When you make a large pot of soup, it's difficult to be certain that each scoop is exactly the same as the previous one. As a result, what is served from the bottom of the pot is just a bit different from the top of the pot. In theory, it's still the same soup, but maybe there's more spice and less carrots at the end.

Carolyn, a woman who I met through my former roommate, applied this theory to people. It was her Vat Theory. For instance Carolyn bore a striking resemblance to Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. Thus, they shared the same vat. And given the close resemblance, they came from roughly the same depth within the vat.

Throughout my life, I've heard that I resemble Katie Couric, Carly Simon, and Frances McDormand of Fargo fame. I really don't see it, but if we share the same vat, we're all definately from different levels within the vat. Maybe it's the "small eyes, prominent mouth, brown hair" vat?

The Vat Theory can certainly be applied to clothing. There are Gap Shoppers, Boutique Shoppers, J. Crew Shoppers, etc. Sometimes we like to mix it up, but I think most of us have a fairly consistent style. And it's this style that most likely informs out knitting pattern choices.

In spite of feeling like I need a little injection of excitement into my Clothing Style Vat, I'm pretty comfortable with where I am. How often have we gone out on a limb to incorporate a fashion trend into our wardrobe, only to rediscover it -- with tags intact -- when the trend is recycled a few years later?

In knitting, I think it's great to challenge the boundaries of your skills and technique, but I don't think it wise to do the same with style. At least not too much. And I've finally come to realize that this is the reason I'm stalling on the Cross Over Tank.

Sure, I'd still like adventure. Yes, I still need to lose weight. But none of these are why the tank is unfinished. Because weight loss and vacations won't change who I am fundamentally. I am a bit on the conservative/classic side when it comes to clothing, and the Cross Over Tank is not in my Style Vat, which means that once finished, it's chance of getting worn is very low.

So, should I invest any more of my knitting energy into a garment destined for the bowels of my closet?

I had big plans to share last night's presentation of our knitting circle's baby blanket to the mama-to-be. However, Mr. Migraine had other ideas. I passed out -- within minutes of my arrival home -- in my clothes. By nature, I am not an after work napper, and if I were, it certainly wouldn't be in my work clothes.

So in pain was I that when I finally noticed my mail, around 9:30pm, I couldn't be bothered to leaf through the new Vogue Knitting.

This morning, I awoke bereft of content, bleeding from the nose, and blinded by the feeling of a drill boring into my skull. Thankfully, Sarah of Stitch! tagged me for a meme, so here goes...





Pronunciation Key
n. pl. id·i·o·syn·cra·sies
A structural or behavioral characteristic peculiar to an individual or group.

Write down five of your own personal idiosyncracies. Then, if you wish, tag five people to do the same.

Two by Two
I can't eat small items (candy, french fries, nuts, etc.) in odd numbers. I can only eat items like this two at a time -- or in some multiple of two. If I come to the end of a batch of such foods to find three, I will eat two. Split the last one in half. One becomes two!

When I smoked and bummed drags off a friend's cigarette, it had to be two drags.

No Five
I'm with Sarah on this one. I will not high five someone. Frat boys and jocks do that.

Crusty Dog
When eating triangular foods (pie, pizza, quiche), I start from the crust end and work my way to the tip. It's my way of saving the best for last. And I always eat pizza with a fork and knife.

A Little Bit of This, A Little Bit of That
When I have various food groups on my plate, I like to load my fork with a little taste from each as I eat. It's been noted that I move around the plate circularly to pick up meat, potato, vegetable before I take the bite.

Flirting with Disaster
Finally! One that isn't food related. I like to test the possibility that I'll still find love and my dream job even if I don't forward the "Love Test email" to twenty friends. I like to show my defiance by sending it two less people than the requirement. Thus, I'll tag only two friends for this meme. Ms Yvone, whose father would not have appreciated my crust-first approach to life. And My Dear Hindsley, who I suspect will find limiting herself to just five a difficult task.

I was a teenager during the 1970s when it was super cool to wear concert tees, to spend Friday nights at the roller rink, and to tear the skin off your fingers by trying to zip up toooo tight jeans. Somehow, my maidenhead survived the assult, but it scarred me in other ways. I don't think I've worn a pair of jeans since my high school days, and you will certainly never catch me wearing low rise trousers of any sort. I don't care how thin, young, or cute you are, there should be not chance of exposing your ass crack or pubic hair in public.

In spite of protestions to the contrary, perhaps, I have gone a touch Soy Latte because I recently purchased a long broomstick skirt. Previously, this is the sort of fashion I'd have dismissed on several grounds. That it would make me look fat was one of them. Maybe I was crazy from the heat, but I threw my $12.00 down.

Turns out the downfall of the broomstick skirt is not so much the fabric or the length -- although it's been a bit harrowing to find my legs all tangled up in fabric each time I ascend or descend the stairs -- but the waist. Allow me to clarify.

Elastic waist.

The effect is not broomstick at all. Rather, more like a whisk with a very short handle with a very wide broom. This is not low self-esteem or body dysmorphia talking. The damn skirt makes me look wider than I am tall!

And that is just not going to work for me. I hope it works for someone else because the broomstick skirt has found a new home in the pile of items to be donated.

Last night I rented Super Size Me.

The concepts and information presented in documentaries such as Super Size Me or Farenheit 9/11 aren't all that shocking or new to me. I seek out alternative news sources; I read about nutrition and the food industry.

What I found so shocking was Spurlock's frighteningly rapid decent into poor health, in spite of his starting from a place that was well above that of the average American in terms of exercise, diet, and overall health. Are the rest of us walking fatty hearts and pickled livers?

Dealing with my own weight gain (at least 30lbs) since my September 2003 move from Manhattan to Beekman. Lack of money for the gym and poor dietary choices aside, I strongly believe that the bulk of my weight gain is a result of one thing.

I didn't own a car -- I didn't have a driving license -- until I moved out of Manhattan. In my retail work, I was definately a bit more active (on my feet) than I am in an office environment, but between the in-house thief tampering with employee's homemade lunches and the co-worker devotees of soap operas, trashy talk shows, and preachy court shows, I fled the employee break room for the comfort of the fat factory mall food court. Some malls have salad joints and such, but not the Poughkeepsie Galleria. It's all about fat, fat, fat.

And I think that it's my momentary unhappiness with my current body that is a factor in the recent low knitting quotient. In spite of a predominantly healthy and happy sense of self, on some level, I don't feel cute and fit enough to knit the items that most appeal to me. Why spend the time and money to create a piece of summer clothing that will make me feel like chunky mutton dressed as lamb? I apply this rationale to clothes shopping as well.

But that is another post.

Just to make others nervous, I used to walk under ladders, allow black cats to cross my path, and I would stomp on cracks on the sidewalk. It's strange how superstitions come to be and how they endure.


Yesterday, I pruned the nest that is my hair. Only after did I remember something about not cutting one's hair during a waning moon. Italian women believe it to be very auspicious to have a haircut on the evening of a Full Moon. Actually, there are a host of superstitions about hair cutting:

Choosing to cut your hair (or nails) on a particular day means the following: Cut them on Monday, you cut them for health; cut them on Tuesday, you cut them for wealth; cut them on Wednesday, you cut them for news; cut them on Thursday, a new pair of shoes; cut them on Friday, you cut them for sorrow; cut them on Saturday, see your true love tomorrow; cut them on Sunday, the devil will be with you all the week.

Hopefully, whatever "harm" comes of cutting during the waning moon will be mitigated by having it cut on a Monday.

In Japan, which can be a land of superstitions to the outsider, it is believed that if you lie down immediately after eating, you will become a cow. I can vouch for that one -- figuratively, of course.

When it comes to knitting, the biggest superstition is that of knitting a sweater for a boyfriend. Actually, I have a few of my own. I never impale my work or my yarn with my needles. When I'm knitting a gift, I make sure that my thoughts are pleasant and kind; I fear that I'll "knit in" bad energy otherwise. I found a knitting superstitions page.

As former roommate, Colleen, was without computer/blog posting access Monday, I dug through the LiveJournal archives of one of America's Next Top Models to keep me busy at work. At present, I've just started with February's posts. It's a bit of vicarious living through a completely non-frumpy, sassy,

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be an archeologist. The thought of living and travelling in exotic lands, discovering ancient mysteries... well, it was all so appealing to me. As I grew, I discovered that my life as an archeologist would be akin to helping my mother dust the skirting boards with a toothbrush, and well...that wasn't so exciting at all!

After flings with pursuing the convent and ballet, I ended up studying Cultural Communications and Mass Media at university. I'm not entirely sure what I thought I'd do with this degree, but I was certain that travel and excitement were at the top of any job descriptions. *insert snorting laugher and knee slapping here*

Actually, I did have a three year career in fashion that did involve travel and and excitment -- with long period of boring desk jockey work in between. But things haven't been the same since. My foray into the dizzying world of retail pulled me away from the druthers of desk work, but standing on my throbbing feet for eight hours and selling wrinkle creams to 80-year old sun worshippers is harder than it seems.

So, here I am, back in the temp grind. Maybe I'm suffering from selective memory, but my NYC temp jobs were a bit more exciting. Certainly, the companies (fashion, advertising, and publishing) were far more interesting that my current rounds in the healthcare field.

No offense to those of you in the medical field, as I'm certain that your job is extremely stimulating and interesting. But my job is another stroy. I have to say that nothing could be more mind-numbing than administative/secretarial work in hospital administration. I can feel the atrophy of my little grey cells.

The bright side of a dull job? Plenty of time to read/write personal email, to read/post blog entries, and to discover what sort of coffee I am.

You Are a Soy Latte Yeah, you've got a bit of that healthy hippie thing going on. But you're more Kate Hudson urban bohemian than Phish groupie. You're worldly and well traveled... and you know where to get the best coffee in town. All your experience makes you a compassionate person - and a caring girlfriend. What Kind Of Coffee Are You? Take This Quiz

Teacher...I need to re-take the quiz. I know that there is no dose of "hippie" in me. At. All. Frazzled crankypants? Absolutely. But hippie? No way.

I ate some not so great food last night, resulting in feeling like utter garbage. I really wanted to call to work today, but since the boss started his vacation today, I thought it wouldn't look too good for me, being a temporary worker.

Here's the sad truth. As I drove in, I had the nagging feeling that I should just turn around and go home. I sat in the parking lot for five minutes, stomach churning, not wanting to get out. I arrived at the office. Door locked. Assuming that the other secretary had gone for breakfast, I walked to the cafeteria. Nope. Back to the office. Still locked. Then, it hit me. She's out sick. Turn. Run. Go back to the car and go home.

Here I sit -- flying solo -- stomach in a knot, knitting bag at home. How cruel. Only five hours and fifteen minutes until I can call it a day. But who is counting?

When my mother was in her teens and early twenties, she was what we'd now call a "hottie". She had the hip chick uniform nailed: black capris, black mock turtleneck, fiery red hair, a French poodle, and the capper, a cigarette holder.

As a twenty-something, I often wonder about my mother and the women she knew. I wondered about The Change. How did it happen? When did it happen? Was it like weight gain -- slow and filled with self-denial, or was a quick flash? I imagined that middle-aged women throughout the country must have awakened one day to find that their closet had been pilfered. All traces of fabulous fashions gone. In the vacancy left by the lost shoes and clothes were polyester dolman-sleeved blouses, stretchy nylon "slacks", and Easy Spirit-type walkers in black, white, and tan.

I vowed this would never happen to me, but somewhere between the autumn of 2002 and now this very travesty has befallen my closet. I'll be honest; I still own a fair number of pretty modern pieces, as well as some smashing vintage pieces.



But, by and large, my clothing options have shrunk because I've grown large.

Last night, I embarked on an adventure requiring strong nerves and a resilient spirit -- clothes shopping. In the hour or so that I wandered around the store, I felt like the invisible generation. Where were the fun and flirty fashions that didn't make me look like a gypsy or a stripper? Where were the office-appropriate options that didn't make me look like a 1970s Power Suit?

Out there, somewhere, is clothing suitable for a 39-year-old woman who needs office-to-evening fashions with flair.
I just want something that falls between Whore and Bore.

The women in my knitting group are a sneaky bunch, but in a good way. In June, refreshments and cake was brought in to surprise me for my birthday, and more recently, we've been knitting behind the back of one of our members who is due to have a baby in one month. We each knitted seven 5" x 5" patterned blocks to seam together and present to her as a baby gift.

Sunday, we gathered at Michele's house to do just that. Sadly, work, family, and health issues intervened and there were only three of us attempting to sort out the proper placement of the blocks. There are seven different colors, and we wanted to assemble them in such a manner that the blanket looked neither feminine nor masculine. I think we succeeded, but we didn't get a start on the seaming. Theresa thinks she can do it all in two weeks, and I hope she's correct. It's quite a lot of stitching for a woman with two children and a house filled with visitors. Given how much my blanket stitch stinks, I can't say that I'm terribly upset to be relieved of this duty.

Michele's house is not far from my apartment, but it feels like another world entirely. It was so quiet and wonderful. A completely needed gal-pal day. I was so inspired that I spent some time working on my Cross Over Tank when I arrived home.

Yes, you read it correctly: I actually spent some time knitting this weekend. The production of a finished garment starts with just a few rows of knitting.

Recently, Kevin converted to vegetarianism. Now, Lukas is expressing a sudden concern for the amount of sodium he consumes. Both have started to read food labels in search of either animal ingredients or excessive amounts of sodium, much like Heidi's experiment in sugar-free living.

What is most interesting is how people often miss the message -- even if it's in their faces.

Last night, we went to see fireworks for Beekman Community Day. First off, what's with fireworks and a musical soundtrack? It's not as if you can hear any of the music, unless those running the show are lacking in fireworks skills and have huge pregnant pauses between rockets. But it was a classic example of missing the message: Celine Dion (a French Canandian) singing "God Bless America" and Bruce Springstein belting out his completely mis-interpreted anthem, "Born in the USA". I wish to heaven that someone coordinating events would read the damn lyrics. This is not a feel-good patriotic song. At. All.

Not that I'm above missing the point. Oh no. Not at all. And as a small example, there is my knitting life. Several times, I managed to misread a pattern, resulting in hours of frustration, ripping, and re-kitting. In fact, just this week, I discovered that I'd made a mistake in the first five rows of the Cross Over Tank. The pattern calls for 2X2 rib, and the bottom front is done as such, however, the bottom back -- the first part knitted -- is done in seed stitch.



It goes to show that even when you think you are wide awake and tuned in, things get by you. Like forgetting to thank someone for a warm and generous action. Thank you, Becca for your postcard earlier this week. It was so sweet and cheerful. I was the lucky recipient of two Randon Acts Of Kindness in one week!

There’s no doubt in my mind that reading or watching Under the Tuscan Sun inspired countless men and women to travel to Italy and research the possibility of purchasing a villa. And Wendy’s slice of Sicilian life posts are sure to make anyone yearn for an Italian husband to whisk them off to foreign lands.

Too often, I suffer from the desire to radically change my life, in an effort to make it more interesting, less boring, whatever. In 2002, I ran off to Florence with two friends -- one of who was a younger female who decided to live her dream and move to Italy. I packed it in at my fashion job, cashed in some frequent flyer miles, and away I went...off to live La Dolce Vita!

Turns out that ti wasn't all red wine and dancing in the piazza. I missed Joe horribly. And I certainly wasn't prepared for the emotional toll of being in a foreign land on the first anniversary of September 11th. I don’t think that living life in a foreign land is the adventure that others think it is. Too often, it's frustrating and lonely – all of which is compounded by a language barrier.

So, what's the point of all of this? How does it relate to knitting? Somehow, I think it does. There's a link between this restlessness and my knitlessness. I just have to figure out how to cure one in order to cure the other.

For starters, I'm sympathizing with and living vicariously through my former NYC roommate, who is partaking in an executive exchange program. She's making notes of her antics in Tokyo. Given Colleen’s sharp anecdotal eye and ability to write, this will be far more enjoyable to me than Sophia Coppola’s script.

Anyone know the cost of a flight from LaGuardia to Narita?

Have you ever been so overcome by a song or a newscast that your body impulsively cries? Picture me in that very state this morning. In the parking lot at my temp assignment.

It's no secret to my friends, to family, and to anyone who reads this blog that I've been in a funk as of late. This morning, I burst into tears listening to the Leinungs speak about their loss.

So, imagine the huge smile that crossed my lips when I opened a package to find this.




Given how I've been feeling lately, I wasn't sure if I'd find sunshine and smiles anytime soon. For making me smile, I want to extend a very warm and a very sincere thank you! to Sedie of Yarn Obsession.

You know, I never much cared for Andy Rooney. I found him nothing short of a puffing, cantankerous old man. This fact astounded a boyfriend from my Philadelphia days, mostly because I was given to fits of explosive pontificating myself. Somewhere along the line, I did come to appreciate Mr. Rooney’s 60-Minutes soliloquies.

And certainly, there has been no slow down of my own cultural critiques since then, as any of my friends and family knows. Lately, it seems that the very things for which I should be most grateful are those that are the most irksome. For example, today I had the absurd luxury of not enjoying $4.41-worth of food from the hospital cafeteria, because it was bland and unappetizing. Oh, the bliss of being able to complain about the chance to make a selection of the food I will eat and then complain about it. How often do I say (as I am more than 10lbs. overweight) that I’m starving…?

Never in my life have I gone to bed hungry, unless it was of my own laziness and choosing. Never in my life have I wanted for food. In fact, food is so abundant, that I have the ultimate luxury –- craving a particular type of food.

Moreover, those of us in the U.S. have been conditioned to think that our way is the right way; that our freedom is so universally envied and hated; that the terrorists will not succeed in crushing our way of life. And thank God for that, because if we didn’t have the right to complain -- in the midst of the G8 Conference and in the aftermath of bombing in London -- about the color of the lipstick in the Estee Lauder free gift, I’d be seriously worried.

As I drove to work this morning, I heard a brief snippet of a statement by British Prime Ministr Tony Blair...something about terrorism...something about bombs...
My heart raced, remembering a September day like this in the U.S.

As the news unfolded, tears welled in my eyes. Like many, I have some close friends living in London, or some who have friends and family there. Happily, everyone I know and love is safe. For those of you who cannot say the same, please know that my heart, my thoughts, my prayers, and my tears are for you.

Does trying to knit count? If so, then I'm doing better. Yesterday, I carried my Criss Cross Top with me to work, and today, I pulled it out on my big 30 minute lunch break. Without a tape measure, I couldn't sort out if it was time to begin the waist shaping. Rather than sneak back to the office for a ruler, I paged through the life planning book, and realized something very important: I don't have the energy to map out who I'll be in the next five years.

Who I was five years ago? I was enraged and engaged in a personal backlash against the digital lifestyle. I cancelled my cell phone, I sold my PDA for $40, and talked directly to my co-workers, rather than via e-mail.

I have been living a fine life without an excess of electronic doo-dads and hoo-haws weighing me down, and then, blasted Apple had to go and introduce the iPod. I resisted the first generation easily enough, but oh, those colored mini iPods! Knowing my fetish for small, cute items, an incredibly generous friend insisted that she'd buy me one for Christmas. I chewed on the idea for months.

Ready at last to take the plunge, I was irked and irritated to learn that the gold Mini had been discontinued. I silently boycotted Apple. I prayed endlessly for the re-issue of the gold Mini iPod. No luck, sister. I figured I should just get the green while it was there for the having.



So, this weekend, I embraced small electronics and bought the apple green Mini, but -- to prove some sort of point -- I ignored it and left it unopened for four whole days. Having made my point, I tore into the packaging earlier this evening.

My first download? Public Image Limited's (PIL) compact disc/album/casette. Nearly 20 years later, I think this represents alternative/punk music at it's articulate best.

I've learned caution. This comes from wisdom.

At the moment, I want to be anything but cautious. I'm fighting the urge to don my Dr. Marten's and knock the men in this house to the floor with my supressed punk-rock angst. Or is that just the perimenopause talking?

The Italians are notorious for striking. At least they have the courtesy of announcing it well enough in advance to let you get your life in order before the bottom falls out.

And what, praytell, does this have to do with knitting? Well, basically, I'm on strike from Life. You'd think I would make good use of the time I spend not knitting doing something productive. Something like reading, working out, or job hunting, but no. Not the case. At the moment it all feels too involved, too tedious to ponder.

Not to worry...I'm still waking and bathing, so I know it's not a deep, spiraling depression. It's just a sort of malaise. A case of the blahs. I mean what else could it be? What else could explain why this is my book choice of the day?



The concept is laughable. I've never been able to contemplate who I'll be or where I'll be in five minutes, much less in five years. This probably explains why I fail miserably in interviews; I never developed a pat -- but corporately acceptable -- answer to the dreaded where do you see yourself in five years question.

It's that time, folks! Hamburgers, hotdogs, beer, and fireworks!

As a kid, my 4th of July experiences were standard fare, but once I moved to NYC, it changed. The 4th of July was rarely celebrated at a cookout, but it generally included fireworks at the East River. Most recently, I've spent the 4th enjoying anything from Ethiopian food to wine at a French cafe. My first cookout with Joe and the kids was similarly odd. Hosted by the parents of school chums, both of whom were born in India and spent their adult years in Southern California, the barbeque had a most unique flair. Tandoori chicken and cardamom-spiced tea! I'm wondering if this year we can make merry with tofu?



But, the timing of Live 8, the G8 conference, and Independence Day have me thinking about how significant holidays are reduced to iconic shorthand. Reindeer, Santa, bunnies, hamburgers, and keggers. The point of this celebration is to pay homage to those who built this country. Built it by rebellion against the monarchy's over-taxation and exploitation.

So where is that bold, rebellious American spirit today? Today, we are like silent lambs being led to the slaughter. $1 billion shortfall in healthcare coverage for veterns. No healthcare coverage for temporary and/or freelance workers. Enron. Tyco. MCI. Why aren't we outraged? Why aren't we out there -- demandng justice, demanding debt forgiveness, demanding affordable health insurance, demanding schools and programs to give our youth every chance of success?

Yeah, I know...it's hard to worry about Social Security or the other guy when there's Average Joe Fights Back and Penthouse Pet Fear Factor to think about. So, rather than live reality -- and maybe change it -- take a bite of that hormone-laden burger, keep the keg flowing, and tune in for an evening of reality TV. Explosive!

When Kevin announced his desire to become a vegetarian, I was very supportive. Having spent several years living a vegetarian -- and ultimately a vegan -- lifestyle before reverting to my carnivorous ways, I knew the truth behind much of the pro-meat propaganda. I brought home library books for both Kevin and Joe, so that each could educate themselves on vegetarian options and nutrition.

For over a month, I've stocked the house with vegetarian foods, and I've cooked vegetarian recipies with "meat on the side" for the rest of the family. Mostly, I was content to join Kevin in his meatless lifestyle. Until this weekend. Late in the week, I started dreaming about South Street Souvlaki. Suddenly, I couldn't kick the craving for a gyro.

Joe is the sort who would indulge my any whim when possible, but I knew that driving to Philadelphia to eat meat was absolutely out of the question. Which brought us to Lefteris in Tarrytown. The added bonus was hanging out by the Hudson River in Dobbs Ferry

and watching a magnificent sunset.

Good Girl Goes Bad

Everybody has the friend who is the responsible sort. The girl who never is caught out. She’s punctual. She remembers important dates. She organized. And most frustratingly, she never blows off work for a day of frolicking. So when this friend decides to throw the baby out with the bathwater and take an unofficial vacation day, you need to clear your calendar.

Teri, another Thursday night knitter, is this responsible woman. Try as we might in the past, Celeste, Theresa, and I were not success in swaying her to call in and join us for a Monday jaunt. So, when Teri announced last night that she was playing hookey, there was no question that I had to be part of the fun. Even if I’d been scheduled to work, I would have had to call in -- it’s not often that a good girl goes bad and misses work for the hell of it. I feel a personal responsibility to make sure that Teri learns the value of a mental health day and use them accordingly.

We met at Yarn Central, our knitting “home”, where Teri made her first purchase of the day -- the new Sarah Dallas book. From there, we headed to Irvington to visit the legendary Flying Fingers. From there, we stopped to fuel ourselves for the main event -- The Container Store. Our last stop was Purls of Yarn.

Like many, stores such as The Container Store and Hold Everything are magical wonderlands. Promiselands, selling the wares that are the answers to our disorganized prayers. Somehow, I feel that by simply stepping in, I will be anointed with the power to whip my home into palace of zen-like organization and fluidity. Sadly, the only real organization came to the magazines on my bookcase, but it's a process, right?