prim•er
n.

1. An elementary textbook for teaching children to read.
2. A book that covers the basic elements of a subject.

Straight line. Circle. The difference between them is easy enough, no? Apparently not for me. Apparently not when it comes to knitting needles.

Clearly, I am in need of an elementary primer in simple geometric shapes, as well as a quick review of my reading comprehension.


Yesterday, after a marginally satisfying lunch, Sharyn and I were ready to get our knit on. Armed with my adorable cotton chenille cake, my (legal) copy of the Mason-Dixson Washcloth Reloaded pattern and my knitting needles, I was prepared to cast on. A quick glance at the pattern, to confirm the number of cast on stitches needed, revealed that I had packed the wrong needles. Somehow, I had managed to pack the needles I needed for a Knit1 project -- a project for which I do not yet have the yarn, mind you.

Not a circular needle

This cock-up left me with nothing to knit. While I did have the trusty fallback, the Schaefer Shawlette, with me; I was far too irritated with myself to knit at that point. Instead, Sharyn and I set about recounting our weekends, complaining about institutional food, and comparing notes on The Da Vinici Code.

This morning, I arrived to work only to discover that my office keys and ID card were not in my handbag nor my knitting bag. Eventually, I had security let me in. There were my keys on the desk. I am less upset about the keys than the needles, as I was able to steal a few minutes of reading on company time. But it is thoroughly annoying to be in the midst of a knitting slump and have myself be the architect of my knitting failures.

This weekend, Joe learned something new about me. He learned that I absolute adore carousels. When I become too infirm to mount a horse, I will simply ride the carousel benches.

Sadly, the carousel is not as common as it once was. More often than not, one simply stumbles upon a carousel by sheer luck. , which is how I came to learn that there is one in Congress Park in Saratoga Springs, New York. Fifty cents gets you a ride and a sticker to announce that your ride.


That is my Congress Park Carousel sticker on my new dishcloth. I never thought of myself as one who would use -- much less knit -- a dishcloth, but here it is in all of its multi-colored glory. The dishcloth seems like such a frivolous thing to knit, but there is an addictive and seductive quality. It is small and portable. It is colorful. It is the perfect antidote for a knitting slump.

And while I am on the topic of frivolous knits, I bought a copy of the latest Knit1 this weekend, which has always struck me as a rather frivolous knitting publication -- possibly because I fall outside of the target demographic of hip 18-35 year old knitters. I certainly favour innovation and whimsy in fashion, but there is a line that must be drawn to prevent utter silliness in design, as well as outright public mockery. That said this issue seems to be more aware of that line, as well as the existence of hip knitters over the age of 35.

I feel a bit silly for admitting this, but there are a few designs in the latest issue that appeal to me. I feel silly because I am in the middle of a knitting slump, so I will probably not cast on for any of them. I feel silly because I already have more than enough projects in mind to knit –- none of which I have started. Yet, there are at least four patterns that I want to knit immediately. The definition of immediately is still open for argument.

It is far too hot today to give much thought to sifting through patterns and yarns in order to start a new project of any merit. But I want to “keep my hand in”; I do not want to let the knitting slump and the heat get the best of me. Enter the washcloth -- perfectly portable, and perfectly useful in the three-shower-a-day weather.

As part of my whirlwind of organizing and purging, I created a stash spreadsheet to be cross-referenced to the patterns that I want knit, which incidentally, are complied in a Word document -- table format with photos, source, designer, and yarn requirements. However, when I compare these two documents, precious little in the way of Warm Weather Knitting marries together. I am not prepared to knit Tubey in June, at least not while I am in the Northern Hemisphere.

Adding to the pain of this process is the release of the Knitscene Fall 2006 preview. There are so many things that I want to knit, but somehow, I never seem to get around to casting on. This summer's knitting slump does not seem to be as bad as last summer's, when nothing appealed to me. Not a yarn. Not a pattern. I attended Knitting Nights for the conversation and companionship. I did not even try to fake it by carrying a knitting bag.

At least I still have the knitting jones; I do not have the focus power. I cannot seem to pick a pattern, find the yarn, and just go with it. But the hunger to knit must be fed, even if it is just a snack.

Thus, I dug up that a little The MDK Warshrag I started about a month ago. The color patterning had not grown on me at all, so I ripped and started over. Inspired by Anna's foray into her Vogue Dictionary of Knitting. I like the result far better, and it seems to please the Mod Shopper Hello Kitty as well. She knows quality when she sees it, being a mod shopper and all. When she is not shopping, she is dispensing lotion.

Hello Kitty was a gift from Sharyn, who is spreading the wealth after inadvertently ordering too much moisturizer from Kiss My Face. How one can inadvertently order ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT OUNCES of moisturizer is something to ponder. Thankfully, we have a long weekend to do just that.

There is a great myth in the City of New York. The myth that space abounds outside of the parameters of the boroughs. There is some truth, as we pay a little over $1.00 per square foot for our apartment. Alas, rentals are hard to come by in Southern Dutchess County, and our rental rate is ridiculously below market. I have also taken a 37% cut in pay, and I gained three flatmates -- Joe and his boys.

With all of my books, yarn, and clothing, I occupy a tad more than the others. Unfair? Yes, but what can I do? Give up knitting? Give up reading? I might as well just give up if I have nothing to which I can turn for amusement. How does one live with less? My plan is simple, but it is a beginning.

Cosmetics
I work them, but I rarely wear them. I do not need 10 different shades of eyeshadow; I only need the basics. My goal is to streamline to the point that I can store my cosmetics (minsu the brushes and eyelash curler) in one of those travel makeup bag.This would give me one small dresser drawer for other items. Items such as...

Yarn
I do not have a burgeoning stash, but I have the bad habit of not looking to my stash when a new pattern crosses my path. The patterns are another problem. Magazines, pattern books, and printed patterns (stored in binders) take up considerable space on the bookshelves. I must honestly assess both my patterns and my yarn. Keep only the the patterns that are "me", and then assess what stash yarn marries up to a potential project. Can I swap yarn I have (but does not suit an immediate project) for yarn that fits the bill?

Books
I love books. Like yarn, I think I enjoy the object as much as, if not more than, the process. A former beau often noted that I always had my "nose in a book". Something his tone implied that my love of reading was a flaw and that reading and education "ruin" a woman.

Well over 200 books were given away before I moved in with Joe, and I am faced with the task of pruning my books further. In the past two years, I have gathered more books than I have bookshelf space, and unfortunately, the option of adding more bookshelves is out. We do not have the space.

While I am unlikely to read Customizing The Body: The Art and Culture of Tattooing in the near future, I am reluctant to part with books of this ilk. I like owning unusual books, and these particular books represent my past studies. I fear that giving up the last of my books on culture, subculture, language, and media giving into the country bumpkin.

The prize for most improved goes to The Button Hat, which is blocking on my hat form. I want to press in the fold after the stitches have evened out, and then it is simply a matter of finding the perfect buttons -- a task tantamount to purging a cosmetic, yarn, or book stash!

Of late, I have been a bit mopey, and I am looking for a scapegoat for this long-slinking slump. Cycles. It is all about cycles -- annual cycles and monthly cycles being the top candidates.

I do not think it uncommon that the approach of one's birthday can cause anything from a casual noting of a new wrinkle to an all-out grief fest at the passing of youth. In the past, I fell to the casual end of the continuum, but in the past, I was not turning forty. More than anything, I look at forty as an age of significance. An age of accomplishment. So, it is simply will do not for me to celebrate this coming of age in the town of Poughquag. I had imagined something a bit more grand, or a bit more grassroots. Basically, I imagined I would turn forty in a place and time that was vastly different from the place and time that I occupy on a daily basis.

Naturally, some of this can be blame upon that monthly cycle as well. And while it may undermine a raft of feminist thought and theory, I know I get far more ponderous (physically, mentally, and emotionally) and given to bouts of nostalgia right around the time of our departmental staff meeting. Yes, I am able to set my hormonal clock to the rhythm of the CIS department at work.

This tidbit has become something of an inside joke with Sharyn, and we provide status updates – uniquely encrypted -- via work email: There are wet spots in the basement… The basement is flooded… Aren’t we clever? I imagine that the poor suckers given the task of spot-checking email and internet activity think us utterly moronic. I doubt you need to know FORTRAN to crack that code.

Most interesting is how cycles sometimes need to reset themselves, and in the Merry, Merry, Month of May, something was amiss. Not missed, just amiss. Phfew! No matter that our department is headed by a Senior Officer, a Vice President, in fact; there was something more powerful at play in the May cycle of both the department meeting and my basement. Sharyn's ovaries. Titles be damned. Nature has her own hierarchy.

In the state of New York, we seem to be enjoying a full season of spring. Typically, spring is those few weeks spent cruising from the extreme of Antarctica to the extreme of the Tropic of Cancer.

If I had realized that the result of our temperate winter was not a headlong rush into the blistering fury of Hades, I would have reorganized my knitting list and turned my attention to Tubey. As it stood, the balmy temperature spikes in February led me to believe that knitting Tubey would be an error of sweaty proportions.

It also seemed like a bit of a taunt to start knitting a sweater in March -- like daring Mother Nature to either extend winter or plunge us into a swelter. Eager to avoid calamity, I set my sites on a little summer top, Green Gable, which turned out to be the start of my knitting slump. I alleviated the slump somewhat with the Schaefer Shawlette.

But the shawlette may be less than I hoped. I want something with a bit more promise. A hat. I adore hats, and the current weather is the sort that begs for a little hat (and maybe a skinny) scarf during those cool morning and late evening hours. When I stumbled upon the Button Hat (courtesy of Naive Knitting), I knew this was that little perfect something to fill the void. Not only would it use those two balls of Classic Elite Lush, rescued from my aborted Knitscene neckwarmer and it could be another small step on the road to recovering my knitting groove.

At least, that was my hope. I am only half way through the pattern, and I am clearly far closer to a very uninspired Halloween costume than I am to an adorable chapeau. Where did I go wrong? Elementary, my dear Casper. I neither swatched nor switched (to a smaller needle, which is typically what I need to do to achieve the suggested gauge on most patterns), but I am undeterred. This is just a challenge of my creativity. I figure with the addition of a corncob pipe, it will be the perfect costume for Christmas as well.

People often talk about balance. Balancing work and play. Balancing time for others and time for self. Universal Balance. The balance to yesterday's sadness over the student suicide (which seems to have been a reaction to a breakup, rather than the end of an on-going struggle with depression) was the happiness of seeing Kevin off to his senior prom.

He and his girlfriend looked stunning. She is a wonderful girl, and I was utterly charmed by her simple and elegant gown. Champagne and tulle.



And if my reading list had been a bit of champagne and tulle lately, with two Jessica Mitford novels, I think I have sought the balance to the English Comedy of Manners with the American Crime "Novel". This one, Knit One, Kill Two is a bit of crime, and a bit of knitting and quilting -- with a recipie thrown in for added charm, I am sure.

And what is that you see there? Some real, not fictional, knitting? Yes, indeed, I've managed to get something on the needles, but not without a bit of drama, mind you. I had selected a mini-shawl pattern using Schaefer'"Anne" from the latest Knit 'n' Style, which is rather bizarre. Generally, this particular knitting magazine offers nothing that I would chose to knit or wear, but this particular round showed a bit more promise. I had cast on last week, and I immediately knew that there was something wrong in the pattern. The two-row repeat of increases were unbalanced, and it was clear to me that there needed to be an equal number of repeats on either side of the markers. Annoyed and defeated, I shoved the project aside.

After a five-minute rant about technical editing and managing to cock-up an easy shawl pattern, I cast on again, and it was rather smooth sailing. Could this little shawl be the knitting balance I need before I can tackle another garment? Perhaps, this is just a way to balance out my off-kilter knitting mojo.

Last weekend, a local college student died. Police reports indicate that there was no "foul play", and the autopsy report has yet to confirm what many know. Suicide.

Suicide, which saddens me and angers me.

Imagine being a mother and awaiting a child's call on Mother's Day. A call that will not come; not today. Not ever. Because the call that you did receive came Saturday evening from the police in the town where your child lives. A call to tell you that your daughter is dead.

Imagine being a mother and spending Mother's Day, travelling to identify the corpse of your daughter. No matter if this is an only daughter or an only child; it's one hell of a shitty way for a mother -- regardless of parent-child relationship or recognition of the holiday -- to spend any day.

Imagine trying to studying for final exams or enjoying your graduation a week or two weeks, respectively, after a friend and classmate has died.

Imagine thinking, at the age of 21, that your life is over.

Forgive me if I seem to be speaking out of turn, but I cannot understand suicide. My first crush killed himself with a bullet to the head. How could so beautiful and gentle a boy commit such a brutal and ugly act? What haunted this boy to the point where death seemed preferable to life?

I know that beauty, money, and power are not the keys to happiness, but they certainly go a long way to creating a "better" life (as defined by our celebrity-mongering and wealth-worshipping culture) than one might have if they did not have connected parents, an elite education, a pretty face, or the perks that come with the package.

My empathy and sympathy flow; but exams, grades, broken hearts...they are temporary. The experiences that devastated me at twenty-one are vague memories at forty. I only wish that young people knew that. I only wish that anyone who feels suicidal would take a hard look at the Big Picture.

People around the world are living and dying in poverty, are living and dying in the chaos of war, and are living and dying as victims of extreme conditions. How can anyone living outside of such brutal conditions presume that their life is so fucking terrible that it is not worth living?

So sad. So shameful. So maddening. So meaningless.


Edited to add: I deliberated about posting this because I knew that I wasn't addressing the possibility of depression and/or mental illness -- two very seriuos conditions. I do not mean to trivialize anything that a person experiences, but only express my personal bouts of sadness and anger that the suicide of a stranger inspired.

Have you ever accepted an invitation for a date or to an event, because it seemed like a fine idea, only to later wish that you could rescind the accept? Now that I am a country gal, I am rarely invited to anything. For the year or so after my move, I routinely received emailed invitations to attend one gathering or another from my friends. We both knew that there would be zero chance of me meeting up for Indian buffet in Jackson Heights, but they continued to include me out of habit and courtesy.

The invitations extended to me these days are invitations to work. Mostly, they come from my former manager and coworkers at the department store. Generally, I enjoy the chance to cover a counter every now and again, as it allows me to "keep my hand in", not to mention provide me with a bit of additional yarn pocket money.

Within hours of committing to the Wardrobe Refashon Pledge, I committed to an evening shift at my former cosmetics counter. As the appointed hour drew near, my dread increased proportionally. What if that massive gap of fashion between Ho and Ho-Hum had been suddenly filled and the entire mall was nothing short of a sartorial landmine of temptation?

I did not venture outside of the department store, which, thankfully for the sake of my Wardrobe Refashion Pledge, continues to deliver a rather dreary and disappointing mix of career wear, casual wear, and teen/trash wear. I avoided the shoe department, but I could not avoid the Cosmetics. I was dumped into the thick of it.

Even at the top of my physical and financial fitness game, I was not what one would call "a shopper". Thus, in my bloated state, I rather dread the notion of confronting the numbers -- double-digit now -- of size, so shopping for tights, shoes, and cosmetics deliver all of the delight without any of the dissatisfaction.

But frankly, cosmetics are the most sinister of all; they lure you in. They promise dewy skin, pouty lips, and smokey eyes. Cosmetics do not care if you gained weight; they continue to flatter even though you are fatter. And unlike shoes, cosmetics will not pinch your feet; nor will they give you blisters, corns, or bunions.

But, as we know, I have pledged to myself -- and to others around the globe -- that I will not engage in new fashion commerce for two months. Surely, that does not include that new night cream and concealer I so desperately "need"? Surely not.

Is nothing safe from the looming discontent that has taken root in me? Again, I am experiencing a knitting dry spell in the midst of an independent knitwear designer pattern-generating boom. This is summer -- the season of the easy-peasy knit. To which I must sourly retort, "Not for me".

This is not a case wanting to do something else in favour of knitting, although I am not unhappy at the amount of reading I have been able to do. This is not a matter of not wanting to knit something, because I do. In fact, I am so desperate to stay in touch with my Inner Knitter that I have turned to the personally-dreaded Warhrag just to keep some connection to my yarn and needles. I most definitely own yarn and patterns, but it seems that nothing is alluring enough to pull me to the rocks.

Maybe I am cautious about being lured to my knitting death. Lately, the most simple and most adorable patterns have gone afoul in my hands. The most delicious yarns have become as repugnant as rubbish. When you can turn your nose up at some Schaefer Yarn as if it were That-Which-Preceeds-Shinola, there is a serious problem afoot.

Perhaps it is just a seasonal loss of Knitting Mojo, which an unacceptable excuse to more than I realized. Our Thursday Knitting Circle Leader/Teacher told me, in no uncertain terms, that she cannot and will not endure another non-knitting summer from me again.

Last summer, I swapped some yarn for a sewing machine, and I am ashamed to say that I have yet to open the box. While this may seem silly, the machine is at least in the house. Nearly a year prior to the yarn/sewing machine swap, I had purchased one; but I was a little unsure about the purchase. Would I ever use it? Would the rest of the family be irritated that I was taking up another craft, and thereby taking up more space in our tiny apartment?

While I weighed the options of keeping vs. returning, I thought it best to store the machine anywhere but in the apartment, which is how it came to live in the trunk of my car for several months -- until Joe's unwitting discovery. I returned it the following day.

I am drawn to sewing not for the myth that I will save money by sewing my own clothes, because I suspect that buying fabric is much like buying yarn -- an addiction. Sewing interests me on two accounts. The first is the most obvious. I will no longer be forced to roam the stores in search of the elusive style suitable for my age and fashion sense. I will have control of my fashion and my style! Moreover, there is environmental side of it to be considered. To recycle and rework fabric and clothing is to reduce waste. Granted, turning a pair of jeans into a skirt is not the stuff of the G8, but what if everyone committed to some small level of reducing, reusing, and recycling to the greatest extent of their ability?

In spite of my best intentions, I still feared the sewing machine, and I needed something to give me a little kick start. Enter Wardrobe Refashion. The "rules" are simple: you agree to abstain from the purchase of "new" manufactured items of clothing, for the period of two, four, or six months.

The Wardrobe Refashion Pledge
I Gina, pledge that I shall abstain from the purchase of "new" manufactured items of clothing, for the period of two months.

I Pledge that I shall refashion, renovate, recycle pre-loved items for myself for the term of my contract.

I Pledge that I shall create and craft items of clothing for myself with my own hands in fabric, yarn or other medium for the term of my contract.

I Pledge that I will share the love and post a photo of my refashioned, renovated, recycled, crafted or created item of clothing on the Wardrobe Refashion blog, so that others may share the joy that thy thriftiness brings!

Sadly, shoes and undergarments will not be part of the pledge for me. Frankly, I do fancy myself a cobbler. Although, we do know that this town could use a good shoe repair place or two.

1. An object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers, especially such an object associated with animistic or shamanistic religious practices.
   
2. An object of unreasonably excessive attention or reverence: made a fetish of punctuality.
   
   
3. An abnormally obsessive preoccupation or attachment; a fixation.

Never accompany me to the drugstore. I get "lost" in the aisles, searching for all manner of what-not, regardless of my need for it at the moment -- or ever. If I go to CVS for one item, you can bet that I will emerge having lost at least 45 minutes of my life and $45 of my paycheck. It is a rule, a non-variable.

The craft store is a bit like the drugstore. Earlier this week, I went with the intention of buying the ring I needed to complete Lasso, however, I did not find what I needed. I did managed to find two quilting flats, two packets of ribbon flowers, and some fabric acrylic in a pretty peachy shade. So, I did not buy anything that I want or need, but how do I resist such Cute Things? I do not.

Yesterday, I went back with the exact description of the one item I needed for Lasso, and I walked out with four items total. At least the damage was minimal. Under $3.00. There was no resisting the Hotel Plaza Paris tape measure. When your mail is sorted at the the Poughquag Post Office, you need to trick yourself -- even in little ways -- that you still lead a cosmopolitan and glamourous life. Never mind that it is all in my head; it is quite lovely there. Except for the migraines. At a mere half-dollar, why stop at one tape measure? So, I did not.

I happen to have a fetish for Small Items, and tape measures fit nicely into that category, plus they are Useful. And while the quilting fabric "flat" is a Small Item, it is absolutely not a Useful Item. At least not for me. I do not quilt. I do not sew. I do no other manner of crafting in which a block of fabric might be employed. Thus, the "flat" is merely a Frivolous Item.

Small and Adorable, but Frivolous. Nothing wrong with that.

I am a Gemini. A cusp baby. I am right there, in the center, and definately straddling the line. To understand the nature of a Gemini is to understand much about me as a person, not to mention as a knitter.

Gemini's love new projects; and they love to multi-task, although finishing is not their strongest point. Hmmmmm...methinks that every knitter I know must have a dash or two of Gemini in them. But my eyes are bigger than my needles, and I fear that I may be getting myself into trouble with all of the unfinished projects, the wish lists, and the exchanges.

In spite of a knitting wish list that is as long as 50 Cent's rap sheet, I continue to peruse and buy new patterns. In fact, my order of Knitting Nature by Norah Gaughan and Minnies: quickknits [sic] for babies and toddlers by Jill Eaton arrived yesterday -- with many a dent and ding.

Is proper packaging at a premium? I am wrong to expect that companies that routinely ship books uses bubble wrap or a padded envelope that fits the book? Why must these treasures be sloshing around -- with just a shred of paper -- in oversized boxes? Free shipping does not soothe my savage pristine book beast.

Both books contain some lovely, knittable, and ultimately wearable patterns, but not enough to justify keeping them. I do not have the shelf space, nor the funds, to waste on books that I will not use. Return to sender!

And just to keep things on this side of "slightly psycho", I joined the One Skein Secret Pals Exchange

My appreciation of HBO's Six Feet Under is in no small part due to my childhood. Two of my uncles owned funeral homes, thus by the age of eleven, I had probably seen enough dead bodies to earn me a few credits towards a degree in Mortuary Science.

Joe finds the show rather overwrought and macabre, a fact that disturbs me nearly as much as the fact that he does not drink the Divine Exlier (coffee). I find the show well-written and a simple presentation of one family's life against a familiar-to-me backdrop. I forgive Joe his transgressions for he is the one who introduced me to Agatha Christie's Poirot. In spite of my predeliction for "period pieces", whodunnits, and most things Anglo, Poirot was a stranger to me until I moved in with Joe.

The flames of my Anglophilia have been fanned further with repeated viewings of Gosford Park and the discovery of Nancy Mitford's writing. Having devoured both The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate on my sickbed last week, I was determined to fuel the fire; and during Sunday's trip through the Hudson Valley, I popped into Village Books of Tivoli. Disappointed that I was unable to find any further writings of Nancy Mitford, I was half-heartedly scanning the shelves for something to pop out at me. And pop it did! I was near to delirious with Jessica Mitford's (Nancy's sister) 1963 exposé of the American funeral industry, The American Way of Death.

On a lark, I checked a local shop yesterday for additional works by Nancy Mitford, only to be disappointed again, and in a similar fashion. "Oooh, I'm sorry, but we don't have anything by Nan-cy Mitford. Just Jess-i-ca...The American Way of Death Revisited."

By sheer fortuitousness I stumbled upon these companion volumes within two days of each other. A universal message that these were meant to be mine-mine-mine! Strangled by a mixture of lingering laryngitis and booklust, I spat out, "I'll take it!", lest some interloper intervene.

Anglophilia, Americana, muckracking and death -- Green Gable aside -- could I be any more delighted?

In the weeks before I met Joe, I was the Internet Dating Queen. In fact, I often scheduled two meetings per day, just to get the Initial Meeting Phase finished. Even when I thought I found a "keeper", I would still arrange to meet all of the men who had contacted me and made it past the Email Volley Phase to the Initial Meeting Phase.

Frankly, once I met Joe, I really should have stopped, but there was one more man I had to meet. A musician. A former hardcore/punk kind of guy who was now doing 1940s swing and standards. Purrrrrr! I had great hopes for him. He lived in Manhattan (not 70 miles north). He had never been married (hence not divorced). He shared my musical tastes (did not like The Dead). Oh, darling, how I pinned my hopes for lasting love on you.

But you cannot imagine a more arduous date. Chemistry? Zero! Conversation? Flat! Sexual energy? Zilch! I came to love the truly horrible dates for their anedotal possibilities (Let me tell you about the guy who doesn't believe that we landed on the moon...)*, but the Zippo Dates -- the ones where you had more "interaction" with the waiter? Well, those were the worst. Deflating.

And we knitters know plenty about being deflated. There is so much anticipation that builds during the process of knitting someone that it is hard to imagine what madness may ensue should the item not fit. But imagine we do. And deflated we become.

Oh, Green Gable...where did I go wrong with you? I tried you on for size, and we were just a bit too close for comfort. I needed space. Just a little bit of breathing room. I thought you understood; I thought you needed the same. Evidently, I went overboard on the space issue.

But to be fair, it wasn't entirely my fault. I had read all of the trials and tribulations the other gals were experiencing with you, and I thought I'd play it safe and give you a little more than you might have needed. Definately more than I need -- even with the suburban padding.

I know many say that there is no going back in a relationship, but in this one, baby there most certainly is. I will meet you under the armpits, and we can work it out from there and move forward. Trust me, the is the best thing. For the both of us.

*Incidentally, Mr. Moon Landing Conspiracy Theorist was one of Alyssa's, not mine.

No one enjoys being ill, however, I think I might have enjoyed myself this weekend. My boss sent me home early Friday, as I was fading on the vine. My nose was red, my head was pounding, and my voice was coming and going.

Friday and Saturday were largely devoted to medicinally-induced sleep, which upon waking makes me want nothing more than an additional hour or two of the same, just to shake off the drowsiness. When I was awake and cognizant, I read, polishing off both In Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate. Excellent, laugh-out-loud reads. Thus, all knitting projects (Lasso, MDK Linen Handtowel, MDK Warshcloth, BBP #2, and Green Gable) languished, however, I'm back to the sticks and string at lunch today.

Sunday found me in better form, so Joe and took advantage of the day and drove to Vanderbilt Mansion for an easy stoll in the gardens. As I was already stuffed-up, I could not discern the end of the cold and the beginning of allergies. As we often do when visiting this area of the Hudson Valley, we popped over to the Village of Tivoli to enjoy one of the best slices of pizza outside of Manhattan at Broadway Pizza.

Such a simple and wonderful day.

Tuesday I noticed that one of my favorite pairs of flats were ready for the trash heap. Now, I am not one to toss clothing and shoes if they can be repaired, but the challenge of finding a shoe repair place in lower Dutchess County seems to be akin to seeking the Holy Grail, which in my case is either finding a hairstylist with a modicum of trend awareness and skill or a clothing store that fills the fashion gap existing between ho-hum and just-plain-ho.

The hair issue is really bugging because it's time. I need a trim, and there's no going back to the last place. While there are a deluge of hair salons in lower Dutchess, there is a genuine derth of shoe repair shops. In Manhattan, you need only hobble to the cobbler for sole salvation, but I have driven around and around without spotting a single "shoemaker". That is what we called the shoe repair shops in my neck of Pittsburgh. I suspect that, at one time, those old Polish and Italian guys did actually make shoes.

I suppose in lower Dutchess County, no one worries about repairing worn shoes. I suppose hunting shoes and hip waders don't wear out, and for those non-hunting and non-fishing moments, bare feet or flip flops seem to fit the bill. I suppose those who can afford the mortgage and taxes on a five-bedroom house and the gas bills for three SUVs are not into repairing shoes. Repairing is so "borough". Besides, how else will we defeat the terrorists and show our solidarity if not by plastering our gas-guzzling vehicles in bumper stickers and consuming? Stimulate the economy -- Consume! Consume! Consume!

Lately, I have been a little down-and-out. I turn forty in mid-June, and I think I am in the midst of some sort of crisis. I am acting out of character. I have been noticing "hot" guys. Normally, one might think that such behaviour suggests something is afoul between my man and I, but that is not the case. I am not looking around. I am not looking to trade, but I am suddenly, inexplicably l-o-o-k-i-n-g. I have never been the l-o-o-k-i-n-g type. I do not assess men as meat. I do not have lust in my heart for strangers.

And yet, I am fantasizing about a motorcycle ride with the tattoo artist near my favorite Vietnamese place. I am dreaming about loft living with an artisan/carpenter without electricity. I am not seeking someone, but something. I feel restless; I need an adventure. A bit scary, as I can be rather impulsive at times, and I shudder to think of the consequences of piercing my lip just to feel adventurous, hip, and relevant.

Speaking of hip and relevant, I finished knitting Lasso, but I was too busy hunting for a hair salon that actually means "Walk-ins Welcome" to be bothered to troll the aisles of a big-box craft retailer in search of the hardware needed to complete the belt.

Pictures tomorrow -- provided I haven't run off to join the circus.

Edited to add: I took the liberty of looking up "shoe repair" in the Dutchess County phonebook. I choose that over the Hudson Valley phonebook because I didn't want to know about the 100 shoe repair shops in Galupville or Hoosick. There are eight shoe repair shops listed. One of them is actually in Putnam County, and two of them are in the state of Connecticut. That leaves THREE. I do not exaggerate the sad state of affairs in these parts.

The Belt seems to be a prominent feature in current fashion trends. I am a slightly skeptical about The Belt. I think the last one I wore might have been a doubled, skinny affair, one part wrapping around my leg. Unless, you are hovering near your 4th decade of life, you probably have no idea.

Since I do not wear trousers or jeans (dare I admit that I don't even own a pair of jeans?), The Belt is one accessory that is not in my fashion repetoire. Yet, there are times when I refuse to listen to the voices in my idea that tell me that a particular fashion or a particular knitting pattern will be an utter disaster.

Witness the Berroco Zen Belt, a particularly hideous early knitting project -- provided you are gnerous enough to include the action cutting and knotting lengths of yarn as "knitting". There is no justification, although my feeble attempts are: I was a young knitter, I won the hank of Zen on eBay, and Berroco exploited my youth and inexperience by luring me into their den of free Web Exclusive patterns.

In spite of my prior bad experience with the one skein belt, I had lately been thinking that I would like to make myself a belt. Using good yarn this time. As a matter of fact, I dreamt of knitting a belt as I felt asleep Sunday evening. A surpisingly tame dream given that my sleep was preceeded by episodes of "The Sopranos" and "Poirot".

As if they heard my prayers, or anticipated my very desire before I had even realized it, Sauneill and MagKnits delivered Lasso -- knit with Berroco Suede. I happen to have two balls waiting for their purpose in my life to be revealed.

Work

Generally, I keep politics to a minimum in this forum, but since this is May Day, and since I am a worker, not to mention the granddaughter of immigrants, I want to weigh-in.

Legislation is pending that is aimed to create an immigration system "that serves the American economy and reflects the American dream." A grand notion, but I’m curious about the legislation that would give all workers a shot at the American dream and a healthcare system that would serve all citizens, not just those who work for Fortune 500 firms.

New Yorkers up and down the state complained bitterly about the Transit Workers Union negotiating an acceptable contact. “My company doesn’t offer a pension and guaranteed wage increases”, was a common gripe. Rather than target the Transit Workers, why not organize and demand certain protections from Government and Big Business?

But no. The American workforce sits by quietly as thieves like Ken Lay are secretly dumping Enron stock while the 401K funds of Enron workers are corrupted and valueless. It is utterly galling that more people are in touch with the doings of American Idol than with Corporate America.

The biggest sticking point for me with immigration is language. My under-educated grandmother learned to speak English, and I’m irked when I’m not able communicate with a clerk because of a language barrier. When I’m traveling abroad, this is to be expected, but when I’m at the corner bodega? Unacceptable.

This is not a knee-jerk rejection of other culture and languages. Not at all. In fact, I think it appalling that early education in the U.S. is nearly devoid of foreign language. I also think it appalling that the ideal of the Melting Pot stripped early immigrants of their culture and their language. However, I could not, and I would not, move to another country and expect to carve out a life for myself and not learn the native language. As a nation, we should expect no less.

My heart goes out to the people who slaughter the meat, pick the vegetables, and sew the clothing that I will consume. From the comfort of an office in an elite college, I say that all workers — legal and “illegal”, blue collar and white collar — deserve safety, dignity, and respect.