That sappy Dan Fogelberg song enters into heavy rotation days before Christmas, and the torture doesn't end until a day or so into the new year. According to a number of radio stations in Dutchess County and beyond, that song is considered one of the Top Ten Holiday Songs. What ever happened to Frosty The Snowman?

New Year's Eve, like most holidays, is surrounded by a ton of hype and myth. There's meant to be scads of fun and possible romance looming around the midnight hour. My first big Manhattan New Year's Eve celebration was at the opening of some club in the Meatpacking District. Back when meat-packing and fudge-packing were the two main industries in that part of town.

It was hell. It wasn't Hellfire*, but it sure felt like I was being beaten. I had more fun on the subway ride home. No joke.

My favorite New Year's Eve? Sleeping over at Margaret Welsh's house and watching Duran Duran perform on mTV's first New Year's Eve Show. At the end of that year, we attended their concert in Pittsburgh, went backstage, and drank champagne with the band. I guess there's some truth to that superstition that "as the New Year goes, so goes the year".

A close runner-up would be ringing in a new year in Seattle. I cannot remember where the party was held, but it was a "vintage party". Everyone was dressed for New Year's Eve with Norma Desmond on Sunset Boulevard. It so happens that the man I was dating at the time was at another party, engaging in something short of public sex with another woman. I guess there's some truth to that superstition that "as the New Year goes, so goes the year".

Whether you are out for a night of drunken merry-making or in for a night of quiet celebrating, I hope the night and the year to come are magical. Here's wishing you and yours a Healthy and Happy 2006!




*The Hellfire Club was an S&M club in Manhattan.

And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?

Is it natural to read other people's blogs and feel a hint of jealousy that their lives, their relationships, their houses seem so much better than your own? I'm certain that many of us select out the best/worst of times to share online because that's where the story, or the hook, lies. But sometimes, I can't help but think that somehow, things are falling a bit short for Lumay and those around her.

Once, at my knitting group, a few of us sat around discussing the lives we led prior and the lives we thought we'd be leading. One of my friends said to me, "I just never imagined myself as a housewife in _______".

I hear you, sister. Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror, a frumpy, dumpy, schlumpy version of my former self, and I do ask, How did I get here?

GAINING CONCIOUSNESS
Is it really Wednesday already? The last thing I remember is wrapping a gift set of Youth Dew for a kind man with an accent that betrayed loyalty to the Queen of England.

Honestly, working Christmas Eve was far less insane than I expected. Due to some allergy and asthma complications, I was able to escape the torture chambers of either Women's Fragrance or Men's Fragrance. I was put to the tasks of gift wrapping at the Estee Lauder counter, prepping sale signage for The Day After, and prepping for the launch of some promotion involving cosmetics/fragrances and magazines. In short, I was well under the radar, which is a fine place to be on a very busy day in retail.

BRINGING UP BABY
If being a parent is the hardest job in the world, then I'm contributing to the difficulty of said task with the baby gift knitting that I'm doing. I realize that it's rather indulgent to knit a baby garment in Karabella Bulky, but the result will be divine softness. Perhaps the parents will not find it so divine each time they are forced to handwash vomit off it, but I'm less concerned about my name intermingling with a few choice words than producing a lovely garment for a special child.

What does concern me is knitting for a being whose growth pattern is far in excess of my knitting speed. I have learned that a chunky knits are this baby gift knitter's best friend. I'm whipping up a little number from Monkey Suits. I'd show more, but I don't want to spoil the surprise for the intended mother and father.

GIFT RECAP
And while we're on the topic of gift knitting, my mother and father greatly appreciated their scarf and hat, respecitively. As for me? I made out rather well between my parents, the kids, Joe, and Santa. The highlights were gift certificates to Anthropologie, to JoAnn Fabrics, and to a local yarn store; Joan Didion's latest book; and windshield wipers.

Hey, Joe knows that safety is sexy.

When I was a child, I believed in Santa Claus, and I must have believed that he had some magic powers because to come down our chimney would have taken some doing. You see, we didn't have a fireplace or a chimney for Santa, so my parents bought one of those cardboard ones with a brick imprint. Every years, that cardboard fireplace went up as part of the Christmas decorations, and we even hung our stockings there. Because I believed in the magic of Christmas and Santa, I did believe that, somehow, that cardboard fireplace magically transformed into a real one, allowing Santa Claus entry to decorate our Christmas tree and deliver my presents.

My favorite memory is the time that poor Santa was so overworked that he wasn't able to make it to our house on time. He asked my parents to help him. My father was given the task of occupying me while my mother finished the work that Santa was not able to do during his visit. In reality, she was frantically decorating the tree in a last-minute panic because she'd fallen asleep somewhere between carving the Christmas Day ham and putting the lights on the tree.

Of course, I didn't know that information at the time, but strangely, I do remember that day very well. The tree seemed a little bit brighter, and I felt all the more excited that Santa had come and had needed my parents' help. It stands out as one of my favorite memories, both for what I didn't know then, as well as for what I know about that day now. It upsets my mother that I remember what she considers to be a mistake. But, actually, I'm touched by the memory and by my mother's desire to give me one more year of Christmas Magic.

One more year of believing... When you think of it, it's probably the greatest gift my parents ever gave me -- the gift of being an innocent, loved child filled with the spirit of Christmas.

Merry Christmas!

For those of you about to embark on a the dire task of last-minute Christmas shopping, allow me to make a few suggestions.

Dress for Spring. The stores are hot, and there will be far too many people around, so forget the bulky sweater. Come early, park as close as possible, dash to the door.

Babysitter. I'm not sure who is more cranky on the sales floor: your poor, sick child snotting all over the place and refusing to stay in the stroller, you for having to repeat yourself to the child 100,000 times, or me for having to listen to you trying to reason with a sick, overheated child of six screaming it's head off. I realize that this option is a tough one for many mothers, but here's an idea -- how about if your husband gives you a hand? Maybe he could do some of the cleaning, cooking, shopping, or kid-watching this year...

Have some form of payment ready. Maybe this payment for goods and services thing is still a foreign concept to you, but it's been in place for some time now. You know you're about to make a purchase; have your wallet at the ready. Please don't make me (or the other 60 people in line) wait for you to fish around your luggage-sized handbag for your wallet. Similarly, if you're writing a check, maybe you'd be kind enough to fill out the items that you do know -- name of store, date, your name -- while I ring your sale.

If you're looking to make a payment on your account, perhaps, it would be best for everyone if you went to a less crowded register to do so? It's just a thought.

Don't complain to me about you having to wait in line. Had you not waited this long to do your shopping, you'd not be waiting in the line.

Please give the gift with the gift receipt. Trust me. It makes it easier on everyone at 7:00am on December 26th.

I don't know what today holds. Most likely, it will be twice the hell, as I'm working almost twice as many hours as yesterday. I have to say that mostly it was my co-workers that I found nearly insufferable yesterday; the customers were understanding and too tired to fuss. It was mostly men, looking for some help with a gift for the woman/women in their life, and they're quite thankful for any sort of guidance through the alien and scary world of cosmetics and fragrance.

Happy Holidays to all!

If this is the most wonderful time of the year why do I see so many tired, angry, frustrated, harassed, depressed, and anxious faces? Pressure. That's the answer. My mother felt the tremendous pressure to re-produce a Christmas that was Rockwellian.

Last night, a friend showed me the wrinkled around her eyes and asked me for a suggestion. Immediately, I suggested a particularly eye/lip cream, but as she talked, I realized that my cosmetic prescription was all wrong. All she needed to see immediate improvement was a good diet, plenty of water, as well as adequate sleep and relaxation. In one week, the stress of Christmas was upon her -- right upon her face.

Unlike the bulk of my married friends, I haven't sent a greeting card, I haven't baked a single cookie, and our tree still needs to be decorated. I paid the Literacy Volunteers to wrap a few of my gifts, and today, I will pay whatever charity is wrapping at Center Court in the mall do the few remaining items. This probably makes me sound like a horrible grinch who is trying to steal Christmas, but I'm really just a gal who isn't letting commericalism, pressure, and stress steal my Christmas.

There's a growing concern that the secular liberals are trying to grinch out; they are trying to take the Christ out of Christmas. Is that the case? Perhaps, they are arguing that not everyone celebrates this particular holiday. Moreso, maybe they see that many of those who do celebrate have lost the meaning of it. Yes, I agree -- Christ is missing from Chri$$ma$$.

Regardless of religious inclinations, I find it sad that this season is more about getting the new Britney Spears perfume, the iPod Nano, or Sirius Radio than it is about giving and recieving anything of substance. I find it sad that an in-name donation is dismissed as "not a gift" because the recipient would rather have one more material item than be a part of giving a family in Ache, the French Quarter, or wherever a meal, an article of clothing, or a home.

Believe me, I enjoy getting a gift as much as anyone, but I'm just as touched by an in-name donation to Breast Cancer as a gift certificate for a massage.

It is the happiest time of the year for many, and I'd like to see that those of us who are happy manage to make it a happy time for someone who isn't. Let's think about spreading the spirit of Christmas around at other times of the year. Some people sniff at the notion of re-gifting, but I believe that there is someone in the world who would be happy to wear those silly gloves. There is someone in the world who could use your old corporate clothes. There is someone out there who could use the $8.00 you spent on lunch today.

Maybe I'm all riled up because I'm about to enter the belly of the beast today. Even if I didn't need the money, the exhaustation on the face of the Cosmetics/Fragrances Manager would have been enough to sway me to pick up hours at the store today and tomorrow. It's quite possible that I'll be singing in tongues, rather than merrily caroling at 5:00pm tomorrow, but I'm going to go out there and love my fellow man -- even if he is a clueless dolt that is rushing around three minutes before the store closes on Christmas Eve in persuit of the perfect (but on sale) gift for his wife.

Christmas Wrap-Up
Just moments away from being mercilessly stuffed in a Priority Mail envelope for a new lives in Pittsburgh are my beloved Christmas knits. Unlike those of you driving yourself mad with multiple scarves, socks, stockings, you name it; I limited myself to a mere two projects this year.

Away with you hat and scarf -- go to my father and mother in the Gateway to the Midwest.

Government Cover-Up
Speaking of mothers, I'm starting to thing there's some sort of conspiracy afoot. My conspiracy theorist inclination is largely due to my education. It is a difficult thing to have studied Media Studies and Communications without learning that even the free media is not so free of bias, and I'm more than a little given to supporting the theories and notions of the media espoused by the Frankfurt School.

My conspiracy theory is simple. I think the government, or some large mobilization organization has been crop dusting and tainting our resevoirs with fertility drugs. It must be something because I need to understand how 95% of the pre-menopausal women I know -- either personally or through blogging -- are with child.

There is a burgeoning baby boom afoot, and I'm about to go ga-ga with baby knitting. Sadly, everything in the works -- be the project on the needles at the moment or just a pipedream -- has to be a secret. A few too many of my mommy-to-be friends read my blog. But, I can show you how wonderfully Reynold's Odyssey knits up for a special little someone who may or may not have come into the world.

Is advising friends to ignore breaking water and contractions and just hang on for another month or so absolutely out of the question?

So, the New York City Transit Workers’ Union did it. After so many years of 11th resolutions, I just assumed that threats and down-to-the-wire negotiations were part of the process – something for WB News to cover instead of hard news.

When I lived in NYC, I walked to work nearly everyday. Weather permitting, I hoofed it from 106th Street & Amsterdam to 40th & Broadway. I’d show at my gym before work, and I was much healthier for it. When I first moved to Manhattan, I marveled that Alyssa powered up to 60th & Madison from her apartment at the far end of Park Slope, so I ambled up to 2 Park Avenue from 4th & B – a most entertaining commute. Believe me, I’d hate to be forced to walk on such a chilly morning, I do miss having the option of some method of commutation other than my car.

Having lived through a near-strike, as well as the calamity of September 11, 2001, I am highly sympathetic to those affected by the strike. During my solo commute to work today, I noticed that exactly three cars had a passenger. That’s it: Three cars with a driver and only one passenger. The bulk of the vehicles in the area are honking SUVs, and I do understand that the weather here requires a vehicle with the ability to battle the elements and handle well in snow, but it’s astounding the number of SUVs one finds parked in a single driveway in this area. There is no public transportation, so everyone needs a car. But large companies such as IBM, Vassar College, Marist College, Vassar Brothers Medical Center, Pepsi, etc. should make a conscious effort to encourage their employees to carpool.

I know, it’s a real drag being tethered to someone else’s schedule, but in the name of creating less stress on the highway system, the environmental/ecological system, and our own central nervous system, it seems like common sense to make some rules about ride-sharing.

Why don’t I hear musing about carpooling as a “measure of national safety”? We know that those pesky terrorists feed off of our oil dependency, so where’s the administration’s push to reduce that dependency? Drilling in the wilds of Alaska. Naturally, we’d rather destroy land than ask Americans to compromise their personal rights – unless those rights involve buying French-made articles, questioning the War on Terror, or questioning the lengths to which The Patriot Act and Domestic Surveillance.

Honestly, wouldn't you rather share a ride to and from work with a slightly annoying co-worker than have the government tapping your phone and researching your library and video store history? Maybe that's just me...

Joe and I met online. Yep, we're the product of one of those internet dating sites. It is a fact that seems to either impress people or utterly baffle them. One great thing about internet dating is it allows you to give the person a few "pass overs" before you meet face to face.

The decision to contact someone most likely starts with them fitting into certain parameters: age, location, etc. But after that, there's the initial once over -- looking at the picture, reading the profile, that makes or breaks the decision to write to the person. I was the sort who put heavy emphasis on what a person wrote in their profile, as well as the email exchanges between us. I scrutinized for grammar and wit. One way or the other, I'd always go back to the original profile for another look at the photo and of the profile.

I do the same with knitting magazines. Quite often several are released within a few days or weeks of each other, so it's a bit much to sort through and determine what I like or don't like so much.

The latest Interweave Knits had a few patterns that appealed to me, yet I don't think I'll ever knit them. I'm not sure why, but it's a bit like the date with the guy who seems pretty darn great, but somehow, it's not going to lead to a relationship or even a third date. It's something that you can't put your finger on; it's an intangible.

Sometimes, it's good to give yourself a bit of time and space to review, to broaden yourself. If I hadn't done that with Joe, who knows if we'd have succeeded. Neither of us falls within the parameters of the other's physical "type". I don't know if I'd met Joe in the real (vs the cyber) world, I'd have given him that second pass over.

As for the latest Knitty, I was part of the flurry of excitement over Tubey and Tempting II. Last night, I went back to the site to give another pass over to the patterns that hadn't initially jumped out at me. , and I'm so glad I did. Somehow, I managed to completely miss two patterns that I adore: Festive and Bristow.

I'm starting to think that just maybe that second pass of the Winter Knitty was a mistake. I still have a lengthy list of projects from a year ago for which I haven't even bought the yarn. And let's be frank: there's only so much time for knitting. I know it sounds blasphemous, but I think Joe deserves a little of my time as well.

I've heard somewhere that some people are born shoppers. I don't know if a love of shopping is nature or nurture, but one of my friends is a legendary shopper. Moya has a gift. Not only is she capable of Olympic-style endurance shopping, but she finds bargains that make me weep. Miu Miu Prada shoes for $150, a Philosophy di Alberta Ferretti coat for 85% off retail. Ten Diane von Furstenberg dresses for the retail cost of one. The glories are many.

Moya is a professor of film, culture, and communications, so I suspect that her approach to shopping is rather meticulously researched. She's not going in blind. Now, I do love fashion, and I love looking my best...but things have fallen off since I've left Manhattan. Who wants to shop for clothing with 40 exta pounds of weight and hairy legs? I think you see my point.

Thus, I now indulge in a fair amount of what I call Fantasy Shopping. I'll peruse a website, add items that I desire to my shopping cart, and I'll even go so far as to check the shipping costs -- all before I ALT+F4. Yes, I just close the window without purchasing. It's like those people who fill the cart with tons of groceries, and then abandon it. What happened? Was the line too long? Did your family vanish, giving you the option of a frozen dinner for one?

At least my Fantasy Shopping doesn't result in food spoilage or a minimum-wage worker being assigned the task of reshelving the items. Although it appears that the items are being held for me, there's no lay-away in cyberspace, particularly when it comes to a hot yarn at Elann.com. Just because that Rowan Cork is in your cart, doesn't mean that it's going home to you.

Another strange thing about shopping is the dilemma of ease vs. immediacy. Online shopping at midnight is easy, and it can be done in any state of dress/undress or illness. The downside? You have to wait for the order to be processed and shipped. As annoying as it can be to deal with real time shopping, especially in these days approaching Christmas, there is the simple fact of immediate gratification.

Look at my Paton's Classic Merino...I could have cast on for Tubey last night, if I'd wanted. Of course, I didn't because there's the issue of an unfinished scarf for my mother. Needing to find a slightly more durable and economic yarn choice, I've focused on Paton's Classic Wool, Knitpicks Andean Silk, and something from Elann. I've been told that the Classic Merino is soft against the skin, but the teller hasn't felt the heavenly Andean Silk. I beleive that if the Holy Ghost communicated via fabric, a garment knitted of Andean Silk might well be a chosen medium.

The real dilemma is not so much which yarn to use, but how quickly I can obtain said yarn once the decision is made and the hour for casting on Tubey approaches. I can see why a knitter needs to build a stash; it's a way to avoid such internal conflict.

My mother, like any human, has her short-comings. And, I'd rather that my Christmas present of a Clapotis Scarf not be one of them. Sadly, it seems as if this scarf is the shortest of all shortcomings.

It's not even a scarf. It's more like a cravat. Perhaps it's too short to even pass as a cravat. I don't know, and I don't have the time to reseach the cravat. This bloody thing was to be in the mail by Friday. The choice is simple: re-knit or block the shit out of it. And, I think it's safe to say that no amount of blocking -- no, not even Midas himself -- could turn this into a giftable scarf.

Hell, it's not even a giftable cravat because my mother most certainly is not the sort to sport a cravat. Well, perhaps if you plied her with homemade Frangelico... But I digress.

Believe me, it's not as if this surprised me. I'm hardly gobsmacked. I have intuition. I have gut instincts. And I ignored them. Every. Last. One.

Didn't I think that the #7 needle was producing too tight a fabric? Didn't I notice that there was a rather large amount of yarn remaining as I neared the final repeat of the Decrease Section? Oh, yes, I thought it and I noticed it, but did I heed any of it?

No, I didn't. But in all fairness, yesterday the quiet voice of reason was overwhelmed by a disturbing vision. The sort of moment that throws your whole day off kilter. Yesterday, I witnessed a man walking through the Student Center, food tray in hand, barefoot. As if that weren't upsetting enough (on so many levels), he continued on and sailed right outside -- in the below freezing temperatures; snow on the ground.

Proving that I have miles to go before I am a deeply sympathetic and forgiving person, my first thought was not Perhaps that man needs my shoes..., but rather, What a dumbass!.

At this point, there are two choices:
1) Save my father's knitted cap for next year and give both of them gift certificates. Work on the scarf now for next year. A 365-day advance!
2) Continue to work on a new scarf at my leisure and then concoct a story that my package was returned to me for insufficient postage and mail it when the new scarf is finished.
And neither of them are really a viable choice. Well, #1 isn't so off the mark.

Instead of giving into temptation, Daughter Dearest turned to her knitting books for inspiration. Thank you Pam Allen for Scarf Style. Thank you Jo Sharp for your chevron scarf, Misty Garden gracing the pages. I didn't bother with swatching, nor am I using mohair. I know this sounds like a recipie for another disaster, but my gut instinct told me to get on with the knitting. And, sometimes, you just have to follow your gut.

Not about myself, but a dear friend.

I must brag about Alyssa, whose birthday was one week ago. I didn't call it out here at the time because I wasn't sure how she'd feel about seeing an homage in print for a marker year.

Alyssa is someone who has known me since I was 18 or 19. She's a Sagatarius, which gives a Gemini great pleasure. I'm either playing translator, to re-word whatever flew out of Alyssa's mouth, or I'm the devil's advocate, trying to get her in deeper and hotter water.

Her quick tongue is legendary. Once, we were stopped by campus police and Alyssa was accused of stealing the roll of toiletpaper she had from someplace on campus. Quick as a whip, Alyssa retorted that it was impossible, "This is two-ply, and every roll on campus is one-ply...".

In the many years, that we've been friends, we've shaved and henna-ed each other's hair, we've eaten pounds of french fries and Indian food, we've chased British exchange students, and we've gone from slam-dancing to weight-lifting. FYI: Alyssa is the strongest woman in NYC, and she has the Powerlifting medals to prove it.

Really, Alyssa has been there for many of my life-changing moments. One Thanksgiving, after Ethiopian food and a slew of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, Alyssa taught me how to bind a book. I came away with a most precious notebook, upon which I shall never write.

Two years ago, in a moment of crafty inspiration, Alyssa gave me a ten-minute tutorial on knitting -- using scraps of fabric and two chopsticks. One month later, I was taking a course on Entrelac knitting, and I never looked back. She accomplished in ten minutes what two of my aunts could not in ten years.

Alyssa is a most interesting gal. Painting, travelling, photography, knitting, sewing (wedding dresses without a pattern!), reading, debating, and furniture-making -- she does them all. After a long hiatus from the needles, Alyssa was itching to knit a little something. I directed her to Knitty, and within minutes, she announced that she had found the perfect pattern.

A little something -- and she comes up with Leaves in Relief? Overachiever!

Short of burying myself in some extensive re-organizational project, I've run out of excuses to not knit my mother's gift. I narrowed it down to either the Multidirectional Scarf or scarf-sized Clapotis. Since time is a factor here -- I have to ship my gifts to Pittsburgh -- I selected the Clapotis. I'm familiar with the pattern, so I'm hopeful that it will make up for lost time, if you will. Also, it does seem most like my mother -- if you can compare your mother to a knitted scarf.

The yarn, Lola, is a worsted weight, so I used a #7 needle, in spite of receiving advice to use a slightly larger needle to give the fabric a nice drape. I did ponder this for a moment, but I worried that I might produce a fabric that was too wet noodle-like to appeal to my mother. So, off I went will the #7.

That knitterly voice in my head, which I am ignoring, tells me that I should have used a #8 needle and that the fabric is just a tad too stiff. I'm torn because I know that the feel of the fabric will change once all of the stitches have been dropped, and I'm not sure that my mother would like a very drapey scarf. Basically, I'm not sure if my mother will like a scarf at all. She feels like she's being strangled when she wears a scarf.

So, either I'd like to strangle my mother -- a feeling which is no doubt mutual between us on occassion -- or I'm under the delusion that she just hasn't worn the right scarf.

After the pox on my mailbox from previous weeks, last week was rather spectacular in terms of mail. Monday brought all sorts of knitting goodies, and other items arrived throughout the week. The best highlight was finding goodies in the post from Wendy! And what goodies, indeed. Two hanks of Artyarns Merino6. I don't know what I'll do with it, other than fondle it throughout the day.

Afterall, if I'm fondling yarn, I have an excuse for not knitting my mother's Christmas gift. It's not that I don't want to knit for my mother; I do. The problem is that I just haven't found the right item and/or the right yarn for the job. She's a tough customer, and she's very particular about what she does and doesn't wear. I'm driving Joe batty with an endless parade of yarn and patterns, all followed by the inevitable, "Do you think she'd like this?".

But I will tell you this: If there's a person on this planet who could resist the lucisouness of Schaefer Yarns Lola, that person is my mother. A woman of such high practicality that she withstands deep cracks in her fingers because rubbers don't allow her to properly feel the dishes as she washes them. further, she's the sort who washes a dish to clean before loading them into the dishwasher. Not that she has one; she doesn't. I'm talking about when she's a guest in another person's house and starts doing the dishes.

I wish she'd come for a visit and bring the carpet scrubber.

It must be the magic of the season that allowed me to pull off finishing Panta with that one ball of Mission Falls 1924. Well, that and the fact that I picked out the cast on edge and did a three-needle bind off -- just to give me one or two extra rows of knitting on what should have been the cast off edge.

When the snow finished falling, I ran outside -- wearing my Panta! -- with a ruler. I measured various points around the front yard, and the ruler was in over it's head at each point. I'd say we acculumated 13". Six hours and thirteen inches of snow doesn't allow for much other than staying inside and concentrating on crafting.

I was hesitant about Panta for a few reasons. I seldom wear headbands, but I saw it a good alternative to a hat. I also figured that it would be good for getting an extra day between shampoos without frightening anyone.

As history shows, I don't have much luck with oddball or small projects. If I'm not running short of yarn, than my finished product looks nothing like the neckwarmer in Knitscene one featured in the pattern. But I cannot help myself, and I'm glad I didn't this time around. I'm very pleased with both Panta and Knecklace.

Now that I have them at home, none of the buttons I found at JoAnn Fabrics seem suitable for Knecklace, but the colors sure are great! I have to decide if I'm going to keep $6.00-worth of buttons that I'll most likely never use.

When I was a child living behind the Steel Curtain, everyone listened to KDKA radio for school closing and delay information. Living in Allegheny County, we were at the top of the list under the closings or the delay information, and I always felt sorry for the kids in Westmoreland County, still listening to the radio with great hope, as I drifted back to sleep.

During my four years at Penn State, I remember only once were classes cancelled, and it was due to the wind chill, rather than the 36" of snow. I guess when you've opted to attend a university nestled in the mountains of Central Pennsylvania, you should be prepared for slogging through some serious snow to get to class. Which is why this area's colleges and universities announcing administrative office closings and class cancellations are surprising. Pleasantly surprising, however, as I have the day off. Of course, it's unpaid, but that is the cost of being a footloose temporary worker.

I'm playing a bit fast and loose with Panta as well. I have one ball of Mission Falls 1824 Wool, which should do the job according to a Crafster chick. However, I'm nearing the second set of three decreases, and it's not looking good. Especially since this was the only ball of this color at my LYS.


One ball of yarn for a headband doesn't seem unreasonable or impossible, but I realize now that I sealed my fate -- and secured my failure -- when I was brazen enough to sniff at the outside chance that I might need just a smidgen more yarn than the Mission Falls yardage provided.

Of course, I could stop now, find another suitable yarn, and start again, but what fun would that be? If I were that clever, I'd have just artfully wrapped one of my legwarmers around my head instead of playing a sort of yardage roulette.

Finally, my stomach is approaching 100% wellness. There's still some crampiness, but it's receeding. My head, on the other hand, feels as if it's about to explode. Rather than a localized or a general sense of pain, it feels as if spots of my brain are hurting. And, for good measure my sinuses are getting in on the action. At least my body is in harmony, for better or worse.

In an attempt to keep my head together, literally and figuratively, I've started on Panta, a pattern I found on Crafster, via X-treme Knitting.

Just the answer for those greasy hair days.

Yes, indeed, I awoke with a horrible stomach cramps early Tuesday monrning. Everything between my ribs and my pelvic bone felt crampy and spastic. I was alternately hot and cold, and my back ached as well. I tossed and turned in bed without relief. Standing offered no relief either; it only offered the addition of a searing pain behind my right eye. Flu? Migraine?

I was loathed to make a bad impression by calling in sick to my temp job so early in the game, however, I was far more loathed to share my intestinal duress with my co-workers.

Such a thing happened several years ago on a temporary job that had the lure of turning into a permanent position. About a week into the job, I was invited to lunch with my boss and a major client. We laughed, we ate, and I ignored the fact that on two previous occasions, clam dishes had brought me to my knees. Literally. Precisely 18 mintues after our return from lunch, I was sequestered in the Ladies Room, revisiting my glorious lunch.

Through my shame- and vomit-induced tears, I prayed silently to every deity for the power to teleport myself home and erase this incident from the collective conciousness of my co-workers. I also contemplated "waiting it out" and not leaving the restroom until every last person had gone home for the evening, but I desperately needed the comfort of my own bed and bathroom.

Thankfully, I did not spend my day locked in the bathroom, but rather alternately sleep and watching television. It wasn't until later in the evening that I started to feel marginally better, so I did some knitting during an episode of Law and Order Criminal Intent. Obviously, I needed something easy and breezy, and I knew just the thing. I grabbed some leftover Reynolds Santana, and before Dectective Goren had his confession, I had my Knecklace. One measely button is all that stands between me and a wearable piece of jewellry.

Oh, and about the other temporary job? I called in sick the following day, as my reaction to the clams was quite extreme. Thankfully, one week later, I was offered a job elsewhere, and I left that job with the sense that every woman on that floor was certain that I was either pregnant or a lunchtime boozer.

Most people who work for a living dread Monday morning. Even if you feel ambivalent about the day, there is a certain amount of peer pressure to do a bit of grousing about how tired you are, how fast the weekend went, how you can't believe that we're back here already.

Frankly, Monday doesn't bother me, because I dislike every weekday with equal passion if I'm stuck someplace I'd rather not be, doing something that is slowly killing my soul and brain. That's fancy talk for "if I hate my job, then I hate any day that requires me to be there".

I'm on a new temporary assignment, at a college. I walked to the Main Building today for mail and coffee. Immediately, I was seized by whistfulness. I savored the vision of students and faculty rushing to class, chatting, pouring over a book, or just staring off into space.

It's been a frightening number of years since I graduated from Penn State, but a strange swirl of emotions came to me in those moments at the cafe. I spent my lunch hour (a full hour!) at the student bookstore, milling around. I thought about how much I miss being an academic, about how easy life seemed then, and about how my work has no meaning or purpose. Needless to say, I was in a bit of a funk through the afternoon.

But, oh, did my tune change when I arrived home! The Winter Knitty was up, and the U.S. Postal Service brought me quite a few goodies. They must have been holding all of my "good mail" for an emotional rainy day, because it was a knitting bounty. Two swaps -- #1- and #2-12" Addi circulars from a Knittyboard swap, and five balls of Cascade Fixation in purple (branching out from green) greeted me. Nestled amongst the department store sale circulars was the latest issue of Interweave Knits.

I might not be a student anymore, but I did a fair amount of studying last night.

No doubt you've seen those adorable patterns by French Girl Designs -- single patterns for Rowan yarns in either knit or crochet. Clever concept. It appeals to those of us who long for a bit of "French" fasion to spice up the dark days of hunting season.

Alas, my poor Violette has seen precious little of the sunlight. Between the size of the yarn and the needles, you'd think that this would practically knit itself just getting jumbled around in my knitting bag.

As it turns out, I have to do the knitting myself; there is no knitting by accident that occurs in one's knitting bag. Also, it turns out that my inner French girl is rather poor at counting. I bungled the first decrease round so many times that I became fluent in cursing in French, Farsi, and Aramaic.

Eventually, this Faux French girl managed to get the decreases right and finish the pattern, only to discover that it was more shruken skull cap than beautiful beret. I counted my rounds.

Twenty?
Oui vingt. Précisément.

I could only surmise that my row gauge was horribly wrong. Thus, I frogged (pun, but no malice, intended) again in order to add a few rounds of stockinette before beginning my decrease rounds.

Mon Dieu! I just want this bloody thing finished before the year's end.

November Wrapup

THANKSGIVING
For the curious amongst you, the UnTurkey was...uhm...rather gross.

Please remember a few points:

I was a vegetarian.
I was a vegan.
I cannot eat turkey without getting ill.

In spite of the above, I can state with full confidence that it's a tie between having to eat UnTurkey again in my lifetime vs. bowing down to the toilet bowl after gobbling down some gobbler.

WORK
Retail during the holidays is existential hell. In fact, a number of us have been calling out to other coworkers for a gun -- and no one means the pricing gun. The store management has failed to figure out how to regulate the HVAC, so it's quite the sauna experience in the store. Because of the higher concentration of lights -- all the better to see yourself -- in Cosmetics, it's like a pit of fire.

Imagine if you experienced all of your menopausal hot flashes in one eight-hour period. The heat is that intense, and it has everyone -- customers and "beauty advisors" alike -- just a bit on the bad side of grouchy. Everyone is, quite literally, hot under the collar. I have nothing but empathy for the overheated customer complaining that it's too uncomfortable to shop. Believe me, I know...my dewy complexion is not a cosmetic contrivance.

Adding to the rancor is the alternating lack of customers, as well as the lack of co-workers. The stock guy is either in hospital or in jail. The story is unclear, and I'm not interested in pressing anyone for their version of what they heard through the grapevine. Besides, I'm too busy filling in for said stock guy... Yes, for the past three days, I've been pulled from my assigned counter to unload stock, unpack stock, check in stock, and stock stock on the highest of shelves in the deepest recesses of the stockroom.

While other freelancers are able to pass a shift shopping for bedding/clothing/housewares, arranging dates with male customers, making/taking personal calls, and picking zits; I am stocking, doing RTVs, helpings customers, and covering lunch breaks at other counters. Alas, life is unfair.

But, there is a silver lining to the story. The stockroom is the coolest spot in the store. You practically need layers.

KNITTING
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Enough about November. It's a new month and a new attitude!