Archive for December, 2006

On New Year’s Eve, my weblog gave to me:

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I did promise.

blocking the branching out scarf

Faced with a serious dearth of blocking pins, I ran a piece of yarn around the edges of the Branching Out scarf, then pinned the yarn to my ironing board using brooch pins (thanks for those, Faith!)

blocking - detail

Aaaaaaaaaand . . . done! I made a little knitted flower pin to go with it.

branching out scarf - done.

Lawyer’s Wife called to say she loved it. “It’s cream! It’s the perfect color!” she exulted. So I am officially in her good graces, and that is probably a Good Thing.

Oh. And, yeah. I felted some pears.

felty pears

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Still not dead!

And I can prove it with knitting.

Fingerless gloves

I knit most of the first glove (Mosaic Mitts, from Interweave Knits Holiday Issue and yes I do intend to knit everything from this magazine thank you very much) on the drive up to San Francisco, and most of the second on the drive back. Today I am wearing them, and my hands and wrists are toasty warm. The lawyer who has the office across the hall from me controls the air conditioning in our little fifth-floor shtetl, and he keeps it blasting at about 30 below. So I need these. I kind of hate the colors, but it was the best I could do with the available yarn.

True story from San Francisco: I was in a bead shop near 24th and Mission on Christmas eve, making wine charms as last-minute gifts, when the phone rang. Unspecified European Girl answered the phone. “Hello . . . yes . . . yes . . . oh. Bye.” She hung up.

“That was weird,” she announced to her high-school-aged coworker. “That guy who called? He asked if we were open, then he said ‘oh, I’m so happy to find a bead store that’s open today, can I come in?’ I said yes, and he said ‘okay, first I’ve got to go home and get my gun.’ Then he hung up.”

“That kind of freaks me out,” laughed High-School Girl.

“Yeah. I guess he meant to say something else, and said ‘gun’ instead.”

More aimless chit-chat ensued until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I politely suggested that they might consider calling the police.

“I’m sure he was just kidding, or he made a mistake.” Unspecified European Girl clearly thought I was overreacting.

“Do you really want to find out?”

So she called the store’s owner, who told them to lock up and leave immediately. And we left too, and strolled on down the street, and there was no gunfire that I know of. And there is no moral or clever ending to this story, and I learned no valuable lessons, except maybe that San Franciscans (and Unspecified Europeans) are remarkably casual about threats of violence.

The end.

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No time to say hello, goodbye!

Bullets of hurriedness!

  • I finished and blocked one Branching Out scarf.
  • I knitted a little white flower and put it on a brooch-pin, which I attached to the Branching Out scarf.
  • I finished six felty pears!
  • Photos of all of the above will follow. Probably next week.
  • As walked to my friend Sara’s house to felt my pears in her washing machine, my underwire burst like a raging lion through the fabric of my bra and lacerated my right boob.
  • My right boob is peeved, but bandaged and recovering well.
  • Photos of the above will not follow.
  • Don’t think I’m dead if you don’t hear from me until next Wednesday.
  • I’m not dead. I’m just in San Francisco.
  • If I get to go here, though, I might die of joy.
  • I have to go finish a pension plan now.
  • Happy Solstice!

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When my anxieties conspire against me.

I did not want to get up this morning. Twice my alarm rang, and twice I turned it off and went back to sleep. After the second time, I dreamed that I went to the bank to withdraw thirty dollars, and was told that my account balance was only twenty-five dollars. “How could that be?” I was horrified. “I had a hundred dollars in there yesterday!”

The teller turned the screen so that I could see recent transactions on my account. There were three debits of twenty-five dollars each, all from early that morning. Then I realized that every time I hit snooze on my alarm, it cost me twenty-five dollars.

I woke up.

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Ignore this, it’s whiny.

I am. Stressed. Out. Stress in the tightness of my jaw, and in the acid that leaps up from my stomach. Stress in the stutter as I correct and repeat myself, trying to say six things at once. I am easily startled; this morning, in a meeting, I nearly hit the ceiling when Murray* coughed behind me. I am needy and insecure. In this most social of seasons, I want nothing more than to hibernate with a stack of books and knitting.

Does this stress stem from:

1. Money issues?
2. Feeling overwhelmed at work?
or
3. Feeling underaccomplished as another year sputters and dies, leaving only a thin trail of smoke and the acrid smell of failure?

Why is it that when people wish me Happy Holidays, it feels like just another impossible thing I have to add to my to-do list?

Edited to add: Possibly the one thing that could make this day better has just occurred: Grandma Secretary’s loud, detail-filled discussion of her colonoscopy.

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I’m not dead.

Lawyer saved up work for several months before I left for vacation, then dumped it all on me this past Monday. It is a deliberate and malicious attempt to prevent me from having any fun at all.

I will return soon. Before the end of the week, maybe.

In the meantime, send donuts.

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