Three things

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1) There are *two* commercials featuring the Tommy Tutone song “Jenny (867-5309)” (Milky Way and …erm… Cingular?)!!! I wonder if this will provoke another round of driving the phone companies nuts.

2) There’s a new toothbrush commercial (yes, last night I sat and watched the ABC Family Movie “Who Wants to Marry Ryan Banks?” and knitted) that features “Cross-action Rubber Stimulators.”

Oh my.

3) At Souper Salad last night one of the featured pasta things was “Screwdled Tuna”. Now I don’t know about you, but “screwdled” sounds like a bad thing to me:

“Yeah, honey, I got screwdled today — they passed me up for a promotion again!”

Weekend Update

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Busybusybusy, but really good.

Friday night Jeff and I saw Big Fish and had a very very late, snackish sort of a dinner at CPK. Big Fish was visually stunning (as are most of Tim Burton’s films, IMHO), and more touching than I expected to me. Kind of sad, but not in a boo-hoo way. Dinner was yummy (new salad at CPK: lettuce, blue cheese, walnuts and beets — mmmmm!) and reminded me how much I like Cosmopolitans (a lot).

Saturday I had lunch with Greta. I don’t really know how to describe it, except for this: anyone who knows me knows that I *hate* cold. Just not very interested in numbness and runny noses and shivering. Greta and I sat outside, with the temperature steadily dropping for three-and-a-half wonderful hours. The whole time I said Not One Word about the cold (indeed I didn’t even notice it for a while which, given how chilly it got, was pretty amazing in and of itself) because I didn’t want to interrupt the magic. Probably a lot more could be said there, but suffice it to say that it’s pretty incredible to meet someone who’s just like you want to be.

But wait! There’s more! Saturday night Meghan and I went to see Calendar Girls (really fun movie), followed by sushi (spiral ecstasy— yummmy!) (Ed. note: “ecstasy” is a really funny-looking word.)

Sunday afternoon I met my friend Ann for knitting lessons, part deux. She’s starting her first knit-in-the-round project (which will be her first DPN project too), a lovely little baby hat. I attempted to cast-on and knit the devil hat for Jacintha; however, upon examination of the results later that evening, it is clear that I’m not quite good enough yet to attempt seed stitch without my full concentration. Her hat’s turning out great, though I had to frog a bit on mine.

Sunday evening there was a baby shower for my friend Patryce (who was “Pat” when I met her in high school, so calling her anything other than that requires a conscious effort), wherein we crocheted squares for eventual inclusion in a baby blanket. Terribly clever idea. I had quite a comeuppance upon discovering that what I’ve been thinking was basic (aka “single”) crochet for the eons that I’ve been doing it is, in fact, chain crochet, and wasn’t at all what we were doing at the shower.n Uh-oh. Back to looking like a complete dolt while struggling to figure out which loops it is, again, that I’m supposed to pick up this time… Oh well. Now I know. And I’ll be finishing both my square and Amy’s (friend of Patryce who is also the sort-of-ex sister-in-law of my boss, David).

Then more knitting and home and *pizza* — regular old Papa John’s cheese pizza! I haven’t had “normal” (as opposed to Thai chicken a la CPK or Gorgonzola & Artichoke a la Loop) in *forever*. It was goooooood.

Belated Thoughts on LOTR

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So before LOTR came out on film I sat down with the book, determined to re-read LOTR, finish TT (which I never finished as a child, despite 2 attempts, which is as many as I’ll ever give any book, because Gollum & Frodo were just in the damn swamp for way too damn long) and read RTOK.

As an adult, I *really* couldn’t get into the books at all, ’cause the Hobbits bugged the bejeesus out of me. Silly, infantile, irresponsible Hobbits. Now when I was eight, it seemed entirely reasonable that they’d pretty much goof off all the time and not take the Voice of Authority (Gandalf) seriously. I, at that point, didn’t take the VoA seriously. ;-)

However, as an adult I found myself saying “Geez guys, Gandalf’s telling you some bad voodoo’s coming down the pike — listen to him, fer cryin’ out loud and get your fuzzy feet moving! He’s the uber-wizard!!! And, will you *please* just put the darn ring down already?!!”

I suppose this makes me old.

FWIW, I think part of this annoyance was that in the books it was made clear that the Hobbits about whom we were speaking were “all grown up,” which left them with no excuse for their flighty behaviour (yes, I know Hobbits are supposed to be flighty, but you get my point). In the movie, though, the Hobbits in question (Frodo, Sam, etc.) were cast with *young* looking actors, so it *seemed* more like they were teenagers/youths, in which case their frivolous behaviour could simply be attributed to not having fully grown up, which made it (to me as responsible adult-like person) much less annoying.

Misc thoughts on Mad Cow Disease and when things are worth worrying about (to me)

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sarah_ovenallSarah had posted in her journal that a friend of hers had asked if she was worried about getting Mad Cow disease from eating meat. Her response detailed the (reasonable) cautions she takes about eating beef, such as not eating ground beef from an unknown source.

Upon reading this I realized that I really haven’t worried about this at all, despite my proclivity for beefy goodness.

Here’s my reply, plus some additional thoughts on my worry-schema.

I’m all about the cheeseburgers!

I have thought about it, but the Mad Cow thing is, to me, one of those “it’s going to happen if it happens” things, and I could just as likely die from a e. coli outbreak because of sawdust in the air. Fatalistic attitude, I’m sure, but I only have so much “worry-room” in my head, and most of mine is used up on much more near-and-dear issues, like potential heartbreak and job security.

Besides which, the thing about dying is that you’re dead after…

In examining more closely my (rather off-the-cuff) response, I realized that my worry-schema seems to follow a few (relatively simple) rules:

  • If it’s out of my control completely, I tend not to worry about it. For example, even though I am a bit of a control freak, flying (or riding roller coasters) doesn’t worry me in the least, as there’s nothing (within reason, of course) that I can do to help the plane stay in the air (or the roller coaster car stay on the track); ergo, no need to “spend worry”. OTOH, driving (or, say rock-climbing) is an activity in which I do have control over my fate and, at least to a certain degree, my skill will determine the outcome. This I worry about.
  • I worry (dis-?)proportionally more about emotional trauma than physical trauma. Yes, the bank could go belly-up and lose all my money and yes, that would suck a whole lot, but comparing that to losing someone I care about: night and day .
  • I don’t tend to worry as much about things which are statistically insignificant. This may not sound like a big deal, but the number of people that worry about things like being attacked by killer bees (witness the success of the “Worst Case Scenario…” [warning: flash site] series of books) is astonishing. (Aside: I can’t wait for someone who knows me to point out the really statistically insignificant thing I obsess over and have forgotten about in my accounting)
  • I tend not to worry about Bad Things that I’ve already been through and survived with the (notable) exception of emotional trauma of the “loosing people variety” (ed note: I don’t know if I’ll ever deal particularly well with that flavor of trauma, but I have gotten a wee bit better over the years.) So, for example, I’ve had my wallet stolen and dealt with the consequences, so that’s not one I worry about a lot. (Now mind, I don’t do anything stooopid like leave my pocketbook laying around unguarded…)
  • My worry is proportional to the time proximity (this may seem to be a “duh”, but I include it for the sake of completeness). I really don’t worry about getting old all that much because that’s so far away. OTOH, there’ve been many times I’ve been managing projects quite calmly until right before they launch, at which point I start worrying about the silliest things.
  • I really don’t worry about dying (or things that may cause pre-mature dying) all that much. After all, as I said earlier, I’ll be *dead* after and will be (insert here whatever your view of the hereafter is, incl. “in dirt” if that’s it). Being wounded, OTOH, is worrying. IOW, if I were to worry about being hit by a truck, I’d be far more concerned with the possibility it could paralyze me than kill me.

For an interesting article on the factors that play into people’s concepts of risk, see Risk Communication: Facing Public Outrage

Oddly bent out of shape

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My latest knitting project, which I just finished last night, is the devil hat from the Stich-n-Bitch book. It’s a prototype for one I am going to make for my friend Jacintha, and I was pretty excited about it. Origially when I saw the pattern I thought about making one for another friend of mine, whom I thought it would be perfect for, ’cause it’s cute and sassy and seemed like the sort of thing she’d like.

So I took the hat to a big lunch today, mostly so Jacintha could try it on (which would allow me to adjust the patten for her). As I was talking about it, I discovered that the other friend (for whom I’d orginally thought of making one) doesn’t like it. (She didn’t say anything mean or anything, she just didn’t want one.) I was far more disappointed by this than I “should” have been.

I think it touched on one of my bigger hang-ups of late: the intersection between “craft” (I’m not even confident enough to call it “art”; somehow “craft” seems less presupposing) and identity. You see, I’m at the point where I sort of want to start selling some of the things I’m making (how do you like that hedge “sort of want” — ha!), and though I know (intellectually) I just need to “put it out there,” I’m terrified to do so. What if people don’t like it? What if no one wants to buy it?

Intellectually, of couse, I know that’s no reflection on me (or how well anyone likes me), but from a purely “gut” standpoint, it feels like it is. And heavens only knows, I don’t handle rejection particularly well.

So I hem and haw and put things on my craft page (but with no prices on them, and very little mention of the fact that I’d be interested in making more of them and getting paid for it) and make the occaisional “accidental” sale (someone sees something ans says “Ooh, I’d like to buy that, would you sell it?”), but never quite get around to doing what I need to do, which is to march into my favorite local boutique-y stores, samples and price list in hand and say “Hi, you should sell my most fabulous stuff.”

I’ve made (TINY) strides: getting things up on the site at all was a big deal, and I’ve finally gotten a rubber stamp with my logo and contact details so that I can make cute, hand-crafted hang-tags…I’ve even made some cute handcrafted hang tags. Which I’ve hung on the things I’ve made. Which are just waiting to be marched into a store…

sigh.

I need injectable confidence.

Latest fit of productivity

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I don’t know why I was so driven to make a 50’s style apron, but there you have it. It’s very hard (ok, almost impossible) to tell in this photo that the pockets are made of a fabric with tiny red and yellow vertical stripes. An experiment in mixing patterns that, thankfully, worked.

 

Aside: When I was a child the “mix”ing part of “mix and match” completely eluded me. I thought that blue was the only color that went with blue and red was the only color that went with red. (Yes, I had monochromatic tendencies as a wee one. Who’da thunk?)

Later I evolved enough to allow prints containing a color to be paired with that color (plue plaid with blue, for instance), but it’s only been (embarrassingy) recently that I’ve allowed solids to mix with different color solids (light green shirt with dark green sweater, for instance). Needless to say, I’m dern impressed with my recent foray into the wacky world of print mixing. What next? Who knows, I might consider letting my green bean juice run over into my mashed potatoes…

No. Nevermind, that still grosses me out.

Plant killer

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I’ve been having a spate of bad luck recently with plants. Seems I’d water them, then turn around and the next day they’d be all wilty-dry. This confused me much, as it seemed odd they could be so thirsty in the wintertime… why winter? Summertime is thirstytime! (Sounds like an ad slogan, doesn’t it?)

Anyway, Jeff pointed out to me last night (as I was complaining about a primrose that went wilty overnight) that winter is the time that my hands get dry and my lips get chapped and I go through copious quantities of lotion, and wasn’t that, in fact, dryness, and why wouldn’t my poor little plants get dry too?

Well, duh. Obvious now that I think about it. :-/

(Primrose has recovered nicely, BTW.)

So this is what the sky (reflected in my mom’s office building) looked like on the way home Wednesday night:

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Sunset

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Needle case

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Someone asked over in the knitting community what people use to store their needles and knitting tools. This is my latest project, made out of a flowered fabric from my Granny’s great 70’s stash, which was, at one point, used for drapes (I think) in my bedroom growing up.

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Southerners and Snow

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It’s snowing here — big floofy flakes — and sticking, which is even more exiting! Yes, exciting! My sense of excitement (/wonder) about this (which has, at times, been compared to that of an perpetual 11-year old) is very confusing to Jeff, who is … a Northerner. (Actually, technically speaking he’s a MidWesterner, since he’s from Michigan; however, as far as my admittedly geographically impaired self is concerned anyone who hails from north of the Mason-Dixon is a Northerner, at least until you get to Washington or Oregon, which is West Coast.)

You see, for me snow means:

  • the excitment of waking up, not being able to see the ground, but knowing, just from the color of the sky, that it had snowed
  • listening to the school cancellations on my old alarm clock radio (the sort that had the big numbers that FLIPed over as the minutes changed and an alarm that sounded like a huge duck blowing its nose)
  • a day off from school (“snow day” — yah! — the fact that we might have to make it up later in the year just didn’t factor into our joy)
  • tomato soup (Campbell’s, always with milk instead of water… why would they even put water in the instructions printed on the can… ICK!) and cheese toast
  • hot cocoa (yes, miniature marshmallows!)
  • getting to stay in pajamas until it was time to go play in snow:
  • pitiful (usually not much snow around here), yet proud, snow people (in fact, one year we made a snow dragon!). I still remember the apron we used to put on our snow woman, a light blue ties-around-the-waist sort with darker blue flowers.
  • snowball fights with all the neighborhood kids (I was exceptionally lucky to grow up in a “real” neighborhood, with probably 25 kids who were within 5 years of me in age)
  • sledding, though not on sleds with runners, as they’d certainly sink, but on either “flying saucers” or these sheets of rectangular plastic which would roll up when you weren’t sitting on them). We had a good (long and steep) hill growing up (the name of our street was Stonehill St.) so when it snowed the whole neighborhood would be out on the big hill.
  • then coming inside to dry out by the fire (with more cocoa and soup -)And even though I can now work from home (so a “snow day” doesn’t mean a “no work day” ) and even though I haven’t got a sled (or a proper hill, for that matter), I still do have hot cocoa and tomato soup and cheese toast and a “snow day” is still a cause for celebration.

    (And I didn’t even get into the strange southern ritual of filling the car with gas and buying every single loaf of bread, carton of eggs and gallon of milk in the grocery store in one crazed, mad rush…)