While I'll admit that I do get bouncy when I hear the original "Jump Around", today's post is not about the white man's appropriation of rap music.

Yesterday was an extremely painful day. I had my eyebrows threaded and I worked out for the first time since my visit to the treadmill during Stitches East.

In the past, I've found threading to be the quickest, cheapest, and least painful option for maintaining my catepillars eyebrows. Threading is not to be found in Dutchess County, so it requires a trip to "the city". Actually, it requires a trip to Queens. There are a number of places that offer threading in Jackson Heights for a fiver -- which is roughly the number of minutes that it requires to get threaded. Typically.

Typically because last night, I encountered a threader who must hold the world's record for slow-motion threading. If she'd actually gouged my eyeball out with the thread, it would have been less painful than the 12 minutes that she spent painstakingly and slooooooowly ripping out and taming my catepillars.

It was the sort of experience that makes me sympathic and empathetic to Larry Hagman and his brows. What else, but a horrible threading or grooming experience could allow a person to walk through life -- particularly celebrity life -- with those wild bushes above his eyes?


Nevermind that it wasn't just my eyebrows that were on fire during my 12 mintues in the torture threading chair. The mere act of sitting was causing me a bit of discomfort as well. And, thankfully, this has nothing to do with my gastrointestinal tract.

Earlier in the day, I had submitted myself to the training whims of Alyssa. In a strange twist of fate, it was my physical prowess and fitness that spurred her to get back to the gym and a healthy lifestyle a few years ago. Her transition to health began just as I transitioned from gym-rat to couch-potato. She's now a power-lifting champion and a certified personal trainer -- who kicked my ass with three simple exercises.

I know this is utterly sick, but I love that fact that the passive act of sitting is a slightly painful one.

I figure that I have two options: keep moving or get a massage.

Finally, the Swamp Thing Ass Pointer is done, and I'm quite pleased to report that it's not really an ass pointer at all. Perhaps, it has something to do with the height difference between myself and the designer, but it's not hitting me at, or drawing attention to, any unflattering spots. I guess there's something to that adage that size matters. Clearly, it matters when you are short enough to have an Ass Pointer grow into an Ass Cover.

While I may have finally silenced the internal nay-sayer that triangular shawls are unflattering to anyone but the tall and very thin, the internal nagger is rejoicing. I don't know if anyone remembers the strange shape that Gioia took on, but clearly, there's some pattern here.



I will be the first to admit that Geometry was not my strength, but I understand the triangle. I understand how to increase every row, and yet...yet there it is, a prime example of how a little experience can still go awry. Of how I am doomed to making bizarre mistakes given to altering a pattern with my own design elements.

Basically, I think my only option is to give up trying to knit shawls, or I can learn to live with the shame of sporting wonky, warped bird-like wraps. Or maybe, I can pass it off as a design element:

"Yes, darling, everyone else wears the equilateral triangle shawl, but that is rather common, no? I think this scalene triangle shawl stands out from the crowd. It is beyond unique."

I'm just surprised that my shawl isn't a bit more like I: obtuse.

Two weeks ago, our landlord arrived -- without prior notice -- to cut down the dying tree in the yard. As it is his property, he's free to fell and uproot whatever plant life he pleases, but some notice so that we could move our cars out of potential harm's way would have been appreciated.

Imagine my surprise when I returned from work Friday night to discover that one of the bushes in the front yard had been removed. Again, he's free to do as he pleases in terms of landscaping his property, but that gaping hole at the end of the apartment building? Leaving that big bush that crowds the walkway? This man knows nothing of balance or pleasing the eye.

It occurred to me that it might be wise to invest a little time cleaning the snow off my car prior to leaving for work. A grand idea! Not such a grand idea was leaving my snow boots in the car. I donned Joe's boots (Joe is 6'1" to my 5'2") and thunder-footed my way out only to discover that Joe had locked the driver's side door (something I rarely do being a former city girl who assumes the best of those who live outside of a city) forcing me to huff out an extra lap in his ginormous boots. I'm not a stranger to the discomfort of shoes that pinch, bind, or threaten to perform amputation as you mince along, but trudging through a few inches of snow in a tall man's boots? Well, it was it's own sort of exercise.

As far as knitting, I'm flatlining. It's been a bit like the snow to me: the novelty is wearing off. Actually, it's not that I'm growing bored with or tired of knitting. Not at all. I want to knit, but I'm bored with the yarn that I see. Somehow, the puzzle pieces of matching the right yarn -- in the right color no less -- to the right pattern are not coming together for me. I'm hoping that my upcoming trip to Manhattan will provide me with the missing link.

In the meantime, I'm going to put off the ideas of taking up snowshoeing or joining a gym. I think I'm on to something with Joe's boots. I might have to take them for a few laps around the block...

There's something about sitting at home sick when I'm not sick-sick that makes me feel even worse. Witness the fact that Wednesday, after a few hours of laying around the house too uninspired to read or to knit, I decided to go to work. Granted, I was feeling better, but I think this signals some sort of great paradigmatic shift in my personality, because I used to be the sort of person who could beat Ferris Beuller at his own game.

Speaking of games, I'm toying with the idea of joining one of the Teams for the Knitting Olympics. Hopefully, I can find a project and suitable yarn before the games begin. I'm all afluster because I just haven't been able to find the yarn that I need/want/know is out there, somewhere for any of the projects I have in mind to knit. My LYS has a large and varied inventory, but I'm just not inspired by anything. Is this how marriages fall apart -- one stops inspiring and/or being inspired by the other? Maybe it's not the yarn...Maybe it's me...

I have two patterns that I'm drooling over, Tubey and Jenny, and the yarn for both eludes me. If I find the proper yarn, there's either not enough of the color that I like, or worse, there is not a color that I like in the palette ordered by my LYS. I'm not talking conspirary theory or anything, but it's just a bit strange for me to go yarn shopping and not have anything call out to me.

I'm certainly not saying that I buy every yarn that calls out to me. Hell, I'm not saying that at all. I'm the first to admit that I'm able to resist the siren song of sale yarn, but, holy sheep shears, how is it that nothing, NOTHING speaks to me and says, "I'm Tubey" or "I'm Jenny"? How is that possible?

And I utterly refuse to believe that somehow these patterns weren't meant to be knit and worn by me. Impossible! Both of them cry out my name. Cry out for me like a lost lover, I tell you.

Maybe I'll just chow down some more cabbage to take my mind off the state of yarn affairs around here.

I had a friend who was given to discussing the results of her high fiber diet with close friends -- or anyone expressing an interest in adding fiber to their diet. She had an entire parlance to describe the volume of her resulting elimination. Actually, I have quite a few friends who are not at all shy about discussing all things bowel-related.

A former roommate was so given to discussing his world travels -- highlighting his bathroom experiences -- that several of us decided that he needed his own Channel 35/Manhattan Cable Access show dedicated to all things scatological, Scat Chat.

Yesterday, I left work early two reasons: the weather was turning and so was my stomach. Naturally, the drive home had to be an endurance test wherein I was cut off by the driver of an SUV who then saw fit to drive 30MPH while I brewed a cocktail of All Bran for breakfast mixed with cabbage for lunch, topped with a dash of popcorn (previous night's snack).

At this moment, neither the weather nor my stomach has improved. In fact, the mini-tempest seems to be an external manifestation of my intestinal distress. I'm so distressed that I can't even bring myself to knit 12 stinking rows in order to complete the Glampyre City Shawl. Frankly, finishing an Ass Pointer today would be akin to me sporting a belly shirt. My belly and butt need no extra attention today, thank you.

Probably the best thing I can do for myself today is devour the latest issue of Vogue Knitting, which seems to be the visual equivalent of white rice. The patterns this round are a bit bland, if not binding. No movement. I generally, don't buy knitting magazines for the articles, but I'm afraid that the articles may be the only interesting part. I wonder if subscribers to Outdoor Life ever feel a bit let down by a particular issue -- "Wow, that Walleye fishing article wasn't very in-depth, and it seems like they recycled it from a previous issue..."?

Just so you don't think I'm the only one talking crap in the knitting blog sphere, you need to know that Mariko's been cleansing Princess Diana-style and giving a bit of insight. Oh, and that friend that I mentioned at the beginning? Her initials are MBM. The mind reels...

In an effort to break a minor trend, as well as prepare myself for the forthcoming peri-menopausal decade, I've opted to knit a shawl instead of a hat. I have been given an important bit of information by my elder knitters: shawls are easily shed during a hot flash/power surge. Hats trap body heat, so maybe those will be for my pre- and post-menopause years...

While I loved the finished City Shawl on the Glampyre website, it's looking a bit wonky in my hands. It's looking far too Swamp Thing for me to believe that I'm giong to look anywhere near as chic and cool as Stefanie. And you know what? That little warning voice that every ignores knitter has? Well, it's talking to me, and it's reminding me that I am not a Glamazon. I'm all of 5'2", and definately not cutting the long, lean figure of Ms. Glampyre.

And then there's the fact that I've given this shawl thing an unsuccessful whirl before, creating another swamp green monster.

And yet, I knit on...

I'll reserve my judgement until the shawl is blocked. Then I can ponder the infamous words of my Stitches East partner, Teri, about the lack of fashion flattery of what she calls Ass Pointers. I'm hoping that maybe the wider top of the shawl will balance my wider hips, rather than what I suspect will actually happen: the point of the shawl will fall at precisely the widest point of my ass, creating an optical illusion of a walking billboard covered in a swamp net.

That was the subject of one of the emails in my work inbox this fine morning. I don't know that it really makes much sense, but it struck me as marvelous. It spoke to me on some level. Most likely the level that is dithering about finding permanent work.

If I'm not willing to commute to White Plains, Connecticut, or Manhattan, there's precious little I can expect in terms of exciting work and exciting wages. There is a paucity of the sort of work that sparks my interest. No fashion. No advertising. No publishing.

The most common jobs that bear any promise are secretarial. Now, am I "above" secretarial work? Well, yes. And no. No because if it were a matter of sheltering and feeding myself, I'd scrub toilets. No work is beneath anyone if it is a means to a roof over one's head and food on one's table. Yes because I have a tremendous aversion to banality in all forms. I become so easily bored by most jobs once I've mastered them -- or performed them for too long.

I crave stimulation and, let's be honest, secretarial work is not stimulating. At least not in the manner in which I wish to be stimulated at any rate. Generally, I find that secretarial work stimulates my nerves, my never-before-seen desire to drink at lunch, and my belief that I can no longer function in society without the aid of pharmaceuticals.

I graduated from university with the notion that I would find meaningful, deep, mentally stimulating and soul-enriching work. I'm nearly 40; I've worked many jobs in many cities, and it's finally becoming clear that this is a rather elusive, if not deluded, notion.

Between my delusions of a grander life and the sobering reality of my semi-suburban life, I'm rather hesitant to dive into the biography of Lee Miller.

I've already postponed reading two other books simply because I'm not in the frame of mind to enjoy either of them.

Typically, death and depression are not topics that scare me off in fiction or non-fiction, but have you ever wanted to read a book but found it impossible to do so? Your eyes refused to focus on the page? Your brain refused to absorb anything off the page? When that happens, it's time to find a new text.

It's quite likely that further reading will unearth that Lee Miller's life was not as glamourous as the cover blurbs would lead one to think. In fact, I know a BBC correspondent whose work in West Africa earned her knighthood. Outside of work, she led a rather tired and desperate-to-feel regular life. Still, if given my druthers, I'd rather be in Paris than Poughkeespie any day of the week. Hell, even Pittsburgh seems more charming to me now.

Several months ago, a friend (who happens to own the LYS) announced that she was putting her house on the market and moving to a smaller place. She was overwhelmed at the prospect of downsizing her life, and I thought I had just the answer: Clear Your Clutter with Feng Shui by Karen Kingston. This book helped me clear the crap when I moved from my complex single life Manhattan to my coupled simple life with Joe north of Manhattan. Only I could move to a smaller apartment in the country than the one I inhabited in Manhattan.

For all of the good that Karen Kingston did me a few years ago, things have fallen apart tremendously. I have commandeered one of the bedrooms in the apartment for my books, my clothes, my computer, my beads, my yarn...In short, my SHIT! Joe has a closet in there as well, but he's scarcely able to reach it. As a matter of fact, I often hear him shouting curse words because he's stubbed his toe on something in his path to the closet. I'd say that it serves him right for not turning on the light, but the light is further into the room than his closet. Who knows what the hell could happen to him if he ventured in that far without light, a rope, and steel-toed boots?

Last night, I had an epiphany. It was like looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes, and all I saw was a gruesome scene for which only I was responsible. I documented the craphole that is of my doing for a friend, a friend who was too kind to tell me that I'm a hoarder, a pack-rat, and a craptastic housekeeper.


I happen to know that there are worse out there -- houses where every room looks like this one, but that doesn't make me feel better about the simple fact that I am a hoarder, a pack-rat, and a craptastic housekeeper.

See that American flag? That is Joe's. There is a small pile of his "stuff" lurking near the door, but I supposed it's simply because he can't make it further into the room to store the flag in his closet. Nor can he make it far enough into the room to toss his jeans in the laundry bag -- if he could even find the blasted thing under the mound of clothing that I've stacked on it rather than in it.

If I accomplish one thing in the New Year, it will be to conquer my demons and de-clutter this room. So, when is Chinese New Year?

Many of you miss your Jerry, your John, and even your Hunter. As a talkative Gemini, a verbal communicator supreme, I mourn the loss of Spalding Gray who went missing two years ago.

He was a shared favorite between myself and Radio Jeff, a long-lost friend from Portland, Wa., who enjoyed and longed for more great storytellers, more great masters of the spoken word. We joked that we should tour the nation to revive the lost art of the spoken word, knowing all too well that Spalding was already out there and doing it. One part dramatic monologuist, and one part stand-up comedian, Spalding Gray equaled all-out exposure into the most humiliating and personal moments of his life -- the moments that we all share -- and made them into stories to be absorbed into our cultural fabric.

Our modern cultural fabric is certainly larger thanks to the internet, but as Marshall McLuhan suggested, perhaps we become more disconnected the more connected we become. Certainly, documenting and archiving events for the future is necessary, but the move from the tradition of storytelling may well be reducing not only our cultural mental prowess, but tradition of storytelling as a way of creating community.

I love language. I love to read, but it is the spoken word that moves me further and faster. No doubt, that is why I found Spalding so compelling and why I still find the French language to be so fascinating. There are complexities and subtle tricks of spoken French that are demystified once transcribed.
Vraiment = really
vrai ment = truth lies
It practically begs to be used in a comedy of errors.

The value of the spoken word will continue. But I hope for more challenges such as La Dictée des Amériques -- an annual French-language competition held in Montreal. I hope for more English teachers who are willing to devote the time to modernizing and demystifying the language of Shakespeare. Above all, I hope that there is another (or more than one) budding Spalding Gray knocking about town.

Back at university, I had a friend who was always producing major papers at the final hour. She typically resorted to blaming her procrastination on the fact that she was out of typewriter ribbon and was unable to procure any immediately. She would have to phone her parents and friends in Canada and send them on a wild journey in search of this elusive ribbon.

I was on my own hunt for ribbon this weekend, and I came up short. I paid a visit to a large craft chain over the weekend with the specs for a ribbon to finish Violette. Do I have to tell you that it was not a successful trip?

Further ribbon adventures included a failed attempt at a handbag knitted in Crystal Palace Deco Ribbon. The experience was so frustrating that I was swearing to God like a beaten Scarlett O'Hara. I ripped out the project and handed the yarn to a friend who seems to be more at ease with knitting ribbon than I.

So what on earth possessed me to contemplate knitting with ribbon once again? Why a hat, my dear. I am on a major hat "jag" at the moment, and I think it's a direct result of JenLa giving me the Mrs. Howell Award.

The pattern is from Sitch Diva. Telling enough, no? It was a breeze to whip up with one ball of Katia Twin Print, which is roughly 40% less yardage that the pattern's yarn requirements. I'm sure this is universal balance at work, given that I've failed miserably on two recent one-skein projects.

Of course, part of the balance will be that I'll be unable to find suitable silk and velvet ribbon to finish both the Ribbon Beanie and Violette before the season changes.

Please forgive the Ribbon Beanie photo. It was a a late-night, post-cosmetics shift session, which explains both the copious amount of makeup and my "winky" right eye. Although it's entirely possible that my right eye is straining under the pressure of the wildly ungroomed eyebrow, but I know it's all a matter of asymetry. Why on earth is the body asymetrical? Absoultely bizarre.

I love to read books about transforming your life, transforming your space, transforming your work, etc. In one of those books, I read that it's quite typical for Cancers to collect boxes. I'm a Gemini-Cancer Cusp, so maybe it's softened somewhat; I tend to collect bags. It's not just those cute shopping bags that you get from a fancy store. Really, any shopping bag or sack will do.

In spite of having a large, sturdy knitting bag, I end up carrying around my knitting in some of those fancy and not-so-fancy bags. After all, that large, sturdy knitting bag is just too much for a small project, like a baby sweater or a hat. Just imagine my surprise when I discovered that one the little bags near the Christmas shrub was one of my ad hoc knitting bags. Guess who was snuggled up inside, feeling a bit abandoned? Violette!

She just needs a velvet ribbon, and she's finis.

Not only did I find Violette, but I seem to have rediscovered my shopping and style Mojo. I owe it all to the gracious goodness of those two sweet bitches at JenLa. Thank you. Thank you. I am a most pleased recipient of the Mrs. Howell Award. In spite of being out of her element, she had some style and sass.

So, this year, as I skid towards Four-Oh, I'll be concentrating much more on my style and my sass, instead of moaning about the size of my ass.

Sometimes, the life of a temp worker is a rough road. As rough and sloggy as the Second Snowstorm of 2006.

The problem is that you never really know how an assignment will be until you are there and in the thick of it. There's generally no interview process wherein everyone puts their best face forward. No, you get to skip straight to the part where you realize that root canal would be a preferable to spending another minute at that damn desk. Other times, it's a breeze. The work is enjoyable, as is teh environment and the co-workers.

An assignment at Starbucks Corporate Headquarters was exactly that. During my Year of Living Grungily, I enjoyed some of the perks (no pun intended) of working at Coffee Central. One perk was the full espresso bar in the main kitchen. I developed a wicked addiction to double-shot skinny lattes. I'd average roughly six double-strength lattes at the office alone. Needless to say, I couldn't afford to maintain the addiction once I moved away from Seattle and Uncle Howard. But I found that my sleep improved.

I'm no Coffee Connoisseur. In fact, I find most Starbucks coffees to be a bit on the over-roasted side. But I do enjoy a good cuppa in the morning. So you'll understand -- and forgive? -- the measures to which I went yesterday to have a small sip of morning coffee.

This is what comes of loving a man whose addiction to caffeine is in soda form, rather than the sweet, warm elixir of life. What comes is that you have a Turkish coffepot but no Turkish coffee. You have a broken French Press -- that could be used with great care -- but no French coffee. In fact, there is no coffee in any form -- not even the Dunkin' Donuts dregs from the prior night's late-night bread and milk run to the store -- anywhere in the house.

Just how low did I go to satisify pacify a great urge for coffee something warm and brown?

Sanka!
A favorite uncle of mine drank Sanka regularly. Now that I'm an adult with some coffe-drinking experience under my belt, I often wonder how a man who spent much of his life in Italy could make the switch from Italian coffe and espresso to Sanka.

The purging continues, but I've lost a bit of steam. I found two knitting projects set aside from March 2004 and a favorite Chanel lipstick that had gone missing this summer. However, the whereabouts of Violette are still unknown. It's rather disconcerting to lose an article of clothing before it's been finished and worn.

At the moment, I'm more upset that I'm drinking Sanka this morning than I am about losing Violette somewhere in a very small apartment. She's probably just offended by the affront to Parisian coffeehouses. The French are very sensitive about defending the sanctity of their language and their culture. Someone has to be, otherwise Sanka would take over the world!

I'm not sure which

Perhaps it wasn't so wise to spend December 31st and January 1st watching Shakleton. It might have set the tone for the year's weather...

Would that I -- and my DVD player -- had so much power!

It's winter, and if you live north of the Mason-Dixon Line, snow, ice, slush, and the dreaded "wintry mix" should not be a surprise, nor breaking news, nor the impetus for the sort of hysteria that leaves the bread aisle of the grocery store looking more deserted and defiled than Time Square at 4:00am on January 1st.

Incidentally, who buys that much bread in the Low Carb Millenium? Man shall not live on bread alone -- unless it's during the Biggest Storm of the Century. I've travelled through Alaska, the Northwest Territories, and The Yukon; and in none of those places did I witness the mass panic and pandemonium that grips Dutchess County at the sighting of a snowflake.

Our downstairs neighbor, who run or owns some sort of bus company in Chappaqua does us the great diservice of plowing the driveway. It's a diservice primarly because I don't care to be awakened at 4:30a.m. to the rumblings of metal dragging along a crappy paving job. Furthermore, his plowing skills are rather lacking, as the driveway is typically more of an icy hazard post-plowing than it was had he just left the snow in place.

Moreover, his plowing vehicle is equipped with some sort of device to indicate when he's moving in reverse. It's not the standard screechy, whirling beep that you'd hear on a bus or construction vehicle. My neighbor has managed to find a reverse indicator that is akin to a flutophone or one of those tootie New Year's Eve horns.

This provided Joe and I with a solid twenty-five minutes of deep belly laughs, as we riffed on and expanded on the theme. He brought me to tears with some esoteric remark about piccolos.

As I have the day off due to the weather (Dear God, grant me a job in academia), I will most likely spend it cleaning up after yesterday's debacle.

It all started when I realized that Violette was missing. Gone. Quite simply: If I'm losing my knitting then my house is just far too disorganized. And nothing gets me motivated and liberated like a good purging session. And I don't mean the Tracey Gold variety.

And herein lies one of the great divides between Joe and myself. Joe's manner of purging is thorough and contained. My method, on the other hand, is a bit more demonstrative and expansive. A bit more wild and uncontrolled.

I hang a trash bag on the nearest doorknob, overturn the room, and begin the satisfying process of filling the trash bag and clearing the clutter.

Creating a mess to clean and clear may seem counter-productive, but this is a method also favored by Sharyn from my knitting group. What a joyous day when we discovered our mutual love of hanging and filling a trash bag.

This fact alone is more than ample indication that the confusion-begets-clarity method of organizing is oft-practiced and highly sanctioned. Or that Sharyn and I should leave our spouses -- both of whom despise the sight of the hanging trash bag -- and co-habit with all manner of trash bags.

Bad Sign?

Horoscope for: Saturday, December 31, 2005

Too many demands on your time today can encroach upon your ability to do what you think is most important. This, in turn, can make you angry, but there isn't an easy way to express your annoyance without others judging you as overly negative. Your best bet is to work extra hard to complete whatever you can and then blow off the excess steam at a party later in the evening.

Is this my first mistake of 2006, or does this belong to 2005? I hope it belongs under the Mistakes of Last Year category. No one wants to start off a new year in the hole.

There was a grand plan to attend Sharyn's (of the knitting circle) party. However, there was just enough snow to throw a wrench into our plans. Normally, Joe isn't one to shy away from driving in the snow. He does it frequently to get to work, but I suppose commuting in the snow is vastly different from sharing the snowy roads with a high volume of people who have been drinking. Having lived so many years in pedestrian-friendly cities, it's alarming to discover just how prevelant drinking and driving is when foot power or public transportation are not options.

Rather than complain about the snow ruining a good time, I decided to use the time to gain some perspective. I popped in Shakleton and picked up my knitting needles. Nothing makes me more thankful for a mere 2-3" of snow than watching men spend two years in the punishing climate of Antarctica.

There's a baby present awaiting sleeves, and I'm not even sure where the Violette (the French Girl beret) has gone off to, but I was itching for something new. I needed a small knitting adventure to span the leap from 2005 to 2006. Thus, I committed my first mistake of the New Year. Rowan's Elsie.

Joe's response was a sort of twitching face, and when pushed for elaboration, an admission that it looked as if popcorn were going to explode out of my head. No one loves popcorn more than I, but I not looking to promote Jiffy(Pop) Knits. Maybe I'm wearing it wrong; Elsie is supposed to have a sort of slouchy, Boho feel to it. I'm just feeling sort of a pouchy, Nono feel.