Varsity Butt Dent Squad

OK, I Love You, b'Bye!

2007-11-30T10:05:00.000-05:00

Hi Blogland. The time has come to do a Rae and say goodbye to this exercise in brain barfing. I know this is the right thing to do because when the idea came to stay with me this morning, I felt not sadness or tension or a clutching in my blog-inspiring nether region but peace. Calm, blissful peace. I'm sure I'll still read and comment from time to time on others' blogs and even expect one day I may be back in the blogging business but right now time does not permit this luxurious dabbling in narcissism (you are an indulgent lot!) and Guilt is a too toxic taskmaster. One day very soon, my employer will discover I am utterly devoid of talent for testing web applications, the Jujube will scorn all interaction with her mother, and she will not deign to leave her darkened bedroom wearing anything produced by a set of my needles. Then, I expect, I shall return with plenty to say about living with a "tween" and having all the time in the world to knit and no attractive body in the world for which to do it. Until then, fiber-loving friends.

Over and out.

Pilgrim Sex

2007-11-21T08:54:00.000-05:00

If you've ever been to Plimouth Plantation in Plymouth, Massachusetts you'll know that the United States' founding Religious Zealots slept sitting up in stubby little beds. You learn this by speaking to the role-playing historians who populate the living museum. Naturally, Coach being Coach, this leads to distracting thoughts of just how exactly one might delicately probe the depth of knowledge and dedication to history the Plimouth Plantation historians possess. In particular, how much do they actually know about how little Puritans were conceived? Have they researched this topic? What has the nature of this research been?

First question to pop into Coach's head: "Are you telling me that the Pilgrims did the nasty sitting up?" No, no, can't ask that. Too crude.

Second try: "How did they go about making their babies, what with their Puritanism and their short beds and all?" No again. Might offend fellow museum-goers by presenting sex education to their school-aged children in a learning environment.

Third try: "So that means the Missionary position post-dates the original settlement of the colonies?" No, still too indelicate for school children.

Try-try again: "They slept in beds sitting up? So how did they, y'know..." eyebrow-wiggle, eyebrow-wiggle.

The Learned Historian angle: "Insofar as research suggests the semi-prone sleeping position offered a probable solution to colonial nasal rhinitis, has there been any further study on the modalities of short beds on fertility and conception in 17th Century European settlers in North America?"

As this Thanksgiving holiday approaches it is hard to find references to the story of starving Pilgrims and turkey-sharing aboriginals amongst the Big Sale Starts at 4 AM Be The First In Line Friday Only!!! advertisements flashing at you in the style of migraine-induced visual disturbances from your nearest lighted screen. It is worth remembering the legend, if only to marvel at how faithful the traditional meal is to the use of native foodstuffs with its turkey and cranberry and maize and squash.

I shall drink a toast tomorrow to unwarranted generosity, exotic culinary delicacies, Pilgrim sex, and you, dear readers. I am most heartily grateful for all these blessed things.

The Croupier

2007-11-09T08:54:00.000-05:00

No, I've not taken a new job though if Massachusetts' Governor Deval Patrick has his way, this may become an option. I am labelling myself The Croupier for my new and thankfully short-lived hobby wrangling a three year old with croup. There's nothing like a 2:30 a.m. shower-steam sauna followed by 2 hours of listening to the breathing of a sleeping child to make one's day job especially hateful. Fortunately for me, my manager's kids are also suffering from the same virus so he has been sympathetic to my plight. Late arrivals and extra work-from-home days all forgiven. Wish I could say the same about my deadline.

Oh well, it's Marketing Reporting Software. Nobody dies if they can't register their product on-line. I said something similar to the Documentation Dude I was working with the other day and I think he was horrified. He tried to talk some sense into me by telling me that Marketing people are the ones who lose their nut so badly when their software misbehaves, they get filmed throwing their blackberries through 27th floor windows by prescient and conveniently located co-workers who then post the "candid" film to YouTube or e-mail it to their Joke mailing list where it begins ticking down its half-life until 10 years later your mother sends you "this really funny film" she "thinks you'll like."

Whatever. Like I said, nobody dies. It's not like the software I test tracks possible drug interations on your pharmacy's prescription system. No, no. I'm making the world safe for spam and pop-up ads. In fact, by ensuring the thing goes out the door buggy, my poor performance is in fact a service to Humanity.

Knitting progresses on the Dragonfly blanket. I'm working on the border now which means it makes for lousy picture-taking since its six-hundred seventy-odd stitches are all wadded onto a 29 inch size 6 circular (I tried to remedy that, I did! But my LYS had not a single 36 or 40 inch bamboo or Quicksilver circular in stock.) You know what this means, don't you? It means a portion of this year's Christmas gift money from Mom & Dad has already been pre-ordained for a set of Knit Picks' Harmony's with the 40 inch cable add-ons. I intend to knit magic loop socks next year. I saw a bunch of clever ladies at the yarn shop in St. Germain, Wisconsin who had two socks going simultaneously on a single 40 inch circular. I WANT TO DO THAT!!! It's such a perfect antidote to my Make Two allergy.

Treat. Definitely Treat.

2007-10-31T19:54:00.001-04:00

The absolute very best thing about Halloween is the editorial comment one receives from an uninhibited 7 year old boy upon opening one's door to a pack of candy-grubbing hob-goblins. Without fail, there's one every year.

Tonight I learned my decorating style is probably best classified as "Preschool Modern" or at least that's how I've chosen to interpret the question "Are you a teacher?" This year's recipient of Least Inhibited Reaction to a Stranger's Abode Award goes to the little guy who asked me this as I opened the door and he caught a glimpse of my family room full of toys, an easel, a child-sized art table, a wall full of Jujube's artworks, and a decidedly teacherly looking desk. He then turned to his posse and said, "Look at this place, you guys!" To me, he added, "What is this place?"

It's a close second to the little dude about 10 years ago who burst out with "Pew! Your house stinks!" I'm still wondering exactly what that was about. Either my deoderant had failed, we'd missed a patch of cat pee sprayed by a territorial neighborhood feline, I'd had Italian food for lunch the day before, or it had something to do with the Pork Butt roasting in the oven. None of these options thrills me, exactly, but all these years later I can remember his exact expression, tone of voice, and the utter horror on his father's face. It's hard not to laugh about it, even this many years on.

Every year Englishman hopefully buys two giant bags of chewy candies from our local club warehouse store and every year his dreams are fulfilled: we never get enough kids to justify the 30 or 40 pounds of sugar boiled into fruity-flavored blobs and wrapped in day-glo skins of plasticised paper. He has to eat the leftovers. Poor, deprived Englishman. All he got to beg for when he was a lad was a "Penny for the Guy." For those with a serious sweet tooth, it definitely sucks to have been born a Brit. We have WAY more Candy Holidays on this side of the pond. Plus we use about twice as much sugar in all our food preparations than is absolutely necessary.

Life in the USA is sweet. Literally.

Pour Me Wine Festival

2007-10-30T09:05:00.000-04:00

After a one hour commute this morning to travel 11 miles (average speed = well, huh!, 11 MPH, ain't math funny?) I arrived at my desk to find this Escalated Incident sitting in my Inbox:

"The detail_deleted_so_nobody_sues_Coach update query is taking long time and failing after it eaches UNDO retention. This query needs to optimize in order to complete. Based on execution stats (find the attachment), it requires around 60hrs of undo retention."

Now, you may be thinking "Of course we don't understand that, Coach. We don't work in your field." To which I must reply, I assure you, I have no more inkling of what this means than any of you do. I couldn't spot an undo retention from a water retention, though I rather imagine myself going through some sort of UNDO procedure myself if I can't get out of this hell-hole of a job.

This week I am assigned to cover this Escalated Incidents list which is the list of tasks that are too hard for even the Technical Support people to figure out. On top of being the point person for this joyful activity, I also have a big test I'm supposed to be running on a brand new server which took me an entire day to install which leaves me 6 days to execute more than 200 test cases. Oh, and get a proxy server installed and running somewhere between my test machine and the server. I assure you, friends, I know as much about proxy servers as you do. Probably less. It could take me another day or 2 to figure out how to install one. Meanwhile, I could have all kinds of retentions undoing themselves in my Inbox.

So what's a Coach to do?

Why, procrastinate by writing this blog entry, of course.

One of my favorite astrology sites claimed that today was supposed to be one of my Power Days. The only thing I feel right now is a powerful urge to run away and hide in a big echo-y cave with a lifetime supply of k-rations and a Bunson burner.

You might think I could fix my eyes on the prize of an at-home Pour Me Wine Festival this evening but no such luck. I have 5 dozen bat, cat, witch, and moon shaped sugar cookies to frost and decorate tonight for tomorrow's big Halloween shindig at Jujube's preschool, which reminds me... Lunch Break today (you know, that thing I don't get anymore unless my boss is working from home, sh!) my mission, whether or not I choose to accept it, is to find and purchase orange colored decorating sugar and chocolate jimmies (sprinkles, to those of you who are New Englandly challenged).

And as if all this weren't enough to send Coach running right out the front door of the office building into Interstate 95 traffic, my cubicle neighbor smells like Baby Powder. I utterly
DESPISE
the smell of baby powder.

So, poor, poor me...
a nice 20 oz. Reidel balloon of Quivira Zinfandel. I love a good Whine Festival.

Photies

2007-10-11T10:38:00.000-04:00

I'm due, people (both of you still reading this blog). Due for a post. Today is a "work" from home day -- I never made any promises about what I'd be working on -- so I have access to cameras, cables, PhotoShop, Network Magic, and no one corporate looking over my shoulder. Furthermore, my company's VPN server is all clapped out. Since I can't log in, I can't really test anything. Darn. I guess I'll have to finally post the project photos that all self-respecting knitting bloggers share with their readers.

Here are two of my projects. One is still in progress but is definitely my favorite so far. The other is the Zoe Mellor fair isle cardigan she's wearing. I finished the cardi back in August, just in time for the cooler weather to arrive. It turns out this cardigan is the perfect topper for a Hanna Anderson playdress and leggings in shades of green bean and peony pink. I love when that happens: when a project you've just completed turns out to be the missing link in an outfit already in your closet. It's as though all the money and hours are completely justified (to your mate). You say, "Look honey, it matches this perfectly," and all of a sudden the scowls and disparaging remarks about yarn budgets and overflowing stash just melt away as though they were never an issue in your relationship.

Speaking of supportive Knitter's Mates, mine took the train into work yesterday so he could get home in time for me to join my weekly 6 - 8 pm knitting group. Most days, Englishman arrives home close to the 7 pm mark. Wednesdays are nail biters for me because if he arrives after 6:45, I just won't make the trip to the neighboring community's Starbucks. I try not to sulk openly but, well, let's just say I was not born to play poker.

It's some sort of small miracle -- call the Vatican, someone -- that these photos are actually appearing here. They were still on the camera's SanDisk this morning. Since our home office now looks like this, it's a wonder I was able to extract the photos. Normally I pop the disk into our printer but it wasn't hooked up. Now, folks, I am not much of a Plan B person. I lack the patience. It's usually Plan A followed by Coach Screaming Obscenities. You'd be proud of me today, though. I actually located the camera's USB cable and uploaded the photos directly.

What you see here is actually Englishman's latest project. He's remaking his office into something more Swedish Discount Furniture Box Store Display and less 1970's New England Butt Ugly. Stripping the panelling off the wall revealed some wallpaper (stuck directly to unplastered drywall and blueboard, razzafrazzin' Rube-bastage Bloody Goldberg previous home-owning bozos!) that might be better suited to the entry foyer of an early-nineteenth century Greek Revival. I appreciate the beauty of the pattern -- just not in a 10 by 12 by 7.5 inside a post-war Cape Cod. Note the former window opening. It's kind of cool what happens in an aging home when you start peeling back the layers. It satisfies that urge you had at the age of 8 to become an archaeologist.

And now for my current project. This is an openwork and cable dragonfly pattern from VK Spring 1997 that was meant to be knit in the round into a ladies' pullover. I thought it would make a darling baby blanket. It's not mindless knitting as every pattern row is different. It's involved lots of counting, unknitting, swearing, recounting, marker moving. If one is supposed to knit love into a baby blanket, then this one should probably be incinerated for its infusion of crafter's toxicity. Then again, once it's done, it may turn out to be my second favorite project of all. That's the eternal hope that keeps us knitting, isn't it?

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

2007-09-08T10:17:00.000-04:00

This post is specially for Louiz who suffers terribly from Earworm Fever everytime she logs into my blog and sees the Abba reference.

Here's a new one for you, Louiz.

Take A Chance Take A Chance Take-a Take-a Chance Chance

2007-08-31T22:49:00.000-04:00

Did I ever tell you that Englishman bought me a 40GB Creative Zen MP3 player for an anniversary present this year? It happened right after the layoff so I was floored by the expense of it more than the thoughtfulness. He assured me that it had been ordered and paid for months before. It certainly explained why he had been making repeated trips between the living room and office with stacks of classical CD's. He'd been ripping them to the hard drive for me. Prior to receiving this gift of audio ambrosia, I had been toting CDs to and from my workplace and burning them onto the hard drive of my computer and whining about how, without having administrator privileges, I couldn't delete the tracks I hated.

Anyway, sitting at my desk today I was listening to the player on shuffle mode which I love because it means I hear the Kyrie from Bach's Mass in B Minor followed by some Trip Hop track then the Beatles which spins straight into the Buzzcocks like some psychotic miniature DJ lives in there and gets off on cracking arcane musical jokes. This morning I got to hear Abba's "Take A Chance On Me." Now, you may perhaps disagree with me, but it's hard to imagine a more mood elevating, toe tapping, fuck-it-its-Friday-and-I-can't-take-this-shit-seriously-anymore genre than Abba (because I think we can all agree they're a musical genre unto themselves). Psycho Mini DJ kept up the Friday mood by spinning some Strokes, Olive, Coldplay, Keane, Vines, REM, and Kronos Quartet. I left the office in a reasonably happy mood and stopped at Trader Joes on the way home. And what should be playing on the PA but Abba's "Take a Chance On Me."

Twice in one day after years and years of languishing in my memory banks. As a believer in synchronicity, I'm still trying to understand the significance of the "Take a Chance" message (quit work to write books?). It certainly must have stirred up some nostalgia for childhood because while at the ryebaby this evening with Jujube, I checked out the Schoolhouse Rock Grammatical Rules and Multiplication Tables CDs. Three is a magic number. Yes it is. It's a magic number.

Actually, I think Schoolhouse Rock got that wrong. It's four that's the magic number. Have a great Labor Day weekend.

Undead

2007-08-27T22:04:00.000-04:00

No, I'm not dead but I don't have a life anymore either so I may as well be. I started the new job on 7/2, we drove to Wisconsin to visit (grand-)parents on 7/28, returned on 8/11, and went back to work on 8/13 (which reminds me: why aren't we superstitious about Monday the 13th instead of Friday?) I barely have time to, well, you know...

Do you know what's happened in the world while I've been digging myself a new rut? You do? Could you fill me in please? Because I happened to log onto Barnes & Noble's web site this morning to search for something and saw that Crazy Aunt Purl is being published in paper and ink! Holy crow!

One of these days I'll post a photo of the cardigan I finished for the Jujube, I promise. I may be 65 before it happens, Blogger may have kicked my lazy unpublishing butt off their roles and, hell, maybe even the internet will be completely passé before I can come up for air, but it's a promise, nonetheless.

That's it for me. See you in five more weeks? (Goddess, I want my old job back!)

The Accidental Technologist

2007-07-23T13:49:00.000-04:00

I remember the exact day I knew what I wanted to do with my life. It was October 3rd, nearly two months past my eighth birthday. I awoke in certainty and ran down to hall to share my news with my mother. She sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee in a rare moment of peace in her otherwise Perpetual Motion Machine of an existence.

"Mom!" I shouted. "I know what I want to be when I grow up."

"That's nice, dear." She smiled her soothing Mona Lisa. It had the power to reduce fevers and quiet nauseous stomachs. "What have you decided to be?"

"A computer software tester."

"And what is that, dear?"

"Well, you know those big machines at the bank that sort all those holey cards and keep track of your account information?"

"Ye-e-es."

"Well, I want to be the person who tests those to make sure they don't make any mistakes with your money."

"Can you maybe make sure it does make a mistake and gives me more money?"

"Mom!"

OK, well, maybe it wasn't exactly like that. After being lost in a blissful hour-and-a-half reverie of piano practicing, I ran upstairs and found Mom slurping a vodka gimlet while she concocted that evening's hot dish.*

* Translation for non-Minnesotan's: a one-pot meal consisting of ground beef, frozen veg, and a starch of your choosing all glued together with a can of cream of something soup and, if you're lucky, shredded cheese that's baked in a Pyrex or CorningWare dish at 350 degrees F. for 1 hour.

No, no, I fib again.

The Truth
When Englishman and I moved to Boston from Old Blighty, I landed my first job as an Administrative Assistant at a software company. Before much more than a year had passed, an opening in the QA department and some encouraging testers pulled me into the profession before I had a chance to give it the consideration it deserved. All I could see were the potential dollar signs flashing in my eyes and the security of it all. At that point, Englishman still hadn't found any employers impressed by his decade-plus experience in the British civil service. He was working part-time and temp jobs. It was a brutal economy back in the early Nineties which probably influenced my political leanings to a vast degree. Supply-side economics, My Great-Aunt Fanny!

To break with VBDS convention and cut a long story short: here I sit today, staring at tree tops and trying to de-code this instruction from a co-worker who is helping me fix my total botch-job on a software installation:

"You'll want to make sure that the IUSR_machinename (where machinename is the name of your computer) has full control access to the install directory and all parent directories, as well as all sub-directories."

Eeeeeew-kay. Me no speaky geeky.
Translation: What have I done to myself? What have I done?!?!

Nothing Important, Really

2007-07-19T15:08:00.000-04:00

There's a double-pronged problem with this blogging business these days. Not only does the new job leave me little personal time -- though my schedule is nowhere near as punishing as Rae's -- but it just doesn't feel right to spend the first three hours at my desk reading and writing blogs like I used to. Some of my absolute favorite yet impressively prolific blogs have been languishing unread. It's not that I don't care, friends. I do, I do!!! In fact, I care enough to devote quality time, not skimming, to your writings but quality time is a scarce commodity here in Sofaville.

To follow in Rae's footsteps, here's what the workday looks like:
6:00 a.m. Hit snooze.
6:09 a.m. Recite daily "Fuck!" prayer. Switch off alarm. Get out of bed. Stumble downstairs.
6:14 a.m. Recall purpose for standing in kitchen: make lunches.
6:14:15 a.m. Should I make coffee first?
6:14:20 a.m. I'll just get the bread out for the sandwiches.
6:14:25 a.m. I really want some coffee though.
6:14:30 a.m. Where's the ruddy bread? Oh yeah. After recent viewing of annual summer blockbuster Invasion of the Mold Spores Part 17, moved bread to fridge.
6:14:35 a.m. But coffee first.
6:16 a.m. Why am I standing here with the fridge door open?
6:17 a.m. Oh yeah, coffee.
6:20 a.m. First sip of coffee. Thanks Lord Tassimo. You are my master and I your humble slave.
6:21 a.m. Oh crap, yeah, lunches. Need the bread. Where's the bread?
6:45 a.m. Lunches made. Mommy's packed in lunchbag. Jujube's stacked in fridge for Daddy to transfer to lunchbox later. Don't forget spoon for yogurt! Don't want another reminder note from teachers.
6:50 a.m. Decide to head upstairs for shower but Daddy beelines outside to pick mushrooms off lawn.
6:55 a.m. Mommy screams "Can't you do that later?" at Daddy since nobody will hear Jujube wake up if he's outside and Mommy's under running water.

7:00 a.m. Finally in shower.
7:10 a.m. Out of shower and Jujube awake and refusing to go downstairs with Daddy.
7:27 a.m. With Jujube's help, take 17 minutes to complete the five minute task of dressing, making up, donning jewelry including watch because Mommy's a real bee-yotch if she forgets her watch.
7:30 a.m. Out the door. Wave at Daddy and Jujube.
7:32 a.m. Curse first of the string of drivers who will pull out in front of me then proceed 5 mph below speed limit.

8:05 a.m. Arrive in office parking lot. Only 5 minutes late, hooray! Mommy convinces herself it's not the time she left home influencing her arrival time -- it's other factors that will magically vanish tomorrow.

11:30 a.m. Mommy can contain herself no longer; snarfs down peanut butter on wheat with Lowfat Yoplait chaser.

4:00 p.m. Yeah! Begin log off and pack up process.
4:03 p.m. Cube neighbor pops in to socialize, Microsoft shut-down theme tune and brief case draped over Mommy's arm notwithstanding.
4:16 p.m. Peel out of parking lot.
4:41 p.m. Collect Jujube from daycare.

5:15 p.m. Home Sweet Home! Let's see -- play with Jujube or make dinner... hmmm...

6:25 p.m. Daddy arrives home. Mommy looks at watch and exclaims "Oh my gosh! Come on Juju, time for dinner!"
6:30 p.m. Serve nutritious dinner of deli turkey and baked Tostitos with side of uneaten fruit from lunchbox. Daddy's fends for self.

7:10 p.m. Dinner finally terminated by executive decision. Jujube's uneaten food wrapped up by Daddy and stored in fridge.
7:30 p.m. Daddy and Jujube head upstairs for bath or wash and bedtime books.
7:35 p.m. After 5 minute safety window, raid marshmallow bag/Hershey bars bought for s'mores/chocolate chip bag/whatever.
7:36 p.m. Unwrap and throw away uneaten food stored by Daddy.
7:37 p.m. Tackle pile of daily mailings from Fidelity Investments, M&I Bank, Pershing brokerage, Citizens Bank, Oppenheimer funds, Eaton Vance funds, Capital One VISA, MBNA VISA, Bank of America VISA, etc. Daily. Daily mailings. Even though Mommy and Daddy signed up for electronic statements and perspectus. Daily.

8:00 p.m. Tote full bag of shredded and to-be-recycled papers outside.
8:05 p.m. Complete at least one thing on to-do pile.
8:15 p.m. Head upstairs for Bedtime Routine shift.

9:00 p.m. Leave Jujube and brush teeth quick before Mommy can find any more sugar stashes downstairs. Wash face too while at it.
9:13 p.m. Mommy finally descends stairs. Switches on baby monitor.
9:15 p.m. Return upstairs to reassure Jujube neighbor's barking dog cannot no way never ever get into her bedroom.
9:25 p.m. Mommy downstairs for final time. What should she do?
9:26 p.m. OK I'll read.
9:27 p.m. No, log in and check blogs.
9:28 p.m. No, work on novel.
9:29 p.m. Maybe I should call my brother/sister/parents. It's been a while...
9:30 p.m. Plop on sofa with knitting bag and binker. If there's anything good on, Mommy will knit.
9:47 p.m. Confirm after three cycles through all 300 cable channels there is indeed nothing on worth watching. Decide to read instead.
9:50 p.m. Settle into Ikea Poang chair with book du jour. Candles lit. Cool drink sweating on coaster.

10:25 p.m. Awakened by aching neck, decide to just finish this chapter before heading upstairs.

11:00 p.m. Race-walk up the stairs to get into jammies and bed ahead of Daddy because Mommy believes it is intolerably unfair to be the last one in bed at night if she's the first one up in the morning.
11:15 p.m. Mommy settles into bed next to Daddy. Damn bladder. Damn bowels. Damn them to hell.
11:16 p.m. Set alarm 5 minutes earlier every day to gradually adjust brain and body to early rising and, hopefully, eliminate all excuses for not exercising.
11:17 p.m. Pick up nearest reading material to revive that sleepy feeling that vanished during late night call of nature.
11:52 p.m. Mommy finally caves and switches off the light.

2:10 p.m. Awakened by Jujube's night squealings, get up, check Jujube, flop back in bed, realize bladder pressure is just enough Mommy might actually need to go again. Or maybe if she falls asleep quickly, she can just ignore it.
2:16 p.m. Recite daily "shit" prayer and stumble off to bathroom. Remember 80% of time not to flush.
2:20 p.m. Other 20% of time, get up a-GAIN, lift lid on back of toilet to tug shut-off valve that stops water's incessant flowing.

5:55 a.m. Rinse and repeat.

This arrived several weeks ago from Mother of Chaos:

Thanks girlfriend! The feeling's mutual.

The View From The Cube

2007-07-11T22:01:00.000-04:00

It's pretty nice, actually. The new job's most resplendant feature is the third floor windowfront cubicle facing due west into an undeveloped swampland full of brackish water, trees, shrubby undergrowth and birds galore in every color under the sun. Black crows, yellow goldfinches, crimson cardinals, gunmetal bluejays, tawny hawks and a tumble of squirrels chasing each other across the wickedly fun bendy top of a juvenile tree.

I waltzed into the new office on Monday, July 2nd and was promptly handed a laptop computer pre-loaded with most of the software I need including a VPN client so I can work from home, as agreed, one day a week starting... immediately. So, I was in office the 2nd, the 3rd, home for the holiday on the 4th and home again working on the 5th. Unbelievable.

The commute, while longer than I want, is not without its consolations. I get to (choose to) drive through historic Lexington past Battle Green, the Buckman Tavern, and countless excessively beautiful 17th and 18th century homes. Oh, and some 19th century ones, too.

The technology is cutting edge. The people are smart, fun and funny. The coffee is Starbucks. The sodas and snacks are free.

Still, the Coach is not a happy camper. I've been wracking my brain trying to figure this one out. I think one of my Knitting Group members hit the nail squarely on the head tonight, though. She likened this return to work to what a mother goes through at the end of her maternity leave. As long as you have a child in the home, that feeling of deprivation never really goes away, no matter how many weeks, months or years have passed between your child's birth and your re-employment. Perhaps worse is that the whole elevator ride to the emotional basement of parental longing and guilt isn't a one-time deal. You get to go through it every time you wave bye-bye to your kid(s) and head back to the office. It happens after family vacations. It happens after job changes. It happens after unemployment and subsequent re-employment. It happens until junior is packed off to the Freshman Dorm at the University of Fledgling Independence.

Peachy.

On the knitting front: my niece has won major brownie points with Auntie Coach by requesting a pair of mittens she can wear to figure skating practice. Bless her frosty little hands. I cracked out some leftover acrylic in forest green and white and have been following a rose pattern from The Mitten Book which is an English translation of a Swedish book that reprinted patterns originally published in 1925. I'll try to get a photo tomorrow to post here.

I'll try even harder to catch up on the blogs listed on the right-hand side of this page. I miss those folks over there. I'm having withdrawals and I've got a lot of catch-up reading to get under my belt before my pre-ordered Harry Potter 7 book arrives from Amazon.co.uk (before my vacation please, please, pretty please with sugar on top!)

Various and Sundry

2007-06-26T11:07:00.000-04:00

Englishman and I just finished our Six Feet Under marathon, thanks be to the Merrimack Valley Library Consortium. With all due respect to PBS, the series holds the distinction of being The Best Television On Television. Seriously, I think I'm giving up on the gogglebox now. Nothing could ever top the last 3 episodes of SFU. I realize we have come to this series nearly seven years too late but, really, the way we viewed was almost preferable. We had no interminable waits between episodes or even seasons once I got the library's material request process down to a science. We had little more than 5 days between each DVD disk arriving in our local library from a neighboring town. Even Comcast On Demand couldn't keep up with our voracious viewing. In fact, we started our SFU habit in January when HBO put Series 1, episodes 1 - 12 on their list of On Demand offerings. To date, they are wrapping up Season 3. Meanwhile, we're basking in the Wow of the whole package.

Today is the sort of hot, muggy number that slimes your forehead, gums your woodwork and just generally gives summer a bad rep. I hate summer because of days like today. Never mind that Sunday was a perfect 10: sunshine, bright blue sky, temperatures in the mid- to upper-seventies, and dew point in the forties. Humidity is so despised by me I've become a bit of an obsessive pedant when it comes to observing it. Forget all about percentages. They don't tell you jack. It was 58% humid in my daughter's room on Friday night and it was about as perfect a sleeping night as you could get -- windows open for fresh air, blankets and duvets on to ward off the chill. Delicious! We slept hard and we slept late. In the winter, the humidity in her room has been as low as 29%. (How do I know this, you ask? Daddy moved his wine cellar thermometer with humidity meter up there this winter when he was trying to humidify the room to keep the nagging dry allergy cough at bay.) Today it's gluey muggy and in the 90's. Gotta be better than 90% humidity, right? Wrong. 44%. So comparatively, 58% is practically raining. But, no. It was dry, comfy and lovely on Friday night because of the dew point. That's the number that matters. Here's how dew point works:

Under 30: Cracked skin and chapped lips
30 - 50: Yeah, baby, you can touch me.
50 - 55: "It's getting humid." "It is?" "Yeah, can't you tell?" "I thought it was fine." "No, it's humid." "Seems fine to me." "Don't touch me."
55 - 62: Ick. Put in the damned air conditioners. Today. Please.
62 - 70: This is Massabloodychusetts not Missifreakingssippi. What the hell?
70 - 74: DON'T TOUCH ME! IF YOU DON'T INSTALL THOSE FREAKING AIR CONDITIONERS, I'M CALLING A DIVORCE LAWYER!
75+: Whimper. I'm leaving you. I'm moving to the dairy section of Market Bastard. Or Antarctica. Whichever is colder.

Things Englishman Doesn't Know: I will have central air conditioning before another decade passes, whether we have to add it to our crapbox cape or move to another house. I can't live like this.

Job news: I have found one. I'm starting next Monday so expect the thin blog postings to continue for the foreseeable future. The one thing Busywork, Inc. had going for it was lots of underpaid underemployment which translated to plenty of blogging time. The new company has lots going for it too among which are schedule flexibility (my recruiter negotiated one weekly work-from-home day that begins immediately -- the first he's ever negotiated in 14 years of recruiting), really really nice people, twenty thousand extra dollars, and loads of exciting technical skill development that could, in theory, make me unstoppable in the future (we're talking six figure salaries and telecommuting from France for the summer if I so choose). What's not to love?

I'll tell you (you knew I would, didn't you?). The commute. I have to travel with traffic a mere measly 10 or 11 miles which is 15 to 20 minutes mid-day but somewhere in the neighborhood of an hour during commuting times. That's an hour of sitting behind the wheel in a car doing nothing, going nowhere, seeing no one. This is excruciating to someone who is accustomed to sitting at my desk 5 minutes after dropping off at daycare.

In order to enjoy the additional income, Englishman has had to consent to doing one leg of the daycare journey. We've settled on Drop Off. There was a practice run this morning that started with a pouting, teary-eyed little girl and a weeping Mommy. Change is hard for anyone but it's well nigh impossible for my little Jujube. Saturn conjunct Ascendant, this kid. She does Not. Like. To. Move. Fast. She likes schedules and routines, as you might imagine with that Saturn placement, but she likes them to be hers, not Mr. Corporate Mommyhogger's.

I've been waking up gasping just after dawn the last few days with "What have I done?" thoughts fading from my dreamy brain. That worries me because I think it's my subconscious, Higher Self, inner guide, better angel, whoseywhatsit thinking that. It all sets my "First Chakra" a-clenching (google it -- I'm being polite -- for a change).

Oh, it'll probably be fine. And for what it's worth, my Saturn? Natal Saturn opposite natal sun. Transiting Saturn conjunct natal sun (which makes transiting Saturn opposite natal Saturn right now too). Translation: Likes change NOT MUCH AT ALL but is getting it anyway because that's what Saturn does best. Holds you upside down and shakes all the loose change out of your bra. So what if your brain is jiggled loose in the process.

Daddy's Got A Brand New Pullover

2007-06-08T13:26:00.000-04:00

With shameless plug for the first book of a certain author we all know and love (like all of you haven't already bought and read the entire Little Goddess opus).

Sucking Rocks

2007-06-08T12:26:00.001-04:00

That's interviewing for you. It sucks rocks. I have two interviews today. That's right. Today. Not this week. Not this month. Today. Two a week should be the maximum allowable by law. It's mentally exhausting. It's emotionally draining. It's legalized prostitution is what it is.

"You like? You like, big boy? Howzabouta job buddy? Only 75 (thousand) big ones. Aw come on, daddy. I'll be worth it! Sure, I'm healthy. Oh no, I don't do drugs. Of course I spend every waking minute thinking about you, Superman. Smooch, smooch, smooch."

In the past month, I've met with people from seven different companies and three different recruiting agencies. For every company, there is the initial phone screening, followed by a Meet the Mucky Mucks in our offices for 3.5 hours and one glass of water with no potty breaks, sometimes with an additional repeat Command Performance in front of Her Royalhighness (Human Resources) and the troops (potential future co-workers), and finally complete and utter silence. It's like a Bugs Bunny cartoon when a stage performer is greeted by the sound of chirping crickets. Hullooooooooooo... Anybody home?

Yesterday, Jujube got a hold of my Red Exacompta Weekly Desk Planner of Terror and a renegade pencil. My calendar is filled with scribble until at least the Independence Day holiday. I've left her "schedule" in place next Tuesday when she will be in day care and I will be most determinedly NOT in an interview hot seat. I'm thinking... public library with laptop bearing unfinished romance novel in hand or (eek!) maybe a local Starbucks generous with unlimited comfortable seating, an affection for public knitters, and an endless supply of Venti Iced Nonfat Lattes. Hey, that's what Unemployment Insurance benefits are for, right?

Well, that and buying Thomas the Tank Engine logo items as reward for my industrious daughter. Mommy thought she couldn't possibly love you any more, dearest, but she's just found a whole new way!

I love, I love, I love my calendar girl!

This Just In!!!

2007-06-07T16:04:00.001-04:00

Purple afghan square and V-neck pullover are completed! Work on Zoe Mellor fair isle cardign has resumed.

See project photo: here.

FYS

2007-05-30T11:57:00.001-04:00

That's Fantasy Yarn Store. I own one. Want to come in and browse?

It's called Fuzz Buzz. Not only do I offer lots of fondling fodder in easily accessible wooden bins on one side of the store, on the other I have a little coffee shop/cafe/wine bar. You can pull up a chair at a nice little round table to nibble on a composed salad of pasta and veggies in vinaigrette du jour but you can also sip your favorite wine (OK, maybe I'll add Sam Adams for grain-lovers) or snarf a fudgy brownie past your latte froth-mustachioed lips all while clickety-clacking away on your latest WIP. Muted TV in corner tuned to popular Man Sport In Season to actually convince beer drinking DHs that an evening at the yarn shop is a great idea for this week's date night. Or come with your girlfriends and spend the evening in our sofa cluster. Noshing. Knitting. Nattering. Knocking back a few cold ones or red ones or whatever buzz-inducing bevvy you fancy (from whence the inspiration for the "Buzz" part of the shop's name).

I'm thinking warm hardwood floors, walnut stained fixtures, slate tiles, big cushy leather sofas, copper and verdigris accents. Tables are wooden tops with wrought iron legs. Chairs to match. Lots of plants. One of those glass cases with all the food and sweets showcased. Great big swimming pool-sized white porcelain cups for coffee. The usual glassware for everything else.

Now, admittedly, I stole the idea for this business from these people, but my adaptation is infinitely more appealing, don't you think? Though, I do like their fireplace. Maybe I'll steal that idea too.

Or maybe I should just move back to Minnesota and shop at the Yarn Cafe. It might be cheaper than starting my own business. A little. Maybe.

Meanderings

2007-05-25T15:46:00.000-04:00

There are few things in life as satisfying as hanging a load of whites on the line to dry in the afternoon sun of a hot early summer day (98 degrees on my deck).

Wait a minute, what am I saying? There are lots of things a thousand times more satisfying than doing the laundry, no matter how much energy I'm saving by using the sun as a clothes dryer.

Like, for instance, knitting something. I've been working my way through an overstock of Lion Brand Wool-Ease in the shade Wheat by cranking out one Great American Afghan square after another. This is the series published by Knitter's Magazine back in 1996 to which I am referring. I have a nice little stack of 5 different squares (photo here woefully missing) and am working on the 6th, to the detriment of finishing that V-neck pullover I started this winter not to mention the Zoe Mellor Fair Isle cardigan I started last year for Jujube and the Mission Falls cardigan I started for myself when I was a whole differently-lettered size than I am now. It's so old, I've actually advanced a generation as it has been composting in my project room.

I call this photo "Project Montage with Pooh Sticker". I apologize for the lack of detail in the knitting appearing here. Adjusting photos goes well beyond my PhotoShop abilities. Frankly, taking photos is something well beyond my abilities too. To paraphrase my mother, you're not laughing at me, you're suffering with me.

Having used up all the Wool-Ease, the yarn you see here is positively petrified nasty KMart Acrylic from one of my very first knitting projects. To exhibit my total geekness to you, I'll admit to purchasing the "aubergine" (huh?) yarn to make myself a Dr. Who scarf while in college. Crawled all over my then-home town begging assistance from every LYS staffer who didn't possess the good sense to run in the opposite direction and hide in the stock room the minute I set foot in the store. "What's Awber Gyn?"

For a Dr. Who scarf.

Oh brother.

Heaven On Earth

2007-05-24T11:37:00.000-04:00

My friends, this is the Lodge at the Valley of the Moon. My sister and her friend own it. They bought it on a whimsical inspiration received from the ether while weekending at a scrapbooking retreat somewhere in the Seattle metro area. The two of them looked up from their work and across the table at each other and proclaimed, "We can do this!" Their search for property landed them this little log gem a mere half mile from my sister's house as the crow flies, 7.2 miles by road. That should be all you need to tell you that it's situated on the side of a hill. It possesses mountain views glimpsed between the branches of fir trees. Several deer inhabit the lawn on a regular basis. There is a long list of western songbirds that can be seen from its windows.

The lodge is mere minutes from the infamous Snoqualmie Falls. The fans of Twin Peaks among us may recognize the falls from the show's introduction.

Miraculously, all this is a mere 15 minute drive from I-90 which will deposit you another 20 minutes later, if you're lucky enough to qualify for the car pool lane with 2 or more passengers in your car, in downtown Seattle. My wee family spent a blissful week here post-lay-off. It had been planned pre-lay-off and we had the great good sense not to cancel. This little cabin in the woods possesses in spades the most remarkable Soul Balm qualities, it is practically medicinal. It is truly a space for relaxing, creating and even healing (which is perhaps just another form of creating, after all). Though I am not generally prone to psychic experiences or spirit sightings, I could have sworn I witnessed a flyover by the archangel Raphael.

Frankly, the place spooked me at night, which makes me wonder whether people who are more receptive to, how shall I say this?, alternate realities, multiple dimensions, spirits, ghosts, gods and/or angels might find lots to see and engage them here. There's truly something magical about the lodge, even if it is nothing more than the fact that someplace this quiet and pastoral can exist so close to another place so urban.

Maybe that partially explains my New Age literature bent at the moment. There was a bookshelf at the lodge well-stocked with some classic texts from the alternative spirituality genre. I dabbled. It benefited me. At the very least, I am finding this the most calm, relaxed, post-layoff job search I have ever undertaken. This is especially important for me since my job requirements are much more stringent this time around. I need to accommodate the schedule of a day care and, ultimately in a couple years' time, the public schoolday.

I hear so many women say "I think I'll go back to work once my kids are in school" and it always makes me shake my head. How on earth is it easier to go back to work when someone needs to be home by 2:00 pm when school lets out? (And let's not get Coach started on the subject of school schedules vs. corporate expectations because the rant may just spiral out of complete control and the dictates of blogging decency.)

So I'm looking for work in a suburban company that is no more than 20 minutes' drive from my daughter's day care and, eventually, her elementary school. The company must be open to flexible work days or working from home since I intend to remain employed there until the Jujube is at least high-school aged. The implication of this is that the company must be stable enough not to undergo lay-offs on the usual cycle of 2 - 4 years as is the habit of most high tech firms or departments.

I realize that, while what I am seeking is completely sensible and should not be that big a stretch for the technology industry, in reality it is like trying to find a four leaf clover or that proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Thanks to the Hicks' writings and their Deliberate Creation ideas, though, I fully intend to find such a position. It may take more time than it used to take to land a testing job in downtown Boston (of which, if I so chose, I could currently take my pick), but I'm not looking for a winning lottery ticket or the key to eternal youth or immortality or anything really very hard. What I want is out there. Somewhere. I just have to reel it in.

Thanks to some quality time at the lodge, I believe whole-heartedly in that possibility.

The Jujube and her cousins.

Irony Alert

2007-05-23T15:20:00.000-04:00

The guy sitting right in front of the

"Please

Turn off

Cell Phones

while inside

the Library"

sign just had to leave the quiet study area to take a phone call.

Brrring, brrring, doodle-deedle-doo!!!
Brrring, brrring, doodle-deedle-doo!!!

Oh, and he's drinking a DD's iced coffee too.

Quick Message

2007-05-10T20:23:00.000-04:00

Sorry friends. It's been quite a whirlwind. Here's a bullet list. I'll write for real soon...

Pulled into director's office on 4/11 and told my job was eliminated.
Effective date of layoff: 4/30. Previously booked vacation: 4/26 - 5/6.
Told to "transfer knowledge" during remaining time in office.
Called headhunter upon immediate return to desk.
Updated resume.
Began packing desk.
Held wringing hands of still-employeed colleagues who felt the need to pour out their despair at being left behind to pick up all the work (awwwwww).
Attended layoff orientation at which I learned Medical Flexible Spending Account is a COBRA-eligible bene which means if you keep it, you're pointlessly paying for it with after tax dollars, but if you use all funds before termination date then, oh well, company's loss.
Immediately booked myself into every medical professional's office I could.
Filled cracked tooth.
Bought contacts.
Bought glasses.
Met with 2 headhunters.
Had 2 interviews.
Told by a development manager to "make some time in my schedule" to "transfer knowledge" to a colleague prior to my vacation on 26th (you know me by now, imagine thoughts running through mind...)
Flew to Seattle to visit sister & family.
Found gorgeous house on Ames Lake but no job at Microsoft.
Returned sadly to Massachusetts on 5/6.
Signed up for the dole.
Attended Dept. of Unemployment Assistance workshops.
Had 3 more interviews and scheduled 2 more.
Managed to unpack & grocery shop. Somehow.

I'm pooped. Job hunting is exhausting because these days, you're on the phone or e-mail all day long, leaving you night-time hours to actually SEARCH for opportunities. I was hoping to kick back this time. Take it all a little slower. Filter out the dross since I need flexible scheduling. Haven't figured out how yet.

Anyhoo. That's the nutshell version. I've been thinking of you and this blog. Had some funny experiences -- one in Pike Street Public Market in particular -- that I wanted to share with you. Another time. I'm late for my Bedtime Story shift. Dying to know what's up with you but all my e-time these days is on Dice.com. Pew.

Dent Practice

2007-04-09T20:11:00.000-04:00

I've laid in a supply of good viewing for the week, team. At this very moment, Englishman is recording The Wind In The Willows on Masterpiece Theatre. Today I dropped off Six Feet Under, Season 3, Episodes 32-34 at the library and came home with Vera Drake and Warm Springs. I very nearly added Whale Rider to the stack but knowing that Six Feet Under, Season 3, Episodes 35-37 is in transit from a network library to mine, I didn't want to get too greedy. I should have some knitting news and photos to report here very soon. Stay tuned.

Thanks to Easter treats, my dent capacity has increased in a way that's helpful to competition; not so much to those New Year's Resolution cholesterol and triglyceride numbers. Too bad. I'd rather expire slightly early, happy and full of ham, cheesy potatoes, caramelized sugar-glazed sweet potatoes, and lemon-buttered asparagus than elderly and cranky from having choked on a lethal quantity of celery. I'm sorry if that's harsh but it is the truth.

The Easter treats were divine, team. Dove milk chocolate eggs. Mini malted speckled robins' eggs. Aged peeps (all celophane wrapping removed at least 36 hours before consuming, thank you very much!). Oh! And how do I love thee, Vanilla and Lemon Panna Cotta with Blackberry Sauce? Let me count the calories!

It is with some sadness that I must report no eggs were bedeviled in the Coach's house on Easter Sunday. Coach was, well, let's say otherwise indisposed by a Bellini or three. When life gives you peach nectar (for ham glaze), make Bellinis* (with the ample unused leftovers). Words to live by.

* 1 champagne flute + 2 oz. peach nectar + 1/2 oz. lemon juice + 1 oz. grenadine + top with fizzy white wine = bliss. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Good Friday

2007-04-06T14:36:00.000-04:00

Aren't they all?

We'll be celebrating the holiday with a viewing of episodes 7 and 8 from season 3 of Six Feet Under. Seems appropriate, doesn't it?

Tonight we boil the eggs for tomorrow's dyeing process. I bought 2 dozen this year. I want deviled eggs, dammit! I've got the stupid deviled egg dish with all the little half-ovoid indentations that successfully corral the slippery eggy devils. It only gets used once a year. Seems like I've been compelled, doesn't it?

Saw a great bumper sticker today. Oval and about the size of one of those ferry stickers. Printed in black lettering over a pink Breast Cancer ribbon, it read "Save the tatas". Well, here, I'll just google you up a picture. Gotta get me one of these.

The Meetup Knitting Group I attended Wednesday night was fabb-o! The founder of the group is from Newfoundland. How cool is that? I've never met anyone from Newfoundland but it seems such a fabled, romantic place. Kathryn's as sweet, soft-spoken and friendly as you'd imagine someone from there to be.

Meeting her reminded me of a work-study student assigned to the Study Abroad office at Boston University back in the days when I was an employee. When he asked me where I was from and I replied, "Wisconsin," he got hysterical.

"No way!" he said to me.

I was curious. What could possibly be so extraordinary about being from Wisconsin. He explained to me that a friend and he had argued in a High School philosophy class that the state of Wisconsin did not really exist because neither of them nor any of their acquaintances had ever met anyone from Wisconsin. Since there were no eye-witnesses to its existence they proved, therefore, that the place was mythical.

"No! You've got it all wrong," I replied. "It's Delaware that doesn't exist." First in the nation, indeed. By Work-Study Student's reasoning, in addition to the fact that I could never bloody ever remember Delaware when having to list all 50 states, I concluded way back in childhood that either the place didn't exist or it was so insignificant, it possibly shouldn't. We used to spot state license plates on our interminable family driving vacations back when I was a whippersnapper. We actually even saw a Hawaii plate one year, attached to a car driving the Gallatin valley of Montana along route 191. Never, ever in all our years of (Dad) fly-fishing the west did we see a Delaware license plate.

But if Newfoundland can actually exist off-map to the extent that it produces sweet people like Kathryn the knitting group founder, then there's hope for Delaware yet.

And, yes, she was knitting a big thick wool jumper.

I Know, I Know!!!

2007-04-02T12:35:00.000-04:00

Edited to remove utter incoherence.

I really had no business doing it. I have vowed to fit back into my 3-months-not-pregnant-enough-for-maternity-clothes-yet jeans (yes, it's that bad folks). I even have been getting up at 6:25 am to Nordic Track* 3 days a week to discourage the seams of aforementioned jeans from imprinting themselves to a depth of 1/4 inch into my orange peel flesh. I gave up wine for almost an entire two weeks. I mean business, people.

* That's the verb tense of Nordic Track n. the apparatus. Nordic Track v.to use the apparatus as designed to obtain physical fitness. Nordic Track adj. as in "I hung your laundry on the Nordic Track hanger."

It's not really my fault (well, yes, it is) that the hollow milk chocolate bunny made by Nirvana Chocolates, purchased for an exhorbitant price at Whole Foods, and destined for Jujube's Easter basket leaped off the top of the refrigerator last night and broke into several large pieces. It was too wrecked to pass off as a treat from The Easter Bunny and I am fresh out of chocolate glue. There was nothing for it. It had to be eaten. Last night. All of it. In one bliss-filled, face-stuffing, finger-smearing sitting while Jujube received her nightly ablutions from Daddy, and Mommy enjoyed her daily 30 minutes of solitude.

Did I then or do I now feel the slightest twinge of guilt? No freakin' way, Dent squad. That's why God made paid employment. I can just go buy me another one. Erm, I mean, buy her another one. Mmm... yum... smack, smack.

"Zacariah Hits"

2007-03-30T11:37:00.000-04:00

So says the Jujube to me yesterday afternoon after our weekly Little Gym class. We arrive every week far too early for class because 1) I want a window seat so I can keep an eye on the in-class goings on and, 2) I'm afraid if I leave at the exact time an efficiency expert would select as optimal, that would be the day Jujube decides that it's more fun to run away from Mommy than to sit down docilely and have her shoes tied and coat zipped. Murphy is my master. When fully enforced, his laws sting like salted whip burns. And so when we duly arrive early at the Little Gym, Jujube peers through the front door into the often half-lit interior and announces "The boys aren't here yet."

She definitely remembers the first week incident with boyshit whose mother, by the way, isn't abused or mean-spirited. She's just distracted by the world's biggest 17 month old. Her "little" guy is 35 pounds of roly-poly. Jujube hasn't even cleared the 30 mark yet and this woman is hoisting a 35-pounder onto her lap to nurse him. Anyway, not only is she distracted, she definitely has that Mommy Blindness we all get. You know, everything about our kids is wonderful and everyone else can't possibly help loving them as much as we ourselves do. It is good to be reminded of this. Point taken, thank you Ms. Object Lesson.

I worry that the Jujube has inherited my Poop Magnet. I seem to attract people whose karmic mission this life is to spray their shit onto those of us with highly receptive Poop Sensors. You know the people I mean: you see them in traffic tailgating other drivers, rushing to arrive at the end of a queue simultaneously with someone else so they can engage in pissing matches, sitting directly in front of others in nearly empty cinemas. In my case, they seek me in the supermarket. Me. The only person in all of eastern Massachusetts so neurotic about staying out of other people's way I spend fully half my grocery shopping time trying to park my cart in as inoffensive, non-blocking a position as possible and still be able to actually recognize from the safe distance the facial features on my offspring in the child seat. People, I stand and wait for the elderly person blocking the aisle ahead of me to finish selecting the exact right brand of prune juice rather than push my cart past her and huff my impatience in the normal manner of Market Bastard shoppers.

Part of the problem here is that I choose to shop at the tragically outdated but shockingly cheap grocery in my town. I could be cruising the aisles in relative comfort at the Super Stop and Shop but I believe paying a $60 weekly premium for human interaction avoidance is a bit steep. So I shop at the Bastard. The always crowded, stinky, narrow-aisled, full of old people and townies, shrink wrapped produce on styrofoam trays, closes at 9PM and 6 on Sunday, under $100 per week, affordable, 1970's time-warp DeMoula's Market Bastard.

The cost to my hypersensitive psyche may be a bit too high though. It seems that no matter what obscure imported Surinamian salt-cod display I park my shopping cart in front of, there's some townie or crabby-assed old lady that HAS to shop there RIGHT NOW and CANNOT wait for ME like I would have waited for her to be finished. And not only do they need to shop RIGHT THERE RIGHT NOW, but they feel the need to lecture me about what a selfish bitch I am for blocking their access to victuals they obviously need immediately or they'll perish from spontaneous starvation right there in front of me and my kid and it won't be pretty either you heinous, self-absorbed bitch lady from deepest recesses of sulphurous hell!

Just last week, I was parked in the canned tomato aisle (this is Italian country -- there's a whole aisle devoted to processed tomato products) when a townie whizzed by me and, despite the fact that I saw her coming from my periphery and slid my cart forward and closer to the shelves, she still managed to clip the stepping stool a shelf restocker was standing atop while replenishing a supply of vital red canned goods. He went flying and landed on a box of something waiting to be shelved -- well, probably after his fall, no longer in the Italian aisle but in the Reduced For Quick Sale Dented Crap bins. (Great! Can't park there, now.) Fortunately, no one was injured. However, Townie Shit Fairy felt I needed a good dressing down for causing the whole accident by my very existence. So, even though she had stopped to check on the shelf stocker's welfare, then had beat a hasty and embarrassed retreat up the aisle, she worked her way back to mention to me that, in the future when I see someone coming behind me (yes, Denters, my ability to see in directions my eyes don't face is frightening) I really ought to step out of their way.

Uh. OK. Like,
1) I did,
2) Why couldn't you just wait, like I would have waited for you?
3) The only way I could have moved farther out of the way was to leave the store entirely (a Townie and Crabby-Assed Old Lady goal, I know),
4) Maybe if you'd have bothered to slow down you wouldn't have caused that poor guy's life to flash before his eyes, and
5) Try saying excuse me next time.

For the record, I only managed to say the last thing on this list to the Shit Princess. She flipped me off, naturally. Of course, you know, she is right. This would never have happened if I didn't exist.

These encounters leave me shaking, friends. They make me wonder what it is about me, what pheromone I exude, that invites people to knock me down a peg or twelve. This particular time, though, I got a different reading on the whole experience. It dawned on me that no matter how nice you think you are or unassuming or thoughtful or anticipatory of the needs of others, there are people out there who will just spray their shit inadvertently around themselves wherever they go and with any luck some of it will land on people like me with highly tuned, supersensitive receptors at which point they grab the opportunity to validate their shit.

I would like to think that this sensitivity might perhaps be an exploitable talent but I'm having trouble thinking of a positive, fulfilling use for it. Worse, I am beginning to entertain the depressing notion that perhaps my daughter has been equally endowed.

An End to the Lazy Woman’s Approach to Blogging

2007-03-28T11:25:00.000-04:00

Hello Bloglanders. It’s time to write something for real instead of relying on formulaic cop-outs to fill this space. I’ve not been hanging around much in Blogotopia this week for reasons previously expressed and also because when I find some time to read, my face is buried between the pale velvety folds of Vulnerable. I’ve been checking up on a few of you though: Bonnie because you never get over your first, Amy because it’s going to take an expensive rehab incarceration to quit that habit, and Catie because I’m worried about her (and so glad to see she’s at least posting comments). The rest of you, I miss too terribly! It’s time. Time to visit Rae, and the Denizens, Cussin’ Mama, Louiz and Roxie’s flower sex (which reminds me, Roxie and Louiz need links on this page). I read at work because it is way more fun to catch up on my favorite writer-knitters than it is to draw call flow diagrams and design negative test cases. My new Test Lead, whom I absolutely adore and am utterly relieved to have on my team, is very VERY diligent and wants constant interaction so I barely get more than a paragraph into what anyone has written and, how can I say this delicately? Some of you are phenomenally verbose. No, no, it’s OK. It’s what I love about you. You’re so funny too. You just think it’s your kids. Huh-uh, it’s really your raconteuse selves that are so adept at making the mundane hilarious.

Englishman racked up another point in the Endearment column of the Marriage ledger. When he arrived home last night, he told me about a knitting group he’d found on Meet Up who get together once a week at a Starbucks very near me. Hooray! Coffee drinking knitters! This has New Friend potential all over it. The meeting tonight is at 6 pm, not so good for Coach since Englishman arrives on our stoop after a grueling 1.5 hour, 12 mile bus ride just before 7 pm. But next week the meeting time is set for 7 so I created an account, posted my photo (and a link here! Shameless self-promoter!), and Rsvped to say I’d be there on the 4th. I just know they’re going to be a great bunch because knitters are. They just are.

Oh! And guess what? I almost forgot. Are you sitting down? (You had better be! This is Butt Dent practice, not Loitering rehearsal or Shin Splint training!!) I’m actually BLOCKING the Lion Brand Wool Ease Beige V-neck Pullover. That’s right. Me. Blocking!

One piece at a time, Denters. One piece at a time.

Gratuitous Lunarscope for March 28

2007-03-28T10:30:00.000-04:00

Moon in Leo
Today's a good day to throw your friends a party that reminds them how great you are.

Blog Lazy

2007-03-27T12:40:00.000-04:00

Thanks, Needletart, for this meme. Now I have something to post today too.

Look at the list of books below. Bold the ones you’ve read, italicize the ones you want to read, and leave plain the ones that you aren’t interested in.

1. The DaVinci Code (Dan Brown)
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien) This one is half-bold because I quit halfway through. Couldn't take another buggery battle scene!
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien)
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. The Bible
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens)
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
71. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell) Another half-read book
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According to Garp (John Irving)
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte's Web (E.B. White)
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck)
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down(Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

There are a few "Not on your frickin' life!" books in this list but formatting options are limited so they shall remain unindicated. I always thought I was well-read. Huh. Guess I'd better revise that self-ascribed label.

Beßer Spät Als Nie

2007-03-26T10:23:00.000-04:00

1. What are your top 3 Good Movies:
The Hudsucker Proxy
Donnie Darko
It’s A Wonderful Life – though, this might be a Bad Movie in some lists

1.5 What are your 3 most hated “Good” Movies:
(I’m with Elaine on this one) The English Patient
(Gross!) Trainspotting
(‘n’ Grosser!!) The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover

2. What are your top 3 'Bad Movies':
Dogma
Groundhog Day
The Adventures of Buckeroo Bonzai Across the 8th Dimension (Peter Weller! hummena hummena)

3. #1 Quoted Movie:
The Hudsucker Proxy “You know, for kids.”

4. Favorite Action Movie:
Boogie Nights ;o)

5. Favorite Romance:
French Kiss

6. Favorite Weeper:
Steel Magnolias

7. Favorite director:
Joel Coen

8. Top 3 "Good Movie" moments:
Brad Pitt in the sanitarium common room in 12 Monkeys
Ray Winstone in the opening sequence of Sexy Beast
Pete Postlethwaite’s monologue at the climax of Brassed Off: “I thought that music mattered. But does it? Bollocks! Not compared to how people matter.” (which is sampled in Chumbawamba’s ultimate footie anthem Tubthumping)

9. Top 3 "Bad Movie" moments:
The kitchen table exchange between John Candy & Macaulay Culkin in Uncle Buck
The sinking of the Titanic
An assortment of moments from Four Weddings and a Funeral: the wedding dress shopping scene, Andie MacDowell’s Scottish wedding, but most especially John Hannah reading Auden at Simon Callow’s funeral. Just thinking about it shivers me timbers.

10. Top 3 Movie Quotes:
The Matador
Kid: “See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.”
Pierce Brosnan: “Smelled ya, shouldn’t hafta tell ya.”
Stripes
Bill Murray: "Czechoslovakia? That’s like breaking into Wisconsin."
Harold Ramis: “I got the shit beat out of me in Wisconsin.”
Brassed Off
See above, Top Good Movie moments, Pete Postlethwaite

11. Top favorite movie in the last 2 years:
Good Night, and Good Luck
or maybe Nanny McPhee
oo! oh! or maybe Millions

Hey, Friends

2007-03-19T11:21:00.000-04:00

Been out of commission for a while. Our embryos didn't survive the thaw process on Friday so we hunkered down for a few quiet days that were very much needed. Now all that remains is to get out of town for at least a week and do a whole lot of absolutely nothing. I'll get back to writing and checking your blogs soon.

Until then,

Childe Hassam (1859–1935)
Celia Thaxter's Garden, Isles of Shoals, Maine
1890

Gratuitous Lunarscope for March 12

2007-03-12T17:17:00.000-04:00

Moon enters Capricorn
This is a good time to make some real progress on those tax returns, people, so pour yourself a caffeinated one and get cracking!

Not Rome’s B!+<# Anymore

2007-03-12T14:16:00.000-04:00

It’s been a grisly week, Dent Squad. It’s not so much that I had nothing to say but more that I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for saying it.

Our across-the-street neighbor died suddenly last Wednesday afternoon from a combination of pneumonia, bad lungs and a dodgy heart. He left two teenaged sons, 18 and 16 years of age, for whom he had custody after an ugly divorce battle that dragged on far too long. The whole thing is so sad because those two boys have been through so much in the past five years. Mark’s death will re-open the legal battles between his ex-wife and his brothers.

The funeral mass was this morning at a local Catholic church. Having grown up Catholic, the order of mass was as familiar to me as my parents’ faces. It has been many, many years since I practiced Catholicism. In the intervening years between my schooling at a Catholic women’s college and now, I sang in an Episcopalian choir. It’s been nearly seven years since I gave that up, however. Since then, I’ve been on a barely focused, totally haphazard spiritual quest to fill the void left by my departure from Rome’s fold. At times I even wondered whether I belonged back at an Our Lady of Something Unlikely. Mostly, though, I recognized that those longings for the good old days of belonging coincided closely with my visits home to my parents. I would watch them drive off to mass looking as if they were missing something significant in the back seat (yours truly) and feeling like maybe I should give it a try again.

As I sat in the sanctuary of St. Anthony’s Roman Catholic church this morning I knew that I have left all that behind for good. The rituals are so blatantly pagan that I could hardly believe their origins were so successfully veiled from me for so long: the wafting of incense on the corners of the altar representing the element air and the four compass directions of the wind, the rebirth into flesh from the uterine chalice of the element earth in the form of bread, the water element mingled with wine and transformed through magical incantation into ritual blood to spill for the appeasement a god with a taste for the stuff that borders on vampirism, and the Easter candle burning its elemental watchfire over the entire ritual. Perhaps more disturbing to me than the bloodthirstiness of this particular deity is the complete success Rome has had in removing any suggestion of the Feminine from its rituals, despite the residual water, chalice, and blood components.

Growing up under Rome's supervision, I always had a sense I was second class. As I matured, that sense grew into a painful shoulder chip. I recognize just how very unwelcome I am in Rome's inner circle, thanks to the mistake of my natal gender. What’s amazing to me is that I am no longer angry about this. Eh. It is what it is and I am done with it. Jesus taught the world Forgiveness. For that, I truly admire and am grateful to him. But I will not permit a bunch of old guys in linen dresses to misinterpret his words or the world's great spiritual symbols for me anymore.

That seven letter word for nothing left to lose? That’s a very good word indeed.

Dilemma

2007-03-07T15:08:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking of starting another category over there on the sidebar of this blog entitled Abandoned. I'm really having a hard time finishing or even bringing myself to pick up The Virgin in the Garden. This is surprising to me because I was such a huge fan of A. S. Byatt's Possession. My hardcover copy was loaned to someone whom I considered a very, very good friend at the time. I never saw it again. That ended my stint as lending librarian. Now when I hand out books, I do not expect them back, which informs my decision to hand them out in the first place.

A few years back it dawned on me that life is too short to read bad books. In no way can The Virgin in the Garden be construed as a bad book. It was, however, written in the 70's -- not in my estimation a great time for British literature -- and is "artistic" in that pompous, purposely difficult way that things were esteemed "brilliant" back in that decade.

So the dilemma is this: is life also too short to read great books that are boring? I'm thinking the answer is yes because life doesn't incrementally increase by the length of time it takes to complete reading something that's good for you just because it's good for you. It's sort of like eating mushroom and barley meatless-loaf. Just because it won't clog your arteries doesn't mean one should endure an entire lifetime of salubrious dieting that will tack on three extra years at best, does it? I mean, who wants to endure three additional years of mushroom and barley meatless-loaf? Especially when it's swimming in a puddle of onion and yeast extract gravy.

I suppose this means that I consider The Virgin in the Garden to be the literary equivalent of 1970's health food.

Gratuitous Lunarscope for March 7:
Moon enters Scorpio
Tonight is a good time to dance the Naked Hokey Pokey with someone you love; even better to do so with someone you Lust.

Obligatory Knitting Content

2007-03-06T16:49:00.000-05:00

Now that I've turned this blog into my confessional, please, remind me. Have I told you about my vow of monogamy? Perhaps I should clarify that statement after having just revealed my little Romance problem. I mean my vow of Knitting Project monogamy. I will not allow myself to start a new knitting project until I finish the one on which I am currently working. That means it's beige Lion Brand Wool-ease for me for the foreseeable future unless I pull my thumbs -- along with the rest of my digits -- off my sweaty laptop keyboard and get cracking on the V-neck pullover for the Englishman. He could have used a nice warm sweater today considering the windchill is minus Christ It's Cold courtesy of an Alberta Clipper that's vacationing here in quaint New England this week. Here's a full frontal photo of my beige-on-beige existence.

No, that carpet's not filthy. Those are shadows. Heh heh.

For what it's worth, I don't think this "Wheat" color will look particularly well on the Englishman but it was, you know, cheap and it's been ripening in my stash for about 6 years so its time has come. Which makes me think, hey, maybe if the Romance Fiction thing doesn't work out for me I can make a career of designing and installing yarn cellars for stash enthusiasts. Just an idea.

Anyway, rather than knit more beigeiness into my life last night, I opted to paint my fingernails Berry Garnet whilst* watching Supernanny. I love that Cockney gal, even if she can't say asseptable (as in, "That behavior is not asseptable, you must now sit on the Naughty Carpet stain").

* Gotta go full-on British in Supernanny's presence.

Here's my "On The Needles" shot. I just want you to take a moment to appreciate how skillful my photography is. It's not easy capturing a relatively unblurred image of something that moves around as much as knitting does. Oh yeah? Well, YOU try it with a 3 year old in the room.

Hola

2007-03-06T14:36:00.000-05:00

I'm supposed to be working right now. I don't want to. There's too much testing to do and not enough time to complete it. Yeah, so I was the one who said I could get it done in three weeks. Just shut up. And yeah, I also know that reading blogs and writing this post isn't helping me get closer to my deadline. Well, it's helping me get closer but not in a stress-reducing way. It's just that I'd rather be doing just about anything other than guessing how to configure data tables so that unknown call type calls get correctly charged local or long distance rates depending on their Exchange Access Area. Confused? So am I. See why I'm avoiding my work?

Have I mentioned lately that I hate my job? Have I told you how much? Have I ever hinted what I'd rather be doing?

Several years ago during a fit of extreme early onset midlife crisis, otherwise known to the Astrological community as Uranus opposite natal Sun, I did something I'd always threatened but never actually succeeded to do. I started writing fiction. The trouble is, the sort of fiction I started writing is not the sort of fiction I read. I read Booker Prize winners, Jane Austen, hand-me-down chick lit. I write (oh gawd, here it comes, cringe) romance. Crap!! What the crapping crapola is up with that? Still, what with pseudonymous writing being the norm in the Romance genre, what's wrong with selling some lavender-scented, lilac-toned prose and laughing my Work From Home arse all the way to the bank? It's FUN to write sex scenes! It just is.

So there you have it, Denters. At the moment I am torn between call type determinations and call girl delineations. And I'll leave it up to your fertile imaginations to conclude which distraction is winning.

What's Another Word For Nothing Left To Lose, 7 Letters?

2007-02-28T09:59:00.000-05:00

And in the category of That's Why They Pay You The Big Bucks?, the Oscar goes to...
Mona, Clinical Assistant to Dr. [Name Withheld]!

This round of dealings with Fetus Manufacturing, Incorporated (FMI) has been, oh, just a smidgeon slightly under satisfactory. If my generous health insurance company were not picking up the tab, I might be playing the part of Credit Line-Wielding Harpie. Then again, probably not in view of my incredibly shrinking self-respect when staring into the gaping maw of authority.

As all female-flavored homo sapiens know, any and all medical undertakings seem to cling for dear life to the ever-important first day of your last period. This is certainly even more the case at FMI for reasons obvious to those who stayed awake during 10th grade Biology class. In fact, patients are instructed to phone on the fated first day to relate the happy news. Let me tell you, friends, it is one of the world's most humbling experiences to leave on someone's voicemail a message something like this: "Ah, um, yeah hi. My, ah, period started. OK! Call me!"

Little does one expect to hear upon the return phone call that, despite all evidence to the contrary, one's period may not actually have officially started. Officially. Because FMI isn't interested in when it actually made it's initial appearance but, rather, the infinitely more important yet mysterious start of "full flow". Now, I don't know about you all, but I do not make it a habit of observing flowing things for their fullness. At least not that particular flowing thing. If we were talking about leaking heating oil from the drum in my basement or glacial meltwater in a beautiful mountain stream, perhaps the adjective "full" might be used to describe a certain crucial and fascinating point in the flowing goings-on. I am of the opinion that it is actually impossible to declare something at "full" flow until after full has passed. Is it full yet? How 'bout now? Now? Oh wait, looks like things are slowing down. Guess that was full back then after all.

As if someone would do that in these particular circumstances.

In response to my 1PM um, voicemail message, Mona's winning Clinical Assistant performance at approximately 3 PM went something like this:
Mona: Is it full flow?
Coach: Um, sure, I guess. I don't know.
M: When did it start?
C: Today.
M: So it's probably not full flow. Call back tomorrow morning or today before 4:30 PM if it's full flow before then.
C: Um, yeah. OK.

Isn't modern technology amazing? Mona the Clinical Assistant can tell by telephone more about my body than I can myself, hence the big bucks she makes and the power she wields.

So, upon my follow-up phone call, I was instructed to begin taking some medication which, after 6 days, has made me increasingly dizzy, headachy and nauseous to the point that the world is swimming like I'm peeping into its Beacon Hill living room through a pane of its wavy pre-Revolutionary window glass. Driving ain't fun, friends. And food holds little appeal, even if it would stop moving around the plate long enough for a person to stab it with a fork. Bleh.

So I phoned Mona again. Slow on the uptake, your Coach is. That's why she's qualified to coach the Sit Squad. Mona's helpful advice for the headache: "drink lots of water and take some Tylenol." Let me translate that into Coach for you: "drink lots of water and take some air." That's how effective Tylenol is for me.

Mona informed me that they won't adjust dosage of the evil Migrainiol because that would apparently require them to scrap this cycle and I would have to wait until I could repeat again from "Ah, um, yeah hi..." even though they don't know what the current dosing level is doing to me (other than giving me migraines) until they perform some tests on March 10th at which point they could, based on testing results, cancel the cycle. So let me do this math for you.

Keep dosage same + perform test on 3/10 = possible cancel
Change dosage = Do not perform test on 3/10 + definite cancel
Change dosage CANNOT = Go ahead with test on 3/10 anyway + possible cancel

I can't do the proof on that last one. Guess that's why I don't get Big Bucks to field "Ah, um yeah hi..." phone calls with "Sorry, there's nothing we can do for you" replies. So, with nothing left to lose, I am swimming ahead through the watery world in which I currently live to see this little escapade through to its prompt conclusion. To amuse myself, I am contemplating having the following printed on a beige t-shirt for my March 10th appointment:

My embryos went to FMI and all I got was this lousy headache.

So Excited My Brain Is Going To Explode

2007-02-27T12:16:00.000-05:00

It's Tuesday. I brought my lunch to the office (because Englishman packed it) but I still have to go out at lunchtime to buy flouride-free toothpaste for Jujube. After work tonight, I will pick her up from day care and drive home in the Pontiac Stateship listening to Laurie Berkner's "I Really Love To Dance" on infinite loop. Then I will make dinner, fight with the Jujube about eating it, give up and let her eat another pink yogurt. While she eats, I will sort the day's junk mail into shredding and recycling piles. When Englishman gets home, we will drink tea, reheat leftovers, then get Jujube ready for bed. She'll be conked out before 9 tonight because she doesn't nap at day care. After that, the day's all mine! Woohoo!!

Then I'll get up and do it all over again on Wednesday.

I feel so energetic. So inspired. So creative. So full of LIFE! Seriously you guys, I can hardly take another minute of this thrill ride.

Even my knitting project is beige.

It's Monday

2007-02-26T15:35:00.000-05:00

And this is your Coach. (Click on Play for full effect.)

Addendum

2007-02-26T13:00:00.000-05:00

Before I could copyedit the post I wrote on Saturday during naptime, the phone rang. It was my sister with whom I have not spoken in a month. Life being as it is for W2 Mothers, this workday lunch hour is my first opportunity to return to my post.

And so with Much Ado About Nothing, I bring you...

31 In The Shade

2007-02-24T14:01:00.000-05:00

It's one of those northern late winter days when the sun is warm enough to melt snow and ice on rooftops and driveways but the air is cold enough to freeze the puddles once the shade moves in. These are the treacherous days; the ones when the ice sneaks up on you and surprises you because you've become so blasé about winter. You've accepted it. You're taking it in stride. You're strutting about, all cocksure in your Vibram lug soles when all of a sudden before you're aware it's happening, your heels are flying through the air next to your ears and you have to utter a quick prayer that you come down on your Valentine chocolate-enhanced rump instead of your spine or your tailbone or an elbow or some other rare-to-find-these-days bony protrusion.

The thermometer and wind chill may say it's still winter but there's an entire flock of robins in our backyard begging to differ. I've never seen them congregate. I always thought robins were solitary souls. It's a little freaky in a Hitchcock Birds kind of way. The chunks of ice breaking off the roof and dropping onto the deck make me jump because I keep thinking it's a bird flying into the house so it can peck our eyes out. Yes, I suffer from the sort of hubritis (inflammation of the ego) that has me believing a flock of literal bird brains has it in for me.

It's naptime. The Jujube is flying free today. No, she's not going commando or even wearing her Dora underpants. She's still in diapers. What I mean is, she's actually taking her first nap alone in her Big Girl Bed. I neglected to move the monitor from cribside to bedside so I can't tell whether she's being well behaved and contained by the bedrails.

We are wallowing in cabin fever lethargy, certain there must be thousands of household tasks which require our immediate attention, but completely stumped as to what they might be. I don't really know why I look forward to the weekend so much. I always wind up bored and restless. Good old fashioned Catholic Upbringing guilt prevents me from kicking back and relaxing with a book or some knitting or an audiobook AND some knitting. Or maybe it's good old fashioned Virgoan (both parents) Upbringing guilt standing in my way. Let me decipher that for the Astrological neophytes among us: Virgo = Workaholic. If you've got someone in your life who is constitutionally incapable of sitting down and completely mystified by your participation in our sedentary team sport, that person was either born between August 23 and September 22, has Virgo rising, or has a cluster of planets all lined up in the Virgo part of their natal chart. Either way, there's a clutching, nagging, bastard of a conscience in my gut harping on about how an adult person's waking daylight hours are supposed to be filled with loathsome, mucky, sweaty, tedious, repetitive chores. The little fucker. I thought by quitting The Church I could successfully evict the internal tyrannical dictator. How long does it take for Head and Gut to follow Heart?

The Englishman reports that Jujube is fast asleep half-in-half-out of the covers of her Big Girl Bed. Today, quiet boring Saturday, has just morphed into Day Of Major Triumph. This calls for a celebration of the Lion Brand Wool-Ease and audiobook variety.

Weekend Pastimes

2007-02-19T12:28:00.000-05:00

Or, Being Reminded I Volunteered For This Parenting Gig Is In No Way Helpful And Should Probably Never Be Uttered Again In My Presence

In this post we will explore the various ways to entertain a preschooler on a long holiday weekend when one resides many days' drive away from a Disney (C) theme park. Throughout this post, I will be using the feminine personal pronoun. This in no way is meant to imply that the following activities are exclusive to female members of huwomanity. This is an editorial decision simply meant to compensate for centuries of male-centric literary bias so non-female readers should not get their briefs in a bunch about "exclusive language".

1. Take your preschooler grocery shopping. This will be an entertaining and educational occupation unless you have at any time in the past succumbed to the temptation to keep your preschooler quiet by opening a box of Triscuits (TM) that you fully intend to pay for on your way out but forget is actually lodged between her and the six stuffed animals and dollies who have accompanied her on the shopping expedition and are crowded into the child seat of the shopping cart. If at any time in the past you caved into this temptation, while understandable, you must accept that you have irretrievably sullied the grocery expedition as pleasant weekend filling activity until your child is a teenager planning her first post-prom party to be hosted in your basement rec room. In this case, leave your preschooler at home with your spouse and find your moments of Zen after you take ticket number 12 at the deli counter above which the lighted sign reads "Now Serving 71".

2. Drive your preschooler's minivan through the ride-through car wash. Yes, your preschooler's minivan. You wouldn't be driving the damned thing without a preschooler in your possession would you? You would? Oh, well, never mind. Afterward your spouse can spend many nerve frazzling, blood pressure raising minutes trying to wrench open frozen doors hoping foolishly that she may still get to an appointment or workplace meeting on time.

3. While she sleeps, rearrange your preschooler's toys in their designated storage unit. This will provide her hours of quiet solitary play as she enjoys discovering where her favorite items now reside.

4. Art projects. Preschoolers love to paint. Make sure you have a supply of washable tempera paints, a roll of art paper, an ample supply of paper cups to hold the paint, several brushes, a roll or two of paper towel, an art smock, and a ready supply of water. The kitchen is a great place to paint since most kitchens have surfaces that will survive the onslaught of gooey substances that must be washed immediately or otherwise endured permanently. Make sure to line up the preschooler's stuffed animals and dollies in all the kitchen chairs and remove them a fair distance from the painting surface to ensure they remain unadorned. Have your video camera handy because this will be fun! Tie your preschooler's hair up, cover her with the art smock, roll up her sleeve, hand her two brushes and two paper cups with 1/4 inch of paint in the bottom. Now get that camera rolling. Begin to encourage your preschooler by suggesting she try painting certain shapes (circle, square, etc.). When your preschooler wanders away from the painting area, remind her gently but firmly that paint is to stay in the kitchen area. When your preschooler ignores you, begin screeching shrilly to correct her deviant behavior, ensuring your nightmarish parenting skills are captured in digital A/V not only for your child's future therapy sessions but also for your Supernanny or Nanny 911 application videos. Spend the next three weeks wondering how dollies and stuffed animals that were safely secluded all the way across the room happen to be covered in tempera paints that are now not washable.

5. Admit defeat and turn on Noggin.

6. Retreat to the kitchen to bake a loaf of bread. Remind your preschooler that if she doesn't go play in the family room and leave you alone for half an hour, she will starve this week at preschool because there will be nothing to eat for lunch.

7. After your fifth consecutive viewing of On Demand Dora Saves The Prince, shake off your parental guilt anxiety attack, switch off the Sanity Box and crack out the tea party set. Line up all the dollies and stuffed animals in their pretty, brand new, one of a kind, handpainted afternoon apparel. Pour imaginary tea. Serve imaginary scones generously dolloped with imaginary clotted cream and imaginary strawbaby preserves. Let your preschooler remind you just how charming and sweet a child she is. Lull yourself into an inflated sense of your parenting genius.

8. Suggest an excursion to the ryebaby to check out that copy of Madeline Joins The Flea Circus you so admired last time you were there. Bundle your preschooler into her Polartec (TM) fleece and her parka. Stuff her double-socked feet into her beginning to be too small but too late in season to replace winter boots. Hoist her into her car seat in the back of her minivan. Stretch the seat straps over her well padded little self and curse under your breath until you successfully stuff the latch into its clasp. Pause to wipe the sweat from your brow. Now drive to the library, spring your preschooler from her carseat and shuffle her up to the front door. Tug on the door handle. Tug again. Notice the goldenrod sheet tacked to the door stating "Closed for Presidents' Day". Curse again, this time not under your breath. Listen to your preschooler repeat the new word she learned as you shuffle her back to her seat in her minivan. Trips to the ryebaby should always be educational. Accept with grace the horrified glances of the little old ladies who were nowhere to be seen a few minutes ago but are now within earshot of your dear one's new curse word. Vow never to read another Madeline adventure so long as you both shall live.

9. Play the special Mommy hide-and-seek game. Start by being in the same room with your preschooler. Now leave the room. Listen to her shout for you, “Mommy!” Reply with, “I’m here.” The game will proceed as follows:

Preschooler: Mommy!
You: I’m right here!
P: Mommy!
U: I said I’m here!
P: Mommy!
U: I’m in the bathroom!
P: Momma!
U: I’m on the toilet!
P: Momma! Momma! Mommy!
U: WHAT!?!?!
P: Mommy!
U:
P: Mommy!
U:
P: Mummy!
U:
P: Momma!

You can sustain this game as long as you wish. You must, however, be the one who terminates it, as your preschooler is preordained never to quit this one.

10. Put her down for a nap and crack open the 2006 Little Penguin Cabernet-Shiraz blend you've been saving for just such a special occasion. Ignore the fact that you can hear her chattering on the baby monitor. For an hour and a half.

I hope you have found one or more of these suggestions to be helpful. We will return to this subject again in the spring when a whole new set of outdoor entertainments will make themselves available for the enjoyment of you and your preschooler.

Happy Presidents' Day!

I Have Found My Peeps!

2007-02-14T12:03:00.000-05:00

Well, besides you all, blessed Sit Team.

http://www.birthdayswithoutpressure.com/

Rae, you cracks me up, you really do! "how to fill the weekends, when the daycare is actually closed (how dare they??)" Sounds like good matériel for another post.

Razzafrazzin Frazzarazzin

2007-02-12T14:40:00.000-05:00

I have been all over Kingdom Come and northeastern Massachusetts looking for DoraSplora party hats. Can I find any? Can I? Huh?

What do you think?

You know, there's a reason the Universe makes it difficult for some people to conceive children. People like, oh, let's say, me since I actually believe it's perfectly appropriate to plan a child's at-school birthday celebration the weekend before her birthday.

Apparently it's not. Apparently I should have signed up for the DoraSplora birthday party goods back before 2 Year Old was but a glint on her Reproductive Endocrinologist's catheter. As it is, she will simply have to make do with Dora napkins and Dora cake plates. It's all I can manage. There will be no party hats, no favor bags, no cheap Chinese plastic tchotchkes or teensy weensy bottles of bubbles, no balloons. In fact, there will be no birthday party to speak of for 2 Year Old. Chuck E. Cheese will have to squirt his purple frosting Happy Birthday message on the cakes of some other lucky preschoolers whose mothers are actually members of the secret Society for the Management of Modern Childhood Experiences.

Here's another complete shock to my system. People sign up toddlers for swimming lessons. Toddlers! Swimming lessons!!! What gives? Since when did learning to swim migrate from the domain of upper elementary grades to the swim diaper set?

Can somebody tell me where I can buy the map that shows how to get from here to Clued-In Parentland? I guess I was in the potty during that part of Prepared Childbirth class.

Since 2 Year Old will no longer be 2 years old as of 1:47 tomorrow afternoon, I am hereby changing her blog name to Jujube.

How Does It Know?

2007-02-12T14:39:00.000-05:00

Your Linguistic Profile:

55% General American English

30% Yankee

10% Upper Midwestern

0% Dixie

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Murderous Thoughts

2007-02-09T11:40:00.000-05:00

I fully understand the compulsion to harm a child. I felt it yesterday. Not my own child, mind you. Someone else's. Another person's great big fat hyperactive troublemaking monster boyshit whose idea of a good time is to run up behind all the little girls in his class at the Little Gym and give them a shove. Need I mention 2 Year Old was among the girls who received his attentions? It disturbed me on so many levels but not, of course, on the first real revelation that I am fully capable of intentionally harming another human being -- a child, no less -- and feeling nothing but glee about it.

No, what disturbed me was that the child got away with it. He managed this in the 37.6 milliseconds that all three instructors were otherwise engaged. Falling prey to the playground dictum that tattling is a worse offense than the behavior reported, not a single one of the half dozen mothers seated on the sidelines who witnessed the boyshit's behavior actually reported it to an authority in attendance, including Yours Truly.

Further disturbance to my psyche was caused by the complete lack of attention paid by boyshit's parental unit who was, at the time, seated in the lobby behind the picture window that separates it from the gymnasium. This activity did not occur in some hidden corner of the room but on the giant red floor mat directly in front of the window. The fact the woman didn't burst through the door and drag boyshit out of class might be explained by a different parenting style than mine. The lack of attention to boyshit's behavior once class was over may have been due to the mother's wish to address it in private. Perhaps she did not actually witness his shittiness. Or, heaven forbid, perhaps in boyshit's household, male on female violence is perfectly acceptable, in which case, the mother is not to be despised but, rather, pitied.

Most disturbing on an ongoing basis was the realization, upon seeing her slowly and gracefully dissolve into tears, that my baby has already, but five mere days from her third birthday, been ushered into the phase of life when my ability to protect her is being terminated. I began to think of all the boyshits that will shove her into coathooks in the hallway at school and push her down on the playground and whack her lunch tray out of her hand scattering her food hither-thither and leaving her hungry for the rest of the schoolday. I can't begin to bring myself to imagine what the girlshits will do to her. There is wickedness and cruelty a mother simply cannot bring to her mind while she contemplates her darling's future.

It is my job to teach her to protect herself within the bounds of what is reasonable, ethical, and fits within the dictates of the values we wish to instill in her. The trouble is, how does one reconcile that one's own values differ from the cultural norm to the extent that it will actually put one's own child in harm's way? Because, let's face it, if I teach 2 Year Old to stand up for herself, every bully with a whiff of narcissism or an ambition of meglomania will be able to smell her defiant determination to live as though civilization were fact rather than theory. In the moment, as I cuddled my stunned girl, I told her it was totally OK to go right up to the bully and say, "I don't like that. What you did wasn't nice. Don't do it again." Now, you know and I know I might as well have told her, "If someone hurts you, make sure they know exactly who you are and how badly you'll react to it so they will be sure to do it again and often."

I've been the sweet, innocent little blonde girl on the playground who thinks if she minds her own business the boyshits will leave her alone and the girlshits will want to be her friend. I'm living proof it doesn't work. After reading Amy Lane's experiences with students and parents and watching hockey Dads beat each other to death and witnessing repeatedly how the world really works, how do I instruct my daughter to deal with this shit? The thing is, I honestly don't know because I haven't yet figured out how to deal with this shit. It makes me homicidally angry at best and suicidally depressed at the other end of the spectrum.

Impromptu

2007-02-05T16:41:00.000-05:00

While knitting away on the V-neck pullover last evening in front of the telly and avoiding the Stupor Bore, Englishman and I happened upon a film by the same title as this blog entry starring a surprising ensemble cast that included Emma Thompson being impossibly twitty, Bernadette Peters and Mandy Patinkin being implausibly European, Julian Sands being infallibly wooden, and Hugh Grant being impeccably delicate and effete. The role of Frédéric Chopin was perfect for him. He starred opposite Judy Davis who played George Sand with all the grace of a rutting buck. It was a strange car crash of a film. We couldn't tear our eyes away. The casting director should have been severely reprimanded and probably only escaped being run off the Continent to Hollywood because of the absolute stroke of genius that stuck Hugh Grant in the role of his life. He really was too too tutu. I've never seen him in a better role. In fact, I've never seen him act before. He's usually cast as Hugh Grant. Do try to catch it sometime. It's one of the oddest things I have ever seen, although it did inspire me to run to the library during my lunch break today and pick up a recording of Chopin Impromptus. Or maybe it was Etudes.

Of course, I picked up a couple books and a few more CDs too. Looks like I've got a lot of sitting to do, team. You know where to find me.

Speaking of Chopin Impromptutus, Needle Tart has offered to give me piano lessons. Isn't that nice of her? I agreed, naturally, since the piano can be played while sitting down. We have yet to work out the distance learning arrangements nor have I offered anything in exchange for her services. Details, delightful details.

Groundhog Day Silent Poetry Reading

2007-02-02T16:30:00.000-05:00

Inspired by Roots Down by way of A Yarning To Write this is my favorite poem. I've always wanted to stencil the last two lines around the perimeter of my bedroom walls. Maybe one day I'll get up off the sofa and do it.

Choose Something Like a Star
by Robert Frost - 1947

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.

It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

Things Somebody Should Have Told Me Beforehand

2007-01-31T12:40:00.000-05:00

Did you know you have to wipe off your deoderant before getting a mammogram?

Had I known this beforehand, I could have brought to my appointment one stick from the 67-pack I bought last week at our Pseudo-Costco. (We live about one mile from a discount clubhouse called BJ's. No, no, no, it stands for Berkeley and Jensen. Sheesh! Get your minds out of the gutter!) But no, this is yet another thing Coach learns the hard way. Thank goodness there was a grocery store only one block from where I parked the Pontiac Stateship so I could make an emergency purchase. You see, I won't pay $1 per hour to park in the medical building's parking lot because I think that expense, on top of the insurance premiums and co-pays, falls soundly, trivial as it is, into the category of Insult To Injury. Not only that, it's all the enticement the Universe needs to ensure you sit in the waiting room for 55 minutes before you get your 10 in the exam room with the frazzled Highly Educated Medical Professional whose creativity and compassion have been transplanted by a codebook of protocols composed by some actuary whose case of Tinmanosis* is congenital. I mean really, why do we bother seeing a doctor at all? Some formulary has already decided what drug we can take anyway.

* lacking the cardiac organ

It just worked out to my good fortune this morning that my mingy nature saved me an extra stop at a drugstore on my way back to the office. If I'd blown the rare cash sitting in my wallet on parking at the medical building, I'd have been forced to retun to work au naturel, so to speak. We already have a situation of hygiene disparity in my cubicle row at work. Far be it from me to add to the fumes.

It seems that being cheap is one good way to outfox the Universe. Another good way to beat Murphy at his own game is to plan for a 55 minute wait by bringing an excellent book or your latest knitting project to your medical appointments. Sure as sugar, the minute you are engrossed or entangled you will be called in for your appointment. This technique also works to hurry along the Highly Educated Medical Professional after you're stripped down to your socks, shrouded in an iParty tablecloth, and perched with as little surface-to-surface contact as possible on the edge of the pre-chilled exam table.

But I run the dangerous risk of digressing from the point of this message into a complete wobbly on the American Medical System. So, for those of you who have never had a baseline mammogram, consider yourself warned to either book your appointment for the end of your workday or remember to bring along your sample-size Powder Fresh Secret from your travel toiletries.

Pronouncable Blogger Word Verification Of The Day: gpyma (j'-PEE-mah)

Hi There

2007-01-30T16:38:00.000-05:00

Anybody know a nice place for brunch in the Arlington-Winchester-Medford-Malden part of Massachusetts? Anybody? Anybody? Just wondering.

Lots of blogs seem to be languishing. People must be really busy these days. Either that or, like me, they have nothing much to say.

There was a nice surprise in my Inbox this morning at work. It seems the Director of my division here at my workplace has been engaged in a cross-discipline comparison of our salaries to the rest of the industry. Turns out I actually AM woefully underpaid. (Gosh! Who knew?) The company has decided to rectify the situation to the tune of a 5% increase effective February 1st. This is a mixed blessing. While it's nice to see more money on the electronic paystub after suffering the inordinate hassle of having to remember a secure login ID and password to get access to such delicate information (that is too precious to send in paper format through the mail but not too confidential to have employees display on their workplace monitors, apparently), it diminishes some of the complete and utter freedom I felt until this morning to whine and complain about how badly I am mistreated by the B-/C+ -caliber Doofuses that run my company. The afterglow of this little suprise announcement lasted exactly 6 hours. By 3 PM, I was being asked to do a stupid chore of little consequence that will eat into my deadline and offer me no direct benefit. I've been pretty peevish ever since. So goes life here at Busywork, Incorporated.

The FCB Saga Continues

2007-01-25T11:06:00.000-05:00

As if the stunted bag and too long handle aren't enough, the woeful Frigging Crap Bag has... are you ready? Wait for it...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

A TWISTED HANDLE.

I swear on my Grandmother's glass eyeball (if she had one), that handle was NOT twisted when I Kitchener stitched it to the raw edge on the stunted sack portion of FCB. I checked it half a dozen times. This is most certainly and totally the fault of my washing machine. If I weren't so generally disgusted with the whole abomination that is FCB I might be able to marvel at the singular talents of my 15 year old GE white good. I'm too crabby to be awestruck.

Don't you worry, Dent team (hey, isn't that a kind of gum?). I know exactly what action to take next. The Riesling is already on the chill, the Lion Brand Wool-Ease in Wheat and size 10 needles have already been dug out of the stash, and don't tell Classic Elite Yarns but their V-neck pullover from the Tweed 3 pattern book has already been selected as the next victim for abuse by

Your (ever-)loving,
Coach

It will look nothing like this when I am through with it.

Confessions Of A Lazy Knitter

2007-01-23T10:56:00.000-05:00

Friends, I may love to knit but I... I... (hiccup, sob) I'm just not that good at it! The Felted Grab Bag is done. It is being redubbed The Frigging Crap Bag. It looks like hell. Somehow I thought the felting process would magically fix the fact that the bag is not deep enough and the handle is too long. OK, OK, truth be told I did NOT use the yarn specified in the pattern. All right, yes, neither did I felt my swatch, as instructed, to test that whole process. Yeah, yeah, I stopped knitting the bag part even though I had a whole 2 skeins left and my instinct was screaming at me like the shrew she is, "Keep knitting. Keep knitting, you moron!!!" But I was getting bored and, after all, it's just a bag. Big whoop. It'll all work out just fine in the end. After all, I am an experienced knitter. The yarn and my washing machine must surely know this and respond accordingly.

Oh! how the mighty ego falleth. Five-point-one on the Richter scale. Did your dishes rattle? That was my pride you heard shattering. It's OK, friends. I've swept up the biggest pieces. Think I'll carry them around in the Frigging Crap Bag where they can whack my knees while I walk; a crafter's version of the Hair Shirt. "Ego indignus! Ego indignus!"

Maybe I should just stick with reading for a while. Yeah, that's the best idea for the sort of person who's too lazy to felt swatches like she shou... Ooo! Look what's in the new VK Winter 2007. I've simply GOTTA try one of Meg Swansen's Scandinavian Two-End Knitting caps. Well, whaddaya know? Here's a skein and a half of celery green Donegal Tweed. That would make a pretty cap. It would match my frigging crappy bag! I'll just use these here dpns poking through the three UFOs composting in my knitting basket. They look about the right size for this weight yarn. It'll all work out just fine. After all, I am an ...

Disclaimer: I cannot guarantee the Latin quotation shown above actually translates to "I'm not worthy" since my knowledge of the classic language has been obtained in the usual modern way: by singing Masses in choruses, by watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and by searching for "Latin - English dictionary" on Google.

Everybody Sing!

2007-01-18T10:41:00.000-05:00

Old McDonald had a bun, e-i-e-i-o,
And on that bun he had some beef, e-i-e-i-o,
With a french fry here,
And a juice box there.
Here a fry, there a toy,
Everywhere a happy meal.
Old McDonald hooked my kid, e-i-e-i-o!

Where Have I Been?

2007-01-17T23:10:00.000-05:00

Well, for starters, not blogging.

Working, mostly. There's enough to do at the office that I can't actually steal any time from my employer to write this blog. I must be satisfied with swiping Bics and one by one-and-a-half inch PostIt pads instead.

Cooking again. Sadly, Christmas is now so thoroughly passed into history, there aren't any leftovers anymore. Cooking means grocery shopping. Grocery shopping means list making. List making means recipe hunting. It's a lot to do for someone as lazy as I am.

Knitting sloooooooooowly. I'm using up some lovely celery green Donegal Tweed to make the Felted Sack on page 35 of Vogue Knitting's Bags & Backpacks. I'm on the strap now. It's wicked boring and easy to leave wadded up in a scratchy bunch on top of all the other UFOs in my sofa-side basket.

Keeping warm. Or trying to, anyway. This morning I thought our little indoor/outdoor thermometer was broken. It said 8 and 63. This did not compute. My brain registered "broken". Then I realized I was seeing the outdoor temperature and the family room temperature one hour after our digital thermostat switched to the "Wake" setting. Not broken; just br. It's been so long, I forgot it was even possible for the outdoor air temperature to be a single digit. Not even 2 weeks ago, it was 69 degrees on our deck. So I guess that means no one here can complain. (Someone should tell us that, though.) I'm talking Fahrenheit, folks so don't you Celsius people be goin' "Eight degrees? What's she whining about?"

Watching TV. Too much. Heeeelp! Pleeeeeeease! Someone come wrest the remote control from my chilblained, frostbitten, frozen-rigid hand. Or at least change the damn channel for me.

Happy New Your Hair

2007-01-03T10:06:00.000-05:00

I told you I'd let you know when I flunked all my resolutions and voila, the first failure is here! As promised, it is:

5. Take all medications religiously, on schedule, and at proper doses.

I still can't find the perfect pill sorter. Oh, excuses, excuses! But really, there is no such thing as a storage box with 4 daily compartments: 1 for breakfast time, 1 for lunchtime, 1 for dinnertime and 1 for bedtime. The ones I've seen only have three (because who's ever heard of having to take medication with food? Freak!). And to find one that's child-safe? Impossible!

The title of this post? Why, the timely greeting you get from 2 Year Old this holiday season, of course. Speaking of 2 Year Old's exclamations, as I was attempting to stuff her winter-coated body into her car seat this morning without doing any injury to her or myself, she treated me to an "Oh, Christ!" complete with the exact same inflection as Englishman but without the accompanying Mid-Atlantic accent. I can definitely blame him for this one because my language is far more foul and more of the bodliy function variety than the relgious fervor type. At the time I was thinking "Oh ship!". (Substitute appropriate consonant as necessary)

Please note, I have successfully managed to add a BIP list to the sidebar of this page. I write that so cavalierly, trusting that what I saw in the preview on my Blogger template page will exactly match what actually appears once I publish this post (note the title of the BIP to uncover the source of this unexpected look on the sunny side from your Coach). Goddess be praised for the miracle of html.

Resolutions

2006-12-28T14:53:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again. Time to draw up that ultimate mother-in-law of all lists. (Why mother-in-law? Well, can you imagine anyone whose ritual appearance you dread more?) I do this not to punish you but to enlist your help in holding my feet to the coals. So without further ado, I hereby resolve to do the following in twenty aught seven:

1. Exercise
2. Floss

Now we've got the obligatory, obvious, hard-coded items out of the way we can get a little more interesting.

3. Remember those elevated triglycerides and cholesterol numbers? No, Coach, that's supposed to be a declarative statement. Remember them. Take them into consideration when planning meals and overbooking sedentary activities atop the "Excercise!!!" appointment in your Outlook calendar. Remember and reduce those bad boys.

4. Resume contact with the people who have fallen like so many crushed Cheerios into the sofa cushions of personal history.

5. Take all medications religiously, on schedule, and at proper doses. (I'm telling you right now team, this one will be the first to go.)

((But it gives me an excuse to go out and buy one of those ginormous pill sorter things on the rack next to the pharmacy pick-up counter at CVS that look like they'd kill you if one fell off the rack and hit your head, they're so big.))

(((In fact, I'm determined to see if I can find one that can handle the complication of meds and vitamins on my Supposed To regimen. I'm telling you right now, I sincerely doubt such a carbuncle of plastic compartments exists anywhere in the known universe.)))

6. Stop buying books!!! In fact, I think I shall swap books for yarn in the rules outlined for Knit From Your Stash 2007. Since there's no such thing as sock books (except for the kind you stick down inside one should you need to swing something at a masked intruder to knock him out, as demonstrated in many cartoons and Home Alone films), in rule 2.a. I shall substitute Amy Lane's books.

((Disclaimer -- I am not actually aware of any Home Alone films in which a weighted sock was swung at a masked intruder's head but it just seems like the sort of gag they'd do.))

Come to think of it, it's not like you need to buy more books to finish reading a book you've already started so rule 2.c. shall be revised as follows:

2.c. If we are on vacation or otherwise away from home for at least 24 hours and run out of something to read, we may purchase enough books to complete our travels.

7. Keep a running, updated list of knitting WIPs and reading BIPs right on this here page which means figuring out the html necessary to make such lists possible. (Are you listening Coach? This means you!)

8. Do something that will move me one step closer to changing my career from one I can barely tolerate to something that floats my boat so well, it lifts all the other little boats in my harbor. If nobody's happy when Mama ain't happy, does it therefore follow that everybody's happy when Mama is? Let's try and find out, shall we?

*****

There they are. For now, anyway. My resolutions. I'll let you know when I've broken all of them. hee hee hee!!!

Only 364 Shopping Days Left...

2006-12-26T10:48:00.000-05:00

It's the day after. 2 Year Old is off at preschool even though Coach and the Englishman have the day off work. Hey, it's paid for already. Know what I mean? Englishman is watching two separate soccer games -- one on the laptop, the other on Fox Soccer Channel -- and pretending to be useful by supergluing broken toys. "Does this need gluing? How about this?" The pine needles and cookie crumbs have been vacuumed up, last languishing crystal goblets scrubbed of their wine rings and finger smudges, gift books stowed or stacked in appropriate shelves or piles. Yes folks, the post-Christmas funk has officially set in. I was tempted after dropping off 2 Year Old this morning to swing by Whole Foods on my way home to pick up that blue cheese I forgot to buy before Christmas and maybe some nice smelling hand lotion to lift my spirits. Can't whip up the enthusiasm to treat myself. This is, without a doubt, the roughest day of the year. Never fear. Your coach will be back in form soon. Probably tomorrow. Let's be optimistic. The day after Christmas calls for a good dose of the stuff.

That and some cod liver oil.

Eventful Blog Entries

2006-12-20T15:30:00.000-05:00

Hello Team. Today I learned on my daily blog perusal about two upcoming events of some interest to your coach. The first is Global Orgasm Day. The second is Knit From Your Stash 2007. I'm not going to tell you which of these I find more compelling. I don't want you to get any ideas about me (as if mentioning these two events in the same paragraph doesn't already do that). What I will tell you is that the former takes place on December 22, 2006 and the latter every day between January 1 and September 30, 2007 which means the two are neither simultaneous nor mutually exclusive, though I rather imagine any discussion combining orgasming and knitting should carry a warning that the two activities are best enjoyed separately for the welfare of all involved.

I have made no firm commitments to participating in one of these two events. The other is a done deal. Come hell, high water, pestilence, or plague I WILL be... And here I shall leave your own fertile imaginations to complete this sentence.

Go forth and do ye the same. Wahoo!!!

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town

2006-12-13T22:09:00.000-05:00

Like all good Germanic folk, my family opened gifts on Christmas Eve. My parents had a particularly crafty way of getting the Santa booty under the tree that was pure magic for those of us who believed there was an old fat guy floating around the world on a sky sleigh one frigid winter night each year. They would bundle my brother, my sister and me into our winter coats and hustle us into the back of the Oldsmobile while one of them dragged the wrapped presents from goodness only knows what hiding place. To our receptive, innocent minds it was clear that Santa somehow always knew exactly when we were off to tour the Christmas light displays in our town.

One street was particularly impressive since it was a cul-de-sac (already it posessed some sort of caché for weirdly not leading anywhere). The residents had this extraordinarily neighborly practice of getting together and planning a collective lighting display. Each yard contained a painted sign and diorama which, when read and viewed sequentially, told a Christmas story (not necessarily THE Christmas story). It was simple for our parents. All they had to do was drive ALL THE WAY across our population 15,000 town to the north side, then drive slowly enough for one or the other of them to recite to us whatever was painted on the boards. There were years we had to beg for this to happen. Amazing, huh? It probably took, what, five minutes to drive from 14th Street Southeast to Weird And Wonderful Circle Northwest? The truly amazing thing to me now is that the piped Christmas music was loud enough to be heard through whatever sort of cast iron or carbon steel or hand forged titanium or whatnot from which the body a late 1960's Oldsmobile was constructed.

This was all wonderful and amazing enough to still impress me 35 years on but it barely touches the most miraculous Christmas Eve ever. My sister and I were in the bathtub. I don't remember my brother being there but he must have been because I was somewhere near the age of 5. Possibly 6. Definitely not 3 because that was the year brother was an infant and barfed all over the mink collar on Mom's wicked hip Jackie Kennedy-style winter coat during our Christmas light odyssey. Definitely not 4 either because that was the year Mom had walking pneumonia and we opened our presents Christmas morning; no light tour necessary.

Anyway, sis and I are in the bath. Mom is hunched over the side of the tub scrubbing one of us. Dad is standing in the doorway of the bathroom when we all hear a mighty CRASH! It was one hell of a mad scramble to get 3 wee ones dried and dressed in jammies before we could dash into the living room to find that Santa had made his annual visit right under our very noses. Actually, it's possible this happened when I was 7 because I seem to recall there being bicycles under the tree for me and my sister.

There is wonder-filled little girl still inside me who resolutely believes in Santa Claus. I know I'll be peering skyward in 11 days' time, just to see. Just in case.

Jury Doody

2006-12-12T11:22:00.000-05:00

During the sum total of 17 years' residence in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I have been served with five summons for jury duty. That's right. Once every 3.4 years, someone in the Massachusetts Office of Jury Commissioner gets a Microsoft Outlook reminder to mail Coach Susan a summons. It comes every 3.4 years just to ensure that I can't invoke the "Nope, I've served within the last 3 years" escape clause. (Well, once I got to do that but they fixed up their reminder recurrence so they'll never make that mistake again, by golly!)

But I possess an escape clause that is rock solid, so long as a female judge is seated on the bench. I have much less faith in a male judge finding any sympathy for the situation. It's called The Crohn's Disease Plea. During the selection process when the judge asks whether anyone has any physical disabilities or limitations that might impede one's ability to serve (she's thinking things like: can't hear the exact degree of pompitude in the defense attorney's tone or can't see the accused murderer "struggle" to pull on a shrunken blood-soaked leather glove) you just wave your little white juror number card at her. Eventually, when the Court Officer nudges you awake because you're four hours into the impanelment proceedings and it's time for you, number 23, to have a private little tête-à-tête with the judge, 2 court reporters, 2 clerks of court, and 4 representing attorneys, you tell her "I need to go potty urgently and sometimes frequently." When she asks you how you've managed to endure the morning's grueling test to prove your fitness for the extreme boredom that qualifies you to serve as a juror, you inform her you haven't eaten in more than 16 hours. Have you ever heard a Personal Injury Attorney gasp? I have. It's precious. Not even Santa himself could have produced a better Christmas present.

OK, yeah, yeah, civic duty, only mandatory selective service we perform anymore, yada, yada, yada. The problem is this: to be an effective juror, you must possess the ability to remain unbiased and unopinionated and non-judgemental (three terms which have never been correctly used to describe your coach) despite the fact that you are staring in the face of the sort of parasites who sue poor, well-meaning, unsuspecting doctors for medical malpractice to benefit themselves, er... ahem, the "estate" of a deceased Old Guy who possessed the good judgement to check himself out within mere days of receiving aforementioned doctors' attentions.

Truthfully, the tiny little bit of information we were given in the overview of the case was hardly enough to determine whether an undiagnosed fractured vertebra caused the Old Guy's untimely demise but this particular granddaughter of a morphine-saturated 91 year old woman who has suffered multiple compression fractures of several vertebrae found it instantly implausible. I just felt sorry for the doctors. This does not an impartial juror make.

Plus, I had the Crohn's Disease Plea to test. Now that I know it has precedence, I shall cop it again in 3.4 years. Take that, Office of the Jury Commissioner and your dastardly Outlook Recurring Reminder!

And Another Thing

2006-12-04T14:41:00.000-05:00

What kind of Universe is it that sees fit to put pimples and chin whiskers together on the same face?

Yeah, I know. This one.

I... uuuuhhhh... Forgot

2006-12-01T13:54:00.000-05:00

I get ideas for this blog every morning while I'm in the bathroom smearing unguents, spraying potions, swallowing fists full of enteric-coated nutritional supplements plus the odd prescription drug because ideas, ipso facto, are most prolific when one is least able to act upon them. For instance, I have advocated many times for better pay, better working conditions, more respect and less workplace responsibility. In the shower. Nowhere near anyone who might be able to do a blessed thing to satisfy my demands. Why is it the brain drops little reminder bombs to buy Grandma a Christmas present this year while you are attempting to keep a Pontiac StateShip on all four wheels steering around renegade trash cans the Waste Management people fling into the middle of the road after emptying them?

So, I meant to write an expository essay this morning about which, for the love of Pete, I cannot even restore the hint of a gist of a feeling, let alone the subject matter itself. Sometimes, it's possible to recreate one's thoughts by placing oneself mentally back into the location and mood in which they originally occurred. The closest I can get to that today is remembering that I was actually staring at an open medicine cabinet. I must have been completely put off by the embedded chin whisker that stubbornly would... not... budge... from its little hidey-hole, no matter how doggedly I dug at it with my tweezers. Or perhaps it was the frustration that is mounting to the level of rage about my inability to put anything away on the shelves of the medicine cabinet and have it stay there. The second I set it down it leaps right back off the shelf and knocks over whatever toothpaste tube or paper cup it can detect with its Knock Crap On The Floor radar. Seriously, I take down the bottle of ZitZapXtraStrength, smear some on my face, recap the bottle, put it back on the shelf. Whammo! ZitZapKamikaze bounces off the vanity and flies into the sink. Next, the bottles of peppermint oil capsules, fish oil capsules, and Vitamin C tablets each take their turns in my hand then push off from the glass shelf and execute swan dive-bombs for 2 Year Old's Orajel toothpaste tube, with Vitamin C Bottle finally succeeding in knocking it on the floor where it spins like a bad memory from some long ago party game. Dove anti-perspirant rattles the cup full of toothbrushes. Disposable Contacts -- oh, let me just sing the praises of the box of disposable contacts! They don't even wait for their placement back on the shelf. They fling themselves from my hand into a bag of trash bags stacked perilously atop another bag of bags, littering wadded-up Market Basket-emblazoned #2 plastic sheeting over half the room. Now, that's just mean. Could they have landed in a clear spot on the floor? No. Huh-uh. They must choose the six inch space between vanity and wall, mounded with Costco-sized packages of bog roll and paper cups and the aforementioned trash-née-grocery bags.

Therefore, I come to you today with no news of which to write. Nothing new on the knitting front, except to say that I am on cap 8 which correlates to the Sand Stitch in Blue Barbara Walker. I have baked no Christmas cookies yet. The decorations are still in the attic. The cow manure is still in its plastic bag instead of cozily blanketing the heirloom rhubarb in my garden. The caramels made last weekend for Dad's Christmas present are still sitting in their pan, waiting to be cut and stowed neatly into a wrap-able and ship-worthy tin or box.

Did anyone see "The Office" last night? Bloody brilliant. Written by Gervais and Merchant themselves, their style shone through in the utter cringe-inducing quality of the episode. You can tell they've had a hand in it when you have to ask yourself, "Was that funny or so true I need to weep?" I love that show.

The Things You Learn On The Internet

2006-11-29T12:08:00.000-05:00

Every blog I've checked out today instead of doing my work has been like reading personal messages from the Universe to me (egocentric much?). First there was the learn-to-talk-about-sex sermon from Eric Francis (oh geez). Then the Mt. St. Asshat Parable from Tales from the Den of Chaos (blush). And finally, the Why You Suck As A Friend lesson from Just Muttering By Myself. I'm writing this post now because if I don't, I'll have to slide under my desk and start sucking my thumb. Funny thing about asking the Universe to assist you in your quest to become a Better Person. It usually does.

Try this idea on for size. Since sometime within the year after 2 Year Old was born, I have been suffering with itchy, scaly eczema on my neck and throat. Being a New Agey nutjob who ascribes to the "My Body Is Trying To Tell Me Something" school, I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out this supposed message from my smarter-than-my-brain skin.

Too thin skinned? Well, yes, but what's that got to do with my throat?

Spend more time writing because if you don't, you're silencing your voice (voice -- hint, hint)? Well, OK, but other body parts (gut) are saying that's not quite it. (My goodness, what an opinionated body you have, Coach).

OK, let's see. What's astrology got to say about this? Throats are the domain of Taurus so what's going on with the planets and Taurus house in my natal chart... Nope. Big fat blank space there.

OK, so... what, what, what...

What, the Voice thing again? Well, sure, I've had a hoarse voice for the past month because of a virus that just won't seem to go away. Makes it kinda hard to sing along with "Howjadoo" and "Are You Sleeping, Brother John?" while entertaining 2 Year Old in the car.

Hey. Wait a minute. Hard to sing along... Sing...

Hel-LO!!! You're not SINGING anymore. You LOVE to SING (almost as much as you love to SHOUT). Why aren't you singing?

Why, indeed. I used to sing with an amateur chorus in the Boston/Cambridge area called The Spectrum Singers. Before that, I sang in my college chorus, even landing a solo part in Beethoven's Mass in C. My dorm-mates knew me as the girl who sang along with her Phil Collins records at the top of her lungs (hey, that was a long time ago so quit raggin' on my juvenile musical tastes and anyway I bet you still have Duran Duran in your record collection). My whole High School career happened the choir room. I took part in state music competitions and still have all the little gold Wisconsin-shaped medals (yep, gold only -- not even one solitary silver one in the bunch) awarded for each piece performed.

Here's the thing: I don't want to go back to weekly rehearsals after work in the city where there's no place to park. Nor do I miss the extra 2 rehearsals thrown in the week before each of three performances a year. Then there's having to sell $45 tickets to friends who don't really like classical music, especially the choral stuff. I think I need to branch out. And not to karaoke. So what are the options for a suburb-bound working mom with one or two other things on her plate? If you think of anything, let me know. Talk loudly, though, so I can hear you over my singing.

"I can feel it comin' in the air tonight..."

Oh, For Cryin' Out Loud!

2006-11-28T15:42:00.000-05:00

Just got the call from the Primary Care Physician's clerk. Apparently my bad cholesterol and triglycerides are slightly elevated to which I must reply,

"Then why the good goddam am I eating 4 vegetarian and 2 fish meals per week? Don't you people know how much work that is?? What is the POINT in working that hard if it ain't gonna do any good???"

Think I'll go sulk tonight with the bucket-o-meatballs I made for 2 Year Old. Sorry sweetie, Mommy's pouting so you can't have these here globules of baked beefy-turkey greasy goodness. Here, have a slab of tofu to play with. If Mommy can't clean out her arteries with the danged stuff she may as well clean it out of some crevice in the family room furniture. Maybe it'll do the sofa more good than it did for Mommy.

Why do I bother?

Mission Misunderaccomplished

2006-11-25T14:48:00.000-05:00

Though it was probably a mere blip on the national news, the explosion of a chemical plant in Danvers, Massachusetts the day before Thanksgiving has chewed up our local headlines and television newscasts; understandably so. People have been injured, made homeless, and lost employment due to the wee-small-hours event on Wednesday morning. Later that same morning, I heard a story that traveled in the usual manner of oral histories through the cousin of a friend of a coworker and it left me shaking my head. As in most households in the towns abutting Danvers, a little boy and his family were literally shaken from their beds in the middle of the night by the first and greatest explosion. Next they experienced a series of aftershock-like blasts as the inferno raged through the plant. At each explosion, the 5-year-old lad was so terrified that he fainted. According to the storyteller, this little fellow was certain The Terrorists had come to murder him in his bed.

I can't help but make the obvious connection between this little boy's experience and our War On Terror. Think about this: for the child's entire life, we have been at war against terror. His paranoia was inherited as a birthright. He was swaddled in the stuff, as was every child born since the autumn of 2001. His story makes the case that by labeling the war as a fight against a basic human emotion, we have only succeeded in inflating said emotion. It begs the question, "What are we thinking?"

Or perhaps it begs the question, "Why are we thinking?" Can Intelligence (and by that I mean both the act of thinking and the official spying of warfare) do battle with emotion and come out the victor? Personally, I'm not buying it. I've seen too much evidence to the contrary. Terror itself can never be defeated but it is our obligation as moral, responsible, and, yes, feeling adults to seek to mitigate it. From what I've seen, declaring war against it not only fails to make it disappear from the face of the earth, it actually inflates the problem by placing it front and center in the minds of the citizenry, including our children.

Probably I've let the job of motherhood get to me. Accuse me of thinking with my heart instead of my brain on this one but frankly, I think the world could do with a few more people with Hearts For Brains. Especially amongst those in positons of power and leadership.

Bluebabies

2006-11-14T21:27:00.000-05:00

2 Year Old has this adorable habit of saying "baby" instead of "berry" which means blueberries are bluebabies, strawberries are strawbabies, and libraries are ryebabies. Naturally.

Here are my Caps To The Capital donations, to date. Obviously, I have started knitting with my box of blue scraps. The criteria for picking colors has nothing to do with the traditional blue or pink for baby boys or girls and everything to do with which storage box lid won't close due to exploding stash. Swear to Goddess, those yarn scraps are making babies themselves. In which case, I'd better start knitting some gift caps for them too. Or is that too incestuous? Too cannibalistic?

Oh, and just to illustrate how extremely qualified I am with my total anal retentiveness to coach a team sport dedicated to said nether region, each cap is being knit with patterns selected sequentially from Barbara Walker's A Treasury of Knitting Patterns (the first in the series, of course). I firmly believe I shall be able to stave off arthritis long enough to knit my way straight through all four of Ms. Walker's treasuries. Hey, she did it, right? Why can't I? This little cap project is the perfect excuse to start my journey. Please do NOT attempt to set me straight with a well thought-out, impressively reasoned, suitably coherent comment. I will de-bench you for insolence. Don't think I won't! And anyone who dares remind me of my decade old declaration to read every Dickens novel sequentially (which floundered eight years ago after the laborious completion of The Old Curiosity Shop) will be suspended until next season.

I have not forgotten my promise to publish a photo of the completed Goldfish sweater. Here it is. Mighty cute, huh? The hated knotting and darning is all but forgotten. It was worth the effort.

Knitting For Myself

2006-11-10T12:05:00.000-05:00

I found a new project that's really floating my boat, team. Crawl into your favorite dent, pull up a tall stemmed one, crack open that bag/box/steamer trunk full of scrap yarns and get to work on one or a bunch of these:
Caps To The Capital

I'll post pictures of my finished cap and CIP later. At the moment I'm too gung-ho to wait for all the supporting documentation before spreading the joy around my little corner of the blogosphere. Cap knitting sure beats blocking so you won't be hearing or seeing much in the way of progress on the VK #11 until well after Christmas.

A word to the knit-wise: the instructions provided by Save The Children have you knitting a flat piece then seaming it. I hate sewing seams almost as much as I hate blocking (I consider-er-er-er myself-elf-elf-elf...) so I've been knitting mine in the round on dpn's. In addition, their instructions have you change needle size from the ribbed band to the stockinette crown. Don't bother. It makes a poochy little Rastafarian looking cap. If the concern is being able to keep the cap on a weensy head, it's probably better to just work with one needle size and rib the whole thing. My 2 cents, but isn't that what you expect from your coach?

Getcher butts in gear. I want progress reports. I want to see the numbers on that Per State Participation map (click on the Interactive Map at Caps To The Capital) swelling by the minute! OK, hour. I'll give you some time to produce.

And So To Block

2006-11-07T23:13:00.000-05:00

I have arrived at that most dreaded point in the knitting process: the repre-hensible "Block sweater to measure-ments" instruction. Here's a picture of VK Fall 2005 #11 as it exists now and undoubtedly will for many, many more months to come.

If you're unfamiliar with the pattern, the sample sweater was knitted in a flame red bulky wool with a pumpkin orange carrying yarn of kid mohair. Mine is much less striking but I have had the bulky cream wool in stash for a long time and have started and frogged three different sweaters with it. This one seems destined to stay knitted. I sort of like it. Until I put it on, that is. That's always when the lovelight fades. I never like them once they're on. Some day I'll learn that big poufy pullovers sporting chunky cables knit with bulky wool rarely flatter boobs and bulges. Oh but that honeymoon phase while they're being knitted is so sweet! So I keep falling for them again and again and again. One of these days, I'll knit a sweater that makes me look tall, thin and twenty-two. Really. It's going to happen. I know it will.

Are You Sitting Down?

2006-11-06T10:44:00.000-05:00

As you have probably surmised based on the links at the side of this page, I am an armchair astrologer. Last week brought me a message from the cosmos that is almost eerily textbook. Mercury (the communication planet) was retrograde (bringing messages from the past) in my 5th house (of children, love affairs, and fun) of Scorpio (that malevolent secretive bastard). Are you sitting down? Because, really, this is almost spooky.

The following is annotated with the associated astrology:
Unless you're avid readers of O Magazine and saw my letter to the editor in the March 2004 issue, most of you do not know that 2 Year Old was conceived via in-vitro fertilization. On Wednesday last week I got a bill in the mail (Mercury) from the fertility clinic for crygogenic preservation. Turns out the May 2003 (retrograde) procedure that produced 2 Year Old also produced 3 embryos (5th house) that have been shivering in deep freeze unbeknownst to me because no one bothered (malevolent secretive bastards) to tell me about it.

Nice huh? Just open your mailbox one day, all unsuspecting like, and find out your days of baby-making are, contrary to the accumulation of grey hair, wrinkles and drooping menopot, not at all over. Well, I got hysterical naturally. Wouldn't you?

I have options. Of course I have options! Three of them!

Option The First is to thaw them and dump them. Probably in Boston Harbor, right? Because where else does all the medical waste end up (yeah, yeah, I know, the Jersey shore but it has to start from somewhere).

Option The Second is to donate them to science. In fact, this particular clinic donates to a research project at Harvard which means I could honestly tell people that three of my kids went to an ivy league school. And it didn't cost me a penny!

Option The Third is to thaw them and implant them.

As long as we're so close to election day, let's add another question to the ballot. What should Coach do with her three ice lollies? Use 'em or loose 'em? Harvard the fast, sure and cost-free way or Harvard the long, slow, painful, expensive, against-the odds, only slightly potential but infinitely more entertaining way?

Disclaimer: Lest my husband think he is cut out of the decision loop, I must inform you that none of your votes count for anything because his and mine are the only ones that matter; therefore, this referendum is non-binding. He is probably horrified that I have gone semi-public with what was so recently a source of major anguish for me and for him as well. Because he is himself a Scorpio and is adept at the sign's more sympathetic sensitive side, he will be feeling all of this very deeply. Since he is both a Scorpio and British, he would likely prefer to keep his private personal business exactly that. Private. Secret, in fact. But not, of course, in any way that might be construed as malevolent or bastardly.

I've Got The Blogging Blues

2006-11-01T12:35:00.000-05:00

Blogger's remorse? Post-publish depression? The more I surf and read others' blogs, the more I wonder why I am doing this. There are some damned clever and funny people out there. People who write better than I, knit better than I, hell, they probably even sit better than I do. How much can a person write about sitting and still expect the occasional cousin to log in and read about it?

Ah, well. I shall sit and ponder this another time.

Actually, this is just the latest variation on the classic What Do I Want To Be When I Grow Up obsession. It's navel-gazing at its most tiresome and egotistical. Man, do I wish I could say something like "I've always wanted to save the Piping Plover" or "I feel it's my mission to spread literacy to children in the farthest reaches of jungle and savanna" but truthfully, I really just want to make some kind of measurable mark on the world; to leave a piece of myself behind in some creative, beautiful and inspiring way. Shame I wasn't born a genius. It sucks to be so full of one's untalented self.

And it sucks even more to read about it so we'll wrap up this subject right now.

2 Year Old had a full-on stereotypical toddleresque tantrum this morning when I denied her a Skittles and Tootsie Roll breakfast. I mean, she was on her belly on the floor, kicking her feet and pounding the vinyl with her little fists. It was way cute, actually, because I could see it coming. She was quite sleepy as I carried her downstairs but she perked right up the minute we hit the kitchen. I knew instantly that she was searching for her pumpkin bucket full of last night's Halloween spoils. Her little face arranged itself into an expression of aren't I the absolute picture of perfect prissy sweetness. If her language skills were suitably advanced I could just imagine her saying, "Oh dearest mother, would you be so kind as to allow me to have some candy please for my breakfast? It would be simply too wonderful of you and I would be ever so grateful!"

What she actually managed to say was "Where is it?" She knew I knew what she meant. We've got that mom-kid thang goin' on. What she doesn't yet understand is the level of deception to which I am willing to sink for her health and welfare. I pretended not to understand what she was looking for.

"I'll put Dora on," I said. That usually does the trick. Tidal wave of moodiness threatening to swamp the household? Play a Dora The Explorer DVD. Hyperactivity in danger of canceling nap? Queue up Dora from the cable On Demand menu. Asking a question that begs not to be answered? Drag out the book Dora's Backpack and pretend it's just as exciting to read for the 724th time as it was the first.

None of that will work today, Mommy. Not with the strange and wonderous new knowledge that when I dress up like a bunny and knock on neighbors' doors, they give me a whole lot more candy than you and Daddy let me eat in one sitting. Somewhere, oh! somewhere if I were only tall enough to see, there's an orange plastic pumpkin fully loaded with partially hydrogenated high fructose cavity precursors. If I act really, reeeeally sweet Mommy will believe I actually need more sugar to stay this way. Surely, she'll fall for this, won't she? I mean, she keeps falling for the just one more book before bed routine, doesn't she? (Not very bright, this Mommy lady, bless her.)

So, full-blown In Case You've Forgotten, I'm Two tantrum this morning. Sooooo cute. Almost as cute as this:

Loosy Goosy Petsy Peevy

2006-10-30T16:38:00.000-05:00

Am I loosing my mind or has it been loost for a long time now?

Why has the spelling ell-double oh-ess-ee replaced the word "lose" in nearly every electronic missive I read? How long has this been evolving? Did this pervasive new spelling originate, as I suspect, back in the pre-Google, pre-Yahoo Dark Ages of usenet lists or is it more recent? How has it spread so successfully? I don't think it's caused by laziness because it involves typing an extra letter. I mean, you'd think being great ones for lopping off extraneous letters from Olde Englische Colourful spellings we'd have changed loose into lose instead of the other way round. When people post messages that they're "loosing it" I think eeewww, gross! Y'know, you can buy disposable underpants for grownups to disguise that problem. Here's a coupon:
http://www.depend.com/offers/coupon.asp

Glad to help in any little way I can.

Perhaps the explanation for this spelling shift is right in front of my eyes. Google? Yahoo? Clearly people are so accustomed to typing two consecutive o's it happens automatically and it's not picked up by spell check. Yeah, that must be it. I'll just keep telling that to myself until I believe it.

Of Tucheem And Other Non-Sequiturs

2006-10-26T16:02:00.000-04:00

What is it about cats that attracts them to the most snag- or puncture-worthy surfaces in the house, especially when they’re feeling all knead-the-paws-with-claws-out-cuz-I-lurrrrrrrrrv-you-so-much affectionate? They are aces at playing the Sesame Street game One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others (Because It’s New). Lay on the old, pre-snagged, cat-hairy afghan? Pour quoi, when there’s a freshly knitted sweater near to paw. Sharpen claws on the old graying carpet on the stairs? Mais non! There’s a brand new area rug that needs to be taught how to shed fibers.

My cat has perpetual midlife crisis. As soon as her favorite cuddle gets a little shabby and a few bald patches, it’s time to get a divorce and move on to a new main squeeze. At the moment our house contains a wealth of new kitty boyfriend material (photos coming soon to a blog near you): recently finished goldfish sweater, just started Vogue Knitting Fall 2005 pattern #11 bulky cable pullover, new leather sofa, new area rugs in the living room and front entry stall.

Yes, stall. Trying to get into my house through the front door is a bit like squeezing into that one in public restrooms that’s been shrunk several inches to accommodate the luxuriously appointed handicapped potty suite right next door. You can’t figure out how to shut the door without standing on or rubbing up against something you’d rather not.

In other news, we have just bid farewell to my parents who drove for two long days from their house to ours to drop off their old and our new Pontiac Montana van. A more aptly named vehicle would be hard to find. The thing’s as huge as its namesake Big Square(-ish) State. Even 2 Year Old will find it a challenge to hide the floor under her customary sand and cracker crumb coating. We’ll have to get a Massachusetts license plate for the front and a New Hampshire license plate for the rear. Oh, just kidding. It’s technically a minivan but to a veteran Mazda 323/Protégé driver, it seems almost big enough to paint Orange Yellow and hang a swinging stop sign out the driver’s side window; an idea dangerous to suggest to power-starved control freaks like yours truly. I love the idea of terrorizing the Dunkin Donut coffee-charged Massholes careening down I-93, zipping in and out of overpopulated lanes of traffic with impunity. I’m picturing switching on the flashing red lights, whipping out the mini stop sign, and watching them tumble bumper over teakettle as they slam on their brakes. Yeah, right. As if they’d actually stop for something like a school bus (sigh). A girl can daydream, though.

As for the title of this post, I am reliably informed that the plural of tuckus, also spelled tuches, might more accurately be tucheem. I guess that means I can refer to you denters affectionately as my Tucheem Team.

2 Year Old

2006-10-21T13:15:00.000-04:00

Sporting the "Pineapple Top" and looking suitably edible, if a mother's permitted to say so.

Click on "Comments" to coo.

Flopping Drills

2006-10-19T15:07:00.000-04:00

Today, team, we’ll be practicing flopping into into the seated position. A properly executed flop will have you completely airborne. It doesn’t matter how long you are airborne. Neither does your form matter. Judges don’t deduct points for unpointed toes or unpiked legs. No half-twist Salchow camel axels for denters, so don’t worry. You can do this! Find a nice soft landing spot. Suggestions include a king-sized eiderdown duvet folded in quarters, a recently rolled and aired futon mattress, a particularly squooshy sofa, or any seating apparatus manufactured by La-Z-Boy. Make sure you clear the space of small children and little furry animals first. Now grasp your current knitting project firmly in your dominant hand. Remember folks, we’re landing on our tuckuses (tuckii?). Face away from the landing spot and LEAP! Lean back. Lean-lean-lean-lean aaaaaand land. There, great! Oh, good for you, extra points for spearing a hole in the upholstery with one of your knitting needles.

Now keep that up until you can hear a good WHOOMP and see a cloud of dust rise up around you as you land. Get your yardstick and measure that dent. Keep practicing and send me your personal best. Remember that we’re non-competitive though so top ten finishers don’t necessarily make the team for the first Dent Meet. We’ll be drawing names from a watch cap knit from fuscia Patons Canadiana (want your own? Cute patterns abound but I’m too lazy to obtain publishing permissions so google away, denters).

Speaking of current knitting projects (and I was, opening paragraph, following La-Z-Boy reference), mine is a particularly viral intarsia goldfish sweater for my 2 year old. “Viral?” you ask. Yes, the damned thing just won’t go away. It lingers and lingers and lingers. It’s the walking pneumonia of knitting projects. Maybe it’s because I hate intarsia, but this project keeps getting pre-empted for wildly fun stuff like button replacement and hem mending and sweater depilling. I REALLY hate intarsia, people! But 2 Year Old won’t fit into it next year so desperate times call for desperate quantities of Little Penguin Cabernet Shiraz blend. As if little bitty intarsia goldfish weren’t bad enough these wee buggers need French Knot eyeballs and Swiss darned (boy is that technique aptly named) “bubbles”. Intarsia? Swiss darning (a.k.a. duplicate stitch)?? FRENCH KNOTS???

Here’s a photo. Feel my pain.

Those French and Swiss have a lot to answer for. I’m calling for sanctions against the nations who unleashed torturous embellishments upon the unsuspecting crafting world. No more French wine! Just say “No” to Swiss chocolate! And don’t anybody send them French fries or Swiss rolls either, y’hear?

Yes, you’re right. These measures are far too extreme. Maybe we should just sanction the embellishments themselves, eh? Whaddya think? Join me?

You’re the best!

The Varsity What?

2006-10-17T12:22:00.000-04:00

I like to sit. Whenever the opportunity avails itself, I take advantage of it. Not fussy about where I park my bum, I will happily plop right down on the floor in workplace conference rooms furnished with an excess of inflated self-importance and a dearth of chairs (it’s safer this way when one inevitably passes out from boredom and the CO2 fumes emanating from one’s colleagues). I like sitting so well, I’ve been known to study subway platforms and train activity just to align myself with the exact spot a door will open, thereby being the first to board the train and get the best seat. No, I’m not elderly (aging, yes, but you are too, so there!). In this regard, I’ve been behaving like a blue-rinser since my late 20’s. I just really, really, REALLY like to sit.

As it happens, most of my favorite things to do are best done while sitting. None of my pet activities will ever gain the prominence that might afford them 10 minutes worth of reportage on the local television news broadcast even though I am not the only person whose devotion to them rivals anything the Boston Red Sox or Dallas Cowboys have ever enjoyed. While gambling… er, ahem, athletic entertainments warrant newcasts, sections of newspapers, hell, an entire swath of the Cable channel spectrum, my favorites are relegated to the domain of specialist magazines, most of which are produced only quarterly.

It’s time to end this second fiddle status.

Welcome to try-outs for the brand new Varsity Butt Dent Squad. Today we’ll not only be testing our sitting skills, we’ll also be working on the things we like to do while we’re sitting. When I was a youngster, I loved to read, play piano, and do needlecrafts with a fair dose of television viewing thrown in to boot. Had these skills been valued in our culture during my schoolgirl days, perhaps there might have been something like this Butt Dent team for me to join back then. I’d have loved to display my school spirit with a blue wool and yellow leather baseball jacket adorned with a big boucle ‘W’ and a brass pin in the shape of an easy chair. Alas, physical prowess and argumentativeness* were the only skills which earned one a letter in my high school. Hence, the name of this blog.

* Letters were given to members of the Debate Team.

I continue to love reading, knitting, watching television, writing, occasional web surfing with scattered blog reading, and eating; all of which involve prodigious sitting. Fortunately for me, cooking involves standing otherwise my backside would not fit through the 34 inch doorways of my rinky-dink post-war Cape Cod-style house, though don’t think I haven’t tried sitting down on that job too. Yessireebob, I still have the bar stool from Target in my basement collecting cobwebs and cat hair. Too many trips back and forth between refrigerator, sink, cutting board, and stovetop killed the pleasure. Getting on and off the stool was, gasp, a hassle. Perhaps this might be remedied with the installation of casters on the stool’s legs. Then all one would require for kitchen mobility is an attached jet pack or maybe even just a long pole with a rubber foot for traction. I could punt around the kitchen wearing gondolier stripes and a beribboned straw hat. Or maybe I should just use the Swiffer mop and clean the floor at the same time. Seated housework. What’s not to love?

But I digress. Forthwith, I declare, in the name of all the quiet, soft and squishy activities that have gone heretofore ignored and unrewarded, the formation of the very first Varsity Butt Dent Squad.

This is ostensibly a knitting blog though I’ll undoubtedly point all my relatives and friends to it so it will be filled with family news and since anyone who is not family or aquaintance is unlikely to be reading, I’m not going to feel too badly about this. In a nod to the genre, however, I feel compelled to put forth my own knitting history so that both of you readers (hi Honey, hiya Sis) know exactly where and why this insanity originated.

I began knitting in 1986 while enrolled in a “study” abroad semester in London. OK, to be honest, I wasn’t studying for much of it. I wasn’t knitting for much of it either. Mostly I was drinking pints of Strongbow’s and working in a bank which, because they paid me under the table, shall remain nameless. Perhaps it is a mistake to divulge my wetback history should I be inclined some day to run for political office… Naaah, forget it. Campaigning would require too much outlay of energy unless at some point in the future it is possible to do so from one’s own sofa.

Anyway, I was sharing a room with two Australian girls in a hostel off Brompton Road and eventually discovered after too many attempts that spending time in the shared kitchen and TV lounge left one vulnerable to the attentions of some bona fide goofballs. To my rescue came the Marshall Cavendish publishing company with a weekly periodical called Get Knitting. I bought Pack 1 which, along with the first issue of the publication and 12 patterns, supplied a bonus Learn To Knit booklet. Get Knitting was not strictly a magazine though it was sold at newsagents. It was more like a serialized knitting technique book and stitch dictionary. I’ll admit to rushing giddily to my local agency every Tuesday to pick up the newest copy. I still have every issue since it is full of wonderful, practical instruction with colored photos illustrating every technique. I’ve never found a comparable how-to book and have loaned my precious Learn To Knit bonus booklet to several friends.

If I recall, my first pair of needles and yarn came from John Lewis department store. Or maybe it was Debenhams. Anyway, two casein-coated aluminum pointy sticks and some acrylic string and I was off and clicking. One evening as I sat engrossed (and probably entwined) in acrylic one of my Aussie roomies came in for a post-work change into party togs and caught me in the act.

“Aw, knitteeng,” she said. “Moi gran taught me. Oi heaven’t done that een iges.”

The next evening I had company. She bought her own needles and yarn and borrowed one of my, by this time, 36 precious patterns. I can’t remember the girl’s name. I can, however, remember EXACTLY which pattern she borrowed. It was a boxy, crewnecked, mohair pullover with a boldly colored, random geometric design against a charcoal grey background. Intarsia, yes, but a pattern I hoped one day to make. I never saw that pattern again (if you’re out there, whatever your name is, give it back!). It was a striking sweater and I wish I could make one, especially now that 80’s-style clothing is back in vogue.

Granted, I also wish I still had the body to get away with wearing boxy mohair sweaters but one does not make the Varsity Butt Dent Squad by remaining svelte. Skinny little anorexic butts make dents that must be measured with electron microscopes, rather than the official wooden yardstick stipulated in the regulations of the sport (which have until now remained so well-guarded they were not published or even, for that matter, invented). However, we don’t wish to discriminate against the slight in this sport so if you find yourself with an avid interest in seated activities but wear clothing sized in the single digits, we would strongly advise practicing with a stack of 500g Cadbury’s chocolate bars from the nearest Duty Free shop on your lap; as many as you can afford. Remember, depth scores the most points in dent competition with style points awarded for breadth so we also strongly advise you begin eating those chocolate bars but, please, not while you’re handling fibers or library books!

Hey, great news! You’ve made the team. Welcome to the Squad. Call me Coach