This morning I awoke -- rather late thanks to my sleep mask -- not to the roosters, not to my alarm clock, but rather to an echoing BOOM. It's not uncommon to lose power in these parts because a squirrel chomped down on an electrical wire and met a most unfortunate end. Since we still had electricity, I was stumped. But too tired to ponder it much further. I resumed the sleep position.

Some time later, I was awakened by another boom, which was quickly succeeded by three more of the same. I waited. Silence. I felt a bit anxious; something was missing. Suddenly, I realized -- that after years of living in the fringe neighborhoods of Manhattan -- my body subconciously recognized gun fire and was awaiting the inevitable song of the sirens.

It's late November in Dutchess County, so that gunfire is not drug- or gang-related. It's hunting. I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, I worked for Outdoor Life, and I even lived in that Sportsman's Paradise, Louisiana, so I'm no stranger to rifles or hunting. I'm not opposed to it, perse. Quite frankly, if you're keen on sitting around in a funny suit in the cold stalking your next meal, more power to you.

What disturbs me is stacking the deck. Planting specific plants to lure deer into your yard for the purpose of shooting from your kitchen window -- in saggy boxers. Sneaking onto a neighbor's property for the hunt. That's not sporting at all. Mostly, I resent that hunting areas are so close to hiking trails that Joe has eschewed a few walks through the walks because I was wearing too much brown/tan. I'm keen on safety, but I don't know that I'm keen on rushing out to buy one of those flourescent orange safety vests.

But if I did take up hunting, I'd be able to whip up the most spectacular camo outfit with my volumes of green yarn.

Once again, allow me to revel in the simple fact that, although I've been whoring it up in retail as of late, I am not working today! Not that I wasn't asked -- about 13 times.

The holidays are strange. When I was single, there seemed to be the belief that having a partner to share the holiday would somehow make it better. Certainly, "being alone" is something that is almost pitiful in the eyes of married coworkers. Some of the best celebrations I've enjoyed involved a group of good friends, set on enjoying our time together, rather than fixating on our single status.

Let me tell you, having a mate doesn't make the holidays any better or worse. It just makes them different. I spent so many years deciding the destiny of my Thanksgiving that I'm a tad irritated to have it dictated to me. Thankfully, we're not a large family, nor are we the sort that goes in for hours of complicated cooking. Between the UnTurkey, the chicken cutlets, and the side dishes, dinner took a mere 90 minutes to prepare. In spite of that, I would have been happier escaping the dismal confines of the house and chowing down on some tasty Thai food.

I wore the Last Minute Legwarmers yesterday, and that was probably the most dismal aspect of the day. There's no "grip" to them, so they move around and slide down like old tights with sagging elastic. They look adorable on the model in the book photo, but now I know why she's standing on a chair rather than giving us an action shot -- Last Minute Knitted Flippers aren't nearly as hip.

A White Chris Thanksgiving


A nontraditional family are we. We'll be enjoying the standard side dish fare, but main dishes include Now and Zen's UnTurkey

Happy Turkey, Turducken, Tofurkey Day!

Current Popular Culture is starting to look like something that couldn't be cured with a Monistat 7-Day Dose.

Is it me, or are morning news programmes nothing more than infotainment with a nod to the goings-on in the world? I find it rather disturbing that traffic and weather reports get more airtime than, say, Fallujah. Granted, it's early, and war doesn't wash down the softball-sized bagel and cream cheese very well. But then again, neither does learning that Nicole Ritchie wrote a book. You'd think that the mere fact that she can write -- as in the physical act of putting pen to paper and moving her hand to produce something legible, much less something that anyone would care to read -- would be an invitation to getting a bagel bite lodged in the esophogus.

Seriously, when did the networks start intermingling their shows so copiously?

Matt Lauer appeared on Martha in a segment on packing for travel -- a not-so-thinly veiled plug for his Where In The World Is Matt Lauer? trip airing the following week. Sadly, Miss Martha has a hard time allowing her guests to share the spotlight, so busy is she chatting away and interrupting.

I missed Simon CallousCowell interviewing Katie Couric early in the week, but me thinks this was just a test to see how he'd fare with his own talk show... so I'll have an opportunity to witness his no-doubt searing questions. Hey, if Tyra Banks, Top Model-maker, can play Dr. Phil, surely the surly Idolmaker is the new millenium's Morton Downey, Jr..

Now that I think about it, I can trace this back to the early 1990s, when ABC would arc the lead story from it's hit show, Thirtysufferingsomething, into a headline story on the 11 O'Clock News. I can't recall if this was before or after the dawn of mTV's Real World, the grandmother of all reality shows. Has that show been interesting since the Los Angeles cast? Was it even interesting then?

There's such heavy cross-pollenation between a network's shows that it might be time to think about an open forum, long-running format. Ann Currie and Tina Fey could co-anchor the news, Seinfeld and Friends could wander in and out of news shows, talk shows, reality shows, sitcoms, commericals... It opens up a whole new way of programming and watching television. Maybe we could call it Integrated Synergistic Programming...

InSynP, for short. Of course.

I'm a Gemini, the Great Communicator of the Zodiac.

So, why is it that I have absolutely nothing to say these days? Nothing seems worth writing about or relaying. It's not that I haven't had some excellent moments, such as winning the employee raffle from Shiseido, but nothing stands out as being story-worthy.

I did finish the legwarmers from Last Minute Knitted Gifts, as well as a hat for my father for Christmas. Joe tried it on and laughed, which didn't make me feel very confident that my father would wear it. He's my father, and he'll appreciate it...but I don't know that he'll wear it.

Thankfully, I live several hundred miles away from my parets, so I'll be none the wiser one way or the other.

Have you ever seen that commerical with all of the successful people who are enjoying beacoup bucks as a result of starting a home-based business? I know a few people who have home-based businesses, but none of them are as perky as the people in the commerical. One friend confessed that she could go for days in the same pyjamas and unshowered without giving it a second thought.

I used to think that working from home would be a great option, but I've come to see how easy it is to spend the day in a nightgown, fall prey to daytime television, or even housework -- all in the name of avoiding work. Frankly, when housework becomes an enticing distraction, it is strange and worrisome behaviour.

Dad's hat is on the needles for a second time. I'd nearly finished Cool when I showed it to Joe; we agreed that my father was the least likely person I know to wear a hat with cables climbing all over his head. I'm doing more of a beanie now, but there's still that nagging voice that tells me that I should think about a gift certificate and a few CDs instead.

I'm not a paranoid person, but I did start to suspect that there was some sort of nationwide postal uprising in the works. Generally, I get something good in the mail at least once a week, but lately, the postman hadn't even rung once, much less twice. At first, I though that I could chalk it up to a week with two government holidays, but when I gave it further thought, there was evidence of a conspiracy.

If mail was being delivered at all, it was being delivered closer to the dinner hour, instead of the typical lunch hour. Given that my exercise is practically limited to walkign to the post box, I can't complain about making a few roundtrips from house to box. But how many times does a girl have to come up emptyhanded before she breaks?

The final straw was last Thursday, when I received my first bit of mail since the weekend -- a one page flyer from a local furniture store, addressed to "Resident". That was the last straw. In spite of being able to count the balance in my checking account with my fingers and toes, I had to take action. I had to insure a decent mail delivery. My sanity depended on it. Because I lacked the #17 circulars, I was unable to cast on last night. My LYS opens in roughly two hours.

It was just as well that I couldn't start Violette, as I'm working on a second version of Soul from the Rowan Plaid Collection. I did one for Kevin last year (using Filtes King's Kevin yarn). This year I'm using Lana Grossa's Bingo Chine (doubled) for my father. I've not given my parents knitted gifts before, and I'm moved to do so this year. I'm not entirely convinced that my father would wear a hat "so fussy", which may result in ripping out and settling for a straightforward ribbed hat for him. I'm stumped for my mother's gift, as she's the sort that dislikes gloves and mittens because "I can't feel the steering wheel" and scarves because "I feel like I'm being strangled". I would like to knit something for my grandmother, but I honestly can't envision her appreciating a handmade item. Maybe I'm giving her a bad rap, but I bet she hated receiving those cottonball snowmen that every kid made in the 3rd grade.

Now that I think of it, knitting for my family is probably the craziest idea I've had yet. Gift certificates all around, I say!

The point of a shawl, that is. After a few attempts at knitting shawls, I've come to the realization that the strife that exists between shawls and me is a simple point. Specifically, the point that occurs on most shawls, as they are knitted in a triangle. Frankly, I have a bit too much caboose to sport an arrow anywhere near it, and that, my friends, is precisely what the triangular shawl is. A big bad billboard announcing your ample assets.

Mine need no additional ad dollars. I already have a Madison Avenue Ad Blitz going on back there, so the addition of a triangular shawl is rather like over-saturating the market.

I really like the City Shawl's stitchwork, so I'm contemplating reworking it as more of a rectangle. It's a great idea except that it means completely ripping out and starting again. While this is quite the quick knit, it boils down to the simple fact that it's still lost time. Perhaps this is a matter for the Knitting Caucus -- my Thursday night knitting circle.

Speaking of knitting circles, or knitting in circles, the plastic 12" Clover needles that I bought to work up the legwarmers? Divine. I am enjoying every stitch without any sort of hand trauma. It could be that I have small hands, but I do think it has something to do with the construction of the circular needles. One side is longer than the other, which does seem to minimize that need to hold the needle in a deathgrip because it feels as if there's just not enough length to do the job.

And really, neither a deathgrip nor insufficient length will get the job done.

Lately, I've been feeling like I'm sinking. Work options are narrowing and growing evermore dismal.

I need a net, which might be why I'd opted to knit the Glampyre City Shawl. And, Stefanie was not kidding when she said that you can start the shawl Friday and have a shawl to wear on Monday.

I was excited about a shawl that would be quick and funky, but it must be something with me and shawls... I feel more like a captured shrimp than a sexy hipster. Maybe my yarn substitution (Berroco Suede for a bulky chenille) is to blame. It doesn't seem that the gauge differential is the problem, rather it's the droop drape of the yarn that is resulting in that fishing net feeling.

Weatherwise, the past few days have been glorious in the Mid-Hudson Valley, giving me more time to slack on completing my legwarmers. One is finished, but I haven't been daring enough to try it on. I'm still wondering if this is too young a style for me.

Every now and again, I get an organizing bug, which allows me to feel in control of at least one aspect of my life. I had started small, thinking that I'd devote my knitting time to finishing, reworking, or ripping out projects that were lingering about.

I'd already successfully revamped my ChicKami, and I was ready to move on to something else. There were two baby projects that I could have attended to, but neither one intersted me at the moment. What did interest me, however, was that deformed monster of a shawl.
The Approximately 250 Yards Mohair Boucle Shawl.

If you have so much as a passing experience in the mohair milieu then you are probably preparing yourself for an overwrought story of tears, anguish, and harsh words. But just stop yourself. Believe it or, nothing of the sort happened. In fact, it was a short ten minutes from one form to the other. Pleased, but hungry for more, I moved on to the Crossover Tank, and reclaimed my Rowan Calmer. It was then that I noticed that the mohair and the Calmer matched.

Looking for another small project, I decided on organizing one of my stash drawers. I pulled out all of the yarn in my non-wool drawer, laid it out, and... and... took at good hard look. I then reached into the wool yarn drawer and pulled out some further damning evidence of my obsession.

The mohair, the Calmer, the Rowan Linen Drape, the Capri Print, the Goa -- all shades of Drab. The frightening part of this is that I have a rather small stash, but a rather large percentage of that small stash is...some harmonious shade in the Olive, Lime, Lichen, Moss, Grass, et. al. Family.



Green is the new Black.

My morning was rather exciting. I awoke to that special monthly indication of fertility. Since I like my family as it currently exists, this is always good news.

My visit to the doctor was for a routine blood screen -- cholestrol, glucose, etc. -- as well as a baseline mammogram. I'd heard various reports on the pain of a mammogram, but I thought it was a breeze. Maybe there's more pain to the actual breast if you are well-endowed?

More painful -- to my body and my phyche -- is the sharp chill in the air as of late, but I am not ready to start wearing tights just yet. I hold out until the snow is deep enough to find it's way into my boots before admitting defeat and encasing my body in the crushing skin of hosiery. Surely, there's some answer for the interim? And paging through patterns and books, I thought I might have found the answer...

Legwarmers.

I wore them almost daily in my teens. In spite of the fact that I am a Steel Town Girl by birth, it was four ballet classes per week, not Flashdance, that informed this sartorial choice.

Admittedly, I'm still on the fence about legwarmers, in spite of having purchased Cascade 220 and Merino Kid to make the Simple Legwarmers from Last Minute Knitted Gifts. Am I too old for legwarmers? Will it make me look as if I'm clinging to my youth or possibly stuck in a fashion timewarp? Points to ponder as I cast on using those cute 12" Clover plastic needles.

I've heard nothing but trash talk about those needles, but I was reeled in by the cute Japanese-ness of them. Besides, $4.75 is a small price to pay to learn a lesson about listening to popular opinion.

Sometimes working is a bit like dating, particularly when you are doing temporary work. Just like a personal ad, the job ticket describes nothing but the best attributes and aspects. As many of us know, quite often, the written description doesn't match the reality. Sometimes, it's better than we could have expected, and others it's so far below what we expected that containing one's anger and/or tears is nearly impossible.

Ironically, I'm working a local health fair a few days this week, yet I'm anything but the picture of health. The details of the job were a bit rough -- kind of like when a distant friend wants to play matchmaker and arranges a blind date. You know the one -- too much information might result in a declination of the offer, so only snippets of vital information are released.

In spite of the lack of clarity, it turns out that the assignment is rather pleasant. It's straightforward; it's all about regulating the flow of health fair attendees. It was my hope and fear that I'd spend the day dressed as a dancing blood drop or Lipotor. The two bonuses of the assignment are that I'm working with Sharyn of my knitting circle, and we've been granted (extremely limited) access into the fortress of secrey of one this area's major employers. Frankly, I've only seen the cafeteria, the women's room, and corridor that lies between, but it still feels like I'm "on the inside".

Literally. There is marked improvement on the illness front, but I still turned down a freelance cosmetics gig in eastern Connecticut. The one-day notice was bearable, but the amount of cold medicines required to keep me cough- and drip-free for a two-hour drive (in each direction) and eight-hours of marathan makeovers, was not. Further, not all of the *Magic* in the world could have added life to my skin. How alluring is a makeup artist with dead, watery eyes and sallow skin. "Why, yes Ma'am, I do use these products..."

While you can't change men, you can change your handknits, which is what I've decided to do in lieu of starting a new project. For instance, my Chickami (knitted last year with Bertagna Filati Summer Tweed) had grown and swelled to unflattering proportions. The last thing I want is to wear clothing that gives me a droppy bust and 52" hips. Time and Kettle Krisps will get me there, so I don't need to push the inevitable along with ill-fitting clothing -- especially if I've made it.

I shortened the straps, solving the droopy bustline issue but accentuating the billboard hip issue. Marjanna (owner of Yarn Central) suggested that I could either waste valuable time plinking out the cast on edge, or that I could cut the garment to and knit down. No contest. Get out the scissors!

ChicKami fits much better now, which makes me much happier.

No matter how sick you are, there comes a time when you must venture from the confines of your home. The matter is not so simple because there are medicines, facial tissues and such to be carried, along with all of your regular gear. There are also three major decisions to made involving face, hair, and body.

My nose and my scalp seem to be exceptionally prolific during my colds, so there is little I can do to cover the raw redness of my super dry nose. Not even spackling would be a strong enough concealer. Thus, I tend to stick to something simple like a tinted moisturizer to give my skin a bit of life, but not so that it will be noticeably wiped away from one spot by my incessant nose-blowing.

As for the body, one needs to find something as comfortable as the nightgown that has been worn tirelessly for the past four days. That is a challege. So forget all of those fashion forecasts pronouncing Gypsy, Boho, and Victoriana. Sickie Chic is a special look that is easy to duplicate without breaking the bank.

Untidy hems, greasy hair, and super practical shoes are a must. A nerdy element -- a vest, perhaps -- is a easy option that lends so much credibility to the Sickie Chic ensemble. While Birkenstocks would be the best shoe bet, but I've made do with a scuffed pair of Clarks clogs that I bought on sale (and apparently while on crack) at some shoe place at the mall. It wasn't Payless, nor was it DSW, both stores having far more of a "profile" than the dismal shop where I parted with $12.00 to be inducted into the Hall of Shoe Shame.

Podiatrists argue that heels are the worst thing for feet, calves, and posture, but I must warn young readers that the comfortable shoe is a horrid slippery slope. Once your feet have felt the divine freedom of being as close to their natural state as possible, you will never wear another sexy shoe again without punishment.

Not only does the nose produce an amazing amount of product during a cold, but have you noticed that the oil glands in your scalp also work overtime? Generally, I shampoo every other day or so, but when I'm sick, my hair is dirty again before I've finished drying it. While some go for the headband or the ponytail to hide the shine of sick hair, I perfer the floppy hat. Actually, this particular chapeau could be quite adorable with the proper ensemble, but if I'm too sick to wash my hair, then I'm definately too sick to ponder an adorable outift. And let's face it, looking good when you're sick gets you zero sympathy. No one likes a show-off.

I'm trying to think back to the days when I was a single Manhattanite. Did I dress like this when I got sick? Or did I do my best to dress as if all were well? Did I feel better in my Codeine daze because I was in heels and had clean hair? Did I use theatrical makeup and lighting to hide my peeling, chaffed nose? On some level, I miss the effort I once made to look presentable in spite of feeling like I'd clawed my way out of a grave. But, it's nice to reach a place in your life where you are comfortable looking just the way you feel.

Sneezes, Coughs, and Socks

Ever since Rhinebeck, my lungs, my throat, and my nose haven't been the same. Yes, I know it's allergy season, but carrying around one's personal Scotties box for two weeks is stretching the limits of what I can tolerate.

A trip to the doctor's office -- which I had the foresight to schedule three months ago -- resulted in a battery of tests, some of which were standard for an annual check up, as well as some medications for the cough and sneezing.

No sooner had I inhaled some Advair and ingested some Zythromax did all hell break loose. I really don't understand the nose. It's a rather small organ, and yet, it's work ethic and productivity are remarkable. At one point during the night, I literally shoved a tissue up each nostril so that I could get a reprieve from blowing and wiping. The Zythromax doesn't seem to be doing anything, other than causing a slight, but suspicious itch there. Why is the cure for one infection a yeast infection?

But, enough about my sneezing, wheezing, and coughing -- let's talk about my socks. My first pair of socks, thank you. I knit them using a 40", #4 Addi Turbos (Magic Loop) with Idena Crazy yarn. The pattern, Socks for the Whole Family, also from Idena, is vague. Very vague. So vague that Theresa, who has knit socks, marvelled that I was able to figure out anything beyond the number of stitches to cast on.

While I wasn't able to dish out candy in my newly knit socks, I did put in a fair amount of knitting time on the final day of Socktober. I will admit that I suddenly understand the allure of sock knitting, particularly if you don't have to approach turning the heel as if you were studying for a calculus final exam. For someone who doesn't wear socks, I do have to say that these socks feel divine.

In my hunts around the internet, I've encountered quite a few patterns for Simple Socks, but I don't think there is such a thing. There are a bajillion ways to cast on, to work the heel, etc.... How simple is something with that many permutations?

Now, I have something far more complex than a heel turn to sort out -- the side effects of mixing Zythromax with some OTC sinus medicine. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow.