that had merely shook their heads when we asked for anything older than the sixth edition. "Did you check the library?" some asked.

We walked in circles for a while, examining bookcases we'd already seen. "There's no way," I said, beginning to lose hope. "The old editions don't exist anymore."

"I wonder if they ever did."

"You know, there's one place we haven't checked yet…"

By that, I meant Production.** The production department and my own Creative Services are polar opposites. We toss footballs, play with play dough, and fill out Mad Libs with fart humor of a third-grade level sophistication. Production has no patience for anything loud, childish, or playful. This is a business, people, and we're here to have as little fun as possible, now will you please keep it down. I've often thought that if you brought Production into direct contact with Creative Services, we'd explode like a matter/antimatter reaction.

With some reluctance, we climbed the stuffy stairwell to the second floor. Production assistants and project managers looked up from their proofs and printouts, eyeing the outsiders with suspicion.

While wandering those eerily quiet halls, we stumbled upon what appeared to be a conference room undergoing a transition into a makeshift library. Stacks of books were leaning against the walls, ready to be shelved. "Do not remove books from this room," said a severely handwritten sign by the door.

We looked at each other, then ran a finger down the rudimentarily alphabetized shelves. S…R…Q…P… "Oh my God… it's the FOURTH EDITION!"

Tracy held it out from her in wonderment and a light seemed to shine down on it from above.

I glanced nervously behind me. "We can't take it. These people shun daylight and drink the blood of animals."

"Well, what should we do? Ask?"

She propped the Holy Grail up on the floor to lean against the shelf.

"Who's in charge up here?" I said.

"I don't know," said Tracy. "Why don't you go back out into the hall and shout for help really loudly."

"Are you trying to get us killed?"

But it wasn't long before we found someone who would listen to our situation. We confessed to being stumped and asked for suggestions.

"Try the mail room," she said.

We chuckled. The mail room! Who says Production people don't have a sense of humor.

But she went on. "Rick in the mail room keeps tabs on old books."

"Okay!" said Tracy. "We'll, uh, try the mail room. And by the way, you know the room full over books right over there? We found on of the editions we need… do you think it'd be okay to borrow it?"

"Sure," she answered. "Just let someone know."

"Right." A pause. Then Tracy said, very deliberately, "We're… going to… borrow that book."

"Okay," she said.

Tracy and I exchanged a sideways glance and then backed away.

The mail room. Assuming we weren't being led astray for the twisted amusement of our Production sister, this Quest was now about to take us to, of all places, the darkest, loneliest corner of the building. The mail room. As the door opened onto concrete flooring and warehouse shelving, I could have sworn I heard a flutter of bats scattering overhead.

"So this is where old books go to die?" I whispered.

"Rick…?" called Tracy, her voice echoing off the far walls.

A figure stepped out from behind a towering shelf of boxing materials. His shoes clacked against the hard floor and he was holding something, thwapping it against the palm of his other hand. A box cutter. That wasn't intimidating or anything.

"Yep. Whatcha need?" he asked. I'd said hi to Rick in the halls, and he's a nice guy. But surrounded by his domain, in the dim, poorly distributed light, he seemed a little more rough around the edges.

"Yes," said Tracy, stepping up to the proverbial plate while I pretended to be very interested in a stack of Fed Ex labels. "We were told that you might have something to do with locating some old editions of a textbook."

"How old," said Rick.

"Old!" I said. "Like the 80's."

"Ohh…" Rick scratched the stubble on his chin with the edge of his box cutter. "Yep. Those are gonna be at Iron Mountain."

"Sweet Christ!" I blurted out. "Iron Mountain! Are there dragons?"

"Which ring do we use to get back? The green one? Or the yellow?"

Rick acknowledged neither of these references and led us deeper in to the warehouse to his desk, which contained stacks of white printouts gummed up with dusty fingerprints. He picked up a handful of papers and studied the top one for a moment. "Yep," he mused. "Iron Mountain. That's where everything that old is archived."

It slowly dawned on us that Iron Mountain was an archiving service, not another stage of our journey to be conquered or climbed.

"Tell you what," said Rick. "Can you send me an email letting me know the author and title of the books you need? I'll get to it first thing in the morning."

It seemed funny to me to think of anyone tapping away at email surrounded by delivery truck exhaust and packing tape. But why not?

On the way out, Tracy said, "Look! Iron Mountain." She was pointing to a stack of boxes with Iron Mountain imprinted on the side.

"Why have I never heard of it until now?" I said.

"Who even knew there was an archive?"

"It's not as if there would be a system in place for instances like this. That would be silly."

Tracy rolled her eyes at me. "What, and eliminate fun excursions like this to the bowels of the building searching for something as simple as an archived textbook?"

We walked back in silence for a while. Then I said, "I did kind of want to go to Iron Mountain, though."

A song began playing slowly, sadly in my head.

Oh, to live on Iron Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You can't be twenty on Iron Mountain
Though you're thinking that
you're leaving there too soon,
You're leaving there too soon...

* This is the point in the story where you might interrupt me to say something like, "Wait a minute. Why wouldn't a major publishing company keep copies of all the books it publishes? Doesn't that just make sense?" To which I would reply, "You've never worked in publishing, have you."

** The possibility exists that I have now offended several loyal readers who work in Production. Do not be offended, for most of this blog contains exaggerations added for dramatic effect. I love you, Production. Please don't eat me.

NaNoWriMo is terrifying me. The closer November 1 gets, the more convinced I am that anything I write will be incredibly embarrassing. I have nothing planned. I have no ideas, just half-formed glimmers of idea fetuses.

I'm apparently going to show up on November 1st's doorstep naked and empty-handed, hoping for charity's sake that arrangements have been made to hook me up with a stray plot (or at least a handful of characters).

I would love to tell you I haven't written anything fictional in years and that's what's holding me back, but of course that's not true. I blog, that counts…some elements of most everything I write are fictionalized, you know, uh, to protect the innocent and all that. And writing fiction at work is my specialty! Well, fiction may be too strong a word. Gary calls it "benefeature" writing – turning lame-ass product features into compelling and exciting benefits. (I love him, for he is the coiner of all terms humorous.)

I just need to convince myself that no one ever has to actually read my fetal novel. The problem is, secretly I do want people to read it. I want hundreds of people to read it and tell me lies about how good it is. That's exactly what I want from you, lies. False praises and lies. The more transparent the better.

Feel free to lie about how much you love my blog, as well. Right now. Go.

The comments button is RIGHT THERE, PEOPLE.

Today I thought it might be fun to dig into the back of my closet and pull out some boots, since it's pretty hard to justify wearing sandals in rainy, 58-degree weather. The problem is, these boots I love really hurt my feet after a few hours.

But that's okay! Because unless I'm walking to the bathroom or rummaging around the office for candy, I'm usually sitting at my desk. Feet unseen. I work just fine in socks.

So I wore my cool boots this morning for as long as I could stand it. Then I unzipped the sides and wiggled my feet out of them. The circulation began to trickle back into the balls of my feet. So much better!

Just as I was getting comfy, my phone rang. One of my coworkers said, "Hey, can you come take a look at something on my screen?"

"Sure," I said, propping the phone between my ear and shoulder. I began fumbling around under my desk for my forsaken footware. "I'll be right there. Just let me re-boot."

"Oh!" Pause. "Mine is acting a bit funny today too. I think there's something going on with the network."

MS2 clue 3

MS2 clue 3
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Ta da! Clue 3 is finished, just in time to start Clue 4.

You are not going to believe what happens next. See those live stitches at top? Well, bind those off and pick up 231 stitches along the other two sides, essentially turning this shawl on its head.

Whoa man! They're blowin' my mind.