Todays tastes like chocolate, cardamom, cereal and cyanide.
It's been one of those weeks when you'd rather do almost anything else except what you're supposed to be doing. I'd rather be reading the contents label on my supplements jar (hey! Nature's Best has more biotin than Life Fitness! What's up with THAT!?!) than knitting, hunting obscure craft supplies on Froogle (where IS the best deal on 3/8 inch mahogany dowels grown on mainland China in an ecologically sustainable fashion) than drafting a blog post, debating colors for a pedicure (Opal White or Snow Frost? Iced Peaches or Cherry Blini?) than working out.
But then, as I was ducking responsibility, I noticed Christine Kane's post from today. About how in order to create change, you first must create a habit that supports the change. It's not enough to have a news flash that you must change X right now, and then jump on it; you need to figure out what step you can take to change X and take that step each and every day.
And to make it simply about what you do. Not a big thing, with trumpets and fanfare and crowds bowing down in the streets, with vestal virgins scattering rose petals before you, but just what you do.
And so I was reminded that I planned to post once a week to this blog, and that I had planned to do so yesterday, but something was shinier, so . . .
Ahem. This is what I do. See you next week.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thursday, January 08, 2009
B is for . . . Box Jumps
Today tastes like bananas and butterscotch, beef and bilirubin.
New year, new slant on the workout. I still am athletically declined, but having been given notice by the doctor that I will lose weight or suffer the consequences (and what vey ugly consequences they are, m'dear) I am ramping it up a touch by incorporating a cash-out.
See, Crossfit incorporates a warmup into its workout. Or rather, "a workout before the workout," as one member refers to it. Three rounds as quick as you can--leg stretches (15 seconds per leg), 15 squats (I use a 25 pound dumbell and do goblet squats, I feel silly doing air squats), 15 sit-ups (on an incline board), 15 back extensions, 15 pull-ups, 15 dips.
Now you're ready for the workout.
So I've been warming up and working out for a year (and a third, come Sunday). I know where the holes in my armor are, and this year I've decided to get out the brazer and go to work mending them.
Unfortunately, the only way to improve a physical skill is to do more of that skill. Over and over and over. Which leads us to box jumps.
I hate box jumps.
To perform a box jump, you set up an object that will support your weight in front of you. Squat down, feet together. Now jump up onto that object, both feet at the same time--otherwise you're doing step-ups. There's a balance component to getting your body settled upon landing on the box or on the floor as you hop down again. You need explosive strength in your hips and thighs to get enough air to land on the box instead of tripping over it.
As your box gets taller, there's an abdominal element since you have to haul your trailing legs up to get your feet on top of the box.
Yup, this is an example of Prime Suckitude. So of course, this is now the cash-out for the workout. 20 box jumps.
So I'm hanging with some pals, and we get to talking about chick stuff--bodies and maintenance of same, and how we wish things were different, and one notices that I've lost a bunch of weight. How'd I do it?
So I explain the workout, starting with the warm-up, and then go into the workout of the day--three rounds of 45 pound thrusters and pull-ups. The first round you do 21 of each, then 15 of each, then 9 of each. That doesn't sound so bad, she said. The kicker is, done right, you complete the workout in under five minutes. Done well, you complete it in under three minutes.
You could hear crickets chirping.
And a moment later, the group was back into bemoaning how hard it is to get fit, how hard it is to lose weight, how hard it is blah blah blah let's go get pastry.
Excuse me? Pastry? Weren't you just talking about . . . and now you want pastry?
Ok, I get it. Pastry is easy. Talking is easy. Wishing is easy.
But easy doesn't get'r done. Easy doesn't get the bar up over your head. Easy doesn't own your desire.
If you have a desire, then it only seems right to determine the cost of that desire and then decide whether or not you're willing and able to pay that price. The cost of a fancy vehicle is money, money, money; for the payments, the insurance, and the gas. The cost of six-pack abs is a strict diet and exercise routine.
Now, being unable to pony up is one thing. (Although one might want to consider what stands in the way and work on that, if one desires the object sufficiently. There are ways to make more money, more time, and exercises are almost infinitely modifiable to suit innate [or inert] athletic ability.) But it seems that most who claim to be unable are just unwilling.
I can't because I don't have enough money. Couldn't you take in a roommate, get a second part-time job, cut back on expenses? Instead of cable TV, go to the library? Well, yes, but . . .
There is a yes-but for everything. I have my own yes-buts. And the only one that trumps the others is "Yes, but THIS is what I really want."
And I really really want to be able to do box jumps at 36 inches. (Hell, just to be able to do them reasonably well and not internally whine all the way to the gym on a jump-centric day.)
And so, the cash-out. Four inches at a time, up and down, forward and back. Working my way through the yes-buts.
New year, new slant on the workout. I still am athletically declined, but having been given notice by the doctor that I will lose weight or suffer the consequences (and what vey ugly consequences they are, m'dear) I am ramping it up a touch by incorporating a cash-out.
See, Crossfit incorporates a warmup into its workout. Or rather, "a workout before the workout," as one member refers to it. Three rounds as quick as you can--leg stretches (15 seconds per leg), 15 squats (I use a 25 pound dumbell and do goblet squats, I feel silly doing air squats), 15 sit-ups (on an incline board), 15 back extensions, 15 pull-ups, 15 dips.
Now you're ready for the workout.
So I've been warming up and working out for a year (and a third, come Sunday). I know where the holes in my armor are, and this year I've decided to get out the brazer and go to work mending them.
Unfortunately, the only way to improve a physical skill is to do more of that skill. Over and over and over. Which leads us to box jumps.
I hate box jumps.
To perform a box jump, you set up an object that will support your weight in front of you. Squat down, feet together. Now jump up onto that object, both feet at the same time--otherwise you're doing step-ups. There's a balance component to getting your body settled upon landing on the box or on the floor as you hop down again. You need explosive strength in your hips and thighs to get enough air to land on the box instead of tripping over it.
As your box gets taller, there's an abdominal element since you have to haul your trailing legs up to get your feet on top of the box.
Yup, this is an example of Prime Suckitude. So of course, this is now the cash-out for the workout. 20 box jumps.
So I'm hanging with some pals, and we get to talking about chick stuff--bodies and maintenance of same, and how we wish things were different, and one notices that I've lost a bunch of weight. How'd I do it?
So I explain the workout, starting with the warm-up, and then go into the workout of the day--three rounds of 45 pound thrusters and pull-ups. The first round you do 21 of each, then 15 of each, then 9 of each. That doesn't sound so bad, she said. The kicker is, done right, you complete the workout in under five minutes. Done well, you complete it in under three minutes.
You could hear crickets chirping.
And a moment later, the group was back into bemoaning how hard it is to get fit, how hard it is to lose weight, how hard it is blah blah blah let's go get pastry.
Excuse me? Pastry? Weren't you just talking about . . . and now you want pastry?
Ok, I get it. Pastry is easy. Talking is easy. Wishing is easy.
But easy doesn't get'r done. Easy doesn't get the bar up over your head. Easy doesn't own your desire.
If you have a desire, then it only seems right to determine the cost of that desire and then decide whether or not you're willing and able to pay that price. The cost of a fancy vehicle is money, money, money; for the payments, the insurance, and the gas. The cost of six-pack abs is a strict diet and exercise routine.
Now, being unable to pony up is one thing. (Although one might want to consider what stands in the way and work on that, if one desires the object sufficiently. There are ways to make more money, more time, and exercises are almost infinitely modifiable to suit innate [or inert] athletic ability.) But it seems that most who claim to be unable are just unwilling.
I can't because I don't have enough money. Couldn't you take in a roommate, get a second part-time job, cut back on expenses? Instead of cable TV, go to the library? Well, yes, but . . .
There is a yes-but for everything. I have my own yes-buts. And the only one that trumps the others is "Yes, but THIS is what I really want."
And I really really want to be able to do box jumps at 36 inches. (Hell, just to be able to do them reasonably well and not internally whine all the way to the gym on a jump-centric day.)
And so, the cash-out. Four inches at a time, up and down, forward and back. Working my way through the yes-buts.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
A is for Admire
Today tastes like . . . almonds and apples, asparagus and arsenic. See a theme developing?
A is for Admire. And Advice. And Alphabet, as you Astute Tonstant Weaders will have Assumed. (Enough with the freaky Germanic capitals, Already.) (ouch)
I have already 'fessed up to my somewhere-between-schoolgirl-and-stalker crush on Patti Digh (and if you haven't read her luminous essays on 37 Days, why not?) I am in awe of her concise prose about the ordinary, how she polishes the everyday and holds it up in a shining example of the things we take for granted, the things we think are just intuitively obvious . . . and the lessons we learn when we discover these obvious and granted things are neither.1
And one of the tricks she's used to keep the posts flowing is the alphabet meme--each post is based around a letter of the alphabet. Well--that means there's (counts fingers, toes, borrows co-worker) twenty-six posts right there. At my rate of publication, that's half a year of material, not counting the times I actually have something to say, or a finished object to show, or even just a nifty snap off a random camera.
So I'm stealing the idea. A is for Avarice, after all.
1. My favorite essay? "Open the Mudroom Door for Tycho". For me, it's an essay about the stories we tell ourselves about other beings and their actions--and a reminder to tell ourselves the kindest possible version of that story before we act.
A is for Admire. And Advice. And Alphabet, as you Astute Tonstant Weaders will have Assumed. (Enough with the freaky Germanic capitals, Already.) (ouch)
I have already 'fessed up to my somewhere-between-schoolgirl-and-stalker crush on Patti Digh (and if you haven't read her luminous essays on 37 Days, why not?) I am in awe of her concise prose about the ordinary, how she polishes the everyday and holds it up in a shining example of the things we take for granted, the things we think are just intuitively obvious . . . and the lessons we learn when we discover these obvious and granted things are neither.1
And one of the tricks she's used to keep the posts flowing is the alphabet meme--each post is based around a letter of the alphabet. Well--that means there's (counts fingers, toes, borrows co-worker) twenty-six posts right there. At my rate of publication, that's half a year of material, not counting the times I actually have something to say, or a finished object to show, or even just a nifty snap off a random camera.
So I'm stealing the idea. A is for Avarice, after all.
1. My favorite essay? "Open the Mudroom Door for Tycho". For me, it's an essay about the stories we tell ourselves about other beings and their actions--and a reminder to tell ourselves the kindest possible version of that story before we act.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Word of the Year
Today tastes like blueberry muffin tops fresh from the bakery, with the decadent crumbled topping; piping hot dark roast coffee with just a little cream; maple sugar bacon; and wet silk.
I've written before about Christine Kane and how she doesn't form New Year's resolutions, but instead, sets an intention by selecting a word to live by for the next year. Not something to beat yourself up with ("Excel!" "Perform!" "Flagellate!") but something to quietly guide you ("courage", "desire", "dream").
I've decided on "Complete."
See, Mormons have been known to envy my stash. Food, yarn, paper, fabric, cosmetics . . . honey, I could be snowed in here for a year and come out with my sanity, leftovers, and projects still in the works, with my face freshly scrubbed and hair washed. I have cut all the easy stuff, I'm doing better about not bringing in more stuff, now it's time to dig a little deeper.
I need to finish the dribs and drabs of this and that. I need to use it up and toss it, rather than cutting it in half all the way to Zeno's Paradox. 1 I get about three-quarters of the way done, and then I get fear of completion. I will never have another project/bottle of conditioner/bar of soap again, so I have to get another whatcher available in the stash. Then I start using less and less of the nearly done item, so as to make it last.
And then I finally get down to the last use and instead of taking inventory (what do I have already that will serve this purpose) I put it on the list and get a second . . . only to discover the original first waiting in the stash for me.
Enough. Use it up and toss the empty. Check the stash and replace from stock. Complete what you started.
And what about the stuff that you buy, try once, and don't care for? The projects that seemed like such a good idea when you began, but now you find you can't stand tole painting/needlepoint/crocheted toilet paper rolls?
Simple. If you cannot complete a project started, then be complete with the process. Have the pleasure from having enjoyed whatever it was and wherever you got to (the quilt from cherished t-shirts that you drew up a sketch for and never cut out, the pants you were going to make into shorts that no longer fit, the layette set of one bootie and half a sweater for the child now in middle school) and then repurpose or get rid of the materials. Send the pants to Goodwill if they aren't shreddy junk, rip the layette and make a Linus binkie, throw out the t-shirts.
Make some peace, and make some space for the things that matter to you now. Soon enough, they, too, will fall by the wayside--and that's okay.
1. You can never get from one point to another, because first you must travel half the distance from here to there, but to get to the halfway point, you must get half of that distance, but to get there you have to get halfway from the start to the quarter-point, and so on so on so forth. So yes, the three year old is right--Christmas is never going to come!
I've written before about Christine Kane and how she doesn't form New Year's resolutions, but instead, sets an intention by selecting a word to live by for the next year. Not something to beat yourself up with ("Excel!" "Perform!" "Flagellate!") but something to quietly guide you ("courage", "desire", "dream").
I've decided on "Complete."
See, Mormons have been known to envy my stash. Food, yarn, paper, fabric, cosmetics . . . honey, I could be snowed in here for a year and come out with my sanity, leftovers, and projects still in the works, with my face freshly scrubbed and hair washed. I have cut all the easy stuff, I'm doing better about not bringing in more stuff, now it's time to dig a little deeper.
I need to finish the dribs and drabs of this and that. I need to use it up and toss it, rather than cutting it in half all the way to Zeno's Paradox. 1 I get about three-quarters of the way done, and then I get fear of completion. I will never have another project/bottle of conditioner/bar of soap again, so I have to get another whatcher available in the stash. Then I start using less and less of the nearly done item, so as to make it last.
And then I finally get down to the last use and instead of taking inventory (what do I have already that will serve this purpose) I put it on the list and get a second . . . only to discover the original first waiting in the stash for me.
Enough. Use it up and toss the empty. Check the stash and replace from stock. Complete what you started.
And what about the stuff that you buy, try once, and don't care for? The projects that seemed like such a good idea when you began, but now you find you can't stand tole painting/needlepoint/crocheted toilet paper rolls?
Simple. If you cannot complete a project started, then be complete with the process. Have the pleasure from having enjoyed whatever it was and wherever you got to (the quilt from cherished t-shirts that you drew up a sketch for and never cut out, the pants you were going to make into shorts that no longer fit, the layette set of one bootie and half a sweater for the child now in middle school) and then repurpose or get rid of the materials. Send the pants to Goodwill if they aren't shreddy junk, rip the layette and make a Linus binkie, throw out the t-shirts.
Make some peace, and make some space for the things that matter to you now. Soon enough, they, too, will fall by the wayside--and that's okay.
1. You can never get from one point to another, because first you must travel half the distance from here to there, but to get to the halfway point, you must get half of that distance, but to get there you have to get halfway from the start to the quarter-point, and so on so on so forth. So yes, the three year old is right--Christmas is never going to come!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Read the Small Print Between the Lines
Today tastes like cream cheese, smoked salmon, capers, and avocados. Like champagne and creek water, like belgian chocolates and crostini. Like proscuitto and melon and gunpowder.
It's been one of those days, and it's not even half-over yet. A co-worker heard me muttering about taking the whole world on a picnic.
"Oh, that's so sweet and generous of you!" she cooed. "You're so giving and nurturing! You want to sit down and make peace with the whole world."
I almost--ALMOST--didn't have the heart to explain that when you "take someone on a picnic" you take them to a pristine and deserted place full of wildflowers and trees, near a babbling brook. You feed them lovely morsels of finger food, and chill wine in the icy stream. You laugh and talk in the sun, gentle breezes ruffle your hair, and you share a deep and intimate connection.
Then you kill them, and bury the body where no one will ever find it.
It's been one of those days, and it's not even half-over yet. A co-worker heard me muttering about taking the whole world on a picnic.
"Oh, that's so sweet and generous of you!" she cooed. "You're so giving and nurturing! You want to sit down and make peace with the whole world."
I almost--ALMOST--didn't have the heart to explain that when you "take someone on a picnic" you take them to a pristine and deserted place full of wildflowers and trees, near a babbling brook. You feed them lovely morsels of finger food, and chill wine in the icy stream. You laugh and talk in the sun, gentle breezes ruffle your hair, and you share a deep and intimate connection.
Then you kill them, and bury the body where no one will ever find it.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Batteries Not Included
Today tastes like london broil, chives, and ink, with a side of tinsel.
I can really feel the turn in the economy and the presidency, as well as the mood of the nation. It's not so much the news stories (if I hear ONE MORE fluff piece on how bleak everything is, I'll scream) but in the way the holiday is proceeding.
First, a confession. This year, Gareth and I are doing Christmas the way you're supposed to do it. Make a list of everyone you gift to and a tentative list of what you're doing for them. Decide on your budget, scale back, and as you spend, track what you laid out. (Before, Gareth would say, "Try to keep it under a grand.")
We have three overlapping circles of folks we gift to. One set is the Grimm's Christmas people (with whom we sit down and swap horror stories every mid-December, as a palate cleansing skeleton at the saccharine feast), one is a group that meets at another couple's house (amusingly, it's the same people year after year. We've joined Gwydion and Callidasia for Xmas Eve for something like FIFTEEN YEARS RUNNING; it's practically a family reunion at this point), and then there's blood kin.
With the second group, it's easy to figure out what the gift is--Christmas ornaments. We've been doing that for several years.
Ornaments are easy to come by, sentimental, and require very little space. Bonus: They're fragile and seasonal. If you can't stand what I bought you, a simple nudge while dismantling the tree will take care of THAT issue. And I won't expect to see you wear it, or see it prominently displayed in your home when I visit.
So out we went this weekend to shop ornaments for group 2. (Group 1 is getting embroidered T-shirts like souveniers . . . from a place that only exists in a handful of my stories.) We'd learned our lesson last year--while you can get deep discounts on ornaments the weekend before Xmas, the crowds and noise are all but unbearable.
This year . . . you could hear the crickets chirping in the aisles. And we were able to scoop up armloads at 15-50 percent off the ticketed price. The malls were about as busy as they are in mid-July, maybe even a little slower.
And tellingly, there've been no catalogues in the mailbox for hyper-priced, super luxy goods and nonsense. Hence, no holiday rant.
I suppose that's a tradition I wouldn't mind discarding . . .
I can really feel the turn in the economy and the presidency, as well as the mood of the nation. It's not so much the news stories (if I hear ONE MORE fluff piece on how bleak everything is, I'll scream) but in the way the holiday is proceeding.
First, a confession. This year, Gareth and I are doing Christmas the way you're supposed to do it. Make a list of everyone you gift to and a tentative list of what you're doing for them. Decide on your budget, scale back, and as you spend, track what you laid out. (Before, Gareth would say, "Try to keep it under a grand.")
We have three overlapping circles of folks we gift to. One set is the Grimm's Christmas people (with whom we sit down and swap horror stories every mid-December, as a palate cleansing skeleton at the saccharine feast), one is a group that meets at another couple's house (amusingly, it's the same people year after year. We've joined Gwydion and Callidasia for Xmas Eve for something like FIFTEEN YEARS RUNNING; it's practically a family reunion at this point), and then there's blood kin.
With the second group, it's easy to figure out what the gift is--Christmas ornaments. We've been doing that for several years.
Ornaments are easy to come by, sentimental, and require very little space. Bonus: They're fragile and seasonal. If you can't stand what I bought you, a simple nudge while dismantling the tree will take care of THAT issue. And I won't expect to see you wear it, or see it prominently displayed in your home when I visit.
So out we went this weekend to shop ornaments for group 2. (Group 1 is getting embroidered T-shirts like souveniers . . . from a place that only exists in a handful of my stories.) We'd learned our lesson last year--while you can get deep discounts on ornaments the weekend before Xmas, the crowds and noise are all but unbearable.
This year . . . you could hear the crickets chirping in the aisles. And we were able to scoop up armloads at 15-50 percent off the ticketed price. The malls were about as busy as they are in mid-July, maybe even a little slower.
And tellingly, there've been no catalogues in the mailbox for hyper-priced, super luxy goods and nonsense. Hence, no holiday rant.
I suppose that's a tradition I wouldn't mind discarding . . .
Thursday, December 04, 2008
The Mills Grind Fine . . .
Today tastes like cinnamon and bosc pears, turkey and tourmaline, cardamom and snail caviar.
Gareth and I were talking about getting what you need, and going about getting what you need, and who to ask, and what to ask for. He had spent the afternoon holding his boss's hand in small claims court (boss plaintiff, victorious) and had been impressed that the officer of the court was a volunteer with some legal background--but not a lawyer. In Arizona, that's how it works--the only position where you don't have to be an attorney to preside over a courtroom.
Gareth spent a few minutes after the hearing talking with the judge. He's torn about serving his own self as a small claims judge a couple of time a month. On the one hand, it's a great service to the community. Very few intrapersonal disputes ever need to see the inside of the Justice Courts, never mind Superior Court.
On the other, he's not sure he could restrain himself when people stand up and yatter on about it not being the money, but the principal of the thing. The only recourse we have in this society for civil losses is monetary. If you wrong me by killing my pet, I can't have your dog taken out and shot in front of you. The judge will order you to pay me some money.
So the only thing you have any hope of receiving from the court is a money judgment, which it is then up to you to collect. Rule number one: Be clear about what you want. If kneecapping that jackass is the only thing that will make you whole, you need to talk to Guido on the corner, not file suit.
Now, last week, Gareth and I were in a supermarket parking lot, picking up some groceries on the way home, and a fella stopped us, clutching a gas can. Could we spare a buck or two for gas?
Uhm. On the one hand, I've been in a tight spot myself a time or three. On the other, I don't like to hand out money, because money buys all kinds of things and supports all sorts of habits. Carrying a gas can does not mean you'll use the gas can.
So we turned him down, saying we had no cash on hand. Which was indeed true. We find it easier to manage the budget on plastic, and pay in full at the end of the month.
Funny thing though--I was hit up last month by a guy asking for a hand filling a gas can, and I chose to help him out. This other fella approached me at a gas station, can in hand, and explained he just needed a couple bucks' worth to get where he was going. Could I help?
Absolutely. I filled my tank, and then ran a couple of gallons into his can for him. Rule number two: Ask in a place that makes it easy to get what you want. Ask for gas at the gas station. Ask for an item off the dollar menu in front of the McDonald's.
So then we come to tonight. Walking home from the gym, Gareth was in a surly mood. Tonight's workout of the day was a beast--45 pullups and 45 thrusters for time. Good time is under five minutes, ideal time is under three. It only sounds easy.
My best time for this workout was 4:45--hey, that's under 5:00! Tonight I hit 3:31. Gareth took . . . longer than 5:00. So I got the lecture on "Can you see why it pisses me off when you say you're not making progress?"
Let's get this straight--I an athletically DECLINED. (Go for a run? No thanks.) I do the workouts because I have to. However, there is no force in this world that will ever make me like sit-ups, and I hate pull-ups only slightly less. And frankly, instantaneous gratification takes too long.
However, I have to work out, and this program has given me better and faster results than anything else I have tried, so I keep at it, even though a lot of the time I feel like I'm flailing weakly about; a fish in the last hypoxic ecstacies.
And in the course of our discussion, I realized that what I really mean when I say I'm not getting anywhere with this is that I feel like I should be able to do this much better than I am, and the body just isn't co-operating and falling into line.
Rule number three: say what you mean.
Gareth and I were talking about getting what you need, and going about getting what you need, and who to ask, and what to ask for. He had spent the afternoon holding his boss's hand in small claims court (boss plaintiff, victorious) and had been impressed that the officer of the court was a volunteer with some legal background--but not a lawyer. In Arizona, that's how it works--the only position where you don't have to be an attorney to preside over a courtroom.
Gareth spent a few minutes after the hearing talking with the judge. He's torn about serving his own self as a small claims judge a couple of time a month. On the one hand, it's a great service to the community. Very few intrapersonal disputes ever need to see the inside of the Justice Courts, never mind Superior Court.
On the other, he's not sure he could restrain himself when people stand up and yatter on about it not being the money, but the principal of the thing. The only recourse we have in this society for civil losses is monetary. If you wrong me by killing my pet, I can't have your dog taken out and shot in front of you. The judge will order you to pay me some money.
So the only thing you have any hope of receiving from the court is a money judgment, which it is then up to you to collect. Rule number one: Be clear about what you want. If kneecapping that jackass is the only thing that will make you whole, you need to talk to Guido on the corner, not file suit.
Now, last week, Gareth and I were in a supermarket parking lot, picking up some groceries on the way home, and a fella stopped us, clutching a gas can. Could we spare a buck or two for gas?
Uhm. On the one hand, I've been in a tight spot myself a time or three. On the other, I don't like to hand out money, because money buys all kinds of things and supports all sorts of habits. Carrying a gas can does not mean you'll use the gas can.
So we turned him down, saying we had no cash on hand. Which was indeed true. We find it easier to manage the budget on plastic, and pay in full at the end of the month.
Funny thing though--I was hit up last month by a guy asking for a hand filling a gas can, and I chose to help him out. This other fella approached me at a gas station, can in hand, and explained he just needed a couple bucks' worth to get where he was going. Could I help?
Absolutely. I filled my tank, and then ran a couple of gallons into his can for him. Rule number two: Ask in a place that makes it easy to get what you want. Ask for gas at the gas station. Ask for an item off the dollar menu in front of the McDonald's.
So then we come to tonight. Walking home from the gym, Gareth was in a surly mood. Tonight's workout of the day was a beast--45 pullups and 45 thrusters for time. Good time is under five minutes, ideal time is under three. It only sounds easy.
My best time for this workout was 4:45--hey, that's under 5:00! Tonight I hit 3:31. Gareth took . . . longer than 5:00. So I got the lecture on "Can you see why it pisses me off when you say you're not making progress?"
Let's get this straight--I an athletically DECLINED. (Go for a run? No thanks.) I do the workouts because I have to. However, there is no force in this world that will ever make me like sit-ups, and I hate pull-ups only slightly less. And frankly, instantaneous gratification takes too long.
However, I have to work out, and this program has given me better and faster results than anything else I have tried, so I keep at it, even though a lot of the time I feel like I'm flailing weakly about; a fish in the last hypoxic ecstacies.
And in the course of our discussion, I realized that what I really mean when I say I'm not getting anywhere with this is that I feel like I should be able to do this much better than I am, and the body just isn't co-operating and falling into line.
Rule number three: say what you mean.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Whoops!
Today tastes like paper, sand, and plastic bags from the cleaners.
Blame it on the turkey. I seem to have slept through a week. No knitting, no writing, not even a cribbed poem.
I should have something to talk about soonish . . . or maybe laterish.
Blame it on the turkey. I seem to have slept through a week. No knitting, no writing, not even a cribbed poem.
You Are Midnight |
 You are more than a little eccentric, and you're apt to keep very unusual habits. Whether you're a night owl, living in a commune, or taking a vow of silence - you like to experiment with your lifestyle. Expressing your individuality is important to you, and you often lie awake in bed thinking about the world and your place in it. You enjoy staying home, but that doesn't mean you're a hermit. You also appreciate quality time with family and close friends. |
I should have something to talk about soonish . . . or maybe laterish.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Bye Bye Blackbird
Today tastes like ribeye rubbed with chile, garlic, and . . . sand. It was all working so well until the finish, which left a lot to be desired.
I have finished the Irtfa'a, and only just barely avoided adding a "FINALLY!" to that sentence. This project was not the best match for where my head is at right now.
It's a moderately complex knit, a Faroese shape with multiple lace patterns. The designer has you working two long lace patterns simultaneously, and the repeat lengths match up only on the very first iteration (row 1 of pattern A and pattern B). When you come to the end of that section, you are on row 16 of pattern A (out of 24 total rows) and row 28 of pattern B (out of 30 total rows) and ready to start pattern C's transition row over pattern B and if your head is swimming, well, so was mine.
I love how the pattern transitions between B and C. It's a lovely detail. I like how she starts the shawl. There's a lot of thought in this pattern, and it's very well written and explained. It was just not a great match for me right now.
I hated working the edging. Words cannot describe just how much I hated working that edging. Part of it was that I misread how many repeats of that blasted edging there were. I read 38 when the instructions said 58. Those "extra" (they felt like "extra") 20 repeats just about made my head explode. I figured I could work 3-4 repeats at lunch and be finished by October 1. Yeah, not so very much, thanks. Grrr . . .
The edging is perfect for the shawl. I really can't see anything else that reads so much like feathers on the edge. It's also d--d fiddly. I had to start four times to get the first edge going. Grrr . . .
Finally, the designer prefers to keep her lace small and modern. I prefer to swaddle myself in yards of the stuff. Call me old-fashioned. My shawls tend to be bigger than I am to allow for draping and folding, and my other Faroese comes almost to my knees. With something swoopy like this, I'd like it to be below my hips, mebbe halfway down my thighs.
This feels more like a shoulderette/shrug. It isn't, not really, but feelings is feelings. If I make it again, I need to remember to put in a repeat or three of the first border. (Yes, yes, and find an edging I can live with.)
But at least Thorax is finally happy that she gets to model a garment.
She insisted that a fine lace shawl deserved a fine setting. Who am I to argue? So off we went to Scottsdale, where DH Gareth oblingingly posed as her escort in front of one of our favorite restaurants, Tapino. If one holds with the "three times is tradition" rule, then this is where we traditionally have New Years' Eve dinner (a wine paired tasting menu, different every year) before heading out to celebrate the turning of the calendar year with our friends.
Thorax suggested we shoot out in the Red and White Lounge--the restaurant was fairly crowded. She sat down on the couch to ponder the menu while we arranged everything, so I snapped this candid shot.
Then she thought she saw Dave Mustaine (Thorax is a huge Megadeth fan) and dropped the shawl on the couch as she ran screaming after him.
Embarassingly enough, she had mistaken ex-Governor Rose Mofford for the heavy metal star. I guess one big head of hair looks much like the next. Fortunately, Rose was very gracious about the mistake, although she declined to have her picture taken with Thorax.
Currently on the needles? Two sweaters, two lace shawls, and two lace scarves for two dear friends for Christmas 2009. And one lonely Linus binkie.
I have finished the Irtfa'a, and only just barely avoided adding a "FINALLY!" to that sentence. This project was not the best match for where my head is at right now.
It's a moderately complex knit, a Faroese shape with multiple lace patterns. The designer has you working two long lace patterns simultaneously, and the repeat lengths match up only on the very first iteration (row 1 of pattern A and pattern B). When you come to the end of that section, you are on row 16 of pattern A (out of 24 total rows) and row 28 of pattern B (out of 30 total rows) and ready to start pattern C's transition row over pattern B and if your head is swimming, well, so was mine.
I love how the pattern transitions between B and C. It's a lovely detail. I like how she starts the shawl. There's a lot of thought in this pattern, and it's very well written and explained. It was just not a great match for me right now.
I hated working the edging. Words cannot describe just how much I hated working that edging. Part of it was that I misread how many repeats of that blasted edging there were. I read 38 when the instructions said 58. Those "extra" (they felt like "extra") 20 repeats just about made my head explode. I figured I could work 3-4 repeats at lunch and be finished by October 1. Yeah, not so very much, thanks. Grrr . . .
The edging is perfect for the shawl. I really can't see anything else that reads so much like feathers on the edge. It's also d--d fiddly. I had to start four times to get the first edge going. Grrr . . .
Finally, the designer prefers to keep her lace small and modern. I prefer to swaddle myself in yards of the stuff. Call me old-fashioned. My shawls tend to be bigger than I am to allow for draping and folding, and my other Faroese comes almost to my knees. With something swoopy like this, I'd like it to be below my hips, mebbe halfway down my thighs.
This feels more like a shoulderette/shrug. It isn't, not really, but feelings is feelings. If I make it again, I need to remember to put in a repeat or three of the first border. (Yes, yes, and find an edging I can live with.)
But at least Thorax is finally happy that she gets to model a garment.
She insisted that a fine lace shawl deserved a fine setting. Who am I to argue? So off we went to Scottsdale, where DH Gareth oblingingly posed as her escort in front of one of our favorite restaurants, Tapino. If one holds with the "three times is tradition" rule, then this is where we traditionally have New Years' Eve dinner (a wine paired tasting menu, different every year) before heading out to celebrate the turning of the calendar year with our friends.
Thorax suggested we shoot out in the Red and White Lounge--the restaurant was fairly crowded. She sat down on the couch to ponder the menu while we arranged everything, so I snapped this candid shot.
Then she thought she saw Dave Mustaine (Thorax is a huge Megadeth fan) and dropped the shawl on the couch as she ran screaming after him.
Embarassingly enough, she had mistaken ex-Governor Rose Mofford for the heavy metal star. I guess one big head of hair looks much like the next. Fortunately, Rose was very gracious about the mistake, although she declined to have her picture taken with Thorax.
Currently on the needles? Two sweaters, two lace shawls, and two lace scarves for two dear friends for Christmas 2009. And one lonely Linus binkie.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Shooting Star Binkie
Today tastes like flax oil balsamic vinagrette, heirloom tomatoes still warm from the sun, basil, mozzerella, and Thorax.
She's been moping because I don't do progress pics, so there hasn't been any work for her lately. "Have you finished Irtfa'a yet?"
"No, not yet."
"What about those sweaters you added to the Plans for World Domination?"
"Nope, haven't even started those yet."
"Bertha at Knitting Daily sure gets a lot of exposure." [heavy meaningful sigh]
"Bertha has dozens of knitters submitting garments and features every quarter. You have . . . me, babe. And right now, I'm trying to finish off all the ends on the Star Binkie for Project Linus."
"Can I be in the shoot?"
[ blink, blink ] "It's a blanket, Thorax. Not much to see here . . ."
"But I could do something to give it that thing you can only say in French. A little fun, a touch of ironic naughtiness, some sex appeal. A Jane Fonda on the bearskin, Miley Cyrus in the white sheets kind of moment."
So that's how we got this . . .
Yes, it is indeed a moment. And possibly something you can only say in French.
She's been moping because I don't do progress pics, so there hasn't been any work for her lately. "Have you finished Irtfa'a yet?"
"No, not yet."
"What about those sweaters you added to the Plans for World Domination?"
"Nope, haven't even started those yet."
"Bertha at Knitting Daily sure gets a lot of exposure." [heavy meaningful sigh]
"Bertha has dozens of knitters submitting garments and features every quarter. You have . . . me, babe. And right now, I'm trying to finish off all the ends on the Star Binkie for Project Linus."
"Can I be in the shoot?"
[ blink, blink ] "It's a blanket, Thorax. Not much to see here . . ."
"But I could do something to give it that thing you can only say in French. A little fun, a touch of ironic naughtiness, some sex appeal. A Jane Fonda on the bearskin, Miley Cyrus in the white sheets kind of moment."
So that's how we got this . . .
Yes, it is indeed a moment. And possibly something you can only say in French.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Has it Really Been a Month???
(blows dust off the blog)
This thing on? (tap tap tap)
Today tastes like cardboard and sawdust, like bitter almonds, like dandilions and pine needles.
It's not likely to get better any time soon.
First I was delayed because I was thisclose to a finished object, then needed the perfect picture to display said object and then . . .
Well. Then. I'm not ready to talk to those who ought to know, so I won't let them find out on the blog, and I may never be ready to share with the web as a whole.
I talked about needing a picture of a platespinner to pop up when I was just too busy keeping everything in the air to post. So when there's too much to say, and nothing to share, I'll do the emo thing and post poetry instead.
Pride
Even rocks crack, I tell you,
and not because of age.
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it almost seems peaceful.
They don't move, so cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them, waiting.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn't come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed swirls,
the seaweed pushes through and rolls back,
and it seems they are motionless.
Till a tiny seal comes to rub against the rocks,
comes and goes away.
And suddenly the stone is split.
I told you, when people break, it happens by surprise.
--Dahlia Ravikovitch
This thing on? (tap tap tap)
Today tastes like cardboard and sawdust, like bitter almonds, like dandilions and pine needles.
It's not likely to get better any time soon.
First I was delayed because I was thisclose to a finished object, then needed the perfect picture to display said object and then . . .
Well. Then. I'm not ready to talk to those who ought to know, so I won't let them find out on the blog, and I may never be ready to share with the web as a whole.
I talked about needing a picture of a platespinner to pop up when I was just too busy keeping everything in the air to post. So when there's too much to say, and nothing to share, I'll do the emo thing and post poetry instead.
Pride
Even rocks crack, I tell you,
and not because of age.
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it almost seems peaceful.
They don't move, so cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them, waiting.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn't come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed swirls,
the seaweed pushes through and rolls back,
and it seems they are motionless.
Till a tiny seal comes to rub against the rocks,
comes and goes away.
And suddenly the stone is split.
I told you, when people break, it happens by surprise.
--Dahlia Ravikovitch
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Reputations
Today tastes like lemons. A whole raft of lemons on the open sea at midnight. Lemons, salt, and wood.
See, I have this reputation as a writer in our little group. If you want something written that defies logic and sense, you ask Spike to handle it. And you give her a deadline because, in that, the Duke1 and I see eye to eye.
So, one pal is a professional (makes her living at it) costumer with a handful of pals who simply like to make stuff. They go an an annual hajib to a conference that focuses on making costumes--how to do stuff, how much to charge for your labor, and this conference culminates in a contest. Needless to say, they're all entered in Very Big Dog level as a group.
And they need a script . . . Spike?
Of course I'm flattered, and happy to draw up a three-five minute short short for them. At dinner I wrote up a handful of notes, and on the way home I got to pondering. I sat down and started typing in my notes . . . an hour later I shut down to GO TO BED ALREADY . . . and fifteen minutes after laying my whirling head on the pillow I was back up at it with the final touches.
So here's the first draft:
Cast: Narrator
Evil Genius
Earth Elemental
Fire Elemental
Air Elemental
Water Elemental
Widget
Narrator: And so, with the Elementals subdued in her subterranean lair at the top of the world, the time had come for the evil genius to give her mandatory exposition disguised as a monologue.
Evil Genius: Aha! The voice in my head tells me to begin the expository monologue! And so . . .
Narrator: It's the usual. Explains how she’s going to use the power source in her plans for Total World Domination. Details the long, drawn out, horrible, messy, elaborate death she plans for our heroes. And then she’ll leave for a cup of green tea, with milk and lemon.
Air: Don’t bother with the details. It’ll just be an explanation how you’re going to use Widget to power your rocket chair . . .
Water: . . . kill us all slowly and messily . . .
Earth: . . . in a highly elaborate fashion, mind . . .
Fire: . . . and then you’ll go off for a cup of green tea. How can you drink that stuff?
Air. With milk.
Water: And lemon. Both of them? TOGETHER?? (shudders bonelessly)
EG: How . . . how did you know?
Heroes (as one): The voice in my head told me so.
Narrator: Our heroes looked at each other . . .
Fire: You hear him, too?
Water. I thought I was the only one.
Air: Well, no wonder we keep showing up at the same time and place together.
Earth: What did you think it was? That we were following you?
(Air rolls eyes, shoots Earth a “well, duh!” look)
EG: Hello! Evil genius, world domination, master plan? Widget?
Narrator: Our heroes quickly recalled their task. To make the world safe once more by rescuing Widget from the Evil Genius’s clutches.
Fire: That’s not important right now. Right now . . .
Air: . . . we need to make the world safe once more . . .
Water: . . . by rescuing Widget . . .
Earth: . . . . from the Evil Genius’s clutches. Guys, this is kind of creepy.
Narrator: Like mind control.
Earth: Like mind control . . . HEY! STOP THAT!
Air: If we all take a deep cleansing breath . . .
Water: . . . swallow hard . . .
Earth: . . . ground ourselves . . .
Fire: . . . and feel the fire in our hearts . . .
Air: . . . we can save Widget!
(Heroes focus, hands in mudras, bodies and faces clenched. Somewhere between enlightened bliss and terminal constipation.)
(Narrator walks across stage, takes Widget from the Evil Genius.)
Narrator: I’ll take that now, if you please.
All (as one): You’re . . . you’re the voice in my head!
Narrator: I’m more than that. I’m the Narrator. The most powerful being there is. I control all of you through the Cranial Capacitator. The Cranial Capacitator electrostatically amplifies the alpha waves, transmitting them through the phlogiston etherosphere . . .
Widget: HAT!!!
(WIDGET REMOVES THE CAPACITATOR AND RUNS OFFSTAGE, FOLLOWED BY ALL, SHOUTING EXTEMPORE ALONG THE LINES OF GIVE ME THAT/GIVE THAT BACK)
END.
1. I don't need time, what I need is a deadline. -- Duke Ellington
See, I have this reputation as a writer in our little group. If you want something written that defies logic and sense, you ask Spike to handle it. And you give her a deadline because, in that, the Duke1 and I see eye to eye.
So, one pal is a professional (makes her living at it) costumer with a handful of pals who simply like to make stuff. They go an an annual hajib to a conference that focuses on making costumes--how to do stuff, how much to charge for your labor, and this conference culminates in a contest. Needless to say, they're all entered in Very Big Dog level as a group.
And they need a script . . . Spike?
Of course I'm flattered, and happy to draw up a three-five minute short short for them. At dinner I wrote up a handful of notes, and on the way home I got to pondering. I sat down and started typing in my notes . . . an hour later I shut down to GO TO BED ALREADY . . . and fifteen minutes after laying my whirling head on the pillow I was back up at it with the final touches.
So here's the first draft:
Cast: Narrator
Evil Genius
Earth Elemental
Fire Elemental
Air Elemental
Water Elemental
Widget
Narrator: And so, with the Elementals subdued in her subterranean lair at the top of the world, the time had come for the evil genius to give her mandatory exposition disguised as a monologue.
Evil Genius: Aha! The voice in my head tells me to begin the expository monologue! And so . . .
Narrator: It's the usual. Explains how she’s going to use the power source in her plans for Total World Domination. Details the long, drawn out, horrible, messy, elaborate death she plans for our heroes. And then she’ll leave for a cup of green tea, with milk and lemon.
Air: Don’t bother with the details. It’ll just be an explanation how you’re going to use Widget to power your rocket chair . . .
Water: . . . kill us all slowly and messily . . .
Earth: . . . in a highly elaborate fashion, mind . . .
Fire: . . . and then you’ll go off for a cup of green tea. How can you drink that stuff?
Air. With milk.
Water: And lemon. Both of them? TOGETHER?? (shudders bonelessly)
EG: How . . . how did you know?
Heroes (as one): The voice in my head told me so.
Narrator: Our heroes looked at each other . . .
Fire: You hear him, too?
Water. I thought I was the only one.
Air: Well, no wonder we keep showing up at the same time and place together.
Earth: What did you think it was? That we were following you?
(Air rolls eyes, shoots Earth a “well, duh!” look)
EG: Hello! Evil genius, world domination, master plan? Widget?
Narrator: Our heroes quickly recalled their task. To make the world safe once more by rescuing Widget from the Evil Genius’s clutches.
Fire: That’s not important right now. Right now . . .
Air: . . . we need to make the world safe once more . . .
Water: . . . by rescuing Widget . . .
Earth: . . . . from the Evil Genius’s clutches. Guys, this is kind of creepy.
Narrator: Like mind control.
Earth: Like mind control . . . HEY! STOP THAT!
Air: If we all take a deep cleansing breath . . .
Water: . . . swallow hard . . .
Earth: . . . ground ourselves . . .
Fire: . . . and feel the fire in our hearts . . .
Air: . . . we can save Widget!
(Heroes focus, hands in mudras, bodies and faces clenched. Somewhere between enlightened bliss and terminal constipation.)
(Narrator walks across stage, takes Widget from the Evil Genius.)
Narrator: I’ll take that now, if you please.
All (as one): You’re . . . you’re the voice in my head!
Narrator: I’m more than that. I’m the Narrator. The most powerful being there is. I control all of you through the Cranial Capacitator. The Cranial Capacitator electrostatically amplifies the alpha waves, transmitting them through the phlogiston etherosphere . . .
Widget: HAT!!!
(WIDGET REMOVES THE CAPACITATOR AND RUNS OFFSTAGE, FOLLOWED BY ALL, SHOUTING EXTEMPORE ALONG THE LINES OF GIVE ME THAT/GIVE THAT BACK)
END.
1. I don't need time, what I need is a deadline. -- Duke Ellington
Thursday, September 25, 2008
I Won't, I Won't, I Won't
Because sometimes, the plates all come tumbling down.
I've hit this meme before but somehow it hasn't become stale. (For me at least, what think you, o Tonstant Weader? Dull as the bright shiny toy on December 26? Rather play with the box it came in and the ribbons?)
And interestingly, the album title is what's moving and grooving for me today. What am I evading? What am I accomplishing by evading it? And what will happen because I'm not doing something I should? Will the walls all crumble? Will the world end in a whimper of micro-black holes?
Or will I find space I hadn't anticipated, like when the parking lot is full up, and you turn around to leave, then just as you pass by the first row, someone backs out right in front of you. Like when you forget your lunch and your wallet, so you rummage in your desk for that half a granola bar you swear should be there, and the boss tips you a twenty for your hard work this week. A moment of unexpected grace as the parachute blossoms above you and you are caught in the arms of the wind.
I've hit this meme before but somehow it hasn't become stale. (For me at least, what think you, o Tonstant Weader? Dull as the bright shiny toy on December 26? Rather play with the box it came in and the ribbons?)
And interestingly, the album title is what's moving and grooving for me today. What am I evading? What am I accomplishing by evading it? And what will happen because I'm not doing something I should? Will the walls all crumble? Will the world end in a whimper of micro-black holes?
Or will I find space I hadn't anticipated, like when the parking lot is full up, and you turn around to leave, then just as you pass by the first row, someone backs out right in front of you. Like when you forget your lunch and your wallet, so you rummage in your desk for that half a granola bar you swear should be there, and the boss tips you a twenty for your hard work this week. A moment of unexpected grace as the parachute blossoms above you and you are caught in the arms of the wind.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Another One Bites the Dust . . .
Today tastes like capers, yellowfin tuna sashimi,and plum wine. Salty bitter sour, buttery, and sweet. The flavors of a minor victory.
So . . . If you read the last post, you've found out that I am giving up consumption for a while. (Consumption be done about dis?) I feel up to my earlobes in things that never get an honest chance to be used because there's too danged many of them. Like having too many projects on the needles--you knit and knit and knit, but never get anywhere.
A good chunk of the charity stash is in fine weight acrylic on cones. Apparantly I'm not the only knitter with eyes bigger than her needles, because one day, while I was working at a Project Linus Blanket Bee, a donation came in. It seems that they'd finally had to put Aunt Suzie the crazy machine knitter away, so they'd cleaned out Aunt Suzie's attic and found she'd been insulating with yarn; could we use it?
No kidding, there was a pile of yarn about the size of a VW Bug sitting there on the floor. You could swim in the stuff like Scrooge McDuck.
The hoards rushed in and scooped up the worsted, but there was a bunch of acylic laceweight cones left that no one wanted. I was trying to be good, but when our Project Coordinator asked me to take a look and see if any of it could be used . . . well, I only have so much self-control. Prolly take a particle physicist to find it--it's very very small, and has an enormously brief half-life.
So I ended up with cones and cones and cones of laceweight acrylic. To go with the skeins and skeins and skeins of babyweight acrylic I already had . . . but my secret plan was to twine several skeins/cones together to make worsted weight. And I have a pattern I like for this, and you don't have to twine it all before you knit, and . . .
And you can see the same little devil on Crazy Aunt Suzy's shoulder whispering that, hey, after all, she knit with MACHINES, so it was so much FASTER, she'd blow through her stash in NO TIME, so she ought to buy some MORE . . .
So . . . I've been nibbling away at the cones, just like I nibble away at the big skeins, and just as I nibble away at the tiny leftovers until it's all gone into a blanket, buh-bye. But dang, there's a lot of yards on a cone.
Hence, it a little celebration when I finally eat that last bite and leave only a tail to finish in. One of the purtiest sights there is, a nekkid cone.
I wrapped it in part of the binkie it gave its yarn for. One down . . . eleventeen to go. I'm looking forward to the day when I finally finish off the cone of white the SIZE OF MY HIPS. Seriously, that cone has gone into at least two three by five foot blankets, and is still rolling along.
So . . . If you read the last post, you've found out that I am giving up consumption for a while. (Consumption be done about dis?) I feel up to my earlobes in things that never get an honest chance to be used because there's too danged many of them. Like having too many projects on the needles--you knit and knit and knit, but never get anywhere.
A good chunk of the charity stash is in fine weight acrylic on cones. Apparantly I'm not the only knitter with eyes bigger than her needles, because one day, while I was working at a Project Linus Blanket Bee, a donation came in. It seems that they'd finally had to put Aunt Suzie the crazy machine knitter away, so they'd cleaned out Aunt Suzie's attic and found she'd been insulating with yarn; could we use it?
No kidding, there was a pile of yarn about the size of a VW Bug sitting there on the floor. You could swim in the stuff like Scrooge McDuck.
The hoards rushed in and scooped up the worsted, but there was a bunch of acylic laceweight cones left that no one wanted. I was trying to be good, but when our Project Coordinator asked me to take a look and see if any of it could be used . . . well, I only have so much self-control. Prolly take a particle physicist to find it--it's very very small, and has an enormously brief half-life.
So I ended up with cones and cones and cones of laceweight acrylic. To go with the skeins and skeins and skeins of babyweight acrylic I already had . . . but my secret plan was to twine several skeins/cones together to make worsted weight. And I have a pattern I like for this, and you don't have to twine it all before you knit, and . . .
And you can see the same little devil on Crazy Aunt Suzy's shoulder whispering that, hey, after all, she knit with MACHINES, so it was so much FASTER, she'd blow through her stash in NO TIME, so she ought to buy some MORE . . .
So . . . I've been nibbling away at the cones, just like I nibble away at the big skeins, and just as I nibble away at the tiny leftovers until it's all gone into a blanket, buh-bye. But dang, there's a lot of yards on a cone.
Hence, it a little celebration when I finally eat that last bite and leave only a tail to finish in. One of the purtiest sights there is, a nekkid cone.
I wrapped it in part of the binkie it gave its yarn for. One down . . . eleventeen to go. I'm looking forward to the day when I finally finish off the cone of white the SIZE OF MY HIPS. Seriously, that cone has gone into at least two three by five foot blankets, and is still rolling along.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Obsessions, Posessions, and An Epiphany
Today tastes like that apocraphal morning after. Where you've been subsisitng on Ryecrisps, cucumbers, and green tea for a month because there's a big blowout coming up and you want to splurge, and then you do--cream puffs and champagne and red meat and Really Exquisite ChocolateTM and lots and lots and lots of each of these, and then some more. Wheeee!!!!
And then you wake up the next morning, and the Party Bus has left the station. Without you. You're standing in the terminal huffing diesel fumes with your luggage piled around your feet, and confetti drifting in the breeze like colored dandruff.
It finally hit me this afternoon. I hire someone to clean my house, but I told her (counts on fingers) three years ago that we'd handle the decluttering and putting stuff where it belonged.
The house sparkles. What you can see of it under the piles and mountains and heaps of stuff. Most of it stuff that entertains me--stuff to make stuff with, stuff to watch while I'm making stuff, stuff that honors a relationship. We don't really buy much new except for clothes (and even then, I'll buy socks and undies at the discount store, and outerwear at Goodwill if they have something just right).
And this afternoon, it hit me. I am a slave to my stuff.
When things go missing, it sends me into a tizzy. But there's no place to put it, or the place is so cram-jammed with other stuff that I can't find it even though it's right in front of me--there's just too many things!
So not only do I have a bunch of physical stuff, I have emotional stuff about my physical stuff. Stuff about my stuff, and stuff about being stuffed with stuff.
I have clothes I don't wear because they don't fit my body. (Too small in the waist, too big in the hips and thighs. In the same garment!!! What am I going to do--regain the inches I've peeled off in exactly those spots?) Clothes I don't wear because they don't fit the image I want to project. (Punk and goth are just not the same after twenty-five . . .) Shoes that hurt my feet after a few minutes, but that aren't anything special to look at. (If you wear nine-inch heels, you're expected to be sculpture. But if you have a pair of two-inch heeled pumps that are just as uncomfortable, there's no payoff. They're just pumps, for heaven's sake!)
A lot of my stuff is stuff to make stuff with, and a lot of that is stuff that gets sent out into the world. I knit for charity most of the time. I knit for myself and those close to me sometimes. I get that. I get that the hard part of getting rid of stuff I don't need will be getting rid of the stuff to do stuff with.
So I'm starting where it's easy. I spent an hour last night working on the casual side of my closet. I need seven T shirts (five to work out in, two to slack around in). Done. I got rid of the extra jeans (only need two pair -- Casual Friday and a spare). Cleared out old and cherished sweaters that I could fit THREE of me in--they were "oversized" when I bought them, and there was a LOT more of me then.
Tonight I'm going to hit the work side of the closet. Then maybe I can see what I really have to wear. I don't need more than three pairs of black pants, ten overall printed T's, and ten silk shirts. My black jacket needs replacing--but I have it's sucessor on hand. I just need to take it to the tailor to have a couple of buttons moved and the sleeves taken up to 3/4 length.
That gives me two week's worth of outfits (or two wardrobes--one fall/winter/spring in the T's, one for hot and muggy summer in the silk). Maybe I'll watch for 3/4 sleeve plain color T's to go with my broomstick skirts for summer, with flats. I love the look of those skirts, and how cool and floaty they are when the humidity's high. Maybe I'll put that on my want list and see if the urge cools down. (For a while, I really wanted a laptop. REALLY REALLY REALLY wanted a laptop. Would have sold my soul for one. Last week, DH Gareth found a great deal on a used one on eBay, and asked if I wanted one. A laptop? For what? I spend too much time online as it is . . .)
And then? Maybe the living room and kitchen, possibly the library. Yeah, the library makes more sense. Get rid of the books that are taking up space, that I've read enough times that I don't reach for them, that I can get at the public library if I have to have to have them. Then maybe I'll have room for the DVD's that I watch as I knit.
I don't expect I'll ever get really Zen and spartan, like those hypermodern rooms featured in magazines where everything is streamlined and stark--the colors are white, eggshell, and sand, with one lily in a black glass vase. I just don't want to wind up with banker's boxes of stuff piled in closets (Jeans, Stuffed Animals, LP's, 8 Tracks [flinch]) or stacked in rooms and screened with gaily-printed curtains. I don't want to live in a pile of decorative clutter any more.
I won't be a slave to my stuff.
And then you wake up the next morning, and the Party Bus has left the station. Without you. You're standing in the terminal huffing diesel fumes with your luggage piled around your feet, and confetti drifting in the breeze like colored dandruff.
It finally hit me this afternoon. I hire someone to clean my house, but I told her (counts on fingers) three years ago that we'd handle the decluttering and putting stuff where it belonged.
The house sparkles. What you can see of it under the piles and mountains and heaps of stuff. Most of it stuff that entertains me--stuff to make stuff with, stuff to watch while I'm making stuff, stuff that honors a relationship. We don't really buy much new except for clothes (and even then, I'll buy socks and undies at the discount store, and outerwear at Goodwill if they have something just right).
And this afternoon, it hit me. I am a slave to my stuff.
When things go missing, it sends me into a tizzy. But there's no place to put it, or the place is so cram-jammed with other stuff that I can't find it even though it's right in front of me--there's just too many things!
So not only do I have a bunch of physical stuff, I have emotional stuff about my physical stuff. Stuff about my stuff, and stuff about being stuffed with stuff.
I have clothes I don't wear because they don't fit my body. (Too small in the waist, too big in the hips and thighs. In the same garment!!! What am I going to do--regain the inches I've peeled off in exactly those spots?) Clothes I don't wear because they don't fit the image I want to project. (Punk and goth are just not the same after twenty-five . . .) Shoes that hurt my feet after a few minutes, but that aren't anything special to look at. (If you wear nine-inch heels, you're expected to be sculpture. But if you have a pair of two-inch heeled pumps that are just as uncomfortable, there's no payoff. They're just pumps, for heaven's sake!)
A lot of my stuff is stuff to make stuff with, and a lot of that is stuff that gets sent out into the world. I knit for charity most of the time. I knit for myself and those close to me sometimes. I get that. I get that the hard part of getting rid of stuff I don't need will be getting rid of the stuff to do stuff with.
So I'm starting where it's easy. I spent an hour last night working on the casual side of my closet. I need seven T shirts (five to work out in, two to slack around in). Done. I got rid of the extra jeans (only need two pair -- Casual Friday and a spare). Cleared out old and cherished sweaters that I could fit THREE of me in--they were "oversized" when I bought them, and there was a LOT more of me then.
Tonight I'm going to hit the work side of the closet. Then maybe I can see what I really have to wear. I don't need more than three pairs of black pants, ten overall printed T's, and ten silk shirts. My black jacket needs replacing--but I have it's sucessor on hand. I just need to take it to the tailor to have a couple of buttons moved and the sleeves taken up to 3/4 length.
That gives me two week's worth of outfits (or two wardrobes--one fall/winter/spring in the T's, one for hot and muggy summer in the silk). Maybe I'll watch for 3/4 sleeve plain color T's to go with my broomstick skirts for summer, with flats. I love the look of those skirts, and how cool and floaty they are when the humidity's high. Maybe I'll put that on my want list and see if the urge cools down. (For a while, I really wanted a laptop. REALLY REALLY REALLY wanted a laptop. Would have sold my soul for one. Last week, DH Gareth found a great deal on a used one on eBay, and asked if I wanted one. A laptop? For what? I spend too much time online as it is . . .)
And then? Maybe the living room and kitchen, possibly the library. Yeah, the library makes more sense. Get rid of the books that are taking up space, that I've read enough times that I don't reach for them, that I can get at the public library if I have to have to have them. Then maybe I'll have room for the DVD's that I watch as I knit.
I don't expect I'll ever get really Zen and spartan, like those hypermodern rooms featured in magazines where everything is streamlined and stark--the colors are white, eggshell, and sand, with one lily in a black glass vase. I just don't want to wind up with banker's boxes of stuff piled in closets (Jeans, Stuffed Animals, LP's, 8 Tracks [flinch]) or stacked in rooms and screened with gaily-printed curtains. I don't want to live in a pile of decorative clutter any more.
I won't be a slave to my stuff.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
If I Had a Nickle . . .
Today tastes like the remains of a good idea, and frustration with what I hath wrought. Yup, carmalized brown butter Rice Krispie Treats just about sums it up.
See, I had almost the perfect pattern for a Linus binkie. One pattern row, one simple return row. But I wanted it in strips for portability and because it is so hot and humid that my brain cell has wilted and I can't remember the winter when I shivered in my thin, thin blood and moaned about freezing in the sub-100's and wore fingerless gloves to the office amid remarks about not getting but a half-day at Christmas and my diminutive (stature-challenged, differently large) son (male offspring) Tim.
So do I listen to good sense and sit down with the pattern? Well, to a point. Perhaps the one on my head.
I count out the repeat (15 stitches) and then, rather than spending 20 whole minutes swatching, I go off chasing undomesticated waterfowl across the 'Net, looking for the PERFECT perfect pattern--a ripple afghan, knitted, in strips.
I spend 40 minutes on this wild goose chase. Fruitless? Absolutely. Like a plum tree in Phoenix in the height of summer. Crispy fruitles; branches on the ground fruitless; crawling off to dip roots in the pool before expiring, gasping, on the lawn fruitless.
Then I sat down, counted carefully, cast on . . . and in ten minutes had my pattern proofed. Grrrrrr . . .
It's gotta be the heat.
Here goes: the PERFECT Ripple Pattern
Leftmost strip: CO odd multiple of 15 plus 4: 1 SS, 2 garter edge, pattern, 1 SS
Center strips: CO same odd multiple of 15 plus 2: 1 SS, pattern, 1 SS
Rightmost strip: CO same odd multiple of 15 plus 4: 1 SS, pattern, 2 garter edge, 1 SS.
Work first 4 rows and last 4 rows in garter.
Pattern: Sl 1, k 2, *k2tog, k 5, yo, k1, yo, k5, ssk* end as per strip. Purl back starting on row 6.
Gotta be the heat.
See, I had almost the perfect pattern for a Linus binkie. One pattern row, one simple return row. But I wanted it in strips for portability and because it is so hot and humid that my brain cell has wilted and I can't remember the winter when I shivered in my thin, thin blood and moaned about freezing in the sub-100's and wore fingerless gloves to the office amid remarks about not getting but a half-day at Christmas and my diminutive (stature-challenged, differently large) son (male offspring) Tim.
So do I listen to good sense and sit down with the pattern? Well, to a point. Perhaps the one on my head.
I count out the repeat (15 stitches) and then, rather than spending 20 whole minutes swatching, I go off chasing undomesticated waterfowl across the 'Net, looking for the PERFECT perfect pattern--a ripple afghan, knitted, in strips.
I spend 40 minutes on this wild goose chase. Fruitless? Absolutely. Like a plum tree in Phoenix in the height of summer. Crispy fruitles; branches on the ground fruitless; crawling off to dip roots in the pool before expiring, gasping, on the lawn fruitless.
Then I sat down, counted carefully, cast on . . . and in ten minutes had my pattern proofed. Grrrrrr . . .
It's gotta be the heat.
Here goes: the PERFECT Ripple Pattern
Leftmost strip: CO odd multiple of 15 plus 4: 1 SS, 2 garter edge, pattern, 1 SS
Center strips: CO same odd multiple of 15 plus 2: 1 SS, pattern, 1 SS
Rightmost strip: CO same odd multiple of 15 plus 4: 1 SS, pattern, 2 garter edge, 1 SS.
Work first 4 rows and last 4 rows in garter.
Pattern: Sl 1, k 2, *k2tog, k 5, yo, k1, yo, k5, ssk* end as per strip. Purl back starting on row 6.
Gotta be the heat.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Unholy Hybrid
Pictures as promised–but this may take some ‘splaining.
See, in the beginning was a writer named Howard Phillips Lovecraft (genuflects). And he wrote short stories that quickly became a shared universe among a number of pulp writers. In a nutshell, these stories were about a universe that was not just indifferent, it was inimical. The BEST one could hope for was that the gods took absolutely no notice of you whatsoever and just squished you like the insignificant insect you were.
Because, see, the gods running the universe were both awesome and terrible. Utterly inhuman and unknowable. Evil can be bargained with, because evil wants something you have. Evil covets, and by offering it a way to acquire what it covets, you have some handle on the situation. These gods . . . don’t really want anything you have. They have their own motivations and desires. You just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Go here for more (if you
dare.)
And as so many projects do, it took on its own form of life. Fans of the fiction began writing their own. The internet spawned (you should forgive the term) an unholy hybrid of lolcats and the Mythos, resulting in LOLthulhu–recaptioned pictures from the Mythos. Ur sanity–it has a flavr.
So–wayyy wayyy back when (can it really have been about a decade ago?? I think it was . . .) A bunch of us were having dinner when we got into a discussion of Codpieces of Cthlhu. I think it was when I said something about St. Cyr sounded like a Lovecraftian high priestess and sufficient persons at the table were into Rocky Horror that the theme, well, caught fire.
We rattled off a ton of names for them, mostly alliterative–the Cuddly Codpiece of Cthulhu, the Carniverous Codpiece of Cthulhu, the Concupicent Codpiece of Cthulhu. And the Elvis Codpiece of Cthulhu. There may be pictures floating around fandom somewhere of the Codpieces and the party to which they were worn, but this was long before I had a digital camera. Or a blog, for that matter.
This year, the theme for the August Party is “Atlantis Goes to Hell.” DH Gareth asked me to make him a Codpiece of Cthulhu to wear because that would be appropriate and comfortable to wear while manning the grill in August in Arizona. Because it is both hot and humid. (Yes, yes, Floridians laugh at the notion of “humid” in Arizona, and say they can handle it. Earlier this summer, a dozen Floridian touristas had to be rescued off Camelback Mountain while hiking, due to dehydration. They only had 30 bottle of water with them, but honey, it’s 110 and 25 percent out there. Three bottles of water ain’t gonna get you up and down Camelback Mountain in the late morning.)
I said sure, figuring it couldn’t be any harder than a doll. I had a codpiece pattern from all those years ago, and the trimming bit should be pretty simple. Of course, my patterning methods leave a lot to be desired–I sort of get some paper, mentally project the three-dimensional piece into the flat, and cut away everything that doesn’t match my vision. Uhm, yeah.
Now that you’ve read this far, a reward! Pictures of the Cetaceous Codpiece of Cthulhu!
Even better than jazz sitar . . .
See, in the beginning was a writer named Howard Phillips Lovecraft (genuflects). And he wrote short stories that quickly became a shared universe among a number of pulp writers. In a nutshell, these stories were about a universe that was not just indifferent, it was inimical. The BEST one could hope for was that the gods took absolutely no notice of you whatsoever and just squished you like the insignificant insect you were.
Because, see, the gods running the universe were both awesome and terrible. Utterly inhuman and unknowable. Evil can be bargained with, because evil wants something you have. Evil covets, and by offering it a way to acquire what it covets, you have some handle on the situation. These gods . . . don’t really want anything you have. They have their own motivations and desires. You just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Go here for more (if you
dare.)
And as so many projects do, it took on its own form of life. Fans of the fiction began writing their own. The internet spawned (you should forgive the term) an unholy hybrid of lolcats and the Mythos, resulting in LOLthulhu–recaptioned pictures from the Mythos. Ur sanity–it has a flavr.
So–wayyy wayyy back when (can it really have been about a decade ago?? I think it was . . .) A bunch of us were having dinner when we got into a discussion of Codpieces of Cthlhu. I think it was when I said something about St. Cyr sounded like a Lovecraftian high priestess and sufficient persons at the table were into Rocky Horror that the theme, well, caught fire.
We rattled off a ton of names for them, mostly alliterative–the Cuddly Codpiece of Cthulhu, the Carniverous Codpiece of Cthulhu, the Concupicent Codpiece of Cthulhu. And the Elvis Codpiece of Cthulhu. There may be pictures floating around fandom somewhere of the Codpieces and the party to which they were worn, but this was long before I had a digital camera. Or a blog, for that matter.
This year, the theme for the August Party is “Atlantis Goes to Hell.” DH Gareth asked me to make him a Codpiece of Cthulhu to wear because that would be appropriate and comfortable to wear while manning the grill in August in Arizona. Because it is both hot and humid. (Yes, yes, Floridians laugh at the notion of “humid” in Arizona, and say they can handle it. Earlier this summer, a dozen Floridian touristas had to be rescued off Camelback Mountain while hiking, due to dehydration. They only had 30 bottle of water with them, but honey, it’s 110 and 25 percent out there. Three bottles of water ain’t gonna get you up and down Camelback Mountain in the late morning.)
I said sure, figuring it couldn’t be any harder than a doll. I had a codpiece pattern from all those years ago, and the trimming bit should be pretty simple. Of course, my patterning methods leave a lot to be desired–I sort of get some paper, mentally project the three-dimensional piece into the flat, and cut away everything that doesn’t match my vision. Uhm, yeah.
Now that you’ve read this far, a reward! Pictures of the Cetaceous Codpiece of Cthulhu!
Even better than jazz sitar . . .
Friday, August 15, 2008
Not Medal-Worthy . . .
. . . but some personal records, nonetheless.
See, last September (September 11, as a matter of fact) I started a new workout routine courtesy of Coach Glassman at Crossfit. I liked the idea of a Hobbsian workout (nasty, brutish, and short) and a Nietzscesque philosophy (uberhuman will and what does not kill youjust hurts a bit makes you stronger).
And while I have a project that should make some good photos in the works (codpiece of Cthulhu, anyone?) it's not ready yet. Other than some pattern pieces, most of it's in my head. Which is probably the best place for it, come to think it.
But I didn't want to let this week go by without a note. So, while this is not so impressive next to Cao Lei's 282 pound snatch (get your mind out of that gutter!)I wanted to drop a note regarding my personal record for sit-ups.
Three sets of 15 on an incline board, unbroken.
But heay, I've been working on that since January. That's longer than it takes me to knit a six-foot square lace shawl!
What now? Well, I plan to get where I can do the three sets of fifteen unbroken for a couple of weeks all together, and then . . . crank up the incline another notch and start the process over again. First set at the higher notch until you get a couple weeks of all three unbroken, then two sets at the higher setting, and so on so on so forth.
See, last September (September 11, as a matter of fact) I started a new workout routine courtesy of Coach Glassman at Crossfit. I liked the idea of a Hobbsian workout (nasty, brutish, and short) and a Nietzscesque philosophy (uberhuman will and what does not kill you
And while I have a project that should make some good photos in the works (codpiece of Cthulhu, anyone?) it's not ready yet. Other than some pattern pieces, most of it's in my head. Which is probably the best place for it, come to think it.
But I didn't want to let this week go by without a note. So, while this is not so impressive next to Cao Lei's 282 pound snatch (get your mind out of that gutter!)I wanted to drop a note regarding my personal record for sit-ups.
Three sets of 15 on an incline board, unbroken.
But heay, I've been working on that since January. That's longer than it takes me to knit a six-foot square lace shawl!
What now? Well, I plan to get where I can do the three sets of fifteen unbroken for a couple of weeks all together, and then . . . crank up the incline another notch and start the process over again. First set at the higher notch until you get a couple weeks of all three unbroken, then two sets at the higher setting, and so on so on so forth.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Citius, Altius, Decubis
Today tastes like endive, licorice basil, fresh tomatoes still warm from the sun, and balsamic vinaigrette with enough garlic. All the very best parts of late summer.
It’s Friday and once again the weekend is rolling up like a 48 hour juggernaut. Tonight, apres gym , I plan to sit in my favorite armchair with something cold and tasty and knit on the current obsession until my fingers fall asleep. Which may not take very long. Yesterday’s workout included 135 pull-ups, so by the time we finished, I had trouble getting my fingers to wrap around the combination lock. My hands still feel a little off.
Saturday means a Project Linus gathering and an opportunity to work on the blanket nearest completion. I have learned that I like the strip blankies a lot better–they’re so much more portable and less ghastly during the dog days. It’s worth the finishing work to sew the seams and add a border post-knit. I have two strips and a bit done in an estonian star stitch, and one strip and a bit in a favorite knit and purl pattern.
Sunday will get poured into the current obsession again. Why no pictures? It’s a black lace shawl, which will be lovely when it’s off the needles and blocked, but right now . . . it’s a forlorn black blob. It started as a little black strip, then became a little black blob, and now it’s a bigger black blob. Not very exciting to look at. (Although Thorax thinks it’s stunning cool in the sun where you can see the blues and greens underlying the black, and is scouting locations for the shoot. I have been telling her that there is no way in hell I am subsidizing a trip to the Manhattan garment district for a blog post.)
After this, I have a couple more shawls that need to be worked up, but my heart is lusting after garments. Real garments. Made to fit a body, not just shapes. Garments with sleeves and closures.
Bizarre, huh?
Maybe not so much. I have cones of rayon chenille I bought back when I was flirting with the idea of knitted suits (before I understood just how much stockinette that would entail). I’ve meant to knit up some twinsets, because that might actually happen. The rayon doesn’t hold heat well, so these would be cozy and nice in the air-conditioning of summer, and just enough in winter. I’m thinking top-down u-neck shells in the round with bust darts and waist shaping and shirt-tail hems paired with cabled v-neck cardis that button up. I have a jacket whose fit I like a lot (length and everything) to mimic for the cardis.
I’m woozy with lust for this one pattern in the fall 2005 Knitty (an online knitting magazine). I love the trees on the front, so of course I want to make copious changes.
I want the trees on the back; I want something more like the Gondor motif in LOTR; and while I want the leaves on the sleeves, I want saddle sleeves that are bracelet/three-quarter length. I’m thinking I’ll have to knit the back from the bottom up, but then I can construct the saddles, sleeves, and fronts from the top down. And rather than do the fronts in a pattern per se, I want to do stochastic cables like Lucy Neatby’s Cables After Whiskey. That’ll be enough texture to make the sweater cohesive without being fussy and over-the-top.
See, the back will be fussy and elaborate, with fancy sleeves, and the front will be interestingly crunchy with nifty buttons and fancy sleeves, so the sweater will look like it all belongs together. It’s all crunchy and textured from any viewpoint. But at the same time, it’s not all complex and ethnic funkified museum-piece work.
But first I’ll need to swatch. I think I’ll swatch random cables, as that should give me a good idea how many stitches I’ll have to play with over the back. I may design trees on the fly up to where the branches go, or steal a tree from another designer.
And I have more ideas for Linus binkies. I want to use some multi-strand knitting and do random cables in a strippie so the colors shift softly while the stitches wander around. I want to take odd balls and do the three-ball trick where you knit one row of color a, purl one row of color b, then knit one row of color c and just keep moving them along. This creates a kind of blend between variegated and its homemade pooling tendencies and “I’m trying to use up every bit of my yarn” stripes. Doing slip-stitch work at the same time makes cheerful peerie type patterns.
So I’ve got startitis again. (Which is a good thing, actually. Earlier this week I didn’t want to knit on the current obsession, I didn’t want to think about knitting, I didn’t want anything to do with sticks and string.1) I just need to get some of these off the needles before I wind myself up into too many things at once.
1. This is how my obsessions usually end–I took down the quilting frame, and haven’t made a top in years. I put down the crochet hook, and aside from knitting-related work, I haven’t made a crocheted item in forever–although the aragumi movement is calling me, a little2. I deco’d for about a year before the fire died.
2. I want to knit or crochet tiny penguin mascots3 for me and Gareth.
3. We were working out one day, and I was frustrated at my utter lack of pullups. I growled, “I’m tired of being weak,” and Gareth misheard me as saying “I’m a tiny penguin.” The Tiny Penguin has become our gym mascot, embodying perseverance and fierceness. Penguin up!
It’s Friday and once again the weekend is rolling up like a 48 hour juggernaut. Tonight, apres gym , I plan to sit in my favorite armchair with something cold and tasty and knit on the current obsession until my fingers fall asleep. Which may not take very long. Yesterday’s workout included 135 pull-ups, so by the time we finished, I had trouble getting my fingers to wrap around the combination lock. My hands still feel a little off.
Saturday means a Project Linus gathering and an opportunity to work on the blanket nearest completion. I have learned that I like the strip blankies a lot better–they’re so much more portable and less ghastly during the dog days. It’s worth the finishing work to sew the seams and add a border post-knit. I have two strips and a bit done in an estonian star stitch, and one strip and a bit in a favorite knit and purl pattern.
Sunday will get poured into the current obsession again. Why no pictures? It’s a black lace shawl, which will be lovely when it’s off the needles and blocked, but right now . . . it’s a forlorn black blob. It started as a little black strip, then became a little black blob, and now it’s a bigger black blob. Not very exciting to look at. (Although Thorax thinks it’s stunning cool in the sun where you can see the blues and greens underlying the black, and is scouting locations for the shoot. I have been telling her that there is no way in hell I am subsidizing a trip to the Manhattan garment district for a blog post.)
After this, I have a couple more shawls that need to be worked up, but my heart is lusting after garments. Real garments. Made to fit a body, not just shapes. Garments with sleeves and closures.
Bizarre, huh?
Maybe not so much. I have cones of rayon chenille I bought back when I was flirting with the idea of knitted suits (before I understood just how much stockinette that would entail). I’ve meant to knit up some twinsets, because that might actually happen. The rayon doesn’t hold heat well, so these would be cozy and nice in the air-conditioning of summer, and just enough in winter. I’m thinking top-down u-neck shells in the round with bust darts and waist shaping and shirt-tail hems paired with cabled v-neck cardis that button up. I have a jacket whose fit I like a lot (length and everything) to mimic for the cardis.
I’m woozy with lust for this one pattern in the fall 2005 Knitty (an online knitting magazine). I love the trees on the front, so of course I want to make copious changes.
I want the trees on the back; I want something more like the Gondor motif in LOTR; and while I want the leaves on the sleeves, I want saddle sleeves that are bracelet/three-quarter length. I’m thinking I’ll have to knit the back from the bottom up, but then I can construct the saddles, sleeves, and fronts from the top down. And rather than do the fronts in a pattern per se, I want to do stochastic cables like Lucy Neatby’s Cables After Whiskey. That’ll be enough texture to make the sweater cohesive without being fussy and over-the-top.
See, the back will be fussy and elaborate, with fancy sleeves, and the front will be interestingly crunchy with nifty buttons and fancy sleeves, so the sweater will look like it all belongs together. It’s all crunchy and textured from any viewpoint. But at the same time, it’s not all complex and ethnic funkified museum-piece work.
But first I’ll need to swatch. I think I’ll swatch random cables, as that should give me a good idea how many stitches I’ll have to play with over the back. I may design trees on the fly up to where the branches go, or steal a tree from another designer.
And I have more ideas for Linus binkies. I want to use some multi-strand knitting and do random cables in a strippie so the colors shift softly while the stitches wander around. I want to take odd balls and do the three-ball trick where you knit one row of color a, purl one row of color b, then knit one row of color c and just keep moving them along. This creates a kind of blend between variegated and its homemade pooling tendencies and “I’m trying to use up every bit of my yarn” stripes. Doing slip-stitch work at the same time makes cheerful peerie type patterns.
So I’ve got startitis again. (Which is a good thing, actually. Earlier this week I didn’t want to knit on the current obsession, I didn’t want to think about knitting, I didn’t want anything to do with sticks and string.1) I just need to get some of these off the needles before I wind myself up into too many things at once.
1. This is how my obsessions usually end–I took down the quilting frame, and haven’t made a top in years. I put down the crochet hook, and aside from knitting-related work, I haven’t made a crocheted item in forever–although the aragumi movement is calling me, a little2. I deco’d for about a year before the fire died.
2. I want to knit or crochet tiny penguin mascots3 for me and Gareth.
3. We were working out one day, and I was frustrated at my utter lack of pullups. I growled, “I’m tired of being weak,” and Gareth misheard me as saying “I’m a tiny penguin.” The Tiny Penguin has become our gym mascot, embodying perseverance and fierceness. Penguin up!
Friday, August 01, 2008
THWOCK!!!!!
Today tastes amazingly like the coffee at the office. It's thin and burnt and weak. And even the cream that is Friday and the beginning of a weekend doesn't help it.
Where to begin.
Well.
Part of being an adherent to the surreal is that synchronicity becomes a mantra. That's one part the protomystical claptrap pushed in The Secret gets right. When things begin coming at you in multiples, pay attention. No, PAY ATTENTION (end flaming flashing rotating 100 point font).
A couple of weeks ago, a mail buddy dropped me a postcard with her best wishes. You know, everything was fine in her world, and hoped that all was well with me. And I thought I should dig up her address and send her a note or a card . . . and that's about where it stopped. She's on my list of Random Mail Stuff To Do Real Soon Now. Because, well, everything lasts forever, right? (hint)
So yesterday, I'm reading a book that is not by a fave author (and no, I don't recommend it, so I'm not putting up the title here, let's just say I was reading it for gleanings on design theory and got an earful of scripture blatted at me, sheeplike. {No issues with scripture or those who read or practice--if you can discuss intelligently, and not just parrot back [squark] 1 Corinthians 17:1 [squark]. Uhm-hmm.} Post rebuttal of this verse to the comments, please.)
So, reading along, I thought about Ms. Chifann Mayhem. We'd been at a party last Friday to say farewell to some mutual buds who were packing up and blowing town, and I shut down shortly after the sun set. (I'm solar powered, which sucks when the sun comes up at 4:30 a.m. and my eyelids pop open with an audible * plink *.) So I boogied without saying goodbye, and felt bad about that, cause Mayhem is big on "hello goodbye I got home safe." (We were both raised in big open states where the cities are surrounded by honkin' great empty spaces. Even in the metro Salt River Valley where you have to work to find dead spaces, we call to say "got home safe" after a party.)
After thinking about her for several minutes, I realized this would do no good at all unless I told her I was thinking of her and wishing her well. And OMG, I actually whipped out my cell phone and texted her a note. Because, well, nothing lasts forever, right? (Hint)
That's a perpetual theme of one of my favorite writers, Parrie Digh. Her blog, 37 Days, was started after her father was diagnosed with cancer, and died 37 days later. Sooner or later, we all come to the last 37 days of our life. What would you want remembered? What would you do if you knew that this was it?
Ms. Digh's been celebrating the countdown to having her first book of essays (Life is a Verb) published. We're on day 34 now, and she's been asking her readers to tell the world what they would do with their last 37 days on this earth. (HINT)
So Mayhem texted me back, and we put together plans to spend some time together tomorrow, having brunch and a matinee. And I'm glad we did, because this morning Mayhem sent me a note that Boromir, Hub's dad, had passed on last night. (HINT!!!)
This wasn't unexpected. Boromir was diagnosed with a wildfire cancer late last year/early this year, and this spring he was moved to hospice care. Hub had flown out to see Boromir last week, and the question was, would Boromir be around by the time the plane landed?
Still and all, dammit. Boromir was one of the few people I chose to have in my life, and made a point of seeing when he was in town. He joined us for Grimm's when he could, and was a welcome guest.
Got it. No more taps on the head needed, thanks.
Where to begin.
Well.
Part of being an adherent to the surreal is that synchronicity becomes a mantra. That's one part the protomystical claptrap pushed in The Secret gets right. When things begin coming at you in multiples, pay attention. No, PAY ATTENTION (end flaming flashing rotating 100 point font).
A couple of weeks ago, a mail buddy dropped me a postcard with her best wishes. You know, everything was fine in her world, and hoped that all was well with me. And I thought I should dig up her address and send her a note or a card . . . and that's about where it stopped. She's on my list of Random Mail Stuff To Do Real Soon Now. Because, well, everything lasts forever, right? (hint)
So yesterday, I'm reading a book that is not by a fave author (and no, I don't recommend it, so I'm not putting up the title here, let's just say I was reading it for gleanings on design theory and got an earful of scripture blatted at me, sheeplike. {No issues with scripture or those who read or practice--if you can discuss intelligently, and not just parrot back [squark] 1 Corinthians 17:1 [squark]. Uhm-hmm.} Post rebuttal of this verse to the comments, please.)
So, reading along, I thought about Ms. Chifann Mayhem. We'd been at a party last Friday to say farewell to some mutual buds who were packing up and blowing town, and I shut down shortly after the sun set. (I'm solar powered, which sucks when the sun comes up at 4:30 a.m. and my eyelids pop open with an audible * plink *.) So I boogied without saying goodbye, and felt bad about that, cause Mayhem is big on "hello goodbye I got home safe." (We were both raised in big open states where the cities are surrounded by honkin' great empty spaces. Even in the metro Salt River Valley where you have to work to find dead spaces, we call to say "got home safe" after a party.)
After thinking about her for several minutes, I realized this would do no good at all unless I told her I was thinking of her and wishing her well. And OMG, I actually whipped out my cell phone and texted her a note. Because, well, nothing lasts forever, right? (Hint)
That's a perpetual theme of one of my favorite writers, Parrie Digh. Her blog, 37 Days, was started after her father was diagnosed with cancer, and died 37 days later. Sooner or later, we all come to the last 37 days of our life. What would you want remembered? What would you do if you knew that this was it?
Ms. Digh's been celebrating the countdown to having her first book of essays (Life is a Verb) published. We're on day 34 now, and she's been asking her readers to tell the world what they would do with their last 37 days on this earth. (HINT)
So Mayhem texted me back, and we put together plans to spend some time together tomorrow, having brunch and a matinee. And I'm glad we did, because this morning Mayhem sent me a note that Boromir, Hub's dad, had passed on last night. (HINT!!!)
This wasn't unexpected. Boromir was diagnosed with a wildfire cancer late last year/early this year, and this spring he was moved to hospice care. Hub had flown out to see Boromir last week, and the question was, would Boromir be around by the time the plane landed?
Still and all, dammit. Boromir was one of the few people I chose to have in my life, and made a point of seeing when he was in town. He joined us for Grimm's when he could, and was a welcome guest.
Got it. No more taps on the head needed, thanks.
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