Pinwheel

PC050028
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

A few months ago I attempted my first baby blanket for a friend about to enter fatherhood. I thought this pattern was cool, it's called a Pinwheel blanket and it's knit in the round from the center outward with a spiral of increases. There was something very zen about the shape and construction, so I used a really wonderful organic cotton in two natural dyed earth tones.

Round things are just inherently soothing.

A quick note to the esteemed IT professional who will be setting me up with a new Mac tomorrow:

Hi there, fellow!

I know that most days there's no real love lost between us. IT and Creative Services are just about as opposite as two departments can be. While I was studying liberal arts in college, you were reprogramming graphing calculators, and both of us were as happy as clams. I respect our fundamental differences.

Let's just, for a moment, set aside how much easier your life would be if all of us over here moved to PCs. I'll forget all the calls for help you've ignored because you didn't feel like dealing with the Mac farm. I'm even willing to overlook the fact that I haven't been able to print Word documents for close to two weeks now despite the fact that you assure me there's no problem.

On my desktop, you'll notice an 11 GB folder of MP3s called "Important Work-Related Data."

Just move that folder to my new computer, and we'll call everything even.

We can pretend Iggy Pop, Ladytron, Dealership, Black Box Recorder, The Postal Service, and Of Montreal are all names of important contacts.

Or business accounts.

Or top-secret projects. Whatever lets you sleep at night.

See, isn't it fun to share secrets?

Your friend,
Mac-tacular Sue

Since it's Girl Scout Cookie season, let me walk you through the solution to a hypothetical word problem.

Problem:
"Jill" purchased one box of Samoas from a coworker. There are 7 servings of cookies per box, with two cookies per serving, and each serving contains 150 calories. When her coworker delivered the box of Samoas, Jill ate 14 cookies with her morning coffee. How many bacon cheeseburgers could Jill have eaten instead?

Answer: One.

For nearly two months now, my knitting time has been almost exclusively devoted to a certain white acrylic project that I can't even discuss yet because it's a gift. (Although, I suppose if you were really dying to know what it is, you could probably snoop around and find out from my mentions of it at Craftster if you knew where to look.)

Suffice to say that this massive undertaking is now so close to completion that I feel confident starting something new.

Something for me!

Something made of fancy-pants Filatura Di Crosa yarn in a beautiful, robin's egg blue color.

And I think it would really love to be made into this cute wrap-around sweater, don't you?

I could totally dance in that if I were a ballerina. (Sometimes I'm a ballerina.) Doesn't it make you want to wear leg warmers and satiny toe shoes? Or jeans. Whatever.

If I'd remembered to charge my phone last night, I would have posted a picture of me stroking the magically soft, pretty yarn. Perhaps that's for the best.

I'm not going to this conference with my friend Kym this weekend.

I wanted to. I'd say I "can't" go but that's not really true. There are obstacles and complications, but there were probably ways to overcome them. The truth is, I didn't push very hard at all, and that's my own fault.

I approach everything I want to do as if I need the world's permission to do it, and I never actually come right out and say, "This is important to me, and I need to find a way to do it." Instead, I wait and see if it's going to be easy enough for everyone else, and I try and make sure I'm not inconveniencing anyone. I read disapproval or disappointment into every question or comment about it. And then I shrug and give up because it's just some stupid thing for me, so it doesn't matter.

90 percent of what I do on a daily basis is for other people. And I can be very easily talked out of that last 10 percent. Just imply that my enjoyment is impinging on yours (or anyone's). Because everyone else comes first. And I'm incapable of standing up for myself. Because I have a pathological fear of conflict, or something.

But I'm not actually sure what I'm so afraid of. What am I afraid of?

I think I'm going to have to annunciate better. This is why.

Today Gary volunteered to take the kids to school/daycare so I could get to work earlier. So I got ready to go, and as I was putting on my coat I said, "Okay guys, see you later. I'm gonna go to work!"

From across the living room, the dog scrambled frantically to his feet.

I looked at him. "What is it, boy?"

His toenails skittered on the wood floor as he raced over to me, ears perked and eyes expectant.

"Finn, what is it? I'm just going to work."

Finnegan let out a happy bark and opened his mouth in a wide doggy grin. Then he ran over to the back door and nosed his leash that hung from a hook beside it.

Oh.

"Oh, no! Finn! I'm sorry! I've got to go to work."

"I hope you're planning to double-you-ay-el-kay somebody first," said Gary.

"Why does the dee-oh-gee have to be so es-em-ay-are-tee?"

I could be wrong, but I think Finnegan glared at me after that.

Yesterday we spring cleaned the girls' rooms and siphoned off about six tons of dust and toy matter. Then later we capped off our hard work by camping in the living room with Fortel's pizza and a private showing of The Wizard of Oz.

We haven't watched it since Gertrude was much younger before she started reading into things like witches and pretty girls in peril, and lately she's been particularly sensitive to anything scary. Scooby Doo, for example, scares the crap out of her. So we were prepared to stop the movie at the first sign of concern from Gert.

"You know," I said to her at the beginning, "there's a witch in this movie. But it's all just pretend. If it's too scary, we don't have to watch it."

Gert looked disgusted at me. "Mom. I know. I've seen this movie before."

I got yelled at again when Dorothy started to sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and so did I.

"Mom!" snapped the song police. "This is not a sing-along."

"But I--"

"Do you see any words on the screen?"

I was forced to admit that I didn't.

Two seconds later, I heard a small voice coming from Gert's side of the couch. "Some... where... over the rainbow..."

I tapped on her shoulder. "Um, excuse me," I said. "I was under the impression that singing was not allowed here."

"No. You can't sing," said Gert.

Matilda nodded in agreement. "It's true, Mom. You really can't."

And there go my plans for pop-stardom. Poo.

Okay, okay. I haven't seen the insides of anyone's digestive tract for several days, and I'm starting to think it may be safe to come out. The weather is nice and all, for now. We should all be out walking our collective dogs in the sunshine.

I got my Burpee catalog in the mail, which made me start thinking about what to plant, which makes it seem like spring, which makes me feel less saggy and depressed.

One of the seed collections I noticed was the sunflower forest, instantly painting pictures in my head of my happy children playing and peeking among towering, golden blooms, having tea parties on blankets spread out in the shade, marveling at how something so large could grow from a tiny seed they'd helped plant.

The more I think about it, the more I'm anticipating one or more of the following scenarios instead:

• The dog will dig up and trample every fledgling sprout to try and teach me a lesson.


• Any flowers that do manage to grow will attract massive numbers of bees and other insects.


• Children will refuse to play in the yard because A) it's too hot, B) it's too dirty, C) we have satellite, you fool, and D) there are bees everywhere.


• Sunflowers will become an albatross of guilt sitting abandoned in the middle of the yard until Gary makes an executive decision to mow over them and set up a wading pool for the kids instead.

But I'm still going to do it. I figure there might be an 8% chance I'll get a small glimmer of enjoyment from each one of the kids at some point during the growing season, and that's why I ever do anything crazy. I'm optimistic like that.

The Vomit has found us. I don't know who brought it into the house, but it's here, and so far two of us are down. The other two of us are waiting, just knowing it could strike any time it wants.

In fact, I'd encourage you to stop reading this now. It's possible the Vomit has found a way to transmit itself to new victims via words on screen, right through the reader's eyeballs.

Sorry if that's creepy.

Actually, I always think eyeballs are creepy.

I need to go wash my hands again.

Here's a tag from my hon.

Four Jobs I've Had
Retail Monkey
Pharmacy Technician (before the days when you had to be certified, which made me a glorified assistant who got to touch pills.)
Editorial Assistant
Copywriter

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over
Lord of the Rings (Yes, all of them. End to end.)
Amelie
The Big Lebowski
Wings of Desire (the German one)

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch
Project Runway
Gilmore Girls
Six Feet Under
Scrubs

Four Places I’ve Been on Vacation
Kansas City
Lake of the Ozarks
The Smokies
Disney World

Four Favorite Dishes
Sushi
Baked mac & cheese
Shrimp scampi
Lasagna

Four (Two, actually) Websites I Visit Daily
Craftster
You Knit What?

Four Places I’d Rather Be
At home, knitting
At a park in the summer, knitting
At one of my favorite yarn stores
Starbucks

Four Bloggers I am Tagging
Kym
Lori
Red Fish
Yaya

I've somehow stumbled upon the perfect lunch, I deem it worthy of sharing with the blogging world.

Take one flour tortilla and give it a thin spreading of pesto. Layer this base coat with several slices of smoked turkey and provolone cheese. Add a few leaves of crunchy lettuce and roll the whole thing into a tube.

I suggest pairing it with a Braeburn apple and a few homemade chocolate chip cookies for the complete lunch experience.

Or, just do what I did and polish off all the cookies by 9:05 a.m., and then leave the apple sitting all lonely in your lunch bag until 4:12 p.m. when it's either that or a stale package of donuts from the vending machine.

Once (or maybe more than once) my dad brought home one of those gigantic plastic bags of popcorn, the kind that you'd buy at the bulk stores, that are literally as tall as a child of average height and twice as big around. I believe we used it as a pillow, a field goal post, and a blunt-force weapon before finally diving in (literally) and consuming it.

Gertrude and Matilda spotted one such popcorn monstrosity at the grocery store the other day. They laughed at the ridiculous excess, and then carried it between the two of them over to Gary and suggested that he buy it for them.

"Okay!" said Gary.

"WTF?" I said. I intercepted the popcorn and returned it to the shelf. But it didn't end there. Dad and the girls talked about the popcorn for days. It became legendary.

Finally, Superbowl Sunday arrived. In our house, this means turning on the game for everyone to ignore and firing up a crockpot full of Li'l Smokies. And Gary makes these amazing little turkey pinwheel things. I knit. We drink Fat Tire. The kids dance at halftime. All is right with the world.

I came home from the store with the Smokies and beer, plus some chips, dip, and avocados to make into a batch of guacamole that only I would eat. Gary and the girls just looked at me.

"Where's Caroline?" said Matilda.

"Who?"

"Caroline!" said Gert. "Our popcorn!"

I looked at Gary. "You named the popcorn?"

He said, "I asked Gert what we should name it, and she named it Caroline. This is not my fault."

Of course, I had to go back out to the store and get Caroline, lest I risk having the girls sit around moaning and wailing, "Oh, Caroline…noooooooooo…"

Obsession in miniature

miniknit2
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

This is exactly what it looks like - a tiny plastic basket of tiny balls of yarn, with a tiny swatch carefully knit on toothpick needles.

Now aren't you glad you asked what I do with my free time?

At this point, I'd like to look directly into the lens of the camara and wave. Hi, Mom and Dad. Since you're reading this blog, I find myself at a sort of crossroads. What does one do with the knowledge that one's parents are peering over one's shoulder through the expansive online void?

For me, I've decided this means I'll be saying the f-word a lot more, as well as making elegant use of its more creative derivations such as fucktard, fuckwit, and fucktastic.

It's all rumors and lies. The Internets are filled with them.

Science Fair '06 triumph!

sciencefair06
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

That's a first place ribbon and a trophy for outstanding project in the Life Sciences my little genius is holding there.

She must have gotten extra visits from the Brains Fairy or something.

It's Saturday. It's raining. Gert is asleep, covered with an angry, itchy rash that is apparently a reaction to amoxicillin. Gary is napping (we were both up all night with an itchy child). Matilda is out ice skating with biodad. I, after the third unraveled attempt at a braided cable, have decided it's time for a milk and cookies break. And yes, that does make it better.

I'm hanging a fish on my door

fish on door
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Why?

Because I'm mad at you.

For the science fair this year, Matilda has grown little pots of grass.

(Yes, I said pot and grass in the same sentence. Those of you playing may now tip your shot glasses.)

They were supposed to be bean plants, but I have some kind of black karma attached to beans as science fair projects, which I'll explain in a moment. Matilda's experiment was designed to show the benefit of adding compost to regular topsoil, and thank everything that's holy, it worked. Science fair gives me nerves that make me want to throw up.

Sixth grade was one of the years that started in one city and ended up in another. It meant a new shade of plaid, uniform skirt, assessment tests that demonstrated how poorly I could add and subtract, and three short weeks to put together a science fair project at the new school.

Of course it was "optional" for me. In the sense that all graded work is optional. Ha Ha.

My dad determined that we would create the Best Darned Science Fair Project Ever by growing bean plants.

Two and a half weeks later, I remember my dad engineering a last-ditch growth effort with my little pots perched precariously atop a ladder in the garage with at least 400 kilowatts of merciless halogen light pointed directly at them. I think there were also many instances of the f-word.

I managed to get one sad little sprout that flinched from loud noises or quick movements.

"Clearly, it is nothing short of madness," I said in my conclusion, "to try and grow live plants while the earth is cold and dead."

"Isn't it time for remedial math?" replied my teacher

Matilda and I planted bean seeds over Christmas break. The seeds obviously lost their will to live as soon as I touched them. They burrowed deep into the soil and crumpled into moldy pits of rot and decay.

Luckily, there was enough time to try again with fast-growing grass seed, and since I do
not pretend to know what an independent variable is, Gary helped Matilda write up her results into a first-rate project.

I suggested naming it "The Effects of Compost on Grassy Little Miracles: Cha-cha-cha-Chia!"

That's all I've got.

There's a part of me that always looks forward to taking my kids to the pediatrician's office. Have you ever watched the AKC/Eukanuba Dog Championship broadcast?

No, I'm not comparing my healthy, well-bred, excellently behaved children to puppies. Not even championship pedigree puppies. Honest.

I was there with Gert this afternoon to get an ear infection checked out. An ear infection, as I'm sure you know, is in no way a reflection on my care of Gert or Gert's genetics, habits, or general health. It's simply something that kids of her breed – er – age are prone to.

I paraded my excellent little Gert up to the check-in desk and let them know we'd arrived. Then we promenaded back through the waiting room with all the eyes of other parents and children (most of whom were not quite so excellent) upon us. Gert pranced along beside me, smiling and silently exuding superiority.

"Who's a good girl!" I said, ruffling her hair and slipping her an M&M.

Usually, as the doctor enters the examination room, Gert perches on the table with a winning grin. She straightens her back and folds her hands primly in her lap. This is right about the time I can expect for something unfortunate to come out of charming little Gert's mouth.

"How are we doing today?" asks Dr. Jackie, whom Gert adores and idolizes.

"Know what?" says Gert.

"What?" says Dr. Jackie.

"I didn't wear fresh underwear today!"

It's as if Gert saves these juicy little tidbits especially for Dr. Jackie. As the examination progresses (and a double ear infection is confirmed,) Dr. Jackie is informed of the fact that I have boobies, and that I had refused to believe Gert when she complained about her ears hurting. I had once let her go to bed without brushing her teeth. And see this scratch on her cheek? Once, mommy had sprayed Benadryl on a cut instead of Bactine. And Benadryl specifically states that it should not be applied to broken skin. Isn't that right, Dr. Jackie?

"I think we're going to give you the bubblegum medicine for those ears," Dr. Jackie told Gert with a pat on the knee.

"Know what?" Gert said. "Last time I had that medicine, Mommy gave me M&Ms! In the morning!"

I hastily started gathering up our stuff. "Yes – well – tell Dr. Jackie thank you, honey!"

As we were leaving, I could have sworn I heard one of the nurses say to another, "Did you know that woman has boobies?"

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.

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.

I went to my chiropractor yesterday to make sure my whiplash was nothing serious.

What he said: "Whiplash is serious. Anything that's causing you pain is worth looking into."

What he meant: "You were in a wreck that wasn't your fault? Their insurance is footing the bill? I think I hear a Ferrari calling."

I'm just joking.

He kept me waiting for an hour and a half, I think to prove he loves me. And because all the cool chiropractors are doing it these days. Then he took some x-rays.

As he flicked the film up on the light board, he commented, "These are great-looking x-rays. In terms of technique, I mean."

"My modeling career must finally be paying off," I said.

"Oh, do you model?" he asked, in what I think may actually have been all seriousness.

"That was a joke," I said.

"Well, you could model, that's why I ask."

"Ha ha! That's funny. No really, I was being sarcastic."

"I just assumed you were serious!"

"Yes, well." I tried to think of ways to change the subject.

Just when I thought the horse was completely dead: "Have you ever thought about modeling?"

"Wow, is that my spine up there? Look at the impingement between the 4th and 5th vertebrae! That's got lumbar subluxation written all over it."

Not long ago, on my way to pick up Gertrude after work, my little red Neon was totaled when another driver decided to make an ill-advised left turn directly into the path of my car. There was much slamming of breaks and inflating of air bags. No one was injured except the vehicles.

Yesterday, on my way to pick up Gertrude after work, another driver decided to make another ill-advised left turn directly into the path of my little green Ion.

Okay, can we pause this story? I love my Ion. I love it like one of my children. It's small, it's green, it's cute, it's made of plastic, and it gets excellent gas mileage. The man who sold it to me after the death of my Neon didn't have to convince me of its intrinsic cuteness, but he did repeatedly insist that Saturns are safe, safe, safe, safe cars. Sure, I said. And throw in some zero-percent financing! We'll take it. I pull my Ion into the garage every night and pat him. He is my beloved.

Now, I'm driving along thinking, of all things, about my Ion and how much I still owe on the loan. And how much it might be worth in five or six years when Matilda is old enough to either drive it or trade it in.

I'm not making this up. Those were actually the thoughts going through my head at the exact moment a silver PT Cruiser came hurtling through two lanes of traffic and impaled itself on the front end of my car.

The PT Cruiser hissed and shuddered. My car merely glared at it. We pulled out of traffic while the PT Cruiser gasped and wheezed and spit fluid into the street.

I got out to look. A few witnesses came up to me and looked too.

"Wow," said a man, shifting his gaze between my car and the ruined PT Cruiser.

"Yeah," I said. "This thing did all right." I patted my car. His bumper had shifted a bit. A piece of his plastic siding was cracked. He grinned up at me with a brave, broken-toothed smile. "Yes, you're a good boy!" I told him.

The other driver, a confused college student wearing too much jewelry, was on her cell phone yelling at her mother. "No, mom. I just got in an accident!… No, it got out early. I didn't skip it!…"

As her car was towed off and the police officer handed us our information, the college student plopped down on the curb with her impractically stylish purse, overstuffed backpack, and large art portfolio. All of a sudden, she looked very, very young. And alone, with no car.

"Do you need a ride anywhere?" I asked her, surprised to find myself feeling protective instead of annoyed.

She looked surprised too. "Um. I think I've got one." She didn't say thanks.

"Okay," I said.

Now bring on the insurance claims.

It's amazing how crabby I become on Monday morning when I'm forced to cut short my weekly easing-into-the-week ritual of methodically listing and ordering the week's scheduled tasks. I like my lists. I do not like having my listings interrupted by impromptu Monday morning meetings. And as a discussion about printing costs and format sizes ate into more and more of my morning list time, I started feeling incredibly unsettled and annoyed.

I have not yet recovered. I may never recover.

But never mind! Because this is the year I'm going to take a stab at writing a novel and shaking loose some of the creative constipation by banging my head against a keyboard into the wee hours of the morning.

It'll be fun, honest. I'll have the bruises to prove it.

Writing doesn't start until November 1, but I'm already off to a great start. I jumped out of bed to jot some ideas on a random piece of paper the other night. Now I cannot find it. And I have no idea what I wrote, except that I'm sure it would be really embarrassing if anyone else were to read it.

You know, sometimes I entertain myself by thinking about where I was and what I was doing half my life ago. I'm 29 now and half my life ago I was just starting high school.

I know a lot of people enjoyed their high school career, but I really did not. I was nerdy, chubby, and socially backward. I spent most of it engaging in compensatory behaviors and hence dodging referrals to the counselor's office. I can't even tell you how glad I was to get away from the set of mean, snide, privileged, self-satisfied brats with whom I shared way too much personal space five days a week.

Not that work doesn't have its moments, but for the most part...

Top ten reasons why my job is way better than high school

1. When someone passes you in a narrow hallway while you're carrying an armload of papers, you don't have to worry that the other person is going to smack them down.
   
2. When another female tells you she likes your hair today, she's probably not being sarcastic.
   
3. You can eat lunch all by yourself if you feel like it.
   
4. You don't have to bring a note from your mother in order to get out of any physical activity.
   
5. Teams and partners are assigned.
   
6. There are no motherfucking pep rallies.
   
7. I have a picture of Legolas on my wall, and people are still willing to be seen with me.
   
8. There are no loud bells, buzzers, alarms, broadcast announcements, or public prayers.
   
9. I no longer have to remember a locker combination.
   
10. If you feel something brush the back of your head during a meeting, it's probably not a spitball.

Hooray for being grown up (mostly).

Mystery Shawl 2 - Clue #2 completed!

Mystery Shawl 2 - Clue #2 completed!
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Yay, more of the mystery revealed!

Hello and welcome to Remedial Lace Knitting 101. Everyone go ahead and open your textbooks to the chapter on Why Mistakes Cannot Be Ignored.

If you've already ignored a mistake in line 34 and went right on blithely knitting up to line 78 figuring it would all work itself out somehow, raise your hand.

*raised*

Okay. Now, has anyone made it line 78 and become so freaking pleased with yourself that you removed all previous lifelines, making it impossible to safely rip back your work in a controlled manner?

*yes, that would be me*

Riiiight. Well, did you at least manage to salvage any of the work you did prior to the mistake row?

*looks sadly at bare, empty needles and pile of unraveled yarn at feet*

You have much to learn, Grasshopper.

If you've been inside your local Target lately, you may have noticed them selling yarn in their $1 section. If you're like me and thought, "Yay! Cheap yarn!" only to get it home and have no idea what to do with it*, may I humbly submit my suggestion:



Fabulous Two-Dollah Mittens

Need: 2 skeins pink boucle Target yarn
A few yards of yarn in a complementary color
Size 4 double pointed needles
crochet hook
tapestry needle

This size will fit a ten-year-old girl, but it also happens to fit me (a medium-sized adult girl). You can adjust your size from there. It's two dollah! What you want for two dollah?

Cast on 30 stitches. Divide stitches equally over 3 needles. Join and work the next 1.5 inches in this exaggerated garter stitch as follows:
R1&2: Knit
R3: Purl
End on a purl row.

Work in 1x1 ribbing (K1, P1) until your mitten cuff measures about 3 inches total length. Increase as follows:
[Increase by knitting into the front and back of the stitch, K9]3 times. Knit the next round. Continue increasing until you have 39 stitches.

Work the first 6 stitches of your first needle. Move these stitches to a safety pin or stitch holder. Knit the rest of the round. When you come back around to the held stitches, cast on 6 stitches and continue knitting until total mitten length is 9 inches.

Decrease the next row: [K1, K2tog]repeat to the end of the round. Knit the next round. Divide stitches equally over 2 needles so that the mitten lays flat with the thumb on the left for the left-hand mitten and thumb on the right for the right-hand mitten. Graft these stitches together and weave the end in inside.

Thumb:
Put the 6 held stitches on a needle. Knit these stitches. Pick up 8 stitches around the thumb hole. Knit in the round until thumb measures 2.5 inches or the length of your thumb. Decrease [K1, K2tog] to the end of the round. Break yarn, thread through stitches, cinch, sew a few stitches over the top to secure, and weave the end in inside.

Flower:
I would love to tell you how to make the flower, but I have completely forgotten. Just know that it's a simple chain stitch and that each petal is a chain 5 stitches long. Sew flower to wrist cuff using main color yarn.

*Under no circumstances do I recommend actually purchasing this yarn for this project. It's incredibly unfriendly to work with and impossible to undo mistakes. If you make a mistake, you're best off just shrugging it off and living with it. Honestly, go out and buy a skein of some Lion Brand or Red Heart. You'll use about two dollars' worth of it and be much happier.

I’ve joked before about how there might be bodies buried in my yard. I didn’t actually think there were bodies. It was a joke, okay?

So all summer I’ve been growing tomatoes and peppers along a fence I share with my Russian neighbors, and on the other side of the fence they tend flowers and attract butterflies. Since we basically share the same soil, I felt like it would be the right thing to do to share my tomatoes. I left a big container of tomatoes on their doorstep and walked away feeling pleased with my good deed.

I didn’t want, need, or expect any form of reciprocation.

Yesterday, I was rummaging around in the kitchen trying to find something to make for dinner when the doorbell rang. Gary answered it.

I heard Gary saying things like, “Oh wow! Thank you so much! Yes, they’re beautiful! Thank you!”

As he closed the door, I came around the corner to see what was going on. The next few seconds unfolded like a slow motion scene in a horror film. Gary turned toward me holding two plastic grocery bags. There was something large, wet, and heavy bulging out the sides of each one.

“It’s fish,” he told me.

I heard: “It’s FFFFFFFFF IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII SSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” because I was stumbling backward in a horrified, knee-jerk recoil.

“That… was… nice… of… them!” I choked.

“Yes!” said Gary, who was clearly trying to figure out how and where to set down the bags without thinking about their contents. “Really… nice!”

I like fish and all. But if I’m going to eat a being, I’m kind of partial to things that haven’t been recently extracted from their natural surroundings for the purpose of my eating it. That may seem like a vague distinction, but let’s just say I can eat fried chicken but I have a hard time squishing bugs.

Gary set the fish down on the counter with a thud and pulled the bags down around them. One of them moved. “OH GOD, IT’S STILL ALIVE!” I shouted. Or maybe Gary shouted it. I don’t remember. I’m traumatized.

The fish wiggled its fin at me and sucked air with its gill. At that point I wanted to cry.

We talked for a while about what the hell we were going to do. Neither one of us had it in us to clean it or otherwise conceptualize it as food. We spent an hour or so on the phone with everyone we could think of who might enjoy fishing or be willing to accept a gift of dead fish. We talked about giving them to a food pantry, bestowing them upon folks who fish at the lake nearby our house, and yes, even burying them in the back yard.

We had not yet, at this point, reached the level of detachment needed to find humor in the situation, and so we did not immediately start throwing out ideas for our Top Five Things to Do With a Dead Fish list, or the Top Five People We’d Like to Give a Dead Fish To. That would come later.

Gary packed the fish in ice in our cooler and put them in the garage. I tried to find something to make for dinner that had never had its own spine.

There are bodies out there, and I think I’ll be having nightmares for months.

Despite the fact that I spend most of my work day being best friends with a keyboard, I'm not the world's greatest typist. My fingers can do qwerty without thinking about it, but when one hand shifts just a few milimeters in one direction, it takes me a while to notice that what I think I'm typing isn't what's coming out.

Lots of times I think I'm typing "FINAL" on a status report. I'm actually calling my projects "FUBAK". And I don't even know what that means. But I bet I could guess.

When I put my name at the end of an email, sometimes I'm unware of signing off as Cjros.

That's my alien identity, apparently. Creepy.

Better go attend to the piles of fubak on my desk.

xoxo,
Cjros

Mystery Shawl - Clue 1 DONE

Mystery Shawl - Clue 1 done
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

Look ma, lace!

This is the first clue. I love it. It's addictive. I want more. But now I have to wait until next Friday for the next clue.

Oh, and those needles? Did you know Laura made them? She actually made them for Matilda, but I've commandeered them for this shawl, and they work great. Knitting a lace shawl on handcrafted needles just seemed like the right thing to do.

In all the time I've worked in advertising, I've never felt icky about it. Actually, I've always felt rather sincere. It's not like I'm selling carcinogens or trying to lure folks further into debt by signing up for credit. I'm promoting nursing books, medical references, you know – knowledge that saves lives! You know – like, Dear Health Care Professional, please buy this new book so your patients won't die!

I felt a little weird about a request from a client earlier this week. She asked for a brief message to include in a newsletter that talked about how truly sorry we are about the hurricanes, how we've made large, corporate donations to the relief funds, and how proud we are of all the hard-working men and women who, etc. etc. etc.

It's all true, I'm sure every person in the company wishes only good to befall his fellow man. I don't think any monetary donations made by the company had any ulterior motives other than to help the afflicted.

But I kind of think this message did.

I guess that's what bothers me. Good is accomplished by doing good, not by talking about it. Not by patting yourself on the back for it. Certainly not by earning the admiration of others for having done it.

It's no big deal, really. It just made me very glad that I get to feel sincere 99% of the time and still earn a paycheck.

Test Pattern

Testpattern
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

The "sample pattern" for the Mystery Shawl has been posted, which I'm supposed to knit so I can determine what gauge is best for the yarn I've chosen.

Must... Not... Panic...

It's only lace. People knit lace all the time. Lace is just one stitch at time. Just have to get the hang of it, that's all.

Help.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present: Ten Weeks of my Life!



It was knit mainly on #2 needles using a blend of cashmere/silk yarn that I reclaimed from a sweater.

This is a close-up of the "feather & fan" lace edging on the bottom and top:



Was it complicated? Not really. Did it just about kill me? Yes. Because I can't count.

So then, because I was inspired by my crocheting friend Carole who was making flowers at Tuesday Night group recently, I added this nifty little flower detail:



The bow in the middle of the flower is cleverly disguising the embarrassingly mistake-riddled construction of the flower itself. Did you know that a yarn-over doesn't automatically include a knit stitch after it? Yeah, I do now.

Overall, I think I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. I'm mostly pleased that I managed to stick with something for so long. I think I'm going to line it and wear it in public if I can get over how slinky it is. I like its 1930s appeal.

The bastard's done! Knitty's Hush Hush nightgown is finished, blocked, and detailed. But you'll have to wait for pictures because I'm lazy. If this angers you and you can't wait, there are some unblocked and undetailed pictures on Flickr. But you'll have to hunt for them. Because I'm lazy. I think we just covered that.

My next project is going to teach me to follow directions. It's the Mystery Shawl. Doesn't it sound mysterious? Doesn't a Mystery Shawl sound like the kind of thing your grandkids would find in your attic after you're dead and make up stories about it?

Actually, how it works is every five weeks they reveal a new piece of the pattern. You have no idea what kind of ride you're being taken on.

This means I can't skip ahead and ignore the directions, make stuff up, or fudge my way through it. If line 34 says "[k3, p4, k1, yo, k1, yo] 12 times" then that's what I'm going to do.

This project will tell me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, if I really am pattern stupid. And if I am, I can seek help. I'm sure there's a support group.

The only problem is I don't have anywhere near enough of the yarn I was planning to use for it. With ALL the yarn I'm hoarding, I don't have enough of ANYTHING to make a shawl.

I went to Gary, looking for sympathy. He patted me on the shoulder. "Okay, so buy the yarn you need."

"I can't just buy the yarn! That costs money. I should just use whatever I have laying around."

"You can't knit without yarn, dumbass. You don't have to ask."

"Yes I do!"

"No. You don't."

Then he showed me a picture of the $1200 bike he wants.

"Oh," I said.

And he didn't really call me dumbass, either. He's just that cool.

So help me decide which color to make it…That Tangelo is awfully fun, but is it mysterious enough?

A friend of mine asked if I wanted to take a belly dancing class with her.

Belly dancing has so many things going for it. It appears to be loads of fun and great exercise. It involves the wearing of glittery things. I love dancing! Oh how I love it, although I have all the grace and rhythm of an epileptic sea monkey. And the curvier you are, the more you have to work with.

But let's be honest. I don't have curves. I have wiggly flab, and wiggly flab does not lend itself well to dance.

Right now, my flab knows how things stand. It knows it's expected to sit absolutely still at all times with its flabby little hands folded tightly and primly in its lap. No sudden movements. No peeking out from under sleeves or over waistbands. I make its life very unpleasant so that it doesn't get any grand ideas and start spreading out and loosening up.

If I start adorning it with clinking maillots and colorful, flowing scarves, the flab may begin to feel accepted and even loved. It will probably begin expressing itself all over my thighs, rear, and upper arms, and clamor for attention wherever we go. I will have loud, flamboyant flab. It will create scenes in public places, demanding lipstick and nachos.

But you never know…maybe that's a good thing.

A couple of things.

First, I really should drink more water. And so should you.

Also, there is a blood drive this week at work and every time this happens I have to have the same argument with myself.

Me: We should give blood. It's the right thing to do. People need blood.

Me2: We've been through this. Let me walk you through what will happen. We'll dutifully fill out all of the paperwork, secretly feeling a bit sad that we've skirted in above the weight cutoff. They'll prick our finger and determine that we have plenty of iron. And then we'll recline on a gurney, squeeze a ball, and try to present veins.

Me: Yes! And then we'll give blood.

Me2: No, we will not. We'll try to pretend we're strolling the streets of Paris while the nurse pokes around for a vein. Then a good ten or fifteen minutes and several dozen puncture wounds later, the nurse will shout Eureka! and we'll see a stream of red fill the tube and travel its merry way to the collection bag.

Me: Exactly! So what's a little discomfort when the tradeoff is helping someone in need? Let's do it.

Me2: You're obviously forgetting what happens every time we're about three-quarters of the way to a pint.

Me: Um…?

Me2: Nothing. Nothing happens! Blood completely stops flowing and no amount of needle jiggling, ball squeezing, or silent pleading will get it going again. The nurse detaches the bag, pats our arm condescendingly, and mutters something about maybe using our blood for plasma when we both know perfectly well it's just going to be tossed.

Me: Oh. Yeah. But at least there are donuts?

Me2: You want a donut that badly? I will freaking buy you a donut. Loser.

Today's thoughts upon waking: Was I perhaps run over by several trucks last night?

Thoughts upon rolling to the side of the bed and perching on the edge of it while waiting for my bloodflow to catch up with the rest of me: Oh wow. I cannot possibly go to work today.

Thoughts while showering: I have to go to work. Perhaps I'll pass out and be sent home.

Thoughts while getting dressed: Or, maybe I should head off the passing out and call in sick. That is why people have sick days, after all. To avoid the embarrassment of passing out in the halls and requiring others to get all up in your Rescue 911.

Right now I'm cooking a turkey burger because I believe it's the one thing in this house I feel the least like eating. I don't know why. Ask the dog, he's the one who's going to end up with it.

He thinks he's so smart. He doesn't even know how to twist open that little spout on the mustard bottle.

Yesterday I became distracted while driving to a hair appointment and ended up nearly 30 miles from my destination.

"Hey, I think I'm lost," I confessed to Gary via cell phone, since I'm one of Those People who has a cell phone now.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I believe I've just crossed a bridge into Destination Unknown."

"Isn't there a Ford dealership near there?"

"Oh, yep, here is it coming up on the left. Want me to pick up an Escort?"

"I'm good."

Gary and I were flipping channels the other night and landed on a few minutes of a stand-up routine. A woman was railing against stereotypes of what women consider to be sexy in a man.

I'll tell you what they should show in porn for women, she said. A man who wants to talk to you. About your feelings. While standing over a stove cooking you dinner. And taking care of the kids.

I looked over at Gary. "You are the perfect man," I told him.

He shrugged modestly.

I married a man who can cook, which is something I didn't know at the time, and neither did he – having lived most of his bachelor days on cheese fries, nachos, and a variety of other cheese delivery systems. But once he started actually cooking, he found that he had the ability to take several things out of the pantry and combine them in ways that I consider to be sheer genius.

Saturday, Gary decided to make a stew. We've talked about stew before and how it's one of the things we miss about not eating beef, that wonderful, stringy beefy stewyness that our mothers forced on us as children and that we now look back on with such nostalgic fondness.

Instead of beef, he used pork. And red wine, and tomatoes from my garden. Potatoes, carrots, onions, all the requisite stew stuff.

Behold. Sitting in a bowl before me, it looked like the stew of my youth. It had that same familiar, comforting aroma. Upon tasting it, I immediately set down my spoon and asked my husband to marry me.

And then last night he made chicken enchiladas. And we talked about our feelings.

I am not worthy.

I remember very clearly being about 2 or 3 and having just outgrown one of my favorite dresses. I had a complex thought in my head and tried to express it to my mom, but it came out as, "I can wear it next time when I'm a baby again!" I immediately felt stupid because those weren't the right words. But I didn't know the right words. My mom made me feel worse when she laughed and started explaining that people get older, not younger. I pouted and thought to myself the toddler equivalent of "Duh, mom!"

It amazes me how very young kids seem to instinctively grasp the concept of reincarnation in a way that makes me think maybe it IS just that simple.

Little Gert and I have had several existential conversations about people who have died and come back as new babies. And fish who die and are reborn as cats. And people who come back as mosquitoes (which I firmly believe will become of at least one person I've had the misfortune of knowing in this lifetime).

I find it a much more comforting philosophy than anything I was ever taught about heaven or any other version of the afterlife. That, in fact, this is the afterlife, and the life after that, and the life after that, until you finally "get it" and break the cycle.

Gertrude has been here before, I'm certain of it. She seemed to have been born anxious to bypass babyhood and develop enough motor control to start her current inquisitive journey. All the time she screamed and fidgeted as a tiny baby, it seemed like she was impatient. She wanted to hold her head up, and when she could do that, she wanted to stand, and then she wanted to walk, and now she wants to read and write. Sometimes I see her sitting on the couch with big, fat novels, without pictures to hold her attention, just staring intently at the pages as if she's saying to herself, I know this…

I also like the idea that groups of souls travel together and find each other again and again, that your brother may once have been your best friend. Or that your true love was your true love many times before. I was describing this idea to Matilda and her eyes lit up at the thought. I told her that when she was born, I recognized her, in a way that's impossible to describe in words.

One of the most beautiful concepts I think I've ever heard is that given an unspecified number of lifetimes, sooner or later we will all have been a parent to each other. The woman who butts in front of you in line at the drugstore, the boss who berates you, the kid on the playground who kicks dirt at you…at one point this person may have held you and loved you unconditionally, taken care of you while you were sick, rocked you to sleep. I find it very difficult to hate anyone when I think of that, maybe because as a mother I know what that kind of love feels like.

It started with one guy riding his bike to work. He was gawked at and held in odd but sincere esteem, considered to be a hard-core fringe dweller. Then another guy rode in this morning. I am sincerely considering becoming the next to join in.

Here are five good reasons why I should ride my bike to work:

1. I live less than five miles away.
2. Exercise is healthy.
3. I love riding my bike and I don't get the chance to do it enough.
4. Riding home at the end of a stressful day would undoubtedly dissipate all of the nasties.
5. I don't have any misshapen limbs, injuries, or health conditions that prevent me from doing it.

Here are five good reasons why I shouldn't.

1. Gary and I would have to work something out for dropping off and picking up the kids, unless I can devise a way to securely fasten them to my bike frame.
2. Traffic and hills.
3. Everything I bring to work would have to fit in a backpack, including my lunch and a change of clothes.
4. Although there IS a shower on the premises, that seems a little creepy. It's more likely I'd opt to spend the day stinky, sporting weird helmet hair.
5. It would be impossible to drink coffee on the way in.

Is convenience, efficiency, and the luxury of arriving at work sweat-free worth $3+ at the gas pump? Probably. But I think I want to do it just to be one of the fringe dwellers.

Plus, it's the kind of thing that will make a good story when we're all driving futuristic electric cars.

"…And then, kids, gas prices hit three dollars per gallon! (Heh heh, I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but it was pretty steep in those days.) And we all hopped on our bikes and said a big, collective eff you to the oil industry! The next year, your grandpa and I bought our first hybrid…"

Have you seen my desk calendar? Because it was on my desk last week before I left work, and all things being equal, it should have still been on my desk this morning. I wonder if I've made enemies I didn't know I had, or perhaps pissed off the cleaning staff. It's an odd thing to go missing.

We spent Labor Day weekend pursuing interests. Matilda baked a cake (with not so much kitchen assistance as moral support). Gertrude experienced the joy of laying paint on an empty oatmeal canister. Gary plotted out some much-needed improvements on his bike. I, um. I knitted, okay? I knit. It's what I do. Catch up, sparky.

So let me ask you this purely hypothetical question. Is it at all logical to make the leap from "wouldn't say no to a surprise pregnancy" to "sure, let's get pregnant!"? And if not, why not?

We haven't had any discussion on it, except the unspoken understanding that as a happily married couple with stable income and housing, a baby wouldn't necessarily bring our lives crashing down around us. It's just a thought that's been popping up a lot lately: "why not?".

I'm sure not everyone puts a lot of thought into the decision. Most people probably do not make pro and con lists, they just decide it's something they want to do. Or they're granted a surprise. Matilda was definitely a surprise. So was Gert, although we did fall into the wouldn't-say-no category – until Gary's company started laying everyone off a month later. That made the timing a little inconvenient. Plus we were all cramped in a leaky apartment. It wasn't perfect, and we were a little freaked out. And Gert cried a lot. But you know, it's life.

Oh hey, I just found my calendar. That's auspicious.

I know I don't want more than 3 kids. I like having 2 kids, and Gary is happy with two. But really, here's the thing. I feel like I cheated myself out of the experience with Matilda. I spent the entire first trimester in denial that I was even pregnant. The second and third were mainly filled with denial, regret, guilt, and anxiety. I tried to avoid thinking about it as much as possible. I didn't buy maternity clothes or baby toys. I just told myself next time I'd do everything right.

With Gert I did, right down to the natural childbirth experience. But I always had it in the back of my mind that Gert would be #2 of 3.

Plus, I'd kind of like to know what it's like to actually "try" for a baby. Not that I think it would take much. Boys from Irish Catholic families can knock up girls just by thinking impure thoughts.

It's just an idea.

I love our IT department, but I have no idea how to talk to them.

We're from different worlds: Me, wanting to describe the many esoteric and substantial ways in which my email's downtime is affecting the quality of my work and, consequently, my fragile mood. And them, desiring only to know when and why the problem occurred, and what I had done to mess things up.

We just can't seem to reach an understanding.

When I call the help desk I want the problem addressed, sure. But what I really want is someone to empathize with me. I want the person on the line to say, "Oh my god, you've been without email for how long? That's ridiculous! How are you even getting any work done? You poor thing. This must really be stressful. I'll open a ticket right this second and send one of the Cute Boys over. And I'll specifically tell him to bring you glazed donuts. And coffee."

Possibly I would like a little metaphorical hand holding and shoulder patting as well.

Instead, they say things like, "Yes, there is a known server issue at your location. Do not worry."

Okay, she did tell me not to worry. At least they seem to be making an effort.

Matilda came home from school Friday lugging five hundred pounds of fundraiser candy, all of which is now stockpiled in her room. She's supposed to sell it to finance her way to camp in October.

And hold on, before you start thinking this post is a plea for candy purchases, let me assure you that quite the opposite it true. I'm discouraging Matilda from doing any active selling, because as long as that candy is sitting here I have the option of scrounging up $1 in nickels and swiping a Snickers.

Hair update: I profoundly love my hair color. Yay! I am a redhead. I would show you pictures, except for the unfortunate thing about my hair being attached to my head, which would violate my No Heads on Blog policy. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Starbucks update: If I don't get a frozen Starbucks beverage at some point in the next 48 hours I will throw this cute, fluffy hamster from a moving vehicle into oncoming traffic. Save a hamster. Knit with me at Starbucks tomorrow night. Who's in?

Knitting update: This little nightgown is just about kicking my ass. I keep telling myself it's not about the destination, it's the journey. Getting there is half the fun. Knowing is half the battle. I'm about halfway done. Despite the tedium of it, I kind of think I'll miss it when I'm finished. It's the most long-term project I've ever attempted, and it's a real lesson in living in the moment -- I will never knit this pattern again, I will never use this yarn again. This experience is happening now, and when it's over it will never be repeated.

Dog update: It has come to my attention that Finnegan is jockeying for the number two position in our pack, looking to knock me down and take up at Alpha Male's right hand. Gary noticed that when he and I snuggle on the couch, Finnegan fidgets and acts all needy. When Gary pats my leg, Finnegan sneaks his nose under Gary's hand and tries to slither up into the pet-me zone. To test the theory, Gary playfully rubbed my belly and I rolled over with my paws in the air… Finnegan went ballistic, climbed my husband and started nosing him in the face. Now Gary likes to mess with the dog by shooting him a look and then blatantly coming over and scratching behind my ears.