No Peeps, 5.5 Pounds, and Despair, Inc.

No Peeps
Last night was supposed to be water aerobics and then Knit Night. With a stop at Sonic for a half-price burger and [oh, so disciplined of me!] no fries, in between. By the time that I logged off my workstation after a very productive day, I knew that what I needed more than movement, time with friends, or dead cow, was some time to myself. So I blew right past the exit for the Natatorium, Ray Charles rocking on my speakers with The Eagles for dessert, past the coffee shop where my friends would be gathering, past the bread thrift shop [because it was closed] and home.

Dinner was a package of Lipton/Knorr Parmesan noodles, with a brick of frozen chopped spinach nuked, drained and stirred in. I wanted something filling, relatively healthy, and quick. It made enough for a bowl of comfort last night and a good lunch today. After dinner, I put in Take the Lead, curled up on the couch with Firestarter and finished the last two repeats of the mock cable pattern and XX rows of the cuff.

And every so often I stood up and danced to the music, so I was not *entirely* slothful.

Much as I love spending time with my Sisters of the Wool, sometimes I just need to hole up for an evening.

5.5 Pounds
I am not all that into weighing myself. [I was going to say “not all that big into weighing myself”, but that just made me snort. And then giggle.] I can tell by looking at my face in the mirror, or by how loosely my watch wristband fits, whether I am gaining or losing.

I weighed myself about a month ago, around the time that I started the water aerobics classes. And it was five pounds more than the last time I weighed in at my doctor’s office, when she cleared her throat and flapped her eyebrows at me.

She is the kindest of women and has never made an issue of my weight, because all my other numbers are stellar. But I put on about 20 pounds last year, while I was dealing with the broken leg and the broken heart and the slowed metabolism because of the sleep apnea. And neither of us was thrilled about that.

Last Wednesday afternoon, after eating lunch and while wearing a heavy cotton sweater, the scales showed that I had lost a grand total of 1.5 pounds [.68kg]. I was a little bummed. Yes, the point is not to wake up one morning with my girlish figure; maybe when I get my resurrected body? The point is to move more freely and to have more stamina.

But Thursday morning, after the first half of my breakfast and dressed as I normally would, the total was more like 5.5 pounds [2.5kg]. And if I could have turned cartwheels, I would! [That’s on my list of things to learn when I *do* get my resurrected body. That, and how to give myself masses of curly red hair. There are no tangles, humidity, or head lice in Heaven. No such thing as a bad hair day. Right? Oh, and I’d like freckles, too. Not age spots. Not these tiny red splotchy things that are cropping up on my middle-aged body, or the skin tags on my neck, or the eyebrows that have mysteriously migrated down to my chin.]

Where was I?

I just tried on a red fitted blouse that I wanted to wear to work today. It’s too big. Which segues nicely into the next topic...

Despair, Inc.
[This is the part where I am kicking myself, ever so gently, for having forgotten to mail myself what I wrote early yesterday morning before I got so busy at my desk.] One of my co-workers got a package from Despair, Inc. And since I am such a perfect Pandora, I immediately went online to check them out. Before you follow suit, please make sure that you have chewed and swallowed your granola, pizza, or whatever you might be munching on while at your computer. And swallow your milk, or cover your keyboard. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a little trip down the hall, particularly if you are middle-aged and multiparous. Just saying.

OK, here you go. I particularly like the BitterSweets. What did my co-worker buy? This shirt. I like this one.

They even have a demotivation poster wizard. Behold:



Used with permission. We now return you to your regularly scheduled knitting.

Helpdesk, Frontdesk, It's All Good

I think I mentioned discovering my Sock Wars assassin, Crumpet, over on Wardrobe Refashioning. I subscribed to her blog via Bloglines and recently spent half an hour reading old posts. This is hilarious! Go play the video.

Work yesterday was amazing. In a good way. Actually, the whole day just kept getting better and better. I was sitting at my desk right after lunch, when a well-dressed gentleman walked into the office. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t think from where, so I just went into Jennifer-from-WKRP mode, “Good afternoon [big smile], how may I help you?”

He smiled back and said, “Hi, I’m [Brother Nice #1] from [the dinner group]. Happy Valentine’s Day!” and handed me a gift bag.

Awwww! And then he asked me to open it. Chocolate, of course, and a card, and oh, this is where the picture is worth a thousand words, right?



Now obviously, he doesn’t know me, because I am the queen of delayed gratification. It was with much grumbling that I agreed, when the girls were little, to let them open *one* package on Christmas Eve. I like to wait until whatever Big Day we are celebrating. That’s the way I was raised, which of course means that it’s Right. Right?

[OK, yes, I ate a chocolate.] So, Valentine’s Day started three days early this year.

I called Brother Sushi on my drive over to the Natatorium after work. I told him that I need to do something about what we laughingly call my testosterone maintenance program, because obviously the monthly dinner and chaste hug are insufficient immunization against half an hour of blushing after a five-minute visit with a man whom I think I would enjoy as another JustFriend, and whose eye I would not spit in if he should ask me on a real date, sometime between now and the Second Coming. I need more JustFriends who are local, and more chaste hugs.

I grinned all afternoon.

This is the finished book cover for my giftee. [Thank you, Secondborn, for the beads and the lovely, if brief, conversation last night, and for that bit of good news.] I will drop the package off at the 24/7 Post Office on my way into work this morning.



And this is LittleBit’s second sock. I made myself stay awake until I worked one round in the larger needles.



The good news that I just referred to, is something that Secondborn has been meaning to tell me for about a month. She just got distracted by little things like teething children, and the flu, and ear infections, and Humidifier Wars with her beloved.

You will recall that the first Sunday on which LittleBit was able to drive herself to work after church, I high-tailed it over to Secondborn’s ward to meet the guy that 2BDH kept having the impression that I should meet. So, we met, and it was pleasant, and I heard nothing, and I figured that was the end of it.

Apparently not. He made a point of finding Secondborn at church a couple of weeks later, thanking her for introducing us, and telling her that he very much wanted to know me better but that he had work commitments and didn’t want to start something that he couldn’t continue. She told him I was a little busy myself [which is like saying that Ben and Jerry make OK ice cream] with the last child about to graduate high school, and she was sure I would understand.

Secondborn, now to be known as the Formerly Perfect Child. Her memory of all this was jogged when she sat next to Leslye at the play on Saturday night, and Leslye asked her, “Whatever happened with that guy in your ward?” and she thought, “Brother Abacus? I don’t think so!”

So, maybe I *wasn’t* hallucinating when I thought I sensed a bit of mutual spark.

Denim Duster, Dinner Group Valentine Surprise

I bought this duster seven or eight years ago. And two or three years ago, I decided to take all the silk ribbon that I had bought to embellish another jacket [butter-soft charcoal grey wool, bought while Firstborn and I were driving back from Idaho with the car I inherited from Mom], which I subsequently gave to Middlest one cold winter when she was more Rubenesque than she is now.

This has been an off-again, on-again project; it has been waiting patiently on a hanger for at least two years. And now that LittleBit’s second Firestarter is nearly done, I am somewhat in the mood to sew. I spent about an hour and a half last night, vaguely listening to A Midsummer Night’s Dream and tidying the edges on the first lapel. At the moment I am not sure where the bag is that holds the rest of the lace and the trim. This could get interesting.

Today I started this when I was sufficiently awake to find my glasses.



A book cover for this year’s Relief Society manual, from fuchsia Ultrasuede® that my sister gave me for my birthday almost 20 years ago.



It’s not quite done; I need to dash over to Secondborn’s after water aerobics tonight and get the alpha beads to spell out my friend’s name. And I want to pick up a bit of ribbon to stitch in at the top, so that she may mark her place.



It’s adjustable, because some of the manuals have a year’s worth of lessons, and some have two.

Here are more pictures of the duster-in-progress. The lace comes from a tablecloth that I bought at the antique mall where I also bought my fainting couch [AKA the Chastity Bed], and the sleigh bed for Secondborn when she was a senior in high school, because she was the only child still at home for whom I had not embellished a hand-me-down twin bed. I promptly and diligently put the tablecloth into storage, because we were living in Hell’s Half Acre La Casa Cucaracha substandard housing, and I didn’t want the bugs to get to it. [Hey, I figured out how to do a strike-through! Woohoos all around!]

Once in storage, it was promptly and diligently gnawed on by mice. Just flat broke my heart to take it out of the bag and see it in shreds. And as I am too frugal to simply throw away all that hand-knotting, over the years I have incorporated it into other projects. I made four placemats. I put lace cuffs on Christmas stockings. And there were enough unchewed edges that I am appliquéing them to the duster’s collar [now mostly embellished] and lapels [very much works-in-progress].

Like the farmer dealing with a butchered hog, I am using everything but the squeal.



I am also using beads and pearls leftover from Firstborn’s wedding.



And more of the star buttons that I used on the lapel.



Here’s the last shot, for now.



Can you bear to see more mug shots from backstage after West Side Story?



And we’ll close with a silly one:



And BTW, her sisters and I are not the only ones who think she would have made a better Maria than the **alto** who was chosen.

OK, I’m off to get ready for work.

Learning to Be the Neck

Someone’s in the Kitchen with Ravelled
Yesterday I came back from the YMCA feeling all ambitious and frugal and of a mind to cook. So I took the last of the generic cocktail vegetable juice and a bit of cooking sherry and tried the recipe on the back of the Arborio rice container. 2T of butter, 2T of olive oil, a large shallot rather than the chopped onion, bubbling for three minutes. Stir in a cup of Arborio rice and moosh it around for another two minutes. Add a cup of the woozy vegetable juice and stir until it is absorbed. Add a second cup and do likewise. Finish it off with a third cup of liquid. I had to add a little water to make up that third cup, as I ran out of juice and didn’t want to add more cooking sherry, and I had no chicken stock.

When I spooned it into the storage container for later, it tasted wonderful, but the rice was not quite fully cooked, nor was all the liquid absorbed. But I was afraid that if I stood there stirring one more minute, I would literally go stir-crazy. And I figure that half an hour of cooling down on the counter before it hits the fridge, will solve that. And if not, well I’m the only one who will be eating it and it will just be a little al dente.

Feeling Groovy
May I state for the record how wonderful it feels to be well! I haven’t coughed in days and days. Who knew that breathing warm, heavily chlorinated air was good for the lungs? [My lungs, anyway.] And nothing hurts. It’s getting easier and easier to walk up the stairs into the building at work. A good thing, too, because this coming week it’s my turn to get the early mail in the morning. They’ve replaced the parking meters at the back of the Post Office, so I will start parking back there because there are eight fewer steps to lug that tray of mail up or down. [Healthy exercise is one thing; masochism is another entirely.] I would rather pay the quarter that is budgeted for getting the mail and park at the meter, than park for free at the front of the building and have to walk up more steps. Ask me again in six months.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G
Remember those alphabet beads that were all the rage among crafty folk, ten or more years ago? I have three tubes of them somewhere, and about a week ago I saw four beads that spelled out my name, and do you think I can remember where I saw them, now that I want to use them?

And do you think they still carry them in the stores? They do not! I went to JoAnn’s and Michael’s and came out empty-handed both times, except for the thread that I need to work on my Valentine’s Day gift for my dinner group buddy.

**Le Sigh.**

West Side Story, C’est Fini!
We have survived West Side Story. Brother Sushi and I had our monthly dinner last night and went on to the play, where we were joined by Firstborn, Lark, Secondborn, and Leslye, who is LittleBit’s Laurel [16-17-year-old girls] adviser. I think in the Church we spell it Laurel Advisor. Anyway, Leslye advises them, which is great because a lot of people that age will no longer accept advice from their respective parental units. But I digress.



Here is a non-silly picture.



LittleBit has something else to be happy about besides the play being over. HerBoy gets to fly home next weekend for the three-day weekend. His birthday is/was this weekend sometime, and she told him that there was no point in his flying home now because she wouldn't get to see him because of the performances.

She is learning to be the neck. [Line from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, where the heroine’s mom tells her daughter something like “the man is the head of the family; the woman is the neck; the neck turns the head.”]

I Shall Not Be Moved
Middlest and I, unfortunately, have had to deal with heads that stubbornly refuse to be moved. I have faith that we will each, in God's own good time, find heads that are worth turning. Middlest is doing remarkably well, considering her insane living situation. Rudyard Kipling comes to mind. “If you can keep your head while all about you/Are losing theirs, and blaming it on you...”

Turning Heels
I am in the middle of turning the heel on LittleBit's second sock. Which means that in the next few days I will cast on for Middlest's socks. Every woman whose husband develops cold feet [and a heart to match], deserves a pair of hand-knit socks suitable for wearing while kicking him to the curb.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G, reprised
Found them, in a tiny Ziploc bag with my star buttons. Here they are, sewn to the lapel on my denim duster. In case of amnesia, I can look down and read:



Note: this is from the first batch of photos I took using the macro setting on my camera. And as you can see, the embellishment of this duster is still underway. I think I will do a little more hand-sewing after church today.

A fortune cookie wouldn’t lie, now would it?
“You are admired for your impeccable tastes”. Yes, particularly my taste in friends and family. Thank you, and bless you, every one.

T-dresses and Memories

Secondborn scanned several of my photo albums a few years ago. She was kind enough to send the pictures of her and Firstborn, taken at Dad’s 80th birthday party at my sister’s near Seattle, back in 1985. There is also a picture of Middlest, who turned two that weekend, but she couldn’t locate it, so I will have to dig through my boxes so she can re-scan it.

The dresses are adapted from a pattern by Marinda Stewart. She was Marinda Brown back then.

From the size and shape, I think that these were originally Polaroids. Dad had a Polaroid camera, and so did we. I don’t remember which of us took these, but Dad wouldn’t mind my publishing them [if he were still here with us], so that takes care of permissions.

Here is Firstborn, about a week before her seventh birthday.



And here is Secondborn at four and a half.



These are pictures from just before life began to be very difficult for us. Two decades later, I can see the sadness behind Firstborn’s beautiful eyes. I was pregnant with Fourthborn, their father was doing contract programming, and we were about to acquire our first goat, Benetta. I was making wall quilts on commission and had participated in a two-woman show at the local art association's gallery that was the best-attended show they had ever had [chiefly due to the fact that everybody in our ward came to see us and signed the guest book].

One of my post-baptism roommates was about to move to Texas and into our ward. We had married within six weeks of one another. I had conspired with her to get our newly-assigned home teacher in our student ward to ask her out, and the rest is history. My first date with the children’s father was the night of my former roommate’s wedding reception. [And yes, I married him just six weeks later.]

She and I were not speaking at that point, so I deliberately skipped her reception, and she mine. It was lovely to have a chance to forgive one another our transgressions against civility, and we had about a year and a half of sheer rollicking fun until her husband lost his job and they moved back to Idaho.

Her oldest and Firstborn were like those hugging monkeys with the Velcroed wrists. And her older son, who was about six months older than Secondborn, carried a torch for that one for at least ten years. [Her first husband, like my second, wrecked his life by the twin evils of diabetes and stubbornness. Hers endured progressive amputations and eventually died; mine is a shell of the man he used to be.]

She has since remarried and has four step-children and a daughter with an excellent man who is a builder in every sense of the word. I really like him [although I really liked her first husband until he became psychotic, but it's been 15+ years with hubby #2, who shows no signs of following suit.]

And as for me, I will not knowingly marry a man who is diabetic. I know there are men who have it who manage their health responsibly [Brother Sushi among them], and that I might be needlessly ruling out men who would be good matches otherwise, but that is one of the first questions I ask when there seems to be mutual interest. It is absolutely a deal-breaker as far as I am concerned, unless and until the man is accompanied by an angelic escort who smacks me upside the head with his trumpet and says this one.

Time for some happy talk. Knitting. Let’s talk about knitting. I finished the gusset increases on Firestarter last night! And there is bound to be more knitting throughout the day, and possibly a nap.

I am now going to find my yoga pants [clean] and my sports bra [ditto] and go play at the YMCA for awhile. LittleBit is still sleeping, and will probably sleep all morning. Can’t wait to hear how last night’s performance went, and can’t wait for the monthly dinner with the aforementioned Brother Sushi and then watching LittleBit and Co. on-stage tonight, surrounded by friends and ward members and much of my family.

[I haven’t forgotten my promise to finish sharing my conversion story.]

Bigotry and Cinderella Dresses and Land Sharks, Oh My!

I thought this was interesting. And probably accurate. Though I have to say that I am unaware of experiencing any anti-Mormon bias in my own life. When the girls were little, I visit-taught a couple of women who had had people make tacky comments in the grocery line about the number of [clean and exceedingly well-behaved] children they had. Nobody ever tried that with me. Maybe because I had a comeback prepared? “Please show me, in the Scriptures, where the commandment to be fruitful and multiply has been rescinded.” Never once did I get to use it.

But then I did reach the point where going grocery shopping was an hour of blissful solitude, once the older girls were old enough to watch the littler ones. Completely eliminated the issues of tired-child-in-shopping-cart and Slim-Jims-at-the-checkout-stand.

Firstborn was whining ever so gently [whinging, for those of you north of the border] about not getting a Cinderella dress. Honey, you did. I spent two and a half months beading the bodice of your wedding gown, remember? You just got your Cinderella dress twenty years after Secondborn got hers, and hers was more colorful.

And if you want another Cinderella *skirt* and can get 1BDH to take you someplace spiffy for your next anniversary, I would be happy to do the honors. I just don’t want to have to deal with the architectural fiddling that goes into creating a bodice that fits any of you girls. I’ll have to do that in the next few years for LittleBit and Fourthborn, and possibly for Middlest if she remarries, since she had a civil marriage the first time around.

Since that particular cat is now [officially] out of the bag, this might be a good time to ask if any of my gentle readers knows a good attorney who is familiar with military divorces and will work for hand-knitted socks?

Speaking of socks, I am now almost halfway up the gussets on Firestarter. And I don’t have to go anywhere tonight, so I am thinking DVD + sock knitting = bliss!

Quick post before I run back to Firstborn's

Ran over there after work last night and washed four loads. They have a gi-normous washer/dryer set and a real laundry room, and while it is not as fast as going to the laundromat and using four or five washers at once, the laundromat does not give me beef tips and rice for dinner, or Jon Stewart, or HGTV.

I came home with two loads of dry laundry and am heading back in a few to pick up the other two loads. Or at least one of them. Load three will have dried, overnight, and I have no idea if/when Firstborn tossed the last load into the dryer for me. There is no folding service chez elle, but the hugs are out of this world! [And she has Lindor truffles in her pantry!]

I got as far as the gusset increases on Firestarter at work yesterday before realizing that I might have done the increases wrong on the first sock. Thankfully, I had the Stripedy Stocking in my bag, so I worked on it until I could come home and check. I thought that maybe I had done a K-M1 instead of a P-M1, but on close inspection that sock is just fine, and I can proceed.

Today I have Legal Secretary 101.1, AKA more of the same. Cue the Pointer Sisters, because I am one excited receptionist!

How can it be Wednesday already?

Monday was a busy day! I managed to zero out my desk, twice, and then I was able to get something useful to do from one of my coworkers. We hardly had any mail, which made me suspect that yesterday we would be slammed. We were. I got it all opened before lunchtime so I could go into the back and start training with one of the legal secretaries.

After a week away from the pool, I was craving my water aerobics class by the time Monday night rolled around. It was a good class. [So, for that matter, was last night's.] And then I came home and made myself a sandwich and a medium salad. I couldn’t decide whether to nuke one of those individual portions of trees-and-cheese [broccoli et al] or to open a can of pineapple chunks and have something sweet but healthy for dessert. I ended up, after much dithering, with the broccoli.

We are doing a V-day gift exchange among the dinner group, and I got my name Monday night. We have a $5 budget, and I don’t know the person at all well: just the sort of challenge that I like!

Remember Sock Wars 2006? Imagine my surprise and delight to find the knitter who “killed” me, posting on Wardrobe Refashion this morning. You’ll want the “back in black” post.

In knitting news, I am almost ready to begin the reverse stockinette gussets on the second Firestarter. The way this is going, I might be galloping up the leg by this weekend.

In family news, LittleBit is [barely] surviving this last week of rehearsals. She came home on Monday night with a raging migraine, nauseous and light-sensitive. I would like to give those teachers light-sensitive! [Deep, cleansing breath.] They are performing for the teachers tonight, and tomorrow night is the first public performance. Tickets are $7 in advance, $10 at the door.

In the bad-Mommy department, I was having so much fun online that I forgot to wake my child for seminary. She is sluicing off as we speak, rinsing away the body makeup, which she loathes. I guess you could call her a Pseudo Rican.

Knit Night [last night] was terrific as usual. One of our own, who moved away to Fern Parts, has moved back. I think there must have been a dozen of us at the bookstore, knitting away and drooling all over each other’s yarn. We have two relatively new spinners, both of whom are really going to town with this.

I am hoping that after the move and the acquisition of a stackable washer/dryer combination and better shelves for my personal library, there will be enough moolah and enough open space for me to get a new wheel. I am hearing “Indian Love Call”, and it’s sure not coming from the brethren in the singles program!

My Own Knitting Trip down Memory Lane

This post was inspired by a recent post of Angeluna's. Sorry, am having trouble figuring out how to do links with Firefox.

I commented as follows: “Holy cow, woman! What a lovely excursion through time, and learning, you've given us. We started knitting about the same age. I just wanted to do Barbie stuff until I was fourteen or fifteen. And I had the same dismal luck with yarn shops that you did, until then. My first FO was a sleeveless Aran dress in oiled wool that scratched like fury. I had nobody to tell me how inappropriate that was for something that was to be worn next to the skin. Or how awful it would smell when wet!”

So, there was that beautifully-knit and utterly unwearable dress, long since vanished in a move, or perhaps foisted off on some other unsuspecting soul during a periodic closet cleanout. Several Barbie sweaters that were too long, because I knit so loosely and the local stores did not carry needles fine enough for me to knit on gauge. A black and cobalt and royal purple argyle vest for First Hubby. I don’t know if he still has that one. But he does still have the Aran sweater in a soft tweedy oatmeal color that I made for him. He keeps it wrapped in tissue paper in a drawer and wears it ceremoniously once or twice each winter.

How do I know this? Because he showed it to me eight years ago, when I visited him after 26 years of estrangement. I will have to see if he can send me a picture to share with you. I knitted another Aran sweater for the girls’ father, which got worn to death and may still be lurking in his closet. Not interested in calling him to ask if he still has it; sorry, you’ll just have to use your imaginations. I gave him the yarn in a box for our first Christmas, when we were living on the GI bill and he was getting his MBA. I think I finished it either the next fall or the winter after that, when we had moved to Texas.

My favorite sweater that I made for myself was bright red [of course], knitted up from Harrisville Shetland that I washed and wound into cakes to take out the sizing so beloved of handweavers. It had I-cord snakes slithering up from the bottom, in two shades of yellow, and tiny yellow square buttons. I gave it away when I got temporarily skinny, twelve years ago, and now I wish that I still had it. I only hope that somebody with an equally quirky sense of humor bought it at the thrift store and wears it on a day when she needs a little cheering up.

I knitted a sweater for my first post-second-divorce boyfriend [I couldn’t think of a more elegant way to express that], *after* I broke up with him, because we remained friends. It was knitted up from super-bulky yarn that I spun from Welsh pencil roving that I either bought from Jacqueline Fee or from somebody she told me about.

I made these tabards for the girls for Christmas, the first year that their father was in chiropractic school.



Each one has a unique pattern, so there would be no squabbling over whose was whose. Here is a detail. This is the largest one, so it belonged either to Firstborn or Secondborn:



We didn’t have LittleBit yet, so there are only four of them, and one has gone missing over the years. [One of the tabards, I mean; not one of the girls. Oye.]

Here is another; I don’t know if it was Middlest’s or Fourthborn’s, as they were the same size despite being two years apart in age.



The yarn is Brown Sheep’s Lamb’s Pride, and I chose Aran patterning because I’d just bought the Alice Starmore book and because the yarn was slightly overtwisted, and the slanting stitches of stockinette did not please me. Here is a detail of the preceding tabard:



These are a soft cranberry in color, in spite of what you see on the monitor, and each girl had a white turtleneck to go under it. This is the third surviving tabard:



And a detail:



That was also the season when “baby cord” was so popular. I made them each a skirt in fine-wale corduroy in what the designers called jade green. We were poor as Job’s turkey, so no photos of them dressed in their Christmas finery. I remember how pleased I was that we had enough money that I could buy them new turtlenecks at Wal-Mart.

Happy Groundhog Day!

Non Sequitur is particularly good on that subject today.

Brain has been skipping about like water on a hot griddle since yesterday morning. What you see is what you get.

I saw a billboard advertising this, so I checked it out once I got to work. The cost is reduced for couples, or if you buy tickets to the series. [There’s a punch-line in there somewhere. I can just feel it, but it’s not coming to me.] The lecture series is sponsored by The Container Store. I’ve spent enough in there over the years, not to mention working there one Christmas when I was in college in the 9o’s, that I ought to get in for free.

Why should I pay $25 to a university for a lecture that will confirm what I already know, that middle-aged people and older people can be wonderfully creative, and that it’s often as much due to time of life [nobody beating on the bathroom door to holler “Mom, she’s breathing my air!”] as it is to native ability? Particularly when I can get an “attagirl” from my primary care physician for a $20 copayment and spend the difference at Half Price Books?

I also saw a bumper sticker that proclaimed “we believe in nothing”, with a web address in tiny letters that I couldn’t quite read, beneath it. I didn’t think he would want me to put my bumper 3” from his in order to make it out. Something beginning with “L”. I googled the phrase and came up with “nihilism” and “Lebowski”. If you believe in nothing, isn’t that a belief in something? Black holes are “nothing”. Amazingly powerful “nothing”.

Do you suppose that nihilists get eaten by black holes when they die?

I see all kinds of neat stuff when I’m out driving. It’s almost enough to make me invest in a Dictaphone. Do they make one that plugs into a car’s lighter? Not that I think every thought that bounces off the walls of my brainpan is worth keeping, but it would be easier to just say something into a mic and retrieve it later, than to reach for my pen and hope that there is a napkin in the cubby between the seats.

I was charging my phone at my desk [because it was chirping in my tote bag yesterday morning], and one of my coworkers came by, picked it up, and remarked, “I would know that this was your phone, because it matches your nail polish.”

Well, yes. I do try to be consistent when it comes to the really important things in life. And we all agree that the un-accessorized life is not worth living, right?

Speaking of accessories, my friend Leslye [L: do you want me to link to your blog?] showed me what she’s been up to recently. She has learned how to do Viking knitting, which looks like I-cord made from sterling wire. Which led me to Google, which led me via curiosity about nalbinding, to this website, which states in the header that a bellwether was often the oldest *female* sheep. Please correct me if I am wrong, but I thought that a wether was a neutered *male* sheep, the ovine equivalent of an ox. And he could safely be trusted to lead the flock home, because he had no interest in, ahem, leading them astray.

Other than that quibble, it’s a neat website. And maybe there are uppity middle-aged female sheep who butt the wether and take the bell and announce themselves, like Alexander Haig, to be in charge.

The current incarnation of the costume is done. I picked up a bolt of lemon yellow ribbon and an Op Art button before dinner and the dance last night.

This is the dress as originally finished [Tan, this is for you]:



This is the dress, shortened 5” and with the black trim.



This is what it looks like now.



You will note that I have sewn the flower to the bodice. If LittleBit turns out to be accented in the same colors as another cast member, let the other cast member deal with it, i.e., go to JoAnn’s and get new stuff. The next teacher who says, “yes, but” about this costume is in danger of getting cabled and bound off.

Speaking of which:



So what did I do today? A matinée at the movie tavern, where I quaffed beer-of-the-root and inhaled a black bean burger and some sweet potato fries. Groceries, though I sure didn’t want to put down my knitting and leve the house again. The KnitPicks podcast. Downloading Firefox as my new browser and linking my blog photos to Flickr [Explorer refuses to play nicely] and then to Ravelry. Buying costume jewelry for LittleBit’s costume. A short but delicious nap. And in between it all, lots of blessedly uncomplicated knitting! Oh, and I overcooked the frozen salmon fillet, neatly turning it into salmon-flavored leather.

In honor of today’s silent poetry reading, I offer “Fibonacci Woman”.

Like the pattern in a daisy’s eye,
spinning outward
from near-nothingness,
building in smooth slow spirals:
This is template for a woman’s life.

First a gleam in father’s eye,
an answering smile in mother’s,
egg and seed dervish into multiplicity,
becoming eye, hand, capillary:
catcher’s mitt for flying spirit.

Leaving the circle of mother’s arms,
small sorties into the world, and back,
growing in strength, wisdom, confidence.
Woman as chambered nautilus, pearlescent,
French-curving into grace and fortitude
until she grows beyond all earthly boundaries,
playing crack-the-whip with God,
and flies boldly into eternity.
© 1998 [Me, from one of my chapbooks] All rights reserved.

I am half-sick of teachers, cried the Lady of Shalott.

More drama. [Pun intended.] Choir director loves the tweaking I did to LittleBit’s costume. Drama teacher insists that we accessorize with a different color, because another of the Shark girlfriends chose black, and she sewed her ribbon onto her costume.

One bright note: LittleBit loves the corsage I picked and can’t wait to use it on something else in real life, so I will need to find one of my own. Back to JoAnn’s I go; we’re hoping to find ribbon and a corsage in an acceptable shade of yellow. LittleBit refuses to go with the suggested green, as the dress is sufficiently poufy to resemble a pumpkin.

Thankfully, I get off an hour early today. I’ll swing by the fabric store before heading north to dinner. [I have my coupon for my free queso and a church program to prove that we are a religious group and can get the discount.] LittleBit has rehearsals all day tomorrow. Woe be unto us if her costume is un-tweaked.

If you’re local and you want tickets and I haven’t already emailed you, please email me or leave a message on my cell phone or LittleBit’s.

I have two bits of good news. Had my performance review on Wednesday; my office manager said I had a really great year, and my bonus will reflect that.

Even better than that, is the fact that I got the go-ahead to start training a few hours a week with two of the legal secretaries so that when one of our longtime secretaries retires this fall, I have a decent chance of stepping away from the switchboard and into her shoes. Our office manager loves to promote from within, when she can. I’ve already whipped up an Excel spread sheet to document my training, and we start on Tuesday!

When I transferred from claims to the legal department in 2001, it was with the option of moving up to legal secretary when the opportunity presented itself. And the staffing model has changed over the past several years. I had pretty much resigned myself to answering phones until I complete my CPCU, and then moving into underwriting.

But I really like where I work, and I love the people I work with. I would much rather work in downtown Dallas, in a historic building, with these folks and my other friends in the building, than to drive to the Operations Center on the cusp of Dallas and Plano. The only good thing about working at the DOC is that the credit union is in the same building, and I could just walk over on my lunch hour when I need to top off my other account, or finance the next car in a few years. I’m not overly impressed with their cafeteria.

I’m going to grab Firestarter and knit while the tub fills. Eight more rounds and I start the cuff! I may well be working on the other sock by bedtime tomorrow. And there is dinner tonight with my own Grumpy Old Men and my fellow Grumpettes to look forward to. Maybe I can teach them all how to make snow angels in my yarn stash?

Why yes, I *did* eat a whole box of Thin Mints

It’s a family tradition. [Besides which, Thin Mints are the sock yarn of the cookie world. Sock yarn doesn’t count as stash, and Thin Mints don’t count as calories.] Pour a mug of milk, rip open the Mylar sleeve, and chew until blissfully unconscious. The first sleeve was dessert after a sensible dinner last night, my own variation on Dutch courage, which I needed in order to tackle hemming up LittleBit’s costume. The second sleeve was celebration after shortening the skirt 5” and the crinoline 8”.

I found her a cute black ribbon corsage at JoAnn’s and a 4-yard bolt of black grosgrain ribbon for her sash. I also bought two packages of white double-fold bias tape to re-hem the crinoline. And then I realized I could accomplish the task far more easily by stitching two deep tucks in the top tier of the crinoline, thus saving all that ruffly lusciousness in the bottom tier. I must say that the dress is looking very Laura Petrie.

I think I want that corsage when we’re done with the costume. I wonder if I will have to arm-wrestle her for it?

I guess this means I can take the double-fold bias tape back to the store. That would pretty much cover the cost of a second corsage, if LittleBit decides she wants to keep this one. Though if she does, we’re going to have to make sure we don’t do the Bobbsey Twins thing at church some Sunday. We’re both a little too old for mommy-daughter dressing.

Knitting content
OK, let me state for the record that Firestarter is a whole lot easier once you move up to the larger needles on the leg. All of a sudden, those little twisted knit stitches are way less of a pain in the patoot. I pretty much twisted the night away, listening to and occasionally watching “Grumpy Old Men”. I borrowed it from Leslye when I took her bobbin back after work tonight. And I had forgotten how funny it is. The soundtrack is great.

Maybe I can channel enough Ariel tomorrow night at dinner that I have a better time than I recently have had at the dance afterward. [Well, not the “I like you, John, let’s go to bed” part. But the openness and the feistiness, that’s what I like and would like to incorporate more of.] This will be my third dinner with the pre-dance-dinner bunch, and my first not tagging along with Brother Sushi. He is mysteriously out of pocket this weekend.

And I have a coupon for free queso, woohoo! because I knew that Richard Nixon was a Quaker.

Superyawn:
I had a little fun with my managing attorney today. She made reference in an email to “the fact that Eli is going to whip Tom's bottom on Sunday”.

I shot back, “Eli Whitney? Tom Brokaw? Enquiring minds want to know...”

To which she responded, “Very funny. You ARE kidding, right?”

And I countered with, “I am the Anti-Sports, remember? [Though I do seem to recall that Eli Whitney has been gone for a week or two, and I can't picture Tom Brokaw spiking the ball or dancing around in the end field.]

“You'll be watching the Superbowl. As will my sister and at least one of my sons-in-law. I'll be reading a book or taking a nap. Or quite possibly knitting, with a movie in the DVD player.”

Do I have my priorities straight, or what?

On facing fears:
[Link for anybody who might need it.]

Brainf@rts and Anthems and Dead Fondue Pots

Well, this explains it. I was looking all over the living room and kitchen for my “empties” the other morning so I could refill them with juice and milk. I’d left the bag under my desk at work.



Yes, I recycle my bottles. I have bought numerous of the “non-leaking” drink cups over the past several years, only to have them leak. And Snopes says that there is no harm in reusing the bottles, so I do. Not indefinitely, mind you, but for a few days, and then I pitch them. If/when I move to Fort Worth, there is a recycling program in place. The suburb where I live now doesn’t have recycling. Nor does it have mass transit. After I move, I will be a good citizen and recycle, and maybe even have a small compost pile. Right after I sew up and/or knit up some market bags. Let me get the kid graduated first.

I am galloping up the leg on LittleBit’s Firestarter. One small piece of my life is proceeding in an orderly manner. [And I realize that I have just invoked the wrath of the Yarn Muse and am likely to pay dearly for it.]

114 envelopes. That’s how many I opened, between the early mail and the late mail, last Thursday. I looked at them stuffed into the attorneys’ red rope folders, waiting to be opened, and I thought, “I wonder how many of them there are?” And now I know. And so do you. It took me almost two full hours to open the envelopes, date-stamp the mail, and replace all the staples with paper clips.

Better than half of the envelopes contained file-stamped vacation letters. Trial attorneys can’t just take off on vacation like ordinary mortals. They have to send letters to the court, stating which days they are unavailable and requesting that no court dates be set during that time.

Remember that last deep, cleansing breath re: the “West Side Story” costume?? Well, apparently I’m not done after all. Where’s that programmable parrot that Firstborn offered me?

The @#$%& costume got a qualified approval from the choir director on Monday night. She loved it; it’s beautiful, *and* it’s too long. No, wait, as of Tuesday night we also need a black flower to pin to the skirt, and a black ribbon for the sash, because suddenly it’s a little boring. LittleBit wore it to rehearsal last night, unaltered, and has been instructed to inform Madame that the first night I have available to shorten it, is tonight.

I’m just thankful that it fits LittleBit above the waist. Shortening the skirt will be easy, though time-consuming. The PITA [pain in the neck] factor in tweaking the fit of the bodice after finishing the armscyes and neck, does not bear contemplating.

I will be so very glad to sit down at the last performance and know that I will never, ever have to sew a costume for a high school musical again. Or at least not until the Bitties reach that age. At which point it might be fun.

I had one of my rare bad days yesterday. One of those mornings where my inward attitude might be most discreetly expressed as “I don’t want to talk to you. Or that horse you rode in on.” All day Saturday I was wondering why my chest was so tender. And on Sunday I found out. It is a good thing they are not performing “Flower Drum Song”, because if I had to endure “I Enjoy Being a Girl” while feeling this way, well it wouldn’t be pretty. Or printable. I thought I was done with this nonsense!

The day did get better as it progressed. I like my job, and I love the people I work with. And I was productively busy all day, and then there was Knit Night and my first order of Girl Scout cookies to pick up. I knit a bit on my own sock, and a few rounds on Firestarter, and committed to a gift project [baby afghan] with my Sisters of the Wool.

Killer of fondue pots. LittleBit and I had fondue for dinner the other day. I dumped the fondue-in-a-bag into the pot and plugged it in. Nothing. I don’t know if it’s a problem with the fondue pot per se, with the cord, with the extension cord, or just a random act of unkindness from the Good Housekeeping Fairy.



I ended up nuking the cheese, a minute at a time, until it was dippable. When we are in the mood for fondue, nothing else will do.

Want a sure-fire way to totally confuse your tastebuds? Nuke leftover fondue with leftover queso until gooey, and then stir in leftover bread pieces until you end up with inside-out toasted cheese sandwiches. [Perhaps the edible equivalent of Napoleon III in Mexico?] This is what Fourthborn would call “fon-goo”.

One anthem, to go, with a side order of Puffs.
This came on the radio the other day when I was driving in to work. At first I thought how applicable it is for this new adventure that awaits me; if all goes well, I will be moving several miles west of here.

And then I realized how applicable it is for someone else I know, for sadder reasons. Even though she hates country music. [Time to get in touch with your inner cowgirl. I’ll be happy to fire up the branding iron, unless you think an Elastrator would be better.]

Lifting my mug of 2% in honor of any of us who have ever had to start over, for whatever reason. Shoulders back, heads up, and when in doubt, eat chocolate!

“Because [we] can...”

Farewell to a Beloved Prophet

President Gordon B. Hinckley, a humble and delightful man who served as the prophet of God from 1995 until Sunday night, has passed away. I will miss him. I had such respect for his kindness and his wit. He was not afraid to state inconvenient truths politely and firmly. His counsel to the church, and to the world, has blessed my life and that of my family members.

Suburbancorrespondent asked in a recent comment:
“So...what's the story behind the adult conversion? Care to share?”

This seems as good a time as any to explain how a rational woman can believe in modern-day prophets and old-fashioned virtues. And it is a theme that I will most likely develop over the course of several posts.

Long ago in a Western state far, far away, there was a girl named Lynn with one older sister [think of her as Elinor Donahue on “Father Knows Best”: smart without being a know-it-all, talented without being a show-off, kind without being clueless, and elegant seemingly without effort; no sibling rivalry here!]. And two parents worthy of emulation. They were believers, but not church-goers, and they allowed me to attend church, or not, as I was inclined.

As for me, I taught myself all the Christmas carols in a little book that Texaco gave away with a fill-up, back when I was seven or eight. I remember sitting in my room in our first house in Boise, singing for hour after hour, not necessarily on-key. I would have been eight at the time. I went to Primary a couple of times with some of the LDS kids on our cul-de-sac. I went to church with my best friend in fifth grade, who was Catholic. I attended the Methodist church when we first moved, but they met in the chapel of a mausoleum, and while that did not bother me, the rudeness of the kids my age, did. I attended the local Friends church intermittently for two or three years when I was in high school, in part because one of my girlfriends did but primarily because there was a guy I had a crush on. My freshman year in college, I fell in love with a Catholic boy and started taking conversion classes, which lasted about as long as the romance did.

I married my first husband in that little Friends chapel, not so much because of any religious inclinations on my part, but because of the warm memories I had of the folks who attended there. I never should have married First Hubby. There was nothing wrong with him, but I was still reeling from something that had happened a few months before I met him, and I was so needy and baby hungry, and all my friends were getting married. We all know somebody like that, and for awhile it was me. I thought the simple fact of being married, would make me happy. Instead, I made both of us miserable. That marriage lasted two years, two weeks, and one day.

That was my first divorce, and the one bright thing that came out of it was that it humbled ~ as well as humiliated ~ me. In spite of all the garbage I have waded through in subsequent years, that is the only time I have seriously considered taking my own life. To the point that I went to a gun store and bought a handgun with only enough power to halfway do the job. Had I followed through, my family would have had to take care of a vegetable for the next eight decades. And I would have missed out on so much joy.

I had a professor who was LDS and happily married, who had become something of a mentor. I called him to say goodbye, and he was inspired to realize that I was not talking about just taking a semester off from school. He called his wife, told her he would be late for dinner and why, and where he would be, and how to reach him, and he came to my home and explained the spiritual ramifications of suicide, and he left with my gun and returned it for me because I was too embarrassed to take it back to the gun store.

That was 1975, the summer of Elton John’s “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”, and the chorus of that song has resonated for me ever since. That was a Friday night, and the next morning my professor and his wife were weeding in their yard, and their ward’s missionaries came by. [They had lived in their home for several years, he later told me, and the elders had never “just dropped by”.] The elders asked if he had somebody to teach, and he said that he did, but that I was out of their district. I had a call from the local elders later that morning and my first missionary discussion that afternoon.

The elders gave me a handful of tracts and a reading assignment, about the last half of Third Nephi and all of Fourth Nephi, in the Book of Mormon. This is an account of the Savior’s ministry to the Nephites after His death and resurrection. I sat on my back porch in the rocker that my father had made, reading as the sun went down, tears sheeting down my cheeks. The Book of Mormon is the only book I know of, with the promise that you can pray to ask if it is true and expect to get an answer.

That was my first spiritual experience as an adult. Or at least the first that I was aware of. I had had other opportunities to come unto Christ but had always resisted, not wanting to make a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep, and also afraid that an Omnipotent Being would mess up my life faster and more permanently than I was already doing on my own. This was the first time that I knew for certain that God was there, and that He loved me, and that He would help me if I asked.

[to be continued]

To return to the mundane, not much knitting yesterday. I bought yarn to make a pair of socks for Middlest, once I have finished Firestarter. I need to go add them to my stash on Ravelry.

Deep Cleansing Breath!

Behold LittleBit’s costume for West Side Story.



These are the darts at the neckline, neatly pressed. I finished the neckline [after trimming it about an inch lower so she wouldn’t choke] and the armscyes with commercially-made bias tape that I pre-curved with the aid of my steam iron.



This is the crinoline from one of her old formals, almost ready to be stitched into the skirt. I trimmed off the purple and left it skin-side out so it wouldn’t chafe, then zig-zagged it to the seam allowance of the skirt and topstitched all the way around the bottom of the bodice. Not as good a job as I would have done for something she would wear in real life, but plenty good enough for a stage costume!



I couldn’t find the zipper foot this morning, so it has a hand-picked zipper. I suspect that it is the only costume in the play with a hand-picked zipper. Not worth a photo, but here is some hem detail.



I’ve taken the morning off, not so much to finish this [though I’ll confess to ten seconds of momentary panic when I realized the zipper foot was AWOL] as to take care of other family business.

Deep cleansing breath. And another.

As Mr. Twisted says, life is good!

Random Churchly Stuff -- and a New Noun?

But first, some backstory. Our church has a lay ministry. And the work gets done by unpaid volunteers, everything from presiding over organizations and meetings to tidying the buildings on a regular basis. The bishop is responsible for everybody within ward boundaries. Which is way more than one man can handle, and the reason that he has two counselors, and other quorums to manage various responsibilities, and home teachers and visiting teachers.

Home teachers are a pair of brethren who are responsible for one or more assigned families. They visit each family once a month, give a spiritual lesson, and counsel with the head[s] of household on matters of concern to that family. Temporal, spiritual, you name it. Does the father need a better job? Are they having family prayers and scripture study? Does Widow Jones need somebody to climb up in the roof and clean out her gutters? Are they moving and need help from the Elders Quorum for the heavy lifting?

The Relief Society has a similarly-organized program called visiting teaching. Pairs of sisters are assigned to visit one or more adult women, take a spiritual message, see if there are any unmet needs that maybe the brethren might have missed, share hugs and laughter and fellowship. The purpose is to lift and strengthen each sister, to bring the love that God has for each sister into remembrance, to comfort the weary and the grieving, and to share the joy.

I am a visiting teacher. Have been for the past 30+ years, ever since I joined the church. My companion is a feisty lady about 20 years my senior, who is a lifetime member of the church. [I am an adult convert.] One of my visiting teachers is a new member and single mom, and her companion [whom I have yet to meet, due to scheduling problems] is a young wife and mother from South America. One of the sisters I visit teach is the literal sister of a woman who was a warm acquaintance if not a close friend, in my first ward in Texas. The other grew up and joined the LDS church in Southeast Asia.

I love being a visiting teacher. I have not always been the most effective one, particularly when I was assigned to visit sisters who wanted minimal or no contact with the church, but the sisters we visit now are just delightful and make it easy for us to come visit.

Last year I was assigned to be a supervisor over sisters who wanted the opportunity to report their visiting teaching via email. I have eight routes that I supervise, and while most of the sisters are diligent about visiting their assigned people, they are not always good about reporting to me that they have done so. [I confess that for most of my VT history, I have not been good about reporting to my own supervisors, which is probably why they called me to this position, LOL.] And we are big in this church on return and report. There are statistical reports that get filed quarterly, and while visiting teaching is only marginally about the numbers, like that cartoon has it, the job is not finished until the paperwork is done.

This is what I sent out to the eight companionships last night:

Sisters,
I have been remiss about sending you inspiring thoughts and gentle reminders.

Some of you have already reported your visits for the month; thank you!

If you have already visited your sisters, please let me know by return e-mail. [Please, oh please, do not make me have to call for your report at the end of the month. I field at least a hundred phone calls, every day at work. When I come home at night, and on the weekends, the last place that I want to be is on the phone. Even with my friends and sisters.]

If you have not already contacted your sisters, it's not too late. There is something within each of you, that inspired the RS to assign you to the sister or sisters whom you visit. You might have strengths your sisters need to draw on, or it might be the other way around: maybe you need to see how another sister handles her life with faith and courage. The one thing I am absolutely certain of is that none of us can get through life entirely on our own. We need one another, and notwithstanding our individual weakness, frequently it is that one infinitesimally small act of kindness that proves an immediate and immeasurable blessing to our sister.

Keep the faith, sisters! Hold to the rod, and with the other hand peck out an email to your intermittently humble and frequently irreverent VT supervisor.

I thank you from the bottom of my earlobes.

When I woke up this morning, there were two new reports waiting in my inbox. And I am going to chase people around between meetings to get their reports, because I really do not want to have to call them on the 31st.

On to another topic. I was reading last week’s Relief Society lesson, which included a map of locations that figured in early LDS church history. One of them was Adam-ondi-Ahman. And I wondered how far it was from where Brother Stilts was living before he died. About 50 miles. And I was about 60 miles away in another direction, back in 1980 when we went to Kansas City for a multi-level marketing convention when I was pregnant with Secondborn.

In reading Lehi’s account of his vision of the tree of life, I thought it was so interesting that before he shared what he had seen, he first described how his wife and two younger sons would be faithful, but that he feared for the souls of his two older sons. As we study the scriptures, we are encouraged to liken them unto ourselves, to find the solutions to our problems and worries in their counsel. And Father Lehi, 600 years before Christ, was doing exactly that. How was this going to affect the people he loved most?

I love the scriptures because of the truths they teach. I love the inspiration that comes as I read and study. I love how they open up insights into my own thought processes and behaviors. Sometimes they bring me comfort like the sweetest of lullabies, as in Doctrine and Covenants 112:10 ~ “Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers.” This has cheered and encouraged me, particularly during the struggles of the last two decades.

And sometimes it is more like a swift kick in the pants, as in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World”. Particularly the next to last paragraph, about those who fail to fulfill their responsibilities to their children. It is oh-so-easy to point the finger at the father of my children and forget that when I do so, there are three more pointing back at me.

Singles Fireside
A fireside is an inspirational address, less formal than our regular church meetings, and typically held on a Sunday night. We are having one tonight for the adult singles. The speaker is a woman in our ward, one whom I both enjoy and admire. So I know where I will be at 7:00pm. I don’t remember what her topic is, but I know that it will be worth my time.

Sabbath Knitting
Today, at least at church, it will be Stripedy Stocking #2. Firestarter is great fun, and it requires thinking, much thinking, and much consulting of the chart[s]. Neither of which is conducive to reverence in my meetings. Yes, I am supposed to be thinking, but it is not supposed to be about the work of my hands.

Sabbath Sewing
I absolutely have to finish that blankety-blank costume today. I wonder what the antonym to procrastination is. Anticrastination? Amateurcrastination? It is on days like this that I wish I had a parrot that cussed. Trained, of course, by somebody else, so that I would bear no responsibility for what came out of its mouth. And when I needed an expletive, I could just rattle its cage.

Small Changes

I have lost maybe half a pound this month, since I resumed exercising. That’s OK; muscle weighs more than fat. And my goal isn’t to be svelte. It’s to increase my range of motion and my stamina. Any measurable weight loss is just lox on the bagel [since I’m not crazy about maraschino cherries, and I’m the one who gets to choose the similes around here].

When I first came to work in my office, I parked a good distance away from the elevator in the parking garage and took the stairs up. After I started my skincare business and had masses of product to lug upstairs for women in the building, I started using the elevator. And after I phased out that side business and took up knitting, I continued using the elevator, because I was usually carrying my big red tote, my knitting bag, and either a basket with my lunch in it, or a plastic bag from the grocery store that served the same function. Something like 40 pounds of stuff, all told.

When I learned last year that I had been walking around on a broken leg for two months, I started parking closer to the elevator. [We are too soon old, too late schmart.]* Now I’m beginning to develop a new routine. On the days that I will be going to the Natatorium right after work, I park close in. I have one hour exactly from when I shut down my switchboard to when I need to be in the water. Every minute helps.

On the days [I was going to say “that I have no class”, but that’s not exactly the image I wanted to convey] that my evenings are free, I’ve taken to parking about halfway between the elevator and the farthest reaches of the parking garage. My legs get a little extra stretch; I doubt that it will add up to more than a mile or so by the end of the year, but it’s a dozen or two more steps in the right direction.

*A digression. I googled that phrase to see if it was attributable to one specific author. I saw it on a pseudo-German sign in a gift shop some time back. There was a related link to this book. And the second review [the one by Eugene A. Jewett] contained this phrase in its synopsis of Chapter 5: “Any relationship … is controlled by the one who loves least”. Can I get an Amen? I think of that in terms of my first marriage, where I was the one who loved the least, and in terms of my second, when it proved to be the other way around.

So what’s the antidote? Brother Ray Charles would say it was “One Drop of Love”. I can’t believe there’s no YouTube for this song. If you can get hold of his My World CD, it’s on that, right after “Let Me Take Over” [which is my favorite song for East Coast Swing].

And now for some small people with big changes. BittyBubba is sitting up:



He looks so much like his mama did at this age. And here are the two Bitties, together:



Both photos by Secondborn, and used by permission. She says that she just knows that once he figures out how to crawl, her life is going to get very, very busy. Can you believe that he is six months old today?

I am easing my way up the calf on Firestarter. I think I’m going to like the designer’s transition from heel flap to full-blown ribbing.

OK, maybe I *do* know something after all

1. I know who the winners are in my movie contest. Tola sent me the first email. Tinks posted the first comment. They each get a set. Seems only fair, since I was less than specific about how the responses should be delivered. [The answer? Runaway Bride]

2. I know where I am on LittleBit’s sock, and I completed the heel yesterday. I say again, I know where I am on LittleBit’s sock!!!

3. I suspect that the choir director was not amused that LittleBit went to rehearsal last night without a finished costume. It was supposed to be ready last night. I went to water aerobics and out to dinner with a gift card I got for Christmas, and then I came home and read a book.

But the skirt is ready to attach to the crinoline, and the bodice is altered and ready for its lining. So it will get finished over the weekend. LittleBit said that she would be extremely disappointed in me if I were to take a vacation day just to finish her costume.

[Have I mentioned that I love this kid?]

And there is a comment waiting to be moderated, which will make a great topic for blogly rumination.

I’m off to the salt mines.

I have no idea what the h--- I am doing

1. The first item to prompt this declaration, was pulling LittleBit’s sock out of my workbag and realizing I had Not-Clue-One as to where I am. I will have to tink back until I reach terra cognita. I was hoping to work on it at lunch, but the break room was not sufficiently quiet for me to think this through. And I have some internal chatter [way more than usual] that is not conducive to concentration.

2. And while we are pondering imponderables, why does this song always make me weep? I was never an abused wife. And I abhor the idea of ending domestic violence by murder/suicide. Much better to end it legally – but permanently – get however much counseling is necessary, and go on to enjoy a peaceful life. [As Oscar Wilde said, “Living well is the best revenge.” I hold to that.] Nevertheless, her cry of “let the weak be strong”, even though we differ on what “strong” means, undoes me every time. I heard it on the way to work yesterday while I was listening for the traffic report.

And maybe I am a little more sensitive than I would otherwise be. The tenth anniversary of my divorce will be here in a couple of weeks. And I am certainly a stronger, wiser, tougher woman than I was when I married him, thirty years ago last September. In the words of another song, “It’s all right now. I’ve learned my lesson well. See, you can’t please everyone, so you got to please yourself.” Well, I’d add the caveat that for a truly pleasant life you’d better learn how to be happy, pleasing God.

I’ve gotten pretty good at pleasing myself. I’ve gotten pretty good at saying, “no, thank you,” though I suppose that I could always get better. I know how I like my eggs [a set of my handmade stitch markers to the first person who tells me what movie that comes from].

3. I keep thinking that I understand the concept of agency, particularly as it applies to my grown children, and I keep fighting the urge to tell some of them how to run their lives. Yes, I have read Richard and Linda Eyre’s excellent book, “Empty Nest Parenting”. I need to read it again. And I need to remember that most of my kids are doing very well, thank you very much, even if they’re doing it differently than I would. And even the ones who are struggling, probably need to figure it out on their own, with me standing on the sidelines with my mouth firmly shut, except to cheer them on.

I was talking over a couple of situations with The Man Upstairs on my drive to work yesterday morning, feeling cranky and helpless and all “why don’t You do something?”. And as has happened more than once in the past, I heard that quiet voice reminding me that they already *have* a Savior, and my job is to just be their mother and love them.

Not hard at all to love them, thank goodness.

I don’t want to be told when I make my accounting that the choices I made were equivalent to picking the chrysalis off my butterflies, leaving them weak and crippled and unable to fly. Still, it hurts when my kids hurt, and it’s hard to know how much to do, and when to stand back.

Poor LittleBit called me yesterday morning when I was in the middle of sorting a small mountain of mail, wondering where my sewing scissors might be. An excellent question. I gave her some possibilities, none of which had any basis in reality. Hey, I haven’t done any machine sewing since before the move in September. I remember seeing my shears, but your guess is as good as mine, as to *where* it was that I saw them.

I gave her the classic Martin Van Buren speech [the one that he gave to Joseph Smith when he asked for help from the federal government]: “your cause is just, and I can do nothing for you.”

And we know how well that turned out for MVB [defeated in his re-election bid and relegated to being a footnote in history]. Let’s hope I fare better.

On a brighter note, when I got home last night, LittleBit had successfully lobotomized the crinoline from her prom dress, the bodice was sewn together, and she had gotten the mess with her Social Security check straightened out.

So I won’t be rambling on and on as usual, this morning. I need to clear off the dining room table and set up my sewing machine so I can put her skirt together and attach the crinoline to a piece of white lining fabric, rather than the lavender which is its present companion.

I am so thankful for our good friend who was willing to drop everything and help.

Maybe once I get to work I can figure out what’s up with LittleBit’s sock.

Good news, "meh" news

My friend Sooz has a regular column at Meridian Magazine [there’s a link over on the left]. Her column is “A Beacon Light”. She has begun a lively and thought-provoking series on personal preparedness; and that is why I am going to include links to her articles for as long as she is on this particular soapbox.

Her column officially comes out on Tuesdays, but I learned several months ago that if I click on her name in the author list on Monday, 99 times out of 100 her new column will be waiting for me. [It used to confuse her when I’d write and comment on a column she didn’t know had been published. I think for awhile she thought I was psychic.]

I guess it would help if I gave you her nom de plume, wouldn’t it? Susan Law Corpany. The author list is on the left side of the Meridian home page. The column search is under “Archive” on the right side of their home page.

I will stop at the copy shop on my way to work this morning. Read her column, and you’ll know why.

I had a nice, easy workout at the YMCA yesterday morning. I just set the recumbent bike for “manual” and started pedaling. It was mildly amusing to start out at 56 rpm and finish up at 65 rpm. I wasn’t consciously speeding up. I just went with what felt good, and apparently once my legs warmed up, they thought we should go a bit faster. I didn’t care, so long as it didn’t interfere with my knitting.

Hey, I really do try to keep my priorities straight around here!

One of many things that I like about Central Market is the meat and seafood section. We don’t eat a lot of meat; we mainly use it to flavor our casseroles and soups. I like that I can buy *one* sausage link or a 5-oz piece of fish. Last Saturday I bought one bison sausage and two chicken-and-Roma-tomato sausages. I was in the mood for chicken as I drove home, and I knew that I had some leftover chicken stock in the fridge and about a cup of Arborio rice left in the pantry. I went onto Epicurious for “how to cook sausages” and found a recipe for beer-braised sausages. So I started the rice in one pan and the sausages in my cast-iron skillet. When they were browned on one side, I turned them over and [being entirely out of beer chez nous, imagine!] upended the last of the several-years-old cooking sherry over them, using some of that chicken-infused sherry to finish off the risotto.

Then I sliced up the sausages into manageable bites and stirred them into the rice and stirred in the remaining jollop from the skillet. There was enough salt in the sausages and the chicken stock to flavor the rice without making my ankles puff up like blowfish overnight. I had a sensible portion for dinner last night and divided the remainder into two storage containers for lunch this week.

LittleBit brought home some extremely frustrating news from rehearsal last night. The dress which she purchased at the thrift shop with her own hard-earned cash, and which passed muster with one of the drama teachers the week before last, was rejected last night. So after I bolted my dinner, we went to the fabric store and spent $40 of my hard-earned cash on fabric, notions, and a pattern. We have two days to make this dress, and my evenings are already committed. One of our good friends is helping with the cutting and the fitting. I am going to remove the crinoline from LittleBit’s gown for the Military Ball her freshman year, shorten it, and attach it to the skirt. Since I know that I cannot get the bodice fitted tightly enough to please the drama teacher, I am delegating that to LittleBit and Leslye. I will make the skirt, attach the bodice, and put in the zipper and the hem.

I am in a much better mood this morning than I was at the fabric store last night. We ran into several other cast members and their moms, all of them just about equally thrilled. I know that when I see LittleBit dancing the cha-cha and mambo up on the stage, it will be worth it, but now I understand how my mother felt about the whims of my ballet teacher when I was in fifth and sixth grade, and why she opted out of a third year of dance lessons for me.

Paraphrasing an old saying, the choir director’s right to swing her baton ends where my pincushion begins. She has already used up all the goodwill she amassed with me when Firstborn was in her choir twelve years ago. But as LittleBit reminded me last night, I only have five more months of divaliciousness to put up with, and then we are done.

I finished the toe increases on the second Stripedy Sock before going to bed last night. It was a happy way to end the evening.

I am trying something new with the links today. They should open a new browser window. Let me know if that doesn’t work. Thanks!