There are moments when living 70 miles north of Manhattan feels "right". It is wonderful and special.

With the number of farms in the surrounding area, you would think that farm-fresh produce is easy to come by. Sadly, I suspect that many of the farms bothering to produce fruits and vegetables find it more profitable to attend Farm Markets in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and all of those little Hudson Valley towns that attract tourists and city people with country houses. However, I am determined to put more effort into eating locally in the coming year.

Yesterday was one of those wonderful and special days. Driving home from work, I took a small detour to stop for cheese at Sprout Creek Farm. As you stand in the store, you can see the ricotta molds drying in the back room, and you can see the animals outside and in the barn to the right of the store. It is extremely gratifying to gaze into the eyes of the animals and people who have produced this food, and I wish I could do it more often.

Typically, I buy the ricotta and a hard cheese, however, when I noticed the addition of a goat milk cheese, I was unable to resist the temptation.

At home, I went for the ricotta first. A known cheese, I savored a scoop over toast, drizzled with a bit of honey. Sublime.

After an appropriate wait, I sliced into the herbed goat cheese.

It did not disappoint.

Write your story. Take your manuscript; throw out the first twenty pages. Throw them in the trash. Even if it is mid-sentence, your story starts on page 21.
--paraphrase of Kurt Vonnegut, appearance at Pennsylvania State University

Eat, Sleep, Pray is 108 stories about travel and transformation. There is a 109th story because that is the “pause” bead of the japa mala, which the author used as a model for the layout of the book. She further dabbles in numerology by dividing the book into 36 stories about the three countries in question: Italy, India, and Indonesia.

While the series of events that led the author to her year of travel and transformation are critically relevant to her, I found it rather tiresome to wade through information about her epiphany to no longer be married, her depression, September 11th, and the failing of her post-separation affair. In an effort to get to the heart of the book, I skipped the first 20 pages, but on page 21, where the story was supposed to begin according to Vonnegut’s logic, the author was still in the States. She was still talking about September 11th and her failing affair. In fact, the author doesn’t arrive in Italy until Page 36, Story 10 (out of 36 devoted to each country).

I wanted to love this book. I wanted to devour this book. I will return this book.

My reactions to Morehouse Farm Merino Knits was a bit more kindly, and the fact that the farm is a local business and I received the book as a freebie (from reader’s rewards program, not the farm) did not lessen my critical eye.

The experienced knitter will most likely find this book disappointing, as the patterns are designed to be simple, post-farm work knits. Thus a new knitter, seeking simple patterns without more information on how to make a knit stitch or increase, would do well with this book.

Merino Knits is more of a knitter’s coffee table book, peppered with photos and stories of farm life, as well as tips for blocking lace, cleaning and storing woolens, and narrative information about merino sheep. The patterns are divided into Home, Lace, Children, Accessories, and Sweaters (adult). Again, most of the patterns are designed more for utilitarian purposes, rather than addressing fashion. Hominess, warmth, and simplicity are the driving factors behind the designs.

Even though my shelf space is at a premium, Merino Knits stays. It is a cozy sort of book that exalts simplicity.

You will rise
You'll return
The phoenix from the flame
You will learn
You will rise
You'll return
Being what you are
(from "Troy", Sinéad O’Connor)




And what you are, dear Calmer in Sour, is CeCe. I knew I wanted something along the lines of a shrug or a bolero, and I wanted it to be stylized and feminine without being too twee. Stephanie made quick work of hers, and her commendation of the pattern was the push I needed. She is coming along nicely. Although I catch myself making errors in the rather simple lace pattern which is purely my lack of concentration. I become so engaged in the movie I am watching that I forget a YO or to PSSO. Naturally, this never happens on the front sections, only on the back section, which is double the stitch count.

And what has been so visually engaging? Middlemarch (BBC 1994), Calendar Girls (2003), and Girl with the Pearl Earring (2003).

Calendar Girls was a pleasant little movie; the sort I would watch for lightness and laughter. Helen Mirren can do no wrong in my eyes.

Since I could not recall any reviews of the movie, I had no preconceived notions of Girl with the Pearl Earring other than having read the book several years ago. The film is rather like watching a Vermeer painting come to life, so rich and saturated are the colors and the set, however, I felt the acting a bit flat. Perhaps the acting coach for The Breakfast Club was employed for this film? Just as Molly Ringwald and Judd Nelson emoted via their lips and nostrils, respectively, Scarlett Johansson and Colin Firth are heavy on the lips and brows. “Astonishment” is more than mouth agape and puffy sighs, and “brooding” may well involve more than a sulky brow, but neither actor moved beyond acting from the face. Perhaps this was done to show the restrictions and such of the age, but it failed for me. I never felt that they felt anything.

I think Colin Firth a fine actor, but his channeling of a Dutch Golden Age Mickey Rourke left me cold. I like my Colin with a bit more Fitzwilliam or Mark Darcy, thank you Sir. As for Scarlett Johansson, what is the hype? Dewy faces, big breasts, and plump lips are an abundant commodity in Hollywood, but rare is the skill. Helen Mirren’s collarbone is more interesting to watch than the likes of Johansson, Amy Smart, or Anne Hathaway.

Girl with the Pearl Earring was much like a pretty girl who has relied too much on her looks. She is lovely to gaze upon, but, on the whole, rather dull.

On the suggestion of another, I bought a copy of Eat, Pray, Love . I heard the author reading an excerpt on NPR, and I was drawn to the book largely because I had stepped out of my own life to spend time in Italy. Having read only three of the 108 stories, I can only say that I should like this book more than I do. Unlike A Round Heeled Woman and Misadventures, it is not the story and the words pulling me through the book, but rather my own hope that I will enjoy reading about her time in Italy.

I do not pretend that books and movies are easy tasks, but I expect to be pushed or pulled through by the writer or actor, not by my own persistence.

I awoke yesterday feeling a bit under the weather. No surprise given that the weather seemed to be a bit under itself recently. With Father's Day, my birthday, Joe's birthday, and Kevin's graduation (which was rather dicey earlier in the week) falling within the same week, it made for a rather festive and tiring week.

Between my feeling "off" and another rainy day, my bed and tea kettle beckoned loudly. Now that the kids are home from school, the idea of a restful day at home alone is out of the question, so I got my cake-filled self together and hustled off to work.

Cake Walk
Birthday Celebration #1 was Wednesday night; Joe and I capping off dinner with a Lava Cake.

Thursday evening was Birthday Celebration #2; a complete surprise arranged by Sharyn and the other women in my knitting circle. After too much Cannoli Cake and Proseco, I sported the yarn store equivalent of a lampshade.

How ironic that Hallowig is essentially the elusive bob haircut I desired. To think that for the cost of one of those haircuts, I could have whipped up several Hallowigs in various colors. How versatile and economical!


Friday night, Kevin and Lukas surprised Joe and me with a combination birthday cake, marking Birthday Celebration #3. Kevin has a part-time job at a bakery, and he took the initiative to buy us a cake, as well as decorate it. We added the candles at home, including my 4-0 candles.

Graduation Walk
Because of rain Sunday, Kevin's graduation ceremony was moved indoors to the Mid-Hudson Civic Center. Six hundred and nine students graduated --609! Each student received four tickets for family, so I doubt I need to belabor the disaster we experienced in terms of traffic control and lack of seating. Normally, I would belabor them greatly, but I am feeling charitable...and slightly weak from a sugar crash. In addition to my silence on the graduation clusterbamboozle, I gave Kevin a copy of The Metamorphosis and Other Stories by Franz Kafka. Some would argue that a watch would have been a more useful gift, but what could be more useful for the future than fine literature that blends the mundane with the absurd? Nothing!

Speaking of the mundane and the absurd, let me not forget to note that the shoe of choice amongst the girls of the Class of 2006 was the flip-flop while the hairstyle of choice amongst the boys is some bizarre melding of a Beatles mop top, a That Girl Flip, and a Donald Trump Comb-over. Sadly, even Kevin is dabbling in the dark arts of his surreal hairstyle.

The bright side to this is that I can post a graduation day photo of Kevin without destroying his anonymity. I look at that ridiculous haircut and with a mix of dread and pride, I can feel myself channeling, not my mother, but her mother. If she were still alive, her graduation advice to Kevin would be, "Get those Venetian blinds out of your eyes!"
Armed for future!

Frankly, I think the knitted wig is far less absurd.

I stand before you today the representative of knitters in grief. We are united to pay our respects to Elspeth. For such was her extraordinary appeal that many have expressed interest in her life in spite of not having known her personally.

Elspeth was the essence of feminine. She was also the embodiment of the lame schematics and figure-it-out for-yourself attitude that rules the House of Rowan. For all of her beauty, Elspeth was the victim of misleading charts and unclear, verbose writing. She was a victim of circumstance beyond her control.

But let us not mourn the passing of the sweet, lacey Elspeth. Let us, instead, focus on the whimsy and frivolity of Elspeth that made her fall just that side of wearability.

Elspeth passed from this world in a simple and swift (pun intended) manner, just as she would have wished. She is survived by four balls of Rowan Calmer in Sour, and a frightening collection of shrug and bolero patterns, all of which will go on in her name and in her memory.

"Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form."
-- Rumi

Today, the man I love is celebrating fourty-three years in this mortal coil.

Joe frequently leaves love notes for me around the house or in my car.

When he does that, I fall in love with him all over again.
Happy Birthday, darling.

Early in my career, I had a plan. It was a bit loose by some standards, but for me, it was a plan. I had a final destination, but no idea how I would get there, so maybe that is more of a goal than a plan.

At any rate, “the plan” included the letters V and P in my title, a six-figure salary, and a nice office. Rather lofty goals for an Administrative Assistant eating a bagel in her cubicle, as a Gemini, I am prone to grandiose notions.

At any rate, I often strayed from “the plan”, as well as my job, in order to move to New Orleans, drive to Alaska, or spend a month in Italy. The more jobs I quit, and the more time I spent away from work, I realized that “the plan” was not an easy one to follow. Rather quickly, “the plan” faded, along with those silly definitions of success.

My present job affords me the luxury of an office, but it is the sort of environment where nearly everyone is granted an office, so there is no great significance in it, but I am delighted to have my own space.

The office was shut during the two month lapse between my predecessor’s retirement and my official start. From the beginning, I found the flow and energy of the office nearly as stifling as the air. Most troubling to me was that I had to kill four moths in my first week on the job.

These near-daily battles with the Winged Enemy of the Knitter had me in panic. I feared that my knitting would become the Winged Enemy’s method of transport to my home stash. Without any action on my part, the moth visitations stopped. I was delighted. My delight was in vain; the moths returned. Whereas my kill ratio was 3:5 (three moths per five days) previously, the ratio increased to 3-4:1 three or four moths per DAY -- a +400% increase!

I would rather use my paltry math skills to calculate the rate of increase or decrease on a knitted garment than my current moth kill-rate. Similarly, I am certain that my boss would prefer me to focus on tasks that do not include predatory behaviour.

Thank you for the lovely birthday wishes; I appreciated each one. I even received gifts from afar – Washington State – from Teri. She has taken up beading, and she sent gorgeous, inspirational stitch markers in a perfect little handknit pouch. It was a little sad. She is so far away, and life (and knitting) is not the same without her.

Please wish Pete and Saun a Happy Birthday as well.

Years ago, I took a cross-country road trip with my then-boyfriend. Actually, we took several, but this particular one was the writing on the wall, but I failed to see it. Our relationship was new, and I was not looking for the blemishes and the holes.

We drove to Steamboat Springs, CO, an odd choice considering that neither of us were skiers. If cigarette smoking were a sport, he would have been an Olympic-class athlete. I don't think I even owned a pair of snow boots at the time, which is an admission of my vanity as much as my stupidity.

He decided to head back to New York from Colorado -- by way of Utah. I will be the first to admit that I am not the best when it comes to directions, but I am fairly certain that this route was what one might have called, "out of the way". I have come to believe that these road trips were metaphorical embodiments of our doomed relationship, but at the time, I was coasting along with my eyes closed to the simple truth. This method of avoidance is very much like the one I employed with knitting the Cable Footies from one ball of yarn.

Knitter's odds would have me complete four pairs of footies from that one ball, provided I had a fair amount of it in my stash, which I do not. As this is the only ball of the yarn that I own, and given that I know that others have produce two booties with the same yardage as this ball of yarn, I knew deep in my heart that the knitter's odds were sure to change.

Whether you knit or not, you are no doubt familiar with Murphy's Law? Essentially, they are the same principle. Every now and again, a knitter gets thrown a bone. She knits a complex Aran sweater in three days, or she tracks down one last skein of a discontinued yarn in Dye Lot #666. Knitting miracles happen, but they come with a price. The price may not be extracted from the Aran Sweater of Mephistopheles, but the time will come for payback.

Most often, a knitter knows that she is not going to defeat the odds; she has an internal voice. Many knitters, like myself, ignore it and foolishly push forward -- hoping to find a wormhole in the Law of the Universe.

Not even a full day of brainstorming yielded an answer of how to produce more than one footie and one footie cuff from the yarn at hand. Stuffing both of my feet into one mammoth footie crossed my mind, but I am also cutting back on coffee. Clarity is not my greatest gift at present, but hindsight is. This explains why I failed to notice a giant crater the size of Old Faithful at the base of the cuff -- until I was ready to begin the toe decreases.

Yes, w-a-s. Past tense. Ripped out. No more. All gone. Bootie go bye-bye. Yes, I am delirious. You would be too if all you wanted in life -- to curl up with warm feet and to drink a mug of coffee -- were so damned elusive.

"Summer has set in with its usual severity."

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1826

The temperature approached 100F Sunday, which had me wondering why on earth I chose to work on the Cable Footies, rather than a more hot weather appropriate project. I finished the Granite Relief Stitch Washcloth, as well as the Linen Handtowel from Mason-Dixon Knitting. I feel absolutely ambivalent about both projects, and to that end, Elspeth is cooling her heels and waiting for a break in the weather -- or my temperament.

The weather also made for a rather listless and sluggish Father's Day. I fear we did nothing of interest or very exciting, however, the excitement came a few days earlier. From time to time, I become a bit panicked about the possibility of pregnancy, but the panic generally passes. In spite of the steep odds stacked in my favor -- birth control and aging eggs -- I do know that Medicine fails and Nature finds a way.

While Science and Medicine have given the 80-year old man a 10-hour erection, they have yet to deliver 100% safe, reliable and effective birth control.

Not only are Science and Medicine unreliable, so is Mother Nature. She is a wily one, a tricky minx. Just as when we accept that something is unlikely, unthinkable and “unnatural”, she blasts through the door and stirs it up. Mother Nature trumps Man, Woman, Science, Medicine and Engineering whenever she sees fit; simply because she can.

In spite of all physical indications to the contrary, I had a nervous feeling, so Joe and I bought a pregnancy test. We joked about sneaking behind the drugstore dumpster for an immediate result, but delayed it with two hours of browsing books and music at Borders.

The result was not what I had feared, but rather what we both had expected. Truthfully, it was anti-climactic. If the minus sign were orange or magenta, it would have made the outcome even more exciting. I prefer dramatic visuals.

I am experiencing some drama with the Cable Footies. I have managed to lose my fifth DPN, which is making for more claw hands. The pattern only calls for three DPNs, but I prefer to use four; it feels more natural and seems to cause less laddering. The ball of yarn itself is looking suspiciously light, and there is a good possibility that I will end up with one and one half Cable Footies, rather than two.

And like bad television drama, there is going to be a long build-up to what will most liekly be a rather fizzly ending. I have signed on for some cosmetics work over the next few days, which means there will be even less knitting cotent than usual. Perhaps I can stop wasting precious knitting time at lunch by not eating, and I can assure you that a missed meal or two might do me good. Although, given the choice between a meal and wooly socks in this weather...

Payday. A day of celebration. A spendy day. A day of excess: food, clothing, an after work drink or two. Even when the money earned is already spent, there is a momentary rush of feeling flush. If payday happens to be a Friday, it is all the more special.


At work, I distribute one paycheck other than my own, and every other Friday, Cassie can be certain that I will deliver her check before lunch with a big smile, chiming “Happy Friday. Happy Payday.” Bi-monthly paychecks never brought that much cheer. More money and Tuesday just aren’t as exciting as having more money on a Friday.

I cannot say if it was the anticipation of payday or not, but it has proved to be a rather spendy week for me. It started with the steak dinner on Sunday and continued with the books from the Bookworm on Monday. As the books were bought with exchange credit, I think I get a pass on this one; I was not spending money at all. An order of books arrived midweek, and yesterday was the Fire Fly Sale at JoAnn Fabrics. How fortunate that the sale, coupons, and payday should all align.

My goal was to buy some resources for embellishing clothing, which may well be the extent of my wardrobe refashioning until I can convince the sewing machine that it needs to come out of the box and set itself up before I can use it. The fabric remnants will either be used for refashioning or even a bit of patchwork. It is not quilting that interests me, but rather the possibility of creating any of the precious items in The Impatient Patchworker. However, I have a great concern that I may never be able to unbundled and cut these sweet pieces of fabric and that I will simply keep them as is and save them for best. Is this how the hoarding begins?

With refashioning in mind and money in my pocket, a quick trip to Goodwill seemed unavoidable. Ninety minutes and twenty-two dollars later, I emerged with the following: a perfect neutral jacket that feels as if it will work as both a modern and vintage piece, a dress that will surely make me look and feel mutton dressed as mall store lamb, and a long Eileen Fisher skirt, destined to be shortened and tastefully adorned.

This was probably my sixth visit to this particular store, and I can report that only two of those visits resulted in any success. Generally, it tends to be a dismal affair of dealing with vast amounts of pilled and grease-stained clothing that someone could no longer bother to launder. There is precious little in the way of vintage treasures or better fashion donated because it was “last season”. No, the thrift shopping in this area of Dutchess County is essentially shopping at the mall -- only the fashions are even further behind and the garments are wilty. The simple fact is this: I am digging in the dreary cast offs of other frumpy suburbanite women, and that is no way to Dump the Frump.

My campaign to Dump the Slump continues as I ignore the Schaefer Shawlette, Elspeth and countless contenders to fiddle with another dishcloth in the same yarn and a different stitch pattern. This one is Granite Relief Stitch, which is bringing no relief to my hands. The appeal of the pattern was its simplicity. I could knit the four row repeat from memory, but I forgot how much I detest knitting two stitches together from the purl side. By the end of the row, my hands are tensed into claws. This allows for the most interesting rotation of tasks. I knit two repeats, I read until my hands feel nimble again and I go back for another two repeats. I will not bother to log the time spent knitting versus reading. It would probably make me feel old and arthritic.

Last week, Joe and I went out for dinner, and as usual, I felt that he ordered the better dish. Sometimes this is fact, and sometimes it is fiction. It may well be that I am hardwired to always be a little dissatisfied with what I have or what I am doing.

Case in point: Elspeth. I have done nothing further on her than the progress I shared last week. Cable Footies? I knit about three rounds yesterday before the combination of cabling and DPNs made me contemplate jamming the needles into my eyes and ears – which might have provided relief for the constant clanging in my ears – and still have one left for good measure.

When I feel the love fading for my own projects, it seems only natural that I look to the projects of others with a deep sense of longing for something as wonderful and as fulfilling as the one they have. I feel it deep in my heart that the expression “the grass is always greener” was created for people like me.

Desiring some greener grass and a finished project, I proposed to Sharyn that I could knit the Umbilical Cord Hat (Stitch ‘n’ Bitch) to go with her Baby Shortalls. I had to engage in the verbal equivalent of strong-arming to get her to consent without guilt, but consent she did. We met in the parking lot and work and exchanged yarn like two bootleggers doing a job.

Whilst watching the first few episodes of Middlemarch, I churned out a matching hat for the baby-to-be. I fear I may have to wrestle it from the clutches of Mod Shopper Kitty, who knows that sun protection is vital for keeping those fine lines and wrinkles at bay. Mod Shopper Kitty is delighted to have a full ball of untouched yarn that can be returned for store credit. Kitty was born to shop!

Flagging
Declining; weakening: flagging strength.
Languid; drooping.

Flag
A piece of cloth, usually rectangular, of distinctive color and design, used as a symbol, standard, signal, or emblem.
National or other allegiance, as symbolized by a flag: ships of the same flag.

As the daughter of a former Marine, should I feel a certain rousing patriotism on Flag Day? Should I hear the ringing of patriotic tones in my ears? I hear something alright -- The kind of ringing and buzzing that results from loud music and hails the start of hearing loss and permanent damage to the eardrum.

Last night, Joe and I ventured out for the Revolting Cocks/Ministry show. In a clear case of showing my age, we arrived at a little after 7:00pm, which meant that we had to endure the opening band: Pit Bull Daycare. The best thing I can say about this band is that the drummer has fantastic arms. Since I’m feeling so charitable, I will also add that the bassist has a slinky sinewy body with impressive ink. Musically, PB/DC was channeling a bit too much of the late 1980s and early 1990s L.A. hardcore bands -- minus the slightly more clever and political lyrics -- for my taste. I felt as if I had walked onto the set of Repo Man.

The Revolting Cocks (RevCo) were amazing. They never fail to disappoint musically, and their show always has an element of kookiness, thanks to the rotating line-up of singers who favor the use of the bullhorn over the microphone.

Maybe Al Jourgensen was a little tired (he plays guitar in RevCo), and possibly a little tanked; but by the time Ministry took the stage, Uncle Al’s energy was flagging. So was the crowd, which I wrote off as the lackluster ho-hum quality that pervades the Poughkeepsie area. There was no denying that RevCo out-performed Ministry at this show.

My warm-up act for the show was to cast on for the Cable Footies from One Skein. I cannot say with great enthusiasm that cables and DPNs mix well, however, I am determined to see it through. This yarn must caress my feet. This yarn will caress my feet.

Today is also the birthday of my former Marine father who suffered partial hearing loss during his time in service. Between his GI ear injury and my clanging concert ears, we shall be shouting birthday wishes and thank yous down the phone.

Only a day or two ago, I was bemoaning the fact that I seldom have time and space to myself at home, only to be given the small blessing of just that. Typically, I arrived home from work to find at least one child, and all too often one mother-outlaw, skulking around the house. Even if Kevin’s car is not in the drive, I can be assured that Lukas, and possibly Joe’s mother, will be plunked on the couch, watching either the Weather Channel or some inane offering from Mtv.

Last night was different. Last night was blissful. Last night, I entered a darkened and empty house. In hand, I had a small stack of classic literature bought with the last of my store credit at The Bookworm Book Exchange, and even further delights awaited. The mail delivery included a trial copy of Real Simple and the June package from my One Skein Secret Pal. This was cause for celebration, and I was barely able to wait for the wine to chill before I tore open the package.

My secret pal sent one skein of a russet-colored, tweedy yarn, Queensland Collection Kathmandu Aran. A blend of wool, silk, and cashmere, the yarn is complexly-colored and delightfully textured. From the look and feel of it, I can imagine myself wrapped in a tweedy cardigan come autumn. This particular ball may become a pair of Cable Footies from One Skein. The pattern calls for 225 yds of an aran-weight yarn, but Jillian of Sknitty has produced several on less than the required yardage.

In the two years that I have lived here, I have never ventured out on the deck, largely due to Joe's outright dismissal of the deck as a slimy mildew pit. But last night, I had the urge to enjoy my wine and book (Jane Austin’s Mansfield Park) on the deck, Joe be damned! One step outside confirmed previous assessments; the deck was truly a deteriorating moldy mess. There is, indeed, a thin hint of green covering everything. The buckling wood and peeling wood is mildly alarming, and there is the presence of a puddle that bears no small resemblance in figure and age to Primordial Soup. This would be a modern cousin, perhaps, Malarial Mélange or West Nile Burgoo? This would-be mosquito lair lays fetid and barren, protected from further entomological encroachment by the Hornet Warlords. Thus my dream of a sanctuary from televised sports and mindless natter was dashed.

In retrospect, the deck would have offered little in the way of escape. It is open, not secluded. I have not entirely given up on the idea of a retreat. There are the options of converting a storage shed or pitching a tent for a spot of privacy.

Every now and again, I am struck by how lonely life can be here. Certainly, I have made my way here, but I feel much less sure of myself on my own than I did when I was single.

Perhaps, it is the necessity of the situation that forces your hand when you are single. Perhaps, it is the knowledge that there are hundreds of people in Manhattan doing something solo -- regardless of relationship status -- without a sense of loneliness or dread. Perhaps, it is the reality that Joe is pretty much my sole activity buddy.

In these moments, I crave the freedom I had when I was single and living in Manhattan. I miss the freedom to feel comfortable with the reality of spending an entire day alone. I particularly miss the freedom to phone a friend and have that friend be available and willing to hatch a plan for the day within 20 minutes. In the Hinterlands, my friends are married, and they have children. If a spouse can limit your spur-of-the-moment availability, a child all but kills it. While I do not like this fact, I do understand it; and I accept it.

Stronger than yesterday's craving for playmates was the craving for red meat. I spent nearly five years of my life as a vegan, and this infrequent craving for steak still strikes me as bizarre. But I honor it. If I do not, I am doomed to entire day of non-stopping mass grazing. In short, the negatives of red meat are far outweighed by the negatives of consuming two times my body weight in other foods.

Yesterday, while Joe was hiking at North Lake with a co-worker, I went out for a steak -- alone. I cheated; I brought a book and some knitting. It was perfect. It was just like old times. The truth of the matter is that I do like to be alone, but I seldom have that luxury at home. Too often, the kids are around, and more often, Joe’s mother is lurking about.

There is a little voice inside suggesting, quietly, that Elspeth may be little more than the sartorial equivalent of craving for sweets. When compared to Iris, Elspeth is definitely more of a confection. But does sweetness and frill make for a garment with high-level functionality and wearability?



At the moment, my strongest craving is for a completed project. With only two repeats and a border to go, I have turned my attention to finishing the Mason-Dixson Knitting linen hand towel. If I haven’t sorted out the Elspeth/Iris dilemma by then, there is a washcloth in the wings. If you cannot give into a craving, you certainly need a diversion!

This weekend, I was forced to reckon with the upsetting fact that there are several gaps in my life that need to be attended to quickly.

Yarn Gap
There is a large gap in my yarn stash -- the DK-weight yarn, which seems to the weight of choice for most of the summer knits that are on my list. As it happened, Joe had to check a job in Mt. Kisco, NY. This happens to be just a short journey down the Taconic State Parkway to Pleasantville, which happens to be home of Purls of Yarn. Jo Sharp Soho Summer Cotton DK, the yarn of choice for Cherry is on sale at Purls of Yarn.

Naturally, so much build-up could result in nothing but let-down. I left the store with one ball of yarn, slated for my One Skein Secret Pal. I have the notion that my Cherry should be some peach or soft terracotta, but the only suitable color for me was an olive green. Cherry needs to be lighter and brighter than that. Not only are there gauge gaps in my yarn stash, but there are color gaps as well.

Film Gap
Lukas was given a homework assignment to watch a World War I-related movie and write about either the film or how the war was portrayed in the film. I immediately suggested A Very Long Engagement, which had been the very movie that was in Joe's mind. Lukas may well be the only student who chose a French film, but I was at a loss to think of any current or classic "Hollywood" films that cover this period of history.

This amused Joe, who likes to tease me about my film gap. Those classic films of the 1970s -- Shampoo, Serpico, Last Tango in Paris, Cinderella Liberty -- I have not seen them. A teenager at the time, I was too young to attend these movies without an adult, and I never "caught up" with them later in life, in spite of two film history classes at university. I am still walking around with a large hole in my knowledge of American film history, but it has not caused any severe embarrassment as of yet.

Book Gap
If my film gap is a decade wide, then my literature gap spans several decades and two continents. It is quite unimaginable that I am this old but have not read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer/Huckleberry Finn, The House of the Seven Gables, Ethan Fromme, Oliver Twist, Pride & Prejudice, Jane Eyre, the list goes on. TTruth be told, in my younger days, I dismissed many of the Austen and Bronte novels as romance novels, rather like an earlier day version of Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel. Over the years, I did learn that I was mistaken in this assumption, but again, I never really filled in the gaps.

A Note of Thanks
I do want to thank everyone for their compliments and kind comments on the haircut. I am overjoyed with it -- particularly in the upkeep category. It is near to zero in terms of effort required to style.

Eons ago, I worked for a publishing house specializing in men's leisure magazines. Not what you would think, although I would have found any manner of porn far more interesting than hunting, golfing, and fishing. At the time, I was given to chameleon-like quick changes of hair. One day, it was "Daughter of Darkness" and the next it could be "GI Gina".

It is precisely this impetuousness that many blame for the staggering number of disappointments I have suffered at the hands of Poughkeepise Area hairstylists. When I feel the need for a cut and/or colour, I am likely to put it off for a maximum of 24 hours. The general consensus is that any stylist that can take a walk-in on a whim is not worth his/her weight in shears; good stylists are booked because they have loyal clientele.

While I am loathed to admit this -- simply because bespeaks the nadir of my conversion to suburbanite -- but some of the best haircuts I have received have been at the salon...at...the...mall. At the mall! In a salon that desperately clutches at some warped suburban interpretation of (New York) City Hip. Pink hair! Tattoos! Loud music! Hip! Hip! Hip!

While I think she did a rather nice job, I am slightly disappointed. I look no more like Alyssa Milano or Audrey Tautou than I did yesterday, but doubt if I can pin the blame on the stylist for that. She did the best she could with what she had to work with.

The time for another haircut is neigh. Since the Great Bob Debacle of March, I have visited two different salons. The first salon I visited was for a sort of fix-up. The second salon was for a proper haircut -- an audition, if you will.

Miss Fix-It (the first visit) works in a busy salon that accommodates walk-ins. The crush of clients on the weekend results in far too many customers getting a hose-down with a spray bottle and a record-setting snip. Not my cup of tea, thank you. However, Miss Fix-It moves through the frenzy like a tranquilized hospital patient. When she tended to my hair, she did what she could -- what with her inability to focus and keep from drooling. My hair looked marginally better, but I am not a fan of slim margins. Why Miss Fix-It can follow the direction of a mumble-mouthed teenager requesting the New Millennial Meld of Bowl Cut, That Girl Flip, and The Donald Comb-over but fail to understand my clear request for a Flapper Cut is something that continues to vex me. Maybe it has something to do with the age difference and the tranquilizers…

The second haircut was at a salon near work. I think this salon thrives solely on the declined business of the very sought-after stylist a few doors down who is no longer accepting clients. The fact that Sharyn and nearly every woman at work with a style that I have admired are on this woman’s client roster adds to the indignity.

My stylist at Overflow Salon understood my request for a 1920s bob, but delivered a 1970s interpretation. I was mortified when he shaved my neck! I am a fuzzy gal, but in this decade, we show respect for the natural hairline. If it weren’t for the neck shaving, I would be tempted to return. How often can you find a male “hairdresser” of a “certain age” so in tune with his inner Warren Beatty and Robert Evans?
1970s Warren Beatty getting his groove on

The battle to Dump the Frump is uphill and ongoing. But it is still going. To that end, I joined the Sexy Knitters Club. I do not know what I was expecting from the membership -- maybe an instant makeover or something. Perhaps I would step away from the computer to find that my body looked exactly as it before I slunk into the depths of suburban sloth.

As it turns out, SKC is largely a series of knitalongs devoted to more feminine and figure-conscious knits. My success rate on knitalongs? ZERO. My zeal for Green Gable tanked after three attempts with dismal results. I never bothered to cast on for Hopeful. Frankly, buying the pattern was little more than a donation to a breast cancer cause, which is perfectly acceptable. I may never get around to knitting the patterns I buy from other bloggers, but so long as I have a few extra dollars, I like to use those dollars to support the work of independent designers. Technically, I suppose the bulk of (hand)knitwear designers are independent, but there is no denying that knitting publications (both print and online) seem to keep a coterie of favored designers in work.

One thing that I have come to expect from cyber clubs and blogs? Some sort of subscription feed, which SKC lacks. As a result, I missed the voting for the next knitalong. Not only did I miss the original voting, but I missed the re-vote. I recognize two important facts, however. Missing the voting is not earth shattering, and I can simply choose not to knit along on a pattern that may not appeal to me. However, don’t we join clubs in order belong and to participate? Likewise, the club should make the act of belonging and participating easy – unless it purports to be an exclusive club, then all bets are off. Some people are turned on by acceptance preceded by successive rejection; not I.

If the selected pattern isn’t full of portent, Tempting II, I don’t know what is. Another knitalong for a Jenna Adorno pattern -- Hopeful being my first knitalong failure -- almost seems a taunt. In fact, I believe I hear the knitting fairies jeering, but I must turn a deaf ear.

Tempting II is a lovely pattern, knit in Rowan Calmer (which may well be my new Yarn Crush); but there is the small issue of a bra. I like to wear one. Without my straps showing. Yes, I know about the strapless bra, and going strapless is less appealing to me than going braless. My strapless bra experiences have never fallen within the extremes of feeling as if I’ve been subjected to a material mammogram (*squish*) or that I’m on the verge of a serious wardrobe malfunction.

The back of Elspeth is coming along, but I will spare you daily progress shots of 12-row repeats until I have reached a point worth noting. I have all but forgotten my other projects -- linen hand towel cotton chenille washcloth and Schaefer shawlette – all which will be more Thursday night Knitting-friendly than Elspeth. Once I have finished the back increases, I should (insert music for foreshadowing here) be able to knit the back without the focused intensity of one awaiting a revelation or communication from "the other side".

Beyond the window, the weather has a perfection reflection of my mood. Thunderous and raging one moment, then somber and misty the next. Neither the weather nor my mood encouraged much beyond napping and eating this weekend.

I even missed Yarn Central's First Friday knitting "party", which is highly unusual for me. I have probably missed no more than two since I first started attending.

However this past friday came and went whilst I sat curled up on the couch with Joe, my attention divided between Elspeth and Six Feet Under. I was rather weary, and a midnight drive home in rain and fog promised to be more challenging than deciphering Elspeth’s barely-readable chart. Would an enlarged chart be asking too much from the editors at Rowan?

If rain is the weather of choice for knitters, I have failed miserably to produce much. I have but two sleeves and a small bit of the back to show for all of this knitter-friendly foul weather. I started with the sleeves in an attempt to ward off the drudgery of knitting sleeves after the rest of the garment has been finished.

I had given some serious thought to knitting the back of Elspeth in straight stockinet to match the sleeves. I feared that contract of the stockinet sleeves against the lacey front and back might look odd. Furthermore, I that stockinette on the back would make it more wearable -- more everyday? While I favor feminine garments, I do not care for them to be too fussy.

The knitting slump seems to be seeping into other areas. I feel wholly bored. I need a jolt to rouse me.

Surely you have had one of those mornings where leaving the house was nearly an Olympic-class challenge? The car keys between the couch cushions. You cannot find your coat, and when you do find it one glove is in the pocket, but the other is upstairs on the bureau. The house lock is sticking. Your lunch is still on the table. Your freshly dry-cleaned, light-coloured coat gets caught in the car door for the morning commute. It goes on. Well, that is precisely the sort of week I have had in regards to my knitting. One day, I had the project without the pattern. Another day, I had the yarn and the pattern, but I had packed the needles for an entirely different pattern.

Last night at knitting, I decided to break the slump with an adorable Feather & Fan Stitch Shrug – a store pattern/model in Rowan Calmer. All I needed to do was knit a rectangle to the length I desired, fold it in half and seam just enough on each end to make sleeves. Basically, a large dishcloth. Simple enough, no?

NO.

After five inches or so, I noticed that I had bungled the most simple of pattern repeats, and ripping back and reloading the stitches and yarn overs seemed more arduous than starting over. After knitting that same five inches a second time, I really "saw" it. And what I saw was more of a narrow scarf than the makings of a future shrug. In spite of Theresa's exasperated, “It doesn’t matter” to my question of gauge, it clearly did. Although, I should have used some knitterly common sense with regard to knit size. A us7 needle (as called for on the ball band) was not going to yield the open, drapey shrug that I saw in the window. Why hadn't I realized that I would need to use a larger needle from the start? Because I am a in a slump. The slump takes a toll on your vision, your reasoning, and your very soul.

There was only one thing to do. Give up and cast on for what that yarn truly wanted to be. Elspeth!

I was able to use the store pattern to get me started, but I knew I needed to bring my copy of Rowan # 37 to work in order to enlarge the pattern chart. These eyes are not what they used to be...It was so gloomy this morning that the mere act of brushing my teeth nearly put me over the edge.

I arrived to work, knitting bag in hand, prepared to get my knit on with Sharyn at lunch.Apparently, I won’t be getting shit on at lunch because I failed to make a copy of the pattern to carry in my knitting bag. Let me tell you this: Those first two rows of Elspeth are looking great!

Beginning

It is start of June, the month that marks the start of summer. My birthday falls on the Solstice this year, so I can only hope that the day is a good one, otherwise it may feel far longer than it is.

This year, June is also the official start of Wardrobe Refashion, thus I am re-posting The Pledge. If I manage to actually sew, knit, or refashion something for myself in the next sixty days, I may well sign on for another two months at the end of the contract (July 31, 2006). Franky, I know that I can forgo new clothing purchases in favor or vintage or thrifted items, but my desire is to use this as an opportunity to expand my creative and crafty horizons.

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!

Other than a bit of stash organizing and agonizing, I have nothing to report on the knitting front. Pay no attention to the woman who has knit less than one row of a washcloth. Please.