Fluffy Purple Neck Ruffle Thingie

For those of you who are just dying for visible proof that knitting goes on here. This post has been kicking around in drafts for almost two years; the scarf itself has been lurking in the bottom of a box where I keep knitting oddments. I made it from what was left of the yarns for LittleBit’s purple scarf.



I did a provisional cast on of 11 sts, using a scrap of Mandarin Silk, and I reverted to the YO, K10 pattern for all odd rows and SSK, K9 for all even rows. This gave me the eyelet edge that was so stretchy and problematic on her scarf, but this time I had a plan...



I knit back and forth until I had just enough of the eyelash yarn left to do a three-needle bind-off. And then I made a trip to my favorite ribbon shop, conveniently located not far from where I used to live, for some French grosgrain ribbon. I found something better, instead; it picks up the flecks of yellow in the railroad yarn that I used.

I hope that Deb Gardner is one of my neighbors in the eternities! I have done business with her, off and on, for 20 years. I have taken only one class from her, but I intended to take more. She is a thoughtful and imaginative and patient teacher; I learned a lot that day, surrounded by chocolates and Broadway show tunes.

Deb had an amazing selection of ribbons and laces and passementerie and beads. She was my go-to woman when I beaded Firstborn’s wedding gown six years ago, when we designed our own beaded fringe for the bridesmaids’ dresses and the family dresses. Also when I improved the embellishments on LittleBit’s first (store-bought, at deep discount) formal for the Military Ball and made and beaded a wrap to go with it. If you needed this kind of stuff for any project, or just because it was pretty, this was the place to go. Lest you think that something awful has happened to Deb, breathe easy. She is very much alive. [She is also retiring and closing up shop at the end of this month. Deep sigh...]

So, this is what I bought:



And this is how it looks, threaded into the eyelets formed by all those YO’s:



And this is how it looks over a couple of silk and cashmere sweaters that I bought at August Max Woman. When there still was an August Max Woman. [Another deep sigh...] First, the purple sweater:



And then the black:



This is the link to the earlier post re: LittleBit’s scarf, with the specifics on the yarns mingled amongst all the verbiage.

If you’re looking for something a little less colorful, this is the lovely sleeve of the gracious woman on the train the other night. Stranded knitting, tidy little herringbones of cream over a cream-based tweed.



It bugged me that I didn’t know how much yarn I had used to make LittleBit’s Purple Fluffy Scarf, or how much for my Fluffy Purple Neck Ruffle Thingie. I wanted to document them on Ravelry.

But I had the leftover ladder yarn. And a digital scale. And an Excel spreadsheet, and my calculator here on the computer. And I got ’er done!

Of course, it took me the better part of an hour to weigh stuff and think it all through. Which meant that no cooking got done before church, for last night’s dinner guests. I did, however, make it to church [almost] on time.

We ended up having tuna sandwiches on Parmesan bread, cream of corn soup, carrot sticks, and lemon squares with pimiento garnish, all washed down with Raspberry Red Zinger iced herb tea, which I had had the forethought to set in the fridge before leaving for church.

Confit

A French word meaning “we will sell you three tablespoons of runny jam and charge you Neiman Marcus prices for it.” Central Market imports it from The French Farm. And like a silly sheep, I buy it. I have enjoyed their blueberry, just finished the black cherry, and I have a bottle of fig-and-walnut in the fridge. I redeem myself by saving the bottles. I will refill them with homemade preserves or lemon curd at Christmastime. I think I will be making gift baskets for the sisters I visit teach.

I finally, finally placed my KnitPicks order. Bookgrump thought she had included my needle tips with her order, but my bit must be wandering around in cyberspace somewhere. In 5 to 14 working days, I should have the tools I need[le] to knit either the Sunrise Circle Jacket or one of the crop cardis from KnitSimple. I think I will be ready for some worsted at that point.

So, I have been thinking. [I know, I know, always a dangerous proposition where Ms. Ravelled is concerned.] I loved knitting Juno Regina in the KnitPicks Gloss Lace in aqua. I loved knitting Adamas in the same yarn in teal. I am loving the scarf I am knitting for Secondborn, also in the teal. And I still have seven untouched skeins plus nearly a full ball of that teal remaining, of the ten skeins which I originally purchased to knit a long, lacy, floaty confection of a swing jacket or tunic or something.

I still love the yarn. I love the color. And I am rethinking my original idea of an entire monochromatic sweater in this teal. So what I am thinking, is this. Over the next few months, I’ll pick up a few skeins of this and a few skeins of that, and several more in various accent colors, and I’ll whip up a Fair Isle symphony wherein teal is the melody and all the other colors harmonize and improvise and warble obbligato’s and descants until Kaffe Fassett and Alice Starmore and Fiona Ellis and Elizabeth Zimmerman duke it out as to which of them is my greater inspiration.

KF: I saw her first! Have you seen that great knitted bathrobe of a coat she made when her girls were little? With the scripture knitted into the hem of it? Fassett Light, every blessed inch of it! And then there is that needlepoint pillow of mine she adapted, the one she calls “The Nun I Am Living Like.”
AS: Aye, but one my books is worth more than all of yours together on eBay! And some of your books aren’t even listed on Ravelry yet!
FE: Alice, dear, have you noticed that while she has owned several of your books for the past decade or two, she hasn’t actually knitted anything out of them? Whereas, she knitted my Celtic Icon hoodie for LittleBit.
EZ: Kaffe, you may have informed her color sense, and Alice, you may have inspired the four tabards she knitted for her girls before LittleBit was a gleam in anyone’s eye, and Fiona, you may have gotten her twisting stitches again, but the lot of you are a few ants short of a picnic. Who do you think taught her to be a thinking knitter?
KF, AS, FE, [mumbling abashedly]: We will not speak ill of the dead. Particularly when she is right.

I emptied six boxes yesterday in the search for the Serpentine mitts, and took the boxes out to the recycling bin. And wrapped Willow’s present for last night’s dinner. Worth every minute of digging to see the look of delight on her face when she put them on!

I also found several finished objects, now safely stowed, and a size 5 cheapie plastic circ, and have picked out my next mending project. And wrapped and mailed my sister’s birthday present a full two weeks before her birthday. And baked a batch of lemon squares which are now [or were] over at Fourthborn’s new place, along with my storage bin of Renaissance costumes minus my dragon [but not the base to fasten it to my shoulder the next time that I feel the urge to have a dragon perched on my shoulder].

I even managed a nice long soak in the tub. And thought about a bowl of hot six-grain cereal with real maple syrup on it but ate my leftover chicken-fried steak instead.

I also took my teal pants over to Coldwater Creek, where they were holding a teal suede swing jacket for me. The teal suede jacket that I tried on after dinner with Trainman on Friday night. The one I have been trying to try on for at least two months, at another CC shop near the bookstore where we hold Knit Night every other week. That suede jacket, which is now 25% off but still not cheap enough for me to whip out my debit card. I will take my chances on there being one in that size at their online outlet at 70% off in a few weeks, and if not, oh well. It’s not as if teal is under-represented in my closet, right?

I got so much accomplished yesterday that for awhile I was looking around nervously for Elijah and his golden chariot to sweep down out of the heavens and whisk me away to the great yarn shop in the sky. I have healthy snacks to take to work with me, though I did forget to pick up a gallon of milk or something conventional to fix for the missionaries for dinner tonight. But I have enough bits and bobs in the fridge, the freezer, and the pantry to feed us.

My front door is now red. It has two to three coats and is almost ready for its close-up. Pictures later this week.

The knitters among you are wondering impatiently, what did I work on at dinner last night? I grabbed my 00’s and my 000’s and the yarn for Eleanora, and I swatched. I have enough knitted on the 00’s that I can measure for gauge, and I am about halfway there on the 000’s, and then I suppose I ought to try my 0’s, but I don’t think I am going to be lucky enough to get to use them for the body of the sock. These are knitted cuff-down, so once I get to the heel I may go with the smaller needle for the sole, as I did on Anastasia.

Time to grab those last two leeks and make a tart for dinner tonight.

Check Your Arteries at the Door

It’s time for a post about recent adventures in dining.

Thursday night, Brother Sushi and I ate at Texas de Brazil, an upscale restaurant in downtown Fort Worth. [Secondborn’s brother-in-law worked there for awhile when he was in college. Secondborn has eaten there once, with her beloved, and was appalled at how expensive it was. She and I remember the bad old days when we couldn’t afford a family trip to McDonald’s.] It is in a lovely old building and occupies two floors, with gorgeous red walls [and enormous red paintings hung upon them], and a grand staircase to the second floor. Miz Scarlett would have been right at home on those stairs.

You start at the salad bar. Small, tender artichoke hearts, lightly pickled. Haricots verts with capers. Tabouli. Bite-size pieces of grilled salmon. Small globes of sweet pepper, maybe an inch across and just hot enough. Hearts of palm, which I had never tasted, and I like! Bland salad greens for the unadventurous, something more like spring mix for people like me. [Are you impressed that I have learned the difference between frisée and radicchio? I am, but mostly just amazed.] Different cheeses. I had some herbed chêvre on toast rounds: yummy! Don’t fall over but I skipped the potato salad. I took tiny portions of almost everything. I tried manchego, which would be Parmesan, except that Parmesan has to come from Parma, Italy [as opposed to Parma, Idaho, which is near where I grew up], just like real champagne has to come from France. I had a small triangle of cheese that had been lightly grilled.

At your table there are laminated paper dots about the size of a coaster. Red on one side and green on the other. You keep the red side up while you are enjoying your salad course. When you are ready for meat, you turn the green side up, and people start showing up at your table with these amazing skewers of meat. You have two forks, a steak knife with a rounded tip, and a little pair of tongs. Some of the meat comes as a morsel; other is cut off the skewer, and you grab it with your tongs and put it on your plate. At your table are two bowls. One has mashed potatoes seasoned with horseradish; the other has fried bananas. Both are palate cleansers. This Idaho girl was in heaven!

A word about those skewers. These are not like those bamboo jobbies that you soak when you are grilling in your backyard, or the skinny metal ones. These are small swords, with a blade about half an inch wide. And maybe 18” long. The servers walk around with the skewer resting on [or inserted into] a metal plate that’s maybe 4” in diameter, to corral any juices. We are talking serious My Name Is Inigo Montoya You Killed My Father Prepare To Die skewers here!

I had chicken wrapped in bacon [must have been a thigh, because I had to wrangle a bone and was unable to get the last little bits of meat; you can tell how often I eat fried chicken or how long it’s been since I cooked one], perfectly done all the way through and perfectly moist and tender. A small chunk of sirloin. Flank steak. I passed on the lamb; too much lamburger when the children’s father was getting his MBA. One or two other bits of beef; I missed the filet mignon morsels, because I was busy as they passed by, and by the time I had eaten what I’d taken, there was no more room at the inn. All the beef was medium rare, which is how I prefer it.

I now understand why this restaurant is so expensive. Meat is not cheap, and all those servers weaving in and out between the kitchen and the tables! I had never eaten at a place where the servers possibly outnumbered the guests.

Oh, and they play bossa nova in the background, and the loo is upstairs, but there is an elevator. Very posh!

I want to go back, for the filet mignon, the potato salad, and the desserts. But as ever, the best part of the evening was the company, followed by the bearhug when he took me back home.

So, that was Thursday night. I had another adventure last night. As we pulled into the station after an hour’s worth of catching up on each other’s week, Trainman grinned and asked, “Do you want to go eat at Massey’s? You’d have to lead the way.”

Oh yeah.

As I drove over there, I called Secondborn, Brother Sushi, and Middlest, to let them know what was up. And to get the giddiness out of my system. When we got there, Trainman said that I had a brake light out and that if I wanted, he could fix that for me next weekend. And that one of my hubcaps was wobbly and maybe I had a problem with alignment. We inspected that wheel, and the hubcap is just coming loose on one side. I’ll have one of my sons-in-law whack it back into place after dinner tonight.

We had a really great meal. Small Caesar salads, chicken fried steaks with mashed potatoes, no desserts, lots more talking, and separate checks. Not a date, just two friends having dinner and becoming better friends. [I am only the teeniest bit wistful about that but so thankful that I know when a man isn’t interested romantically, and even more thankful that I no longer feel the need to take it personally when he isn’t.] We didn’t hug or shake hands as we parted. I will probably feel comfortable hugging him someday, but we are still building trust. I suspect that this is going to be one of those long friendships that bring so much joy.

I’m eating out again tonight. Willow is here for the weekend [have I mentioned that already?], so we are gathering en famille at LittleBit’s restaurant tonight for dinner. I wonder if she will be able to join us, and if so in what capacity. It would be hilarious if she were our server! Will I have to [get to?] tip my daughter?

In knitting news, I am a smidgen over one-third done with Secondborn’s scarf. And I realized as I got ready for bed last night that I will need to come up with another project to work on while we are waiting for dinner tonight. Since I know where my skinniest needles are, I might work a couple of swatches for the Eleanora socks, which have been sitting in time-out for several months. It would be fun to work on something red for a change! Not to mention something where I could show you photos of the work-in-progress.

I Should Have Grabbed More Yarn

When I tore out of the house yesterday morning, I left with my knitting attached to a ball of yarn about the size of a clementine. I figured that it would be just enough to get me to work, through my lunch hour and breaks, and home again. So I didn’t stop to wind another ball, because I didn’t want to miss the train and have to drive in.

I didn’t count on somebody getting his/her van stuck on the tracks, where it lost an argument with a westbound train. We were an hour late getting into the station in Dallas. Plenty of time for me to knit. I was pleased to catch snippets of all the civil conversations going on around me. There were three of us from my office stuck on the train, in different cars.

I will give you a detailed review of the restaurant where I dined last night, later this weekend. It was amazing, delicious, and of course the company was excellent. Can’t wait to share my impressions with Trainman on the ride home tonight. [He said I would like it.]

Can’t wait to see Willow at dinner tomorrow night. She is flying in to spend the weekend and celebrate her birthday [last Saturday] with the in-laws, outlaws, steps and exes. My task for tonight is to sort through all the boxes in the closet in my studio and see if I can find one of those three pairs of Serpentine mitts I knitted earlier this year. [I’m still a little miffed that she did not acknowledge my gift to her last year, even after I emailed to ask if she had gotten it. Logic says to just smile and give her a card and a hug; grandma genes say to give her at least a little something, even if it was not made specifically for her while thinking about what a neat human being she is, as I did for her sister. Who thanked me and hugged me.]

I’ll let you know which part of me wins out. Jeans, where are my jeans, and a pair of socks without too much nylon in them? I need to leave in less than ten minutes!

Ramblings

Another comforting article in Meridian.

So I woke up on the wrong side of the bed yesterday morning. More physically than attitudinally. Stiff neck, general achiness, definitely chilled all over, but reasonably well-rested thank goodness. The kind of day where you can feel winter coming and you start thinking about piles of quilts and trying not to wish you had somebody to put your cold feet on.

I need to find a RaceTrac close to home. I like their hot chocolate better than 7-11’s or Starbucks’. I tumped my last two packets of hot chocolate into a tall cup once I got to work, and that helped a little. I also wore my purple cashmere smoke ring scarf. I was hoping to get a neckrub from one of my girlfriends at work; she’s a golfer and has very strong hands, but she was out sick.

I wonder where my bag of deer corn is? I know that I packed it. It is perfect to nuke and snuggle up with when I have stiff, sore muscles.

Thirty-plus years ago, the Wall Street Journal had a story that cracked me up. Still does. Their reporter said that someone in the College of Cardinals had told the following joke to the then-Pope: Supposedly His Holiness is sitting in a meeting with his cardinals, when a messenger comes in to say that he has good news and bad news. The good news is that the Lord is on the phone. The bad news is that he’s calling from Salt Lake City. [Allegedly, the Pope was highly amused.]

I wonder what his successor thinks about the fact that the LDS Church has announced that we will be building a temple in the Eternal City. I wonder if, in a few years, the answer to the question, “Is the Pope Catholic?” might be, “most of them, yes, but this one was just baptized into the LDS Church, and Gladys Knight and the Saints Unified Voices sang at the baptismal service.”

Domineering wife? I was never entirely crazy about that show. And I didn’t watch it all that often. I would not have said that his wife was domineering. [Peg Bundy? Now *that* is a different story. Not that I ever watched more than 15 minutes of that entire series.] I would have said she was put-upon and patient in the extreme. I would have said that Tim Allen’s character was bumbling, rude [all those Al-is-fat jokes?] and obnoxious. But Al [Borland, not Bundy] could have parked his steel-toed boots under my kitchen table anytime.

Much happy knitting on Secondborn’s scarf yesterday. More coming up today, plus Brother Sushi and I are having our monthly dinner one night early at a Texas/Brazilian restaurant. Which is great, because I am feeling distinctly carnivorous today :)

Happy Birthday, Lark!

5 October 2008
I finished the stealth project with 43.7 g [.79 ball] of the 247H dark and 38.5 g [.7 ball] of the 264A teals. I am using them to make a bulky-ish smoke ring scarf for Lark for her birthday, which is Wednesday. I would like to take a finished gift with me to Knit Night on Tuesday [or finish it there] and drop it off when I take Middlest home.

I was fascinated by (?)Wendy’s(?) multicolored striped project of several months back [can’t find the link, sorry], so I cast on 120 stitches [using the knitted cast-on for flexibility] in the 247H dark and worked one-fourth of a round before working the next quarter with an end of the 264A teal ball. Then a third quarter with the other end of the 247H dark, and the fourth quarter with the other end of the 264A teal.

It became one obscenely tangled mess, so I had to separate the two balls into four smaller ones. Even though I was rather tired of K1P1 ribbing after knitting miles of it for the first stealth project, I chose it again for this one.

6 October 2008
Lots of happy knitting on the train, on my breaks, and at lunch.

7 October 2008
I woke about 2:30 and picked up my needles. It was bound off, with the ends woven in, by 5:30.



8 October 2008
I hope she likes it. I gave it to her last night after Knit Night, and she said that she did. I also made it very clear that if she didn’t like it, or liked the shape but not the color or the yarn, there was somebody at work who liked it, and it would be absolutely no problem to make her something else.

On to other topics. Perhaps the lesson ~ and the blessing ~ from having injured my knee last week, is how peaceful and thankful and happy I am now that I can move without pain. It is so easy to take this body for granted, to assume that it will move as my thoughts and impulses direct it, and to be surprised when I get sick or injured.

Hello? You mean I really am mortal?

While I am still a bit cranky about the early release of the children’s father from that first hospital a few weeks back, he still got better treatment than this poor man did at a hospital in Dallas.

Question: if I am emulating a pack animal by using a luggage carrier to move a couple of boxes to a friend’s office, does that make me the dolly llama?

The spam filters at work are pretty efficient. But every so often something gets through. Yesterday there was one with the subject line “for men with l*b*do problems”. [Inserting asterisks so as not to get 40,000 hits from evil-minded trolls.] First of all? I’m not a man. Second, I have no problems in that department, other than the fact that my l*b*do is up on blocks with the starter disabled and the Lo-Jack set on *stun* until the factory sends out an authorized representative. So, really, no problem. But thanks for making me laugh so hard that I woke up sufficiently to finish the project I was working on.

What’s on the needles today? A lace scarf for Secondborn for her birthday. I’m using more of that KnitPicks Gloss Lace in the darker teal, but no pictures until I give it to her in a few weeks. She has been wanting a scarf for awhile, and she loved the yarn and the color, so the only part that will be a surprise is which pattern I have chosen.

Firstborn’s hubby, 1BDH, informed me last night that if I get his name in the Christmas gift exchange drawing, he wants me to knit him an AutoZone gift card so he can buy more parts for his race car.

He is such a boy!

I fought the hood, and the hood won

So, it was raining yesterday. And my $3.24 umbrella turned out to be worth about what I paid for it. I pushed the button. It went up ~ sortof ~ and refused to open completely. Thankfully, I have a hood on my raincoat. But that meant once I got to the office, my first trip was to the loo with my pick and my hairspray to attempt to resurrect my spikes.

Wish I could show you the knitting that got done on the train into Dallas. And during my breaks and lunch hour. And on the train coming home. Not so much on the train going home, though I did remember to give Trainman a copy of my recipe for egg and lemon soup.

We talked about food [of course] and shopping, and shoes, and why a Coach (or other expensive) bag that will last for 20+ years might be a justifiable investment, if one is not the sort of woman who must have a new bag each season. [His ex-wife has had one well-made bag for at least 20 years.] I remain unconvinced. I think of how many books that would buy, or how much yarn. Or, less selfishly, how many people that would feed or immunize or buy sewing machines for, so they would not need to rent their bodies in order to eat.

He and I are agreed on one point: you buy the best that you can afford, you do not pay retail for it, and you do not go into debt for it.

Here are two columns that spoke to me on Meridian. This is last week’s column, and reader responses are in this week’s column. It’s a topic that I have thought much about, over the years: sometimes from the viewpoint of my own interactions with men, and sometimes when I wondered if the girls would find husbands who would cherish them and not be intimidated by them.

You know how I have raved over the passionfruit lemonade at the coffee shop. Well, I decided to see if I could come up with something like unto it. So I picked up a box of Raspberry Red Zinger herbal tea and a 12-oz container of generic frozen pink lemonade. I brewed up half a gallon of herb tea, using eight teabags, and stirred in a couple of “goodys”* of pomegranate molasses, the thawed lemonade, and 4.3 cans of water. A better-than-OK substitute, particularly with lots of ice. I think I can get a closer approximation with some tweaking of the recipe. And I will get 2.5 *gallons* of this jollop for roughly the price of two “talls” at the coffee shop.

[*A “goody” was Dad’s scientific word for the quantity of liquid which comes out of a bottle with each big bubble of air. Listen next time: doesn’t it sound like “goody, goody, goody”? In this case it was something between 2 tbsp and a quarter-cup.]

I finished Lark’s birthday present about half an hour ago. I’ll deliver it tonight, when I take Middlest home after Knit Night. Pictures tomorrow!

When I was chatting with Trainman last night, I remarked that I do not like blue. He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do appreciate the irony of telling you that, when I am wearing jeans and a denim jacket and the turquoise earrings which I inherited from my mother, and am knitting a project with many shades of blue in it, and everything you have seen me knit since you’ve known me, has been some shade of turquoise or teal. Denim doesn’t count. Neither do teal and turquoise. Not blue. Not in my world.”

He seemed unconvinced.

Knowing vs. Doing

This article struck a chord with me. But then I am very fond of Mark Twain. I do not know that he would have agreed, but I find his forthrightness not unlike Brother Brigham’s.

When I was married to the children’s father, he used to say that he couldn’t wait until the Lord asked us to trek to Missouri to help found the New Jerusalem; he was ready to leave all the antiques that he had inherited from his mother and just *go*. I have no doubt that he was, and it was truly an admirable mindset.

I also remember how irritated I was that there was more room allocated to the antiques in our tiny house than there was for the seven people who crab-walked around them. The best Christmas gift he ever gave me, was permission to sell those antiques when he was in chiropractic school. Yes, we needed the cash. But we needed the elbow room far more.

I do understand his reluctance, however; I was so sad when someone wiser than I instructed me [gently, tactfully] that the girls would get along better if they were not crammed four to a room, while I had a whole room that I could lock up for the crafting that kept me [relatively] sane. I moved all my stuff out to the living room and handed over the back bedroom to Firstborn and Secondborn. Absolutely the correct thing to do. Even though I spent the remaining years until we abandoned that house, keeping the Olfa cutter up out of reach of the girls and coveting my studio space.

Doing the right thing is seldom easy or comfortable, and sometimes it is a wrenching sacrifice. But it makes my messy, embryonic studio all the more precious to me for not having had one for twenty years or more.

The girls have each commented to me that they have felt life would have been easier had there been fewer of them. They also agree that they can’t imagine our family with even one of them gone. Nor can I. I might have felt less overwhelmed had I not been so outnumbered by short people. Though I think that the poverty [and eight years of recurring depression] triggered by their father’s repeated unemployment was a greater factor.

Ideally, he would have had the sort of job many of his classmates found, with a measure of economic stability and the possibility of my hiring occasional help with the housekeeping. Or, ideally, I would have found a compassionate way to articulate the question that tore me up, “Why does it seem so hard for you to keep a job?” Instead, I buried the question [and my frustration] fearing that if I were to ask it, he would stop loving me.

But it is what it is, as Firstborn is so fond of saying, and maybe there were lessons that we needed to learn from our experiences. Maybe if the girls had been raised in a “normal” middle-class household, with ballet lessons and cheerleading tryouts, they would have pirouetted away from a relationship with the Savior and into the embrace of the world, and stayed there. Maybe I would be one of those women with a plastic surgeon on speed dial and a heart the size of a native pecan.

Hard to say, and though they like to claim that hindsight is 20/20, I find it as muzzy as present vision before I put on my glasses in the morning.

This quote from our Relief Society lesson last week might be appropriate for today’s post: “If only we had more compassion for those who are different from us, it would lighten many of the problems and sorrows in the world today. It would certainly make our families and the Church a more hallowed and heavenly place.” Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin

I know what’s right. Most of the time. It’s not difficult to compare what I want to do in a given situation, with the precedents and parameters found in the Scriptures. And still I struggle to do what I know I should. I’m fairly good at biting my tongue when ugly things come to mind. I’m a good ways off from not thinking them in the first place.

The first stealth project is done; now I’ve cast on another, smaller one with a closer deadline. Not sure if I will post details as soon as the deadline has come and gone or if I will wait until I publish the other.

It’s raining outside, a lovely drenching rain from the sound of it. The rain woke me a few minutes ahead of my alarm, and I just lay there listening until I had to open my eyes and get up. The high today is supposed to be 81°F [27°C]. I get to wear my raincoat, and it won’t be a portable sauna. I also won’t have to water the veggies.

New train schedule starts today; must, must must be out the door by 6:30!

I can read the funnies upside down.

[I almost always say “hand me the funnies”, not “the comic section”, just as I will say “grown-ups” before I will say “adults”. Because it’s still hard for me to think of myself as one of the grown-ups, even though I have five kids and four grandkids and two decades’ worth of grey hair.] Dad always handed the funnies over as soon as he was finished, but sometimes I was ready to read them before he was done. So I learned to read the little thought-bubbles upside down, almost as quickly as I could read them right side up.

I loved Dagwood. In our home it was always called Dagwood, so I am often a little startled to see that its actual title is Blondie. I heard the phrase “one-trip Bumstead” a lot, growing up. [My first boss out of business school was even crankier than Mr. Dithers, which quickly inspired me to find my second job.] Snoopy [never Peanuts; I went off to college with a Snoopy laundry bag]. Moon Mullins. Dick Tracy. Steve Canyon. I thought Mary Worth and Apartment 3-G and Judge Parker were boring. [Still do.]

B.C. and Doonesbury, when I was older. For Better or For Worse. Love Is... Calvin and Hobbes. Tank McNamara, even though I loathe sports; there was just something about his ya-big-lug-ness that I found endearing.

I’ve tried to like Cathy, Ziggy, and Dilbert. My politics have deepened and broadened since the early 70’s, so I only read Doonesbury occasionally, and out of nostalgia. I rarely bother with Love Is... [Might that have something to do with two divorces?] I still like For Better or For Worse, and I miss Calvin and Hobbes fiercely.

What do I read now? Non Sequitur. Zits. B.C. Pickles. And somewhat surprisingly, Luann. Luann herself drives me up the wall. But that dorky brother of hers has been graced with some character development and is no longer merely Brad-the-annoying-slob. And her high school nemesis, Toni the eternal cheerleader, has traded in her micro-mini’s for a firefighter’s outfit and developed a heart and a conscience. Brad and Toni have a careful, tentative little flirtation going on. I find myself cheering for both of them. [Pun intended.]

And while I am on the topic of culture, popular and otherwise, go read this article on an artist whose work I just flat love. I own that first book they mention in the article. I am looking forward to the new one. A friend in my old ward has one of his prints [this one is my favorite] lovingly framed and hanging in her home.

I like this one, too: A Place of Her Own. He paints the sorts of things I think I would paint, if I thought I could draw. I love his wit, his draftsmanship, his imagination, and his use of color. When I have my mansion in the eternities, I hope he will agree to paint the mural in the foyer. Or teach me how.

Hurricane Ike left a happy surprise behind him. Go see. I clicked on that link yesterday and was reminded that no matter how bad a situation is, there is always some gift in the experience.

Unlike Abou ben Adhem, a poem that my father used to recite [he had a marvelous mind, that Colorado farm boy; my girls may remember me someday for inexplicably belting out “Mercedes Benz” in a scarily accurate rendition of Janis Joplin’s style], I woke this morning from a dream that bothered me. Not a nightmare in the classic sense, but more a reminder of the strength of old habits and patterns in my life that are bugging me, about me. And maybe a warning?

In my dream, Mom was still alive, but Dad was gone, or maybe just out working in his shop. And I was again dating a man I had dated in my early 20s. I had my 56-year-old brain, and memories of what went wrong the last time we had dated, and he looked much as he did 30+ years ago. I think I must have had my 20-something body; I cannot imagine that man noticing a middle-aged woman. [This is possibly all a result of having thumbed through the September issue of In Style and the October issue of Harper’s Bazaar (both given to me by a different attorney than the one who gives me old issues of Cottage Living and This Old House) while eating rather too much Ben and Jerry’s in the course of the evening. That might be enough to fire up any number of internal conflicts, wouldn’t you say?]

In my dream, we were sitting or standing in my parents’ living room. He was reading classified ads for houses to buy. I was getting ready to go to work. He wanted to look at McMansions like the one going up down the street. I was trying to figure out how to tell him that I love the little house I am living in and could never [barring a lobotomy or a visit from the pod people] feel comfortable or happy living in a place that large. And not wanting to actually bring him here to see it, because I didn’t want him to know where I lived [that would be my 56-year-old brain kicking in]. And getting up the courage to suggest that we drive four blocks to my friend Sharon’s mother’s house, which was a Craftsman cottage in a different style.

And then I woke up. I think I am supposed to learn something from this dream, besides the folly of eating highly caloric dairy products while drooling over red patent leather designer pumps not meant for the feet of a woman who has experienced five pregnancies and survived five teenagers. I just hope that I learn the right something(s). Extrapolation, like a pair of ankle boots with stiletto heels, can be fraught with danger.

Much, much progress on the stealth project: both new balls of yarn are now fully incorporated and playing nicely. Also quite a bit of productive puttering, in between bursts of knitting. I now have five small piles of stuff to give the girls...



...including a spare key to the duplex, magazines divided according to my perceptions of their interests, two silk blouses and my cheap khaki’s to cannibalize for doll clothing, Fourthborn’s birth certificate, and some of the paperwork from LittleBit’s driver education. I’m sure that if I looked around a little longer, I would find a partridge in a pear tree. And maybe a secret decoder ring to interpret that dream.

And now if you will all kindly excuse me, I have two or three more magazines to read before deciding where they should go next, and of course the knitting is calling my name. [Look who was hanging out on the door to my fridge last night. Click to embiggen.]

Yarn Coveting and Trainman-spotting

Clara’s yarn review. Have any of you worked with this yet? It’s not in my budget this winter, but maybe next year. When I clicked on that swatch to embiggen it, I nearly drooled all over my pig-in-blanket. Not sure if it was the fabric or the color. I wonder if purple will be my next new color jag?

So: the Trainman didn’t disappoint. I saw him enter our usual train car and flop down in a far corner, with the look of someone who sorely needed solitude and privacy. So I didn’t wave at him. And I didn’t pout. I just sat in my seat with my cane and my knitting and sent happy, restful thoughts his way. He slept. And between the penultimate station and our own, he woke up and saw me as I gathered my things. And smiled. So I plunked down across the aisle from him.

He asked what I had done to myself. I explained about the bus on Thursday morning and told him I was already feeling much better. When the train ground to a halt and we both stood up, he reached for my bag so I could navigate the steps. And I let him.

“Promise you won’t think any less of me because I’m carrying a purse.”

“You won’t have to turn in your man card.”

“I’ll try not to swish.”

“Metro, maybe. Swishy, no.” [He dresses well, and with some imagination in his color choices.]

“Why, thank you!” And he walked me to the elevator and made sure I was OK for the ramp up to the parking level.

He’s giving me his recipe for chicken tortilla soup. I’m giving him mine for Greek egg and lemon soup.

Je suis content.

Major progress on the stealth project yesterday, until I could not keep my eyes open One. Moment. Longer. I woke about 1:45 this morning, after about four hours of sleep, and knitted until I had used up the first ball of yarn. Both ends of the next ball are nowhere near the same color as the last 18 inches of the first one, so I will just nonchalantly drop the end and start afresh. I think I have two or three more inches before I will run out of yarn on the second colorway. And I am about two-thirds done with the project.

Heading off to post four pictures to the other draft, and then I am going back to bed for awhile. I was supposed to go see the FlyLady today, but I just want to stay home and listen to General Conference on my computer, via streaming whatzit from BYU-TV. Can’t wait to hear the MoTab on these speakers!

I did call Fourthborn and Fiancé last night to see if my services were needed today. They have the moving aspect all covered. They are requesting lemon bars, instead.

I think I can stop knitting long enough to manage that. I have plenty of butter, flour, sugar, and organic lemon juice. And maybe I will make another batch to share with Brother Sushi and another foodieI know...

Their Father’s Keeper

Secondborn asked, “Someone made a comment to me the other day that made me question something I thought I knew. Will the other girls and I inherit dad’s debt when he dies?”

It is a lovely thing to work in a law firm and be able to ask people who know about stuff like this. Here is what I learned. As long as you sign “his name by [daughter], as attorney in fact”, you are perfectly safe. All debts will extinguish upon his death, unlike any surviving assets.

Woohoo, ladies! You’re safe in that department.

Firstborn asked, re: my requesting a single man via the supply chain at work, “I can’t imagine why they didn’t just get you one of those from the supply room? That is where they keep the single men right?”

If it were as simple as getting one from our supply room, I could have done that myself! Single men are special-order only and have to be requisitioned from corporate. Apparently there is some glitch with the inventory program at the warehouse. And a significant number of them were returned to stock for having passed their best-by date.

I spent a lovely, quiet evening at home, wrapping Fourthborn’s birthday present and signing birthday cards and working on the stealth project, which is something like one-third done. It’s a little tricky, working on two blog posts per day while this is underway and not posting pictures to the wrong draft.

Speaking of pictures, here is a reconstructed fortune from earlier this week.



How lame is that? Almost as lame as me! Health and happiness may be coming my way, but more crankiness and a tender knee are already here. I stepped wrong, getting off the bus yesterday morning, and wrenched my knee. It feels somewhat better after a good night’s sleep; I may still take my cane with me this morning.

Imagine my surprise when I looked at yesterday’s post and realized that I had posted the JoDee Messina song again, instead of this: you’ll want their post from Wednesday, as I still can’t embed it or transfer the link. I’ve deleted the superfluous video. Technology is wonderful, except when it isn’t.

Lots of lovely knitting progress yesterday, which of course I can’t show you. Patience, grasshopper!

Happy Thoughts. Sad, Sad Songs.

But first, a digression. Many thanks, Brother Sushi, for giving me the speakers that weren’t quite loud enough for you. They did a fine job with the song that I posted yesterday! [I played it again before retiring to a quiet corner with my knitting.] And equally well with the song linked below. You rock!

My friend Kristen found this. She comes up with the best assortment of things to ponder. And what this good man had to say is right in line with what President Uchtdorf said at the Relief Society broadcast on Saturday night.

Have you seen this?

[OBJECT DELETED, BECAUSE I EMBEDDED THE WRONG ONE]

Not only do they knit like crazy, they have a gift for musical comedy. Or tragedy. Or something. I do love a good parody. [Girls, when I die, I would love it if at the memorial service you all sang There is Beauty All Around, When There’s No-one Home; not quite the version we see in the hymnal, but ever so much livelier!]

I had maybe the most fun ever, going visiting teaching last night. I found another kindred spirit! And though my VT companion and I had a miscommunication and I ended up going alone, I can tell I am going to like her a lot, as well.

The stealth project is trucking along. I am caught up to where I was when I frogged it the other day. And I don’t have anything scheduled for tonight, which I think might become catch-up-the-laundry night, with a side order of knitting while everything sloshes and spins. Or maybe I will do that tomorrow night, since my feet aren’t quite ready to barefoot it on the dance floor, and I will just spend tonight at home with my knitting. Either way, there will be dolmas for dinner.

Yum!

Another fine article from Meridian magazine.

This guy was on the cover of *PLMW: Professional Legal Management Week Magazine*.



It never hurts to ask. [I hadn’t heard anything back from either of them at the end of the day.]

Speaking of men, why is it that some of them can say “Good morning, ma’am,” and it sounds like “Hey, baby, baby”, while others can say, “Let me get that door for you, sweetheart,” and all you feel is delight and gratitude, even if you have never set eyes on them before? Some fellows can proposition you, and you understand that they mean it as the most profound compliment, while others can propose marriage, and all you want to do is deck them?

Paraphrasing Freud, what do men want? [Well, other than that.]

No secretarial training yesterday, as my co-trainee had to take a day of vacation because her kids were out of school, and none of her family could watch them. I entered a new minor settlement into the system and helped my primary backup enter lawsuits.

The tub is filled and waiting for me. Pigs in blankets are browning in the oven. I’ve updated the draft on the stealth project. Now I just have to figure out what I am wearing to work today; my system of cubbies only works when I have a good supply of dressy T-shirts to roll up, and they are all in the wash.

Curiosity crops up, but the cat is just fine, thanks!

I logged onto the Churchboy Dating Service the other day, only because if I don’t log on at least once a month, they will cancel my membership. And there were three guys in chat, one of them with the same first name and last initial as a long-ago fiancé [#5, midway between my baptism and marrying the children’s father]. I wondered if it could be the same guy. But this guy is nine years younger than me, which would have made him 14 at the time I dated Fiance #5, so no.

In other random observations, Fourthborn and Fiancé are packing to move into a place of their own. They hope to make the move this Saturday. It will take significantly longer to finish mucking out her father’s stuff. The girls are planning to sell most of his 30-year collection of books, either at Half Price Books or in an online auction, to defray the expenses of the nursing home. Medicare only pays for the first 20 days after a hospitalization. [I am so thankful for my own long-term care insurance policy; I also have disability insurance, just in case you girls were wondering.]

They know that he has another banking account, but not where or how much is in it. He wants to save that for his “investments” [a/k/a the next get-rich-quick scheme to come down the pike]. They need it to pay his bills. Which I’m sure are starting to roll in from his stay at the We’re Discharging You Early, Surprise! Hospital.

Oh please help me to keep my ducks in a row, so the girls don’t have to go through this with me in a few decades!

I frogged the stealth project yesterday morning and have recouped about half of the knitting progress I had made. Picked up Middlest for Knit Night and swapped needles with her. I am now using my Addi Naturas, and she is using my Addi Turbos; I thought they would be a bit too slick for her to start out with, with all the other factors that a new knitter has to deal with. I think we are both happier with the change in needles.

She has decided that her current project will be a garter stitch blanket for one of her ball-jointed dolls. I am absolutely amazed at how even her stitches are. I suppose I shouldn’t be; she has been meticulous about details since she was old enough to hold a pencil.

I tried to teach her the continental knit stitch, and while she can appreciate its usefulness, it feels wrong to her, because she is knitting right-handed though a southpaw. [Middlest is somewhat ambidexterous.]

Her STBX called her yesterday with an excuse about why he hadn’t sent the separation papers and an offer of half the amount of moving expenses they had agreed on, in cash, from his mother; she is helping him and his girlfriend with expenses for their baby. His mother [a/k/a The Harridan] has been hateful to Middlest from the get-go, because they eloped, and because I suspect that nobody is quite good enough for her son. I think that this is her idea of an “if we give you a going-away present, will you go away?” offer.

Ha!

Texas is a community property state, and he is still domiciled here. I am trying to feel sad about that. [Or the likelihood that once the “new” is off their relationship and The Harridan actually meets the girlfriend, she will be on the receiving end of the same sort of treatment.]

Thanks, Tinks, for reminding me about this song.

A Most Productive Day

The CO was very gracious. I began by thanking him for anything he had done to enable Middlest to come home and see her dad after his stroke. STBX did not exactly “get in trouble” for sending her home the way he did [I asked, because it sounded a little fishy]; he did get spoken-to because he had not gone through channels to have his CO contact the Red Cross, who contacted the Navy/Marine Corps Relief Society [name of that organization still makes me giggle a little].

He emphasized that he had to protect STBX’s privacy. I told him that I quite understood that. I also expressed my frustration with the living situation. He explained that STBX is an E-5 and entitled by rank to live off-base if he chooses. He said he would look into the dependent allowance status, to see if that figured into where STBX was living, and he now knows that the woman who is living with STBX is not his wife but is pregnant with his child.

The chief asked if there is a separation agreement in place. I told him that I did not know if there was a formal one drawn up by attorneys but that there was something in writing, and that STBX was [thus far] honoring his promise to cover Middlest’s cell phone bill until the contract has run. And that I thought five years of marriage entitled her to something more than that.

He referred me to Fleet and Family Service Center. There is one at the JRB in Fort Worth, not far from where I live. And I am certainly willing to use some of my vacation time to get Middlest there to talk with them, and to help her meet with an attorney after we get a referral. And to help her ask the right questions. Somebody ought get the benefit of my hard-earned street smarts, acquired in the process of two divorces.

So: I have left a voicemail with legal services at the JRB, asking for a referral to a divorce lawyer. And Middlest called me after lunch to say that she had had a very contrite call from STBX, saying that he never said he wouldn’t pay to move her stuff out here, and that he never said he wouldn’t help her. [We have a text message that says otherwise. Smart girl, she has saved them all.] And that his CO said there was a distinct possibility that fraud charges would be brought against him for the dependent allowance, because it was meant to be a benefit for his wife.

He told her that he would be emailing her the separation papers last night. She will forward them to me. I will print them off, and one of my attorneys has already volunteered to look them over. [As of 5:05 this morning, there is nothing along those lines in my inbox. Liar, liar, pants on fire? It would be too much to hope that he is already in the brig.] Middlest told him that I will be standing right beside her until this is all over. She said that he sounded really, really scared.

Good. He should be. [Orange is so not his color!]

I am thankful for the blessings of Heaven. I am so thankful for the words that were put into my mouth, and that the CO’s heart was softened on behalf of my daughter. I was prepared to be like the woman with the unjust judge [in the Scriptures] who made such a nuisance of herself that finally the judge gave her what she wanted, just to get some peace and quiet.

And by the grace of Heaven, I didn’t have to.

In knitting news, 10 inches on the stealth project yesterday, but the proportions weren’t quite right, so I’ve frogged it back to the cast-on and will see how much I get done today. I’m keeping copious notes in another draft, with pictures, so you will get to see the whole redesign process when the project is done.

Keep the Change! No, Really!

Could I just please go through The Change and be done with it? Every time I think that my ovaries have yodeled their last yodel, I get a little surprise. A periodic [pun intended] reminder that I Am Not In Charge.

For most of my life I have had PMS in one form or another: tenderness, bloating, weepiness, and the occasional desire to kick something. Around the time of my 40th birthday, I started having cramps, too. [I really should have bought stock in Midol.] And while yes, I am thankful to still have all the original equipment in the fruitful-and-multiply department, I am impatiently curious as to when the warranty is scheduled to expire.

I had it all planned out: ovaries give up the ghost, LittleBit graduates, I move to a cottage and start greening one or both thumbs, Brother Right shows up, we live happily and unfruitfully ever after. Sounds like a plan, right?

But instead I have these two mischievous Heidi’s who persist in yodeling Indian Love Call to a bunch of deaf shepherds. [As opposed to a bunch of Def Leppards.]

Aughhh!

So while I am in aggravated mode, I have decided to put this crankiness to good use. First, I ran an idea past a friend with solid knowledge of military culture. Then I asked Middlest’s permission. I will be calling her STBX’s commanding officer. I spent yesterday fasting and praying so that I would say the right things and ask the right questions. It will be interesting to see if political correctness has entirely undermined the military establishment, or if the powers-that-be are both willing and able to exercise moral suasion on that miscreant who is living in sin in the married housing to which my daughter entitles him. And which my tax dollars pay for. I wonder what the 21st century equivalent of keelhauling is?

Casting about for a happier topic. I put roughly 3” on the stealth project yesterday, and maybe 3” on Secondborn’s birthday gift. I am pleased with the former, and I think I will be frogging the latter and starting again on larger needles. I like the pattern on both.

Southfork - the Ewing Mansion

The view from JR’s balcony.



The infamous swimming pool.



JR’s bathroom, complete with fainting couch in case your bath is just too exhausting. And way too many mirrors for this middle-aged body!



You should have seen the bedroom: a huge four-poster bed up on a platform, smack-dab in the middle of the room. The room was too dark, and too blue, and too full of co-workers, so no pictures.

Southfork is no longer a working ranch, but they do still have American Paint horses and miniature horses.



[This shows a miniature horse, not an oversize fence.] And what is a self-respecting mansion without a formal dining room?



Noro Silk Garden for a stealth project.



Yeah. A serious falling-down in a couple of yarn shops on the way home from Southfork. We will blame it on yarn fumes.

The Fixit Dude was supposed to come yesterday to paint the front doors and put up the fancy molding doodahs above them. [He did things on the other side of the duplex and on the porch; my door is still albino and undoodah’ed. On a related topic, Eloy the painter has done a bunk on us; I will not be giving his number to Trainman.] So I made a quick run to the store for milk, eggs, and probably a year’s supply of cleaning supplies. Also an 18-pack of cheapie washcloths for scrubbing my tootsies. Then I stocked the cupboard in the bathroom and whipped up a batch of pigs in blankets for breakfast. Yum!

I also bought birthday cards for my two oldest granddaughters, my sister, and Fourthborn. I remember when October was only about my sister; this is a nice “problem” to have!



I also ran to the LYS, because after reading the instructions for the stealth project, I realized that I only had half the yarn it required. And I needed another project to work on during church today. Why so? Anastasia is done!



The yarn put-up was very generous; I still have 34.4g left, which will probably go to Middlest to make doll sweaters.

Southfork

Warning: photo-heavy post.



I had a great time at the support staff retreat yesterday. We had a motivational speaker in the morning, lunch in the Ewing Mansion, and educational games (!) in the afternoon.



[Cowboy optional. And possibly superfluous.] The bed was arranged to be viewed from the other side, but there was also a small placard that said Please do not sit on the bed. As if there would have been room! I wanted a picture of the pillow that you can just barely see peeking over those white coverlets. It featured galloping horses. And probably a galloping price tag as well. LittleBit would have loved it.



OK, I’m not so much about the chickens, but look at all the neat red stuff on that table! Lots of pretty black and white things displayed throughout the gift shop. I loved this towel! [Just not enough to buy it.]



Can I get an “amen”? And these dishes!



And if you are into cows or giraffes or wine, rather than chickens. Embiggen to read the price tag. What do they think this is, Koigu?



And speaking of Koigu?



We now have a local source! This photo is a little blurry, and the colors are a lot less rich than when I am holding the skein in my hand. My sister made a quilt that featured appliqued flowers on a black background. The pastels, brights and jewel-tones simply glowed against that black. [Ruth, do you know the pattern I mean? It’s 4:00am in her time zone as I draft this post; I don’t think that my sister would be thrilled if I called her right this minute.] Something about a night garden, I think. This yarn reminds me of her quilt. But no, I am not giving her this yarn for her upcoming birthday.

Pictures of the Ewing Mansion tomorrow.

Guess Where I’m Going Today?

Here’s a clue. Now, most of you know that I work in downtown BigD. That aerial pan of the stem of Reunion Tower, and the Hyatt Regency Hotel, is just west of where I get off the train in the morning. And only a few blocks from my office building.

Today we are having our support staff retreat, and we are having it at the last place you see in that YouTube clip. Yes, after nearly 30 years of being a naturalized Texan, I am finally hitching up my pony and riding up to Southfork! [I’ll be sure to give J.R. a swift kick in his womanizing shins. He can pay one of his henchmen to pass it on to Middlest’s STBX. And I’ll hand SueEllen a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and tell her, “Enough with that trembling-lip thing. Eat some ice cream and get over it.”]

The attorneys are in charge of the phones, the fax machine, the mail, the scanning, and the flirting with the couriers.

Yes, I am taking my knitting. It’s a long, long drive from Foat Wuth Ah Luv Yew to Parker, TX. And I will be sitting in meetings for a good chunk of the morning. I am doing the there portion in two segments, stopping somewhere halfway for a hot chocolate [or a something] and some walking about, before I complete the drive. I am doing the back here portion in multiple segments, stopping at yarn shops along the way. Actual purchases are not in the budget. I will get out and walk, look at the colors and textures, stretch my legs, and maybe make new friends.

Thinking back to “Dallas”. I didn’t get to watch it very often. It was a new show when we moved to Texas after what I call The Great Ice Storm of ‘78/’79. We lived with the parents of friends for about a month until we both found work, and then we didn’t have a TV until the summer of 1984, when the children’s father was doing contract programming, and an assignment took him to the Texas Panhandle for two or three months.

My parents bought us a color TV so three little girls and I could have a bit of fun while he was gone. [He was in Amarillo with the car; I was in Irving with the kids and the money and no way to spend it, except when our home teacher’s wife took me grocery shopping every couple of weeks. I don’t remember how we got to church, only that we did.]

We watched Cosby and Mr. Rogers [and Sesame Street, long before the time when Elmo and political correctness ruined it]. I remember watching the Springsteen video of “Dancing in the Dark” on Entertainment Tonight! and missing my husband. I still love that song, particularly “…just about starvin’ tonight.” Not much has changed in 24 years, other than I am better at disciplining or ignoring my appetites.

Random fact: I was about half done with the cuff of the second Anastasia when I went to bed last night.

Good report from the dentist visit. I have happy gums! I think this is attributable to more veggies and less pasta, and to the fact that every so often, after I brush my teeth holding the brush in my dominant hand, I switch over to the other one and go over the same territory.

I opted to skip the fluoride veneer after the cleaning [nasty-tasting stuff; I would sooner chew on one of my socks!] in favor of a Breakfast Jack and some hash brown sticks on the way to the train station. I had to park in the back lot and walk down the hill, and when I was about 100 yards from the train [maybe less], the train pulled out. So I walked back up the hill, got into the car, called in to see if anybody’s monthly parking was available today. It was not.

I didn’t have enough cash for more gas and to pay for parking, so I told them I would wait for the next train, and I dashed home for a quick potty break and rode in from my regular station and not the one that is several miles due north of the dentist’s office.

And this is the part where Heaven’s fingerprints show up all over the experience. When I got off the train this morning, there was a petite middle-aged lady with a carry-on bag and a lost expression. Now, I know my way around downtown Dallas about as well as I know how to play football, but she needed to find the Greyhound station, and it is near my office. So I walked with her, and we talked. She had flown in from the Upper Midwest to Dallas, because she couldn’t get a flight to San Antonio from her home. And she needed to catch the bus to get down to the Valley [that would be the Rio Grande Valley, for you non-Texans], because her mother is turning 80 this weekend.

When we parted ways, I wished her “Vaya con Dios.” She blinked, smiled, and responded with something in liquid Spanish that at first I didn’t understand, but it came to me by way of the Spirit, and I understood her: “Igualmente.”

You, too.

When I get to be one small part of blessing a sister, how can I doubt that Heaven will sustain me when I feel lost, or lonely, or uncertain which way to walk to reach my goal?

Out, Out, D@mned Daylilies!

With apologies to Lady Macbeth and the Bard.

Ten dollars seems a very small price to pay, to learn that planting daylilies is not my idea of a Real Good Time. When I borrowed the spade on Monday night, I promised to bring it back on Wednesday. I did. I also plucked up the daylily that I had kinda-sorta planted in the front yard and took it and its moshy brothers over to Secondborn’s house.

They are both way younger than I am, and 2BDH has mad martial arts skills. If he cannot wrestle that mutinous flora into submission, then they are free to toss them into their compost pile. I am Done! With! Daylilies! I've never had a quick fling with the vegetable kingdom before. I feel triste and a little grubby.

I told Secondborn that I was going to celebrate the breakup with a pint of ice cream. But when I got to the store, I was seduced by the display of Pink Lady apples. So I bought exactly one of them and brought it home and dug out the Nutella.

Would Pink Lady apples grow here? Could I trick beg flatter persuade somebody to plant one for me? And if it prospered, then next year we could try planting a Nutella tree?

This is a big part of why Anne Perry is one of my favorite writers. I love how she thinks, and I love how she writes.

Behold, a nearly-finished first sock.



I am soldiering away on the second Anastasia. Chances are excellent that both will be done sometime this weekend, especially after tomorrow’s adventures. But that is another post for another day.

Ho! Ho! Huh?

It’s time to select my Christmas gift from corporate. Usually I have to choose between two or three items that appeal to me; this year it’s harder. I get stuff that I know I need and am not willing to spend money on. [Typically, items for family preparedness.] I have a 3/8” cordless drill, a sun shelter, a two-person tent, among other things. Also two very nice Calphalon pans, which get regular use.

So this year, do I get:
1. A new level? In case I want to hang pictures at 2:00 am and do not already have Brother Sushi’s laser level resting atop my toolbox. I have Dad’s level, but it’s vintage and about a foot long; this puppy is a yard long and also suitable for smacking home invaders upside the head should they sneak in at night to make off with my yarn stash. Or my virtue.
2. A palm sander? To take the calluses off my heels.
3. A sleeping bag? Because we know how crazy I am about camping, but it would go with the tent.
4. A square griddle? Only the other day, I was thinking how nice it would be to have one. No, I am not kidding; Brother Sushi has infected me with Kitchen Toy Virus, which as we all know is incurable.
5. Steak knives? I have one remaining of the six or eight we were given when I married the children’s father. And strictly speaking, that is sufficient for my needs. I generally eat steak two or three times a year, usually when eating out with Brother Sushi and it’s *his* turn to buy.
6. A lantern with FM radio? To listen to while camping out in the back yard in my tent?
7. A Santoku knife set? For my important chopping needs. [Girls, does this remind you of season one of Gilmore Girls? “I have important thickening needs.” Good times!]
8. A heated blanket to go into the trunk of my car? Because there is no “Armstrong heater” in my life.
9. A flash drive? Definitely on my list.
10. A digital audio player? Ditto.
11. A self-powered emergency radio? Another good item to go into my 72-hour kit. With my fishing pole.

I suppose that before I decide, it wouldn’t hurt to traipse over to the 10th Anniversary Catalog. [I qualify for that next spring.] Do a little comparison shopping, and probably make myself even crazier in the process:
1. Three-piece luggage set
2. Portable DVD player
3. Home theatre kit
4. Micro stereo system
5. Circular saw [!!!]
6. Bose around-ear headphones, because the only thing I want *in* my ears are “sweet nothings”.
7. Really amazing knife set. If I wanted to go into vaudeville, I would be set for life! May I have a volunteer from the audience?

Oh man! This isn’t helping.

Random synaptic firing: I have come up with the perfect retirement job. I could open an ice cream store and call it Custard’s Last Stand. I wonder how many other people have come up with the same idea? Wow. That many. 16,800 hits on Google, and a website. And a culinary mystery series [with recipes] set in Pennsylvania. And a movie made in 1914.

Lest you think that I have been hitting the juice, time for something serious.