Down to the wire

And have I done the tiniest ittyiest bittiest bit of research about moving to another bloghosting site? No, I have not.

Have I attempted to play with the privacy settings here on Blogger? Yeah, a few months ago. I wasn't satisfied with the results and see no reason to ratchet up my stress level in trying to figure it out all over again.

What then, kiddies? I just don't know. What I'd like to do is have my own domain and just have some little login/password thingy to see the posts - not an individualized thing, more like everyone who's whitelisted would have the same password - but then people who use a feeder to read, that wouldn't work, would it? Nope, I don't think so. So perhaps the answer is the abbreviated feed that I see Yarn Harlot and Suburban Bliss and Smitten Kitchen are using with some kind of security-blanket (i.e. relatively un-secure-ish) passcode to see the full post. Or...something. Gah.

Too bad I have no fucking clue how to accomplish any of that.

I married a techie, a geek extraordinary, but he doesn't blog and isn't into html. Fix the computer thingamabob with the whizzy-gizzy? Yes. Design a webpage? No. So I'm on my own for that, and I can do some minor html. On the scale of a whole website? Um: no. Yes, yes, there's software, or you can hire someone, but srsly, c'mon. I'm going to pay someone for what I am sure would be sparkley pretty shiny lovely website so that I can write brain droppings? I can't see the smarts in that, especially since I think it would be expensive. All of this with no research, of course. Impressive, yes? (insert massive eye roll here)

I'd like to tell you that I'm working behind the scenes to come up with something, but not so far. I'd love to tell you about the project that has been occupying most of my waking hours and a few of my sleeping ones (dreams about being in jail, in Sweden - dream entirely in Swedish - with the same deadlines/issues hanging over my head...wtf?) for the past couple of weeks, but that's work territory. Let's just say that my OCD manifestations of hyper-organized, planned, color-coded, alphabetized within-an-inch-of-its-life have been soothed by this giant project, and that after work, short of figuring out some dinner, minor keeping the kitchen cleaned up and sleeping, I haven't been doing anything but that project for weeks now. So the blog's housekeeping issues have been back-burnered and I don't know when they won't be on the back burner, but I still plan to lock it down (somehow) by Feb 1.

DH is in Cal-ee-forn-eye-aye, and I can't say squat about that either, his reason for being there, that is. I can tell you that I am rather inordinately pleased about having the house to myself for a few days and feeling mildly/moderately guilty about being glad he's away.

Perhaps I'll have some time this weekend to get it all sorted. Don't worry, those of you who sent me an e-mail or are Google "followers" will be kept informed whatever I end up doing.

What's going on in your world?

Wow. Who knew that writing about babies would bring so many to the conversation? Thanks for the validation, y'all. I mean, I know my path is right for me, but I get so much negative feedback in the world outside the computer about being childless that I forget sometimes that there are plenty others who feel as I do.

Last night, I went out to dinner with my in-laws to celebrate DH's birthday. I was thinking about the baby stuff again, because no sooner was our party seated than another large table right next to us was also seated with 3 kids all under the age of two. Baby-baby, a 1 year old, and the oldest wasn't, I think, older than about 18 months. DH and I commenced with the eye-rolling immediately; dinner with his family has its own set of...um.... interesting fallout, and 3 screaming kids don't add good things to that already awkward ambiance. I ordered a second drink.

But my worries were for naught, all of the parents looked after their charges and it was early enough in the evening that no one was falling asleep at the table or having a meltdown because they were hungry. Plus everyone at our table mostly behaved, so that was a good thing too.

................

What I set out to write about today, though, was a bitching about the weather post. It is January, it is Ohio, it is cold, grey, overcast, and raining. Not news. Also? Bo-ring. I'd rather have the snow, honestly. When it snows, the world is enveloped in white silence, a hush that quiets the traffic and blankets the world with a pretty new coat. Everything looks clean, white-washed. When the snow melts, and it is too warm to snow, we get this super-ugly dingy greyness to everything. No surprise, I don't like it much. I'm thinking of my parents in Florida with envy in my heart; "winter" there means that it might get around 4o at night. Although they did have that long cold snap this year, so perhaps there are places where it is worse to be than grey Ohio at the moment.

......................

Like, um, Haiti?

How incredibly useless it feels to just donate some money to the cause. I've done that, given to both the Red Cross and MSF, but I'd like to do more. Sadly, I don't speak French or Creole, and would therefore be useless as a translator; I have no disaster recovery skills, no search and rescue skills, no medical training, nothing to offer to the relief effort other than money, so that's what I've done.

The Yarn Harlot has been keeping track of her readers who have donated to MSF by way of having them send her an e-mail with their donation amount, and I'm astonished to read today that the amount is over 1 million now. Right before the earthquake, it was around 500 or 600K, so that's pretty impressive in a week's time.

How sadly arrogant, then, to be whining about the weather and the cold when I have a roof over my head, enough food to eat, and your basic 1st world complaints? Clean water? Turn on the tap at any sink in the house and I've got that. Sanitation? I pay a monthly bill for that, and when the toilet flushes or the washing machine drains, I don't have to think about cleaning up waste water. Food? The mega-mart two miles from my house has more food on its shelves than many will see in their entire lives.

You hear that? It's the world's smallest violin playing "my heart cries for you, pampered princess".

................................

Someone asked recently if I'll be talking about what I do for a living when I take Well-Behaved private next month. I don't know. I'm so afraid to do that; right now for fear that my employer wouldn't like my writings about work (see: Armstrong, Heather: dooced) when this is public. If it goes private, though, theoretically the employer would never see it. The thing is that once something is out on teh intertubes, it is no longer private at all. If you don't want the world to know, what the hell are you doing writing an online journal any way? Along the same line, will I stop writing as Lucy and use my real name? Hm. There's a lot left to decide.

.........

Right now, though, I've been informed that BBC America is showing a Top Gear marathon this afternoon, so I'm going to drink hot cocoa, sit in front of the telly, knit, and get the laundry done. Such an exciting life.

...and we're back

Blogger, oh, Blogger. You irritate me so. I'd love to be able to take this off of Blogger and use my own domain, but my html skillz are not good enough for that.

I'd been toying with the idea of doing what I have heard called a "flock" a friends lock for a while; I don't know who y'all are out there, reading my missives, rants, recipes...of course, most of y'all don't know who I am, either. I kind of liked that arrangement. If I wanted invisibility, I'd keep a paper journal, after all. I have many faults. Self-centered, diva, control freak...I know them all. Narcissism figures in there pretty large. Someone who really thinks that the world gives a damn about what they think and feel, that's the type of person who keeps a public blog.

Who reads a random blog? Anyone, really. Someone Googles Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's quote that contains the title of this blog, stumbles across something I've written, reads it, likes it, comes back. Or you're one of the people who I have trusted in real life enough to share the url. Or you like that randomocity of that "next blog" button at the top of the screen. Who are you? You are everyone, anyone.

I am a 34 year old married woman who works full time at a job she loves, knits, has a beautiful circle of amazing friends, a family she adores. I'm your sister, your friend, the woman behind you in the check-out line at the grocery store, the woman next door, the person on the mat next to you in your yoga class. Everyone and no one.

I've fretted over some random person figuring out exactly who I am and "outing" me. Why? Really, I don't know. Nothing I've written here is against the law; having an anonymous blog isn't a crime. I was worried when I first started writing that my employers at the time wouldn't really appreciate my point of view on certain subjects. They wrote me a paycheck; I kept quiet in public about my opinions. Being a faceless, nameless person on the web allowed me to say some things that I really wanted to, but couldn't, in the world. Then there was my fascination with an actor and a TV show; forum posts live forever, and some of the things I wrote on fan forums are not things I'd want my grandmother to read, let alone someone I worked with. Having "Lucy" connected to me; well, it'd be a little embarrassing, really. Add to all of that the fact that I have written extensively about my journey with mental illness...and "a little embarrassing" speeds past "a little" and straight to "mortifying".

A nebulous future potential employer may choose not to hire me based on my mental illness if they read what I've written here; sure, that's completely illegal, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't happen. Mental illness is still so poorly understood that many people think mental illness = dangerous. Most people who have a mental illness are normal, functioning members of society. They are your neighbors, your sister, your friends, the woman behind you in the grocery line. Look around. At one time a few years ago, it was estimated that one out of every 5 Americans were taking Prozac. That's 20% of the population. Out of 10 of your friends, two of them. We don't talk about it. We don't advertise it. I'm NOT ashamed, but much like the military's Don't Ask/Don't Tell, I feel no need to shout from the rooftops that I have a mental illness.

We are everyone. We are no one. We are out there. We shouldn't need to be silent.

I did the flock partially while trying to change the Blogger template, but also because I was worried that someone in particular had "found" me. I unlocked it for the same reason I started writing about my mental illness; I sought help because of another blogger. Maybe one of you will do the same; recognize yourself in a post and decide to stop suffering in silence. If one person does that, then my potential embarrassment is a small price to pay.

I am anyone. I am everyone. I am no one. I am your sister. Your daughter. Your friend. Your neighbor. Who are you?

Counting down

NaBloPoMo has just 5 more days to run. Yay! I'm almost there.

I spent the vast majority of the past weekend in bed, dozing off and on. I slept even more poorly than usual last week, and I felt like I needed the rest. Sunday, then, I woke up at 3 AM with a headache that lasted until about 7 PM.

So how is it that I'm so tired on a Monday morning?

Mooooooooom! Are we there yet???

Sit down and pipe down you little whippersnappers, or I will stop this car right now!!!

No, we're not there yet. NaBloPoMo still has a few days let to run, like 8. And just like last time, it is going to be a slog through to the bitter end.

/topic shift

I was reading a new blog I've picked up recently, Crazy Aunt Purl, and she has a nice post about her little garden.

Sadly, I didn't get much of a garden planted this year. No tomatoes. No cucumbers came up, although I did plant them. The lettuce has been left alone by the bunnies and the deer, amazingly, but it is just hanging out, I haven't bothered to harvest it. I planted a few beets, because I'm informed that if you pluck them young, they're sweet and delicious, but I think I missed the "young" harvest.

My herbs. Oh, sigh, my herbs. I have more oregano than I could ever use in one lifetime, but the thyme is struggling, the cilantro never came up, the parsley has some issue with aphids or disease, and the mint is taking over, while the landscapers hurt my small, precious lavender patch by heartlessly tossing a shovel-full of dark, heavy mulch on top of my wee little sprigs. By the time I managed to dig it out, irreparable damage had been done, although I am sure it will come up in fine form next year.

Bill Alexander, author of "The $64 Tomato", noted serenely that gardeners have eternal hope; if it didn't work so well this year, there's always next yet.

Yes, I hope so.

A terrible, terrible new addiction.

One of my groups on Ravelry is good for a laugh, all the time. Sure, there's lots of posts in the forums like "ZOMG, my life is a mess!" but there's a lot that makes me giggle too.

It is entirely their fault that I've started reading Texts From Last Night. I use an RSS reader, so I don't see the "good night" "bad night" commentaries, which I find highly annoying. The premise is that they publish texts that people send one another when they probably....shouldn't.

Which reminds me about something totally unrelated.

I first heard the term "drunk dial" just a few years ago. This is when you get drunk and call an ex-lover on your mobile phone, and perhaps end up in bed with them, despite the fact that you know they're bad news and you really, really shouldn't. Or you just end up making an ass of yourself. Either way, not a good thing.

Texts from last night are examples of "drunk texting". That confuses me a little, because typing text messages is a pain in the butt and difficult when you're sober. I have a QWERTY keyboard on my mobile phone, and I still struggle with typing texts; when you just have a numbered keypad, how the heck do you do this when you're intoxicated?

TFLN are sometimes unintentionally hilarious, sometime sad, and sometimes terrifying. Examples?

--Well, you'll be happy to know Aaron Carter hit on me.

--I met a girl last night who charged by the inch. She'd be too expensive for me, but I thought you'd get a deal.

--brb, k???!? plz don't leave i want 2 talk bout r rltnshp

--is your mom at the bar?

Gems, all of them.

I want each and every one of you (all 4!) who read this to note that I am refraining from losing my shit over the grammar and spelling or lack thereof on those texts. I will not. I will not. I will not...

Mulling

I get a monthly e-mail from the wonderful folks over at NaBloPoMo, they of the National Blog Posting Month. The monthly e-mail is the announcement of the theme for the next month, and a how-to reminder for listing yourself on the Blogroll if you decide to participate.

I want to, nearly every month, but it is less attractive to me for having done it once already. It can be a grind. This month's theme is "routine" and yes, of course, every time I read their monthly e-mail I can think of many posts that would fit the theme. (Unwritten, in-my-head posts.) The problem with doing the project last time around was that I chose to do it in a November, a time of the year that is hectic for me. The upside is that it forces you to write EVERY DAY, or to make contingency plans to have stuff post automatically if you're going to be AFK for a few days. If you're having Blogger post them automatically, then you've put in the screen time ahead of time.

Summer can be a little less hectic in my world, but this year I think it is asking for trouble to play along, because teh workload? I haz it.

So I'll be mulling that over for a few days.

Green, Green, Green

No, I am not done writing about Sweden. Not by a long shot! I still want to write about The White Buses, being "on" the whole time I was there, some stories about stupid things I did (like...um...accidentally putting train tickets into a mail slot, thus losing them for all time) and some cultural observations. Today, though, I'm taking a short post to note a few random things.

When I left for Sweden on April 19, spring had hardly begun in Ohio. It was a chilly and overcast day, but not so cold that I actually needed my winter coat. DH and I left to head towards the airport long before I actually needed to be there, because there's a mall near that airport that we don't get to as often as we'd like. I had tossed the coat on the back seat of the car, and was on the fence about taking it with me. (I did, and I'm really glad I did, but that's an upcoming story.)

I got back to Ohio on May 22, and it was warm. Spring had come and was rapidly rushing headlong into summer. Within days of my return, I cranked the air conditioning in the house, turning the temperature to about 72 (22C), because it was 80+ (26C) and I hate the heat.

Driving along a busy road near my house yesterday, I noticed how absolutely green everything is. Trees that were winter-bare when I left are in full leaf. A small yellow rosebush by the side of the road, carefully tended, has beautiful full flowers.

I didn't get to plant much of a garden this year. I was in Sweden during planting season, and I planted nothing before I left because I knew, sure as the sun rises, that DH would not water a single thing, and it would have all been in vain. I had tomato plants last year, and cucumbers and lettuce and mint and basil and cilantro and flowers and all sorts of things. This year, I have lettuce, cucumbers, beets (an experiment) and my herbs, a few flowers, and nothing else. No tomatoes. I am sad about that.

I glanced outside of my kitchen window yesterday and was surprised to see the flowers I had started from seed have sprouted and are looking like they might turn into something other than tiny green shoots.

As I drove to work the other day, I thought about the folks who start work super-early, bakers and the like, and as we approach the summer solstice, the days are long and if you drive to work at 5:30 in the morning, your drive is much lighter than it was in April.

Summer is so short here. It disappears in the blink of an eye. While it lasts, I savor the green.

The Return of the Horns

The Great Horned Owl (Bubo virginianus)

According to a website run by the National Park Service, their time for breeding runs from February until July.  I saw my first Great Horned Owl right here in Ohio, when I was about 12 or 13.  Maybe a little younger, the memories get fuzzy with the mists of time.  It was at my parent's old house, which is across the street from a forest preserve.

The call of the Great Horned is a very particular ho-ho-hoo hoo hoo, which actually sounds like "Who cooks for you?  Who cooks for yoooou?"  Once heard, and identified, you would never mistake this giant for any other owl.  As kids, my sisters and I would search the trees whenever we heard the call to spot the owl.  The call is as loud as it is unmistakable.

I haven't heard it in years.

Last night, lying in my warm bed, just about my favorite place in the world, as I tried (unsuccessfully) to fall asleep around 8 PM, I heard the call plain as day.  I was determined to try to get to sleep without any artificial aid, you see.  No OTC sleeping pills.  No chamomile, no melatonin, no valerian, no prescription!  I was adamant.

Hearing the owl, I smiled, and turned over on my back, listening again to see if he or she was close.  (n.b., I actually have no idea if it is the males or females or both that make the distinct call.)  I heard it several more times before giving up on falling asleep on my own and dragging out a book after dosing myself with chamomile tea and melatonin tabs.

I have such good memories of looking for that owl with my parents and sisters, the excitement we felt when we spotted them during the day (a rarity) and the straining to see the owl in the falling darkness.  Their silent flight, graceful as it is deadly, is a beautiful thing to watch.

I know they never left; I probably should say the return of my awareness of the Horns...but it is an unmistakable sign of spring to me to hear them ask, "Who cooks for you?  Whooo cooks for yooooouuu?"

Pet the yarn

Although I'm not done (by a long shot) with the shawl/stole I'm knitting for myself, I've already got the next project planned.

Actually, truth be told, I've got the next twelve or sixteen projects planned, but for the sake of my sanity, I'm attempting to do ONE AT A TIME.  It is a little hard for me, but I desperately need the lesson in patience anyway.

The next in line is called April Showers scarf, and it is a knitted lace pattern that looks well within the scope of my ability.  I found the silk yarn the pattern calls for on Ravelry, from someone who was willing to let it go for $8, rather than the $26 price tag at Purl Soho.  Sweet!!!  The lace weight yarn the pattern calls for is likewise a ridiculous price, and so instead I bought a lovely lace weight from Knit Picks, a very reasonably priced online yarn store.

I got it yesterday, and it is as soft as a baby's skin.  Feels like what I imagine touching a cloud would feel like, if we could indeed do that.

Everyone I've run into since the moment I got it into my hands has been asked to "pet the yarn.  C'mon.  You know you want to!"

It was only after I said that a few times did I realize it sounds vaguely obscene. 

Facing Future

(title of an album by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, featuring traditional Hawai'ian music)

Looking ahead hasn't really ever been my strong suit.  Sure, sure, I make plans like everyone else, but things rarely work out the way I planned.  At least, not since I was about 16.

Growing up, through school, I planned to be a doctor.  I took Latin (oh, so useful) in high school with the idea that I would study medicine.  I planned out my high school course work around being an exchange student; took summer school classes, had a very full class schedule so that I would be on track to graduate with my class.  Beyond, that, though, I didn't really have a plan.

I figured out quickly enough in college that medicine wasn't the career for me; neither nursing or doctoring was in my future.  I got very interested in the law, but that wasn't until I was close to graduating from college.  I applied, but did not get accepted to law school.  I drifted through college, graduating eventually with a practical, run-of-the-mill business degree.  I was hardly passionate about studying management; languages, psychology, music, and fiber arts all held much more fascination for me.  Yes, even then, weaving and spinning were things I thought were really interesting.

But I was at least smart enough to recognize that a degree in German, or psychology, or music wouldn't end up landing me a good job right out of school.  Want to teach German in the US?  You should probably have a master's degree.  All I could see doing with a 4 year degree in psych was going on to grad school, and at the time, grad school wasn't something I wanted to do.  After K-12 schooling and around 5 years of college, I wanted to be the hell out of school.

I started working for Ye Olde Evile Bank when I was just in the middle of my college coursework; staying there, once I graduated, was easier than looking for something else.  I watched the internal postings and when I worked for the Stiffs Division, that was my first "real" job.  As a glorified secretary, in that department, they required a college degree.  There wasn't anything I had learned in college that helped me do that job; I think the reasons for requiring the degree had more to do with expectations of maturity level and the fact that you had a four year degree showed that you could stick with something and had an accomplishment or two.

I got unhappy with the bank when I had been working for the trust department for a few years.  Disillusioned.  I wasn't making much money, and I wanted about a $10,000 a year raise; my boss laughed when I told him that.  But with that college degree and 5 years experience, I was making around 20K a year.  I thought #1) I was worth more than that and #2) for the responsibilities and work they gave me, 30K a year was the bare minimum they should have been paying me.  They disagreed.  I found out years later that among the secretaries in my division, over two cities, I was the lowest paid assistant/secretary.  Which, incidentally, really pisses me off NOW.  I didn't know then; I just knew that I hated my commute, I wasn't excited about what I was doing, and I could see myself turning into a bitter 40-something career secretary, which wasn't in my plans at all.  My plans had been to set the world on fire; to change the world, to do something important.

That led me away from the bank and to my old non-profit job.  There, at least, I felt like I was making a difference, even just a small one, but I was working to help people right in my own community, and I got immense satisfaction out of that.

Until that house of cards collapsed.

Let's skip over the part where I worked in that awful sales job and the subsequent black hole of depression, yeah?  OK.

Where I am now makes me very happy, and I think I could probably be quite happy here until I retired; although that is putting the cart a-fore the horse a little; at 34 years old, I have a minimum of 26 years left in the workforce.  Maybe I don't want to come to this job every day for the next 30-ish years.  Maybe I do.  I don't know.

I do know that now I *do* want to go back to school and get a master's degree.  I'm no more passionate about studying business now than I was 10 years ago; but again, I recognize that a business degree is useful, and has many applications.  And I don't hate it; it just doesn't do the same for me as say, learning a new textile ability, excitement-wise.

Tangentially, did I mention that I learned a new knitting stitch at a fiber festival a few weeks ago?  Called a picot cast-on, it creates a frilly, feminine edge to baby blankets or what-have-you.  I love the way it looks, and promptly cast a shawl on to the needles with yarn purchased at that fiber festival.  Hand spun, hand dyed, 100% merino wool, the softest I have ever touched.  I can't wear wool next to my skin, even cashmere bothers me, but I'll have no trouble using this as a light wrap in the summer or as a big, big scarf in the winter.

So if I could, I'd find a way to incorporate the knitting and my interest in spinning into a way to make a living.  (Which, hello, if you think my knitting habit is expensive?  A "good" spinning wheel will run you around $600.  Seriously.)  But not in such a way that I'm taking on commissioned knits....let's take my new (unfinished) shawl as an example.  That lovely handspun merino was $32 a skein, and I bought 2.  So we're at $64 for the yarn.  The class for the new picot edging I learned was about $30.  The shawl might be as long as 6 inches right at this moment, and I've spent about 10 hours working on it to date.  Skilled, specialized labor...hmm.  Let's agree on a $20 an hour figure.  Then there are the notions (stitch markers, measuring tape, thread cutter/scissors, ball winder) that I already own and have invested some pretty serious money in.  Then there are the needles themselves; I'm a knitting snot, and I won't use needles that you can get in Michael's or JoAnn's craft stores.  They're plastic, and they're crap.  The Addi needles I prefer start out around $7, and the needles I'm using on this shawl were $12.  Time for some math.

$64 Yarn

$30 Class/instruction

$12 US size 9 circular needle, 24 inch cord

$20  assorted notions that will be used

$20/hr for labor; estimated 50 hours production time - $1,000 for labor (I am a slow knitter, admittedly, but I place a high value on my time.)

Cost of shawl;  $1,126.00

You'd buy one, right?

So I can't exactly plan a future that incorporates my current knitting passion.  But I do like what I'm doing for a living now.  I'm wondering if I should be making a plan, other than the retirement monetary planning I've already in place, for moving forward.  Where do I want to go, career-wise?  What do I want to do?  Or, considering the state of the world's finances, should I keep my head down, keep doing what I'm doing, and worry about facing the future another day?

Traits of Strangers

DH and I were out to breakfast when someone at a table adjacent to us asked if we'd managed to score tickets to the hottest event in town.  No, I told him.  Even if we'd been interested in the event (and we're not) we wouldn't have purchased tickets.  Much too expensive.  He and DH discussed it for a few seconds, I went back to reading the paper.

After the man left, DH raised his eyebrows and asked me if I had ever randomly struck up a conversation with someone in a restaurant.  Being an extrovert, talkative, and wildly curious, (ummm....read that nosy) of course I have.  

People-watching is a sport, one I thoroughly enjoy.  When I've noticed that someone is people-watching me, I usually just allow it, ignoring whomever it is.

I was out at a coffee hangout with a small group of fiber-fanatic friends for an evening of knitting and networking (also otherwise known as gossiping) and I noticed a woman in a nearby chair watching us.  We're loud, opinionated, have a very good time together, and, I imagine,  a great deal of fun to watch.

My birthday just passed, and since I hadn't seen my friends before my big day, they had presents for me.  Lovely presents were opened, and our observer giggled right along with us as I laughed over the choices my friends had made for me.  A knitting book I'd wanted, but been too cheap to spend the money on.  A pound of coffee with a vanity label, hysterically funny.  Stitch markers from Hide & Sheep, a company whose name amuses me to no end.

When the presents were put away and the needles pulled out, she gave up pretending that she wasn't paying attention to us and asked outright what we were doing.  We invited her to pull up a chair and give the knitting a shot, and she did.  

We proudly showed off our individual projects, talked about how each of us had learned to knit, showed her things we'd made that we happened to be wearing.  As we talked, we discovered a kindred spirit.  Someone whose political leanings were in our direction, whose sense of humor mirrored our twisted own.  What began as an evening of just our little insular group grew by one, and the evening was richer for the experience.

We exchanged telephone numbers and e-mail addresses when the baristas looked like they were going to kill us if we stayed for just one more minute, inviting her to join our knitting group that meets monthly.  Oh, she said, there are more of you?  Laughingly, we explained that we're just a clique of the larger group, and that not everyone is as cool as we are.  Or so we think, legends in our own minds that we are.

I kept thinking, though, about how even the most extroverted of us don't usually walk up to a group of boisterous strangers and ask to join in.   And even the most friendly of us might not be receptive to someone "barging in" to a gathering of friends.

I'm glad she did.  I'm glad we were.  And I hope she comes to our larger monthly gathering.  Time will tell.

On Keeping Yer Fat Yap Shut. Or....not.

It is a fine line I walk between over-sharing (hello, mental illness) and keeping myself from being too personal, writing about things that I probably shouldn't.

Its...just...

When something good happens, I want to shout it from the rooftops, even when I maybe shouldn't.  When something is sucking in my life, writing about it is cathartic for me, even therapeutic.  It is very difficult for me to just not dump it all out in a verbal barrage of often meaningless drivel.

(Hi, interweb, BTW.  I sorta missed you while I was away, and sorta didn't, too.  Being back to my usual routine is good.  Being back in the freezing-ass-cold north is *not* good.)

This time around, it is a good thing that I want to over-share about.  A great thing.  A wonderful honor and amazing opportunity, and I. Can't. Talk. About. It.  And of, course, I'm dying to.  Urgh.

Shall we talk about the news instead?  We shall.  The topic du jour upsetting me:

The Israel/Palestinian conflict.  Or, should I say, the current Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  There is no "right" side to this, IMESHO.  That said, it really bothers me on many levels that Israel is working hard to unseat a democratically elected government.  Like Hamas, don't like Hamas (and I don't) they are the party that was elected in free and fair elections by the Palestinian people.  Where do you get off bleating about "democracy" if you are working to get rid of a democratically elected government?  Regime Change begins at home, people.

I have been watching with much fascination the various cabinet appointments of President-Elect Obama.  An interesting distinction between the Idiot Administration and Obama....daily press conferences.  What a concept!!!  Government operating without stonewalling.  Wow.  I say watching with fascination because it seems to me that he is choosing moderates, across the board.  Not the super-radical liberal nuts that I think many on the opposite side of the aisle feared.  I don't envy the work that the incoming administration has in front of them; fixing the economy is one huge m-effing job.

Oh, and of course, I can't close the post without mentioning my perennial bitch, the weather.  It is January in Ohio.  Bleh!!!  Cold, overcast, and with the added delight of freezing rain today, I'm so glad to have a roof over my head, warm slippers on my feet, and a warm bed to crawl into.  I miss the Florida sunshine already.

Are we there yet?

The end is in sight!  NaBloPoMo, almost there, almost there!

I'm going to Florida for Christmas with my family, and nearly each time I talk to my parents I remind them how many days left until I can get on an airplane and escape the cold.  Almost there, almost there.

I have a friend who is about to graduate from college.  She's got a bad case of senioritis.  I keep telling her, "Hang in there, sweetie.  You're almost there!"

When I was a kid, and my parents asked if my homework was done, my answer (and my sisters' answers, too) was always : "Almost."

It became a running family joke; the state of homework is always ALMOST done.

The laundry, too, always almost done; whatever you're wearing still needs to be washed, so it never ends.

Cleaning.  Never done either.

I don't feel that way about the 30 posts in 30 days, I am glad I decided to do it.  It has been fun. 

And I'm almost there.

Plastique

Losing my wallet has had an unintended consequence; I'm thinking more about nearly every penny I spend, because my supply of cash is limited to what is in the new wallet.  I can't just bop over to an ATM and take out $40; because I still don't have my replacement debit card.  I have access to money, I'm still gainfully employed, so I'm not broke, but it is far too easy to whip out that piece of plastic and not even think about any given purchase.  Writing a check takes a minute, and is far more tangible, to my mind, than handing over the card.

In order to get my hands on some green, I have to go to the bank, wait in line either at the drive-up or inside, flash my horrible new driver's license....what a pain in the buttinsky!  And then cash disappears at a frightening rate, too.  One day last week, I pulled out my wallet and counted the cash.  I started adding up what I *knew* I'd spent, and yet there was a discrepancy between what I had spent and what was left in the wallet.  It was only $3, but I still don't know what I spent it on.

I'm muy irritated at the bank where DH and I have a joint account, too.  They got my name wrong when we opened the account, spelling it incorrectly.  I pitched a fit; they refused to fix it just on my say-so.  I had to go into the bank, show ID and sign something, even though the branch manager knows DH...her husband works at the same place DH does.  (Two degrees of separation, again.)  That was obnoxious, and then I waited for them to issue a new ATM card with my name spelled correctly.  I refused to use the one with my name spelled wrong.  I'm still waiting for them to issue a new PIN, almost a month later.  The card is worthless without the PIN.

My one and only one credit card?  I had a new one IN MY HANDS three days, three days after I reported the old one lost.  So this level of effiency is possible, just not from the local banks?  WTF?

Crazier (than ususal)

You might have noticed a new item in my sidebar.  The fabulous Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor had a post about NaBloPoMo, and I had to check it out.  

(Hmm, I think I need to update the list of blogs I read....Mrs. G is nowhere to be found there!  Horrors!  I shall remedy that forthwith.)

The idea is simple; commit to doing 30 blog posts in 30 days.  They suggest a theme, but it is optional.  The theme from October was voting, but they haven't named one on their front page yet for November.  I suppose that's because I'm up and playing on the computer at stupid o'clock, and they're probably on the west coast.

My writing has slipped to a low priority of late, and I don't like that.  My dad used to tell my sibs and me all the time that, "Everyone has 24 hours in a day."  Helpful, that.  Tell me something I didn't know.  Within your allotted 24, then, you have to find the time to do that which matters to you.  Recently, the priority has been sleep, what with my insane week at work, eight straight days of 12+ hour days.  Sleep is important.  I'm unpleasant without the proper amount of sleep.  The writing doesn't get done, though. I've been getting in to bed around 7 PM and although I don't sleep in more than 3-4 hour segments, one would think that the approximately 7-1/2 hours of sleep I do get would be enough.  

I don't want that pattern of climbing in to bed so incredibly early to continue.  It does not bode well for the coming winter, when my instinct is to hide in bed anyway.  Apart from the depression making me unwilling to get out of bed, my bed is the warmest spot in my poorly insulated house in the winter.

So I'm giving this crazy 30 posts in 30 days idea a shot.  As I don't yet know what the theme is, I'm not committing to that right now, but maybe I will.

Completely OT and switching gears now, I have a silly story to relate.

I lost my wallet about a week ago.  Genius, I know.  Annoying, too.  I had to replace: my driver's license, the one credit card I carry in my wallet, my debit card, and a whole bunch of 'customer rewards' cards, from Hallmark, the grocery store, the two big bookstore chains in the area, an electronics store, about $6 worth of stamps, my health insurance card, my Sam's club card.....and I don't even know what the hell else was in there.  I never carry cash.  Ever.  I got out of the habit of doing that when I was dating the ex, way back during my sophomore year of college.  A neighbor of his in the dorm was mugged right outside of the dorm, as were a bunch of other people.  I figured if I didn't have any money in it, I could hand my wallet over without too much angst if I needed to.  Such fabulous logic, no?  Anyway, I've never gotten back in the habit of having cash in the 10+ years since then.  

But, of course, when I lost my wallet, there was about $35 in it.  

Naturligt, as we would say in Swedish.

A derth

Normally, I have no trouble a'tall coming up with things to write about.  Lately, though, I've got no inspiration.  

Maybe that's not quite the word I'm searching for.  I have inspirations, they just don't get written down, and then when I sit down in front of the computer, there's a giant blank in my head.  I'm spending almost no time in front of the computer at home in the evenings, which is when I've done my writing for years now, so not much gets done.

I'm tired.  Not depressed-tired, thankfully.  Bone-weary tired.  And I don't even have kids!  On evenings when I'm able, I've been heading to bed around 8 pm, which is early, even for me.  There are weeks where I've got something going on every night after work, and then the 8 pm bedtime slips later, sometimes until 11.  Then, I'm exhausted for the next several days.  I'm getting more sleep than I have for years....last night, somewhere around 7 hours.  Uninterrupted sleep is something I've not gotten since I was a teen, and I dream of a day when I get more than 3 hours of sleep at a stretch, but I'll take the 7 hours, happily.  And yet, I'm still tired.  I find that utterly mystifying.

I saw something I wanted to write about the other day, and the image keeps haunting me, so I'm going to take a stab at it.

I get to spend some time on a college campus, and I treasure that time, mostly.  People-watching is perhaps my favorite sport in the whole world.  Since I was a very young child, I've made up stories about the things I see, chance interactions between people that are completely out of context for me.  I never know these people, and I'm possibly reading more or less into the interactions I see.  But that is part of the fun, if you ask me.  Students entertain me a lot.  Drama, drama, and more drama envelop their daily lives, hormones and emotions running so high.  I remember well that time in my own life, when everything was both fantastic and catastrophic all at once.  Students annoy me too, I want to bemoan their lack of courtesy, not holding a door open for someone behind them, or purposefully blocking a hallway, or being overly loud when it is completely unnecessary.

Like every other season all year long, fall is unpredictable in Oh-hia-ia.  We can have beautiful days where the temperature hovers just below 70 (~19 or 20 C) with very low humidity, not a cloud in the perfectly autumnal blue sky, or we have days where it is dark, grey, overcast, 40 (4C), and raining.  I treasure those beautiful fall days, when there is a crisp chill in the early mornings, and the leaves are their riot of fall color, scarlet, orange, yellow.  You learn to dress in layers, because while the morning is chilly, by the time you're heading home it is too warm for jackets and long sleeves.

Late one afternoon, I saw two students standing right in the middle of a sidewalk, embracing one another.  They were polar opposites; the girl was short, chubby, cherubic cheeks, blonde, dressed in jeans an a dark long-sleeved shirt, colors so muddy that they might have blended into the background.  The boy was tall and skinny, dark curly hair, dressed in the colors of the Ohio State University, scarlet and grey, shorts and a t-shirt.

He was cradling her, so gently, rocking back and forth a little.  I wasn't close enough to hear them, so I imagined that he was comforting her after a difficult test, or just a rough day.  They pulled apart, still holding on to one another, and he said something to her.  She nodded, and he pulled her close again, and I was reminded of the way we comfort one another at funerals, when words are incredibly useless and we feel so helpless.

I watched as they stepped back from one another and walked away from me, down the sidewalk.  They walked close to one another, but not touching, not holding hands, which is why I assumed that they weren't lovers, the body language hadn't indicated to me that they were anything more than good friends.  

I've been haunted by that simple image of kindness for almost a week now, it pops into my head from time to time.  I wonder; were they friends who hadn't seen one another for a long time?  Were they a couple, and breaking up?  Or was I right, she just had a hard day?  

Why do I keep thinking of those two?  It was a mystery to me for a couple of days, but then I realized that I was so moved by what I saw for two reasons.  One, it was an incredibly intimate moment, a private moment.  They had no idea I was watching.  I hasten to add that it was not with malicious intent that I watched, just idly curious.  Two, you don't often see such kindness on display.  

How sad.

So I challenge you.  Do something extraordinarly kind.  For a stranger, for someone you love, for a friend.

Four-eyes

For a long time, I've been having some vision trouble.  Annoying?  Yes.  Life-threatening? No.  I got new glasses earlier this year, and from the moment I put them on, I told the eye doc that they weren't strong enough.  Did he listen?  No.  Did he agree with me?  No.  

His office people attempted to convince me that contacts were what I needed.  There's a racket, yeah?  They've got you for the contacts, then solution, and all of the other paraphernalia that goes with them.  Far more expensive, to my way of thinking, then just a simple pair of specs.  But I played along, and we tried several different brands of contacts, several different strengths...higher magnifications (or whatever the hell the +1 or +1.50 means) lower prescriptions, this strength in this eye, that strength in another.  Finally, after playing this game for about three weeks, I finally said enough.  Just give me a damn pair of glasses.

They did, but they weren't the right glasses.  Urgh!

I complained about the glasses, especially at the end of long days, because by then, they were totally useless.  Cute, yes, they were adorable.  But as far as helping me see?  Um, not so much.  On the advice of a co-worker, I went to see another eye doctor, one who spent more than ten minutes with me.  The prognosis?  I need progressive lenses.  Which is a very polite way of saying, "Sweetie, you need bifocals."  Thanks.  So much.  

The silly thing is that the first time I went to the eye doctor's as an adult, at 25 years old, they told me to get bifocals, and I, the smart-ass know-it-all, said, "You've got to be kidding me.  Bifocals?  I am 25 years old!!!  No way."

Last year, when I was unemployed, I spent a lot of time on the computer, job hunting, screwing around online, gabbing to friends in fandom, re-writing my resume, drafting innumerable cover letters, writing my book, blogging, and generally trying to figure out to do with my life.  It was then that I noticed my vision deteriorating, but as I was unemployed, there wasn't much I could do about it.  I bought drugstore glasses, getting stronger and stronger ones, and tried to make do.

The progressive lenses showed up on Friday last week, and I've spent the weekend trying to figure them out.  I am reminded strongly of when my dad first got glasses, and he would peer through the bottom of them, trying to read the newspaper.  The tops of my new glasses are for distance.  So I can read street signs, and recognize people I know at 20 feet away.  The middle section is supposedly for the computer, and the very bottom for reading books, magazines, the teeny-tiny ingredient lists on things in the supermarket.  So yes, not just bifocals, but TRI-focals.

They make me tad more clumsy then I already am, which is bad, because y'all: I don't need help being clumsy.  I manage that just fine on my own, really.  There's a slight curve in my peripheral vision that makes it look like you can see the curvature of the earth.  Freaky.

The tech at the eye doctor's recommended that I use extreme caution on stairs until I get used to them.  Fab, because I don't fall down enough staircases already, right?  I'm glad that she forewarned me, though, because taking a header down my own stairs at home is something I've managed to AVOID doing thus far, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I like 'em, though.  I'll get used to this whole tilt-your-head-to-see-up-close game soon enough.  (I hope!)

I was thinking about my school days, and I was enough of an outcast and social misfit through junior high (too smart by half) that I can only imagine what adding glasses to that would have done.  Now, I look geeky, studious, whatever you want to call it, and that's OK with me.  I like looking smart.

Now, where did that staircase go?

Overheard:

"Dude, how do you spell 'legit'?"

"L-I-G-I-T"

No, I did not stop, correct them, nor did I explain that 'legit' is short for 'legitimate'; but I wanted to.

Of Labor

as in, to work hard, not to give birth

As a little girl, I often watched my dad work on cars.  I learned early what the difference was between a clamp and needle-nose pliers, what a socket was, how to turn a wrench and a screwdriver.  That knowledge has served me well over the years, as I can manage small home improvement tasks around the house, and minor car repairs, too.  

I bought a headlight and taillight for my bicycle, because it is getting to be sort of dark in the mornings.  The lights shall become a necessary evil as the year moves on, and, I'd like to continue to ride the bike for as long as I can, until it gets really bloody cold.  The packet claimed that  installation of both items needed no tools.  

They lied.

I was excited about installing them, so I ripped open the package as soon I got home.  I read the instructions, and moved my bike to a spot where it could be worked on.  

Tyvarr, inte, I figured out almost immediately.  (Sorry, not, in Swedish)  I needed assistance to get the batteries into the headlight, and the tail-light, you needed a screwdriver to open it to put the damn things in.  Once I managed that, when I tried to put the tail-light on the bike, I discovered it wouldn't fit with the existing reflector that sits under and behind the seat.  Fair 'nough.  I could handle taking the seat off and removing the reflector.  I'd watched someone else adjust a bike seat once, and they'd accidentally pulled the seat all the way off, so I knew it came out, and once it was, the reflector would be a cinch to take off.

DH has an impressive collection of tools (although I do have my own, too, but they're kept inside, and his are in the garage, where the bike was) and because he is as OCD as I am, they're well organized and properly labeled.  I had no trouble locating a 13 mm ratchet, which I used to loosen the nut holding the seat in place.  

I took the seat off, got off the reflector, and managed to place the tail-light.  It was a pain in the ass, and required standing at odd angles.  By the time I was finished, my legs ached, my hands were dirty, and I felt an amazing sense of accomplishment.