If If's Not One Thing, It's Your Father

My father was a very smart man, probably the smartest man I have ever known. Quick sense of humor, biting wit.

I look like him but otherwise I have few of his better qualities and most of his worst. Unfortunately, I have to own the smart mouth, among others.

Daddy was a left-brain guy, analytical, logical, mathematically inclined. He could do mathematical calculations in his mind that I would have to use pencil and paper (pre-calculator, of course1) to do. He had all kinds of little tricks, like rounding up and down and estimating, and bam, bam, shazam he had the number. Me, not so much.

I'm pretty right-brain. I can write an essay and share my feelings all day. I can talk the paint off a wall and make friends with a tree stump.  The stump will end up telling me about the year of the drought that caused that funky ring and the time the tree-borers tried to invade. Maybe even about the pain of the final chain saw. In short, I'm all about the emotions. 

This caused some issues in my childhood when there was schoolwork involved. When I had to retake Algebra I in summer school one year you would have thought that Mars had just crashed into Earth. Apparently I was every kind of dumb if not actually stupid. Turned out that once I got the right teacher, it all made sense to me . (My Algebra teacher was a left-brain too and hopelessly unable to explain to us righters.)  I loved Geometry because of the symmetry of the proofs. Okay, I was never going to be a mathematician but I was capable of something more than simple addition and if you needed someone to do long division for you, I was your girl! 

For me, long division was the mathematical version of diagramming a sentence. Does anyone diagram sentences any more? I could definitely use some sentence diagramming as I try to learn Spanish! All those competing verbs!!

So as I've grown older, and I've now lived more years than he did, I've always regretted that I don't have more of his skills. I often think of him and wish I could tell him about some new invention or situation to get his opinion. 

On the right-brain side, Daddy loved crossword puzzles. No, not the London Times puzzles but the ones in The Washington Post and The New York Times. The Sunday puzzles were his favorites, needless to say. I wish he was here to compete in the Post's Neologism contests or to invent captions for The New Yorker. He would have loved Wordle, especially the versions that involve multiple words. And he loved mysteries, especially the old British locked-room-in-the-stately-house ones by John Dickson Carr and Ngaio Marsh. By the time I was eight, I was a fan too, and I can still lose myself in a Peter Wimsey novel in which the solution to the crime revolves around something as arcane as the incorrect pattern of a bunch of church bells.

What brings all this up is that I've been searching all my life for a man as smart as my dad. And just recently I figured out that, as Pogo once said, "We have met the enemy and he is us."

I am my father, after all. 

There's nothing I like better than a good Sudoku. My father would have loved Sudoku, and might even have been designing them by now. I'm a word puzzle nut. And knitting a piece of intricate lace, and seeing the pattern emerge from a chart full of unfamiliar symbols is sheer joy. Putting words together in an essay or in a novel involves some mathematical precision too. There's an order for everything. And the geometry of English Paper Piecing!

My father is alive in me, every day. And I have a little more control over my sarcasm and bitter humor than he did, most days.

By the way, for those of you wondering about the tinking of the shawl, I'm happy to say that problem is resolved and I'm moving deliberately through Clue 2.  Still three clues behind but slow and steady goes the tortoise.

Responsible or Craven? You Tell Me

 

At what point does showing respect for others, or for a group of others, become disrespectful to another group? How does one say "I support you, I'm with you, We love you," without saying to someone else, "You people who don't support, love, etc., etc. are not worthy of my respect?

Can one say "I want equality for all" without disrespecting the views of people who believe we are not equal? How do you avoid showing disrespect to people you really don't respect?

The subject of equality among races, ethnicities, sexual orientations, religious beliefs, is very touchy. As an individual, I can put a Black Lives Matters bumper sticker on my car but, because I live in a community with a homeowners association, I can't put a sign in my front yard. That applies to all signs, not to any particular group. It just says you can't show your preferences in your front yard while you're part of this community association.

But if I did put my Black Lives Matters sign up, I'm sure some people in the neighborhood would think less of me because they don't think that black lives matter or because they think that black lives matter is not an adequate statement because really all lives matter. Then the question in my own personal life would be, do I really care what those people think? (And, of course, some of my neighbors are undoubtedly rule followers and they'd be upset because I flouted something in the "official rulebook.")

The answer, of course, is that I do care what they think, and I respect their rights to have those thoughts, but I don't intend to let that change my actions. 

So, then back to my car. When I see a car with a bumper sticker that offends or annoys or otherwise harshes my mellow, I don't hit it or bash it or run into it; I simply shake my head and say "Hmmm. Another jerk."

If I wear a shirt that says PRIDE or EQUALITY or BLACK LIVES MATTERS or NO, JESUS DIDN'T SAY TO DO THAT, YOU IDIOTS, I know what I'm in for when I leave the house. Some people will like it and some won't like it but hopefully no one will shoot me over it.

But what happens when you belong to a bigger group of people? A business, for instance. The federal government has something called the "Hatch Act" (and don't even get me started on Orrin Hatch!) that prohibits federal employees from participating in any way in the elective process. And that settles that for those people. (Wonder whether that applied to any of the folks in the January 6 attack on Congress? But I digress.)

But if a business puts up a sign or a banner that supports some members of the business but not all, what happens? If I wear my PRIDE earrings to work, does that represent the company or does that represent me? Or are they just colorful?

What about visitors? Should visitors be insulted if they see my PRIDE earrings? Should I be insulted by their Nazi tattoos? Should a company that wishes to express its support for a group of people, especially a group of people represented in the company, put up a banner and be loud and proud about their support?

What if doing so will insult the members of the community who find that offensive? What if a visitor coming to the business is offended? A neighbor? What if the visitor is coming to the business with an expectation of making a donation and they are so insulted that they take their check back?

And when does measured response become cravenness? A business that is self-supporting, for-profit, and doing well doesn't have to worry about things like that. But a nonprofit business, dependent on donations from all people including bigots and racists as well as people who share the company's beliefs, don't have that luxury.

So how do we tell the 1% or 10% or 20% or 30% of the people associated with our company who are gay or trans or any other member of the LBGTQIA+ community that we support them, we accept them, we love them, we stand by them, we hear them, without offending the people who might make us pay for our beliefs? Will wearing a name badge that lists my preferred pronouns (SHE, HER, if you care) offend someone or will it serve as a thought-provoking reminder to think before we speak? 

This is the dilemma many churches are feeling right now. The Episcopal Church took a stand in 2003 when the first (openly) gay bishop was consecrated. That resulted in a schism and many of its member churches left the Church for other denominations. The United Methodist Church is in the middle of this process now, as conservative churches and members choose to disaffiliate rather than embrace policies they find offensive. Feelings are strong on both sides. Some of it has to do with culture, some of it has to do with a strict interpretation of the Bible, and some of it, frankly, has to do with being old and fearing change, and coming from a generation when those things weren't done. Of course, they were done, people were just quieter about it then. 

And because Jesus said that homosexuals are bad. No, wait, that's not right. He didn't say that. Scratch that last sentence. And besides, Jesus was white. No wait, he wasn't. Nor was he Protestant. He wasn't even "Christian."  He was Jewish. 

Oh, hell, this is definitely not a question that's going to be resolved today. But I'm ready for it to happen.

The Struggle is Real

 A little knitting content, for those who follow such things and for those who don't:. 

Here's one of the (many) things on my needles right now. It's part of Clues 1 and 2 of a Mystery Knitalong Shawl by Romi, and I have to say it's beautiful. I've done several of her designs and she is a master designer, not to mention being a pretty nice person. And I was pretty proud of it and its progress (even though I'm still on Clue 2 and the rest of the knitting world has already finished the total of five clues that comprise this pattern.)

I say "was" because somehow I put it down wrong and a bunch of stitches fell off and here's what it looks like now:

Yes, I dropped something somewhere, somewhere in the middle of a cable and a border and a double yarnover. And, yes, a more skilled knitter than I could probably figure out how to fix all those happenings, but I can't.

Interestingly, Romi teaches a class, and I took it many years ago when she came to Atlanta to teach, about how to fix problems like this but that was many years ago and I have no idea what to do except to tink it.

TINK means to unKNIT something. Do the math and you'll figure it out.

Bottom line, I'm unknitting down to the source of the problem, probably about row 1 of Clue 2. And for those knitterati who are wondering, no, I did not have a lifeline placed. I had even pulled out the dental floss to put one in but I couldn't put my hand on a tapestry needle at the moment and so I just breezed ahead like I knew what I was doing.

The struggle is real.

Random Thoughts in No Particular Order

The election official who checked me off the list of registered Paulding County voters today at the Georgia Primary and complained mightily about all this "dadburned technology" that's changing the way we do things probably didn't vote for the same folks I did today. Is there a Luddite party? Or is that redundant in Georgia?

At my age I'm officially "senior," but while voting at the Paulding Senior Center today, it occurred to me that, until today I didn't know it existed except I knew those white minibuses had to be going somewhere. I'd like to last a few more years before I go there to find something to do or someone to talk to.

There was one person of color working at the election site today. Why did she get the work station situated next to where some doofus used the wrong kind of tape to tape down an electrical cord, resulting in her tripping and me having to catch her? I don't want to get all conspiracy theory on y'all, but Georgia has some pretty devious ways of making sure that black folks don't vote. Just say'in, that's all.

The major downfall to spending all day on a virtual call, staring at oneself on a small screen, is the knowledge that I look very different than I want to. Could that possibly be my chins wobbling or is it a flaw in the camera? 

The problem with reading is that it leads to more reading. My friend has been recommending I read "The Thursday Murder Club" forever but I balked at the price to buy it on Kindle. (I have my standards and I never go above $10 for a bunch of zeros and ones.) She was insistent, or should I say, encouraging, and finally convinced me to join a library in a state I never go to (I know, I know) so I could read it. I did and requested either the eBook or the audiobook version. Within a day I had  my electronic version. I'm enjoying this book! It's not "War and Peace" or even Margaret Atwood, but it's pretty darn good. Today I said to her that I was starting to think I should invest in the Kindle version to own it. Then just to prove to myself how virtuously frugal I was, I looked it up on Amazon and it was ... $2.99 temporarily. Of course, I bought it immediately and bought the audio version too. Because if it was fun to read, think how good it will be to listen to it. (And, btw, buying both versions books cost me more than my $10 limit.)

And speaking of reading, yes, I'm one of those people who cheats on books with other books. I always have an audiobook, a Kindle, and a wood-pulp book going at the same time. And a stack of New Yorkers I haven't read yet. At least. Today, it's a police procedural on Audible, TTMC on Kindle, and in paper, it's "Going Back to Bisbee" by Richard Shelton. Being a fan of most things Bisbee, without ever having been there, I should tell you the book by Shelton is heavy on Arizona and light on Bisbee, but probably one of the most beautifully written books I've ever read. And beautifully researched. Which naturally led me to buy one of Shelton's poetry books, "The Last Person To Hear Your Voice." In paperback because when I read poetry I have to hold an actual book. I'm not sure why.

The next Shelton book will be his memoirs of working with the prison population. And then ... well, who knows?

Enough deep thoughts for today.

FOMO?

 Can one person have too much in her life? Too many blessings? Too much to do and not enough time to do it all?

That's me. It's been five years since I've written here. I've been too busy. 

Doing what? I feel like I haven't accomplished anything!

And, no, this isn't another COVID screed. Yes, the past few years have been stressful but, in many ways, they haven't impacted me much.

I still go to work. My precious older daughter is gone. I have lost a husband I loved but, truthfully, he was lost many years ago to Alzheimer's. I've really lost a beloved task, not a companion.

And I'm still writing...sort of. Still knitting...but not finishing much. English paper piecing? Not in months!

Yes, travel has been impacted. My beloved job with Stitches events has trickled down to a once-in-a-great-while event. CARF has stopped sending me interesting places. I still do CARF surveys but they're all (so far) virtual. Satisfying, but yet ....

Last year friend Debra and I flew to Rhinebeck for our "coming out party" from COVID. After all the fuss and worrying and stressing over details (do I even know how to buckle my plane seatbelt after all these years? why isn't there food on the plane? I can't breathe through this mask--I brought the wrong one! can I find my vaccination card?), it was fine. 

Although some venues were stricter than others, and Rhinebeck itself was reduced in size and attendance, it was a wonderful few days. We met old friends, some from many miles and other parts of my life, we ate our favorite Rhinebeck foods old and new (I'm talking to you, Roasted Brussel Sprouts!), even met a few knitting celebrities.

Then in March of this year, we went to Stitches West.  A great show as always, just smaller. I met old friends and made some new ones. I missed some people.  Again, Debra and I drove around the SF area and ate and laughed and talked to people and maybe bought some yarn. I didn't walk in the Pacific but I got close enough to be sprayed by waves.

And family! There's so much to say about family. New babies, grands growing up and marrying and going to school and, and, and. My family is truly my life. There is nothing I like better than snuggling one of my children, from months old to 35.

My job has been more than I could have expected. I've truly found my passion with the kids of Murphy-Harpst. Every day there is more to be done, less time to do it, and more joy than I could ever have imagined. I actually feel that I'm making an impression on young people who need me. This is my jam, for sure.

So why do I feel unfulfilled? Like I'm not living up to my potential. Like not getting done all the things that need to be done. Not writing that novel. Not moving on to my life without a job. Not traveling to all the places on my list. Not finishing that quilt top. Not, not, not. 

I'm a mass of negatives in the middle of so many positives. 

Am I fearing, not death, but not finishing everything in my remaining years? Or am I just an ungrateful, whiny cow?

Well, It Finally Happened!

               I finally lost a friend over the election. The first that I know of. The first to tell me I'm dead to him. In person and not on social media. And I can't even blame him--it was I who lost my temper and said things that shouldn't be said. (You know how emotional we females can get--I blame it all on menopause and drinking too many Diet Pepsis .)

               And I'm the one who said I would respect each person's individual vote. After all, we all have our own issues, prejudices, and hot buttons. And they drive our votes. As for me, I'm a card-carrying bleeding-heart liberal. I don't mind paying more taxes so others can get the services they need, even if they don't always deserve them. I'll fight to the death to have a competent Secretary of Education of our public schools so the children of the trump voters can have a better education.

               But it's tough. My friend called me a poor sport. Like I just lost at marbles. Actually, where important things like the Washington Redskins are concerned, I admit I'm a pretty poor sport.  But, with lots of practice, over the years I've honed my ability to pretend I'm okay with the Dallas Cowboys claiming they are "America's Team" while the Redskins stay home again from the Big Game.

               But I digress. I tried to explain that, more important than being a good sport, I have real concerns about the competence and experience of trump and his cabinet members.  He waved that off as having less importance than that the Republican party had vanquished Hillary and Obama. Oh, good. The black guy and the woman are gone.

               He's also a bottom-line guy who hates the idea that a business, like the one we work for, would be forced to pay for employees to have basic healthcare due to the Affordable Care Act. Or the idea that the federal government would force its opinion or any type of regimen on anyone. God knows we wouldn't want anyone telling us we had to be a Christian or a heterosexual or eschew birth control or guard ourselves from grizzlies in our public schools.

               But I'm pleading temporary insanity. When he told me that (a) there is no evidence that Congress wants to repeal healthcare coverage for under-26's or for those with preexisting conditions and (b) there is no evidence that Russia was involved in the recent debacle, I felt my precarious hold on mental health starting to fail.  I asked where he was getting his news. When he told me "that's Hillary stuff," I heard a snapping sound from inside my head. Something vital had broken loose.

               When our coworker, sitting with us, naively asked what Congress intended to replace the ACA with, since obviously so many people needed it, he told her not to worry about it, that Congress would handle it. At this point, I flew over the edge of the cuckoo's nest.

               This was not going to work. I had gone into a gunfight armed with a spitball. And it didn't end well. The top of my head blew off and blood and brains spewed out. Metaphorically speaking. When he told me I was dead to him, I think I remember telling him to send it to me in a 140-character Tweet so I'd know it was official.

               The important thing here is that it was my fault. I didn't set out to lose a friend I've worked with for 15 years. I had no intention of making an enemy out of a coworker that I work with daily.  And friends, long-time or new, are nothing to scoff at. I value my friends. I take full blame for what happened.

               But the more I think about it, we really weren't friends. We were coworkers who disagreed violently but politely on most aspects of daily life and culture. We were generally cordial as long as we stuck to topics with no possible religious or political significance. Pictures of cute puppies and grumpy kittycats were possible but only if none of the puppies was sitting too close to another puppy of the same sex.

               My friends and I don't always agree on everything but we agree on the important things--the value of other people, the importance of the environment, the need to be able to trust those to whom we've entrusted the leadership of our country. So I guess he and I weren't really friends. Just work acquaintances.  And I guess that's over.

I'm Back--and it took This Guy to get me back

To my conservative friend(s):

               Someone commented to me the other day that I seem to be "really bothered" by This Guy. And I answered that I was "worried," not bothered. That wasn't the truth.

               I'm not "bothered" by him. He is who he is. He has changed his public persona over the years, has claimed a multitude of beliefs and positions, and has been a chameleon depending on who he needed to be, who he was with, what he thought someone wanted to hear. Like the old joke about the snake, we knew he was a snake when we picked him up. The fact is, it's not his fault that he's in a job that he's uniquely unqualified for. It's the fault of the American voters.

               I'm not even bothered by the so-called deplorables (what a crappy word to call someone!), those voters who are uneducated or poorly educated, underemployed or unemployed, who have no hope for their present or future, who are racists or misogynists, or who are still fighting in bars rather than engaging in debates. Nope, I'm bothered by voters like you.

               I know you to be honorable. You're a good person, a patriot, a loyal employee, a loving husband and father. You are someone I've spent hours with, debating  history, football, and politics, always with the underlying idea that, although we fundamentally disagree on many aspects of today's culture, we share basic positions that we both hold dear: love of country, love of family, love of work, respect for the foundations of our country and those who seek to keep us safe, a complex spiritual life, and concern for those among us who have less than we do, either materially, emotionally, or health-wise.

               I'm bothered that you have endorsed This Guy with your vote. We've all met people like him. He's the boss who pinched my butt and tried to touch my breasts in the office (when I was 17 and in my first job), waving a soggy cigar when I pulled away. He's the guy who brags about how much he does for others but you have to dun for the entry fee for the charity golf tournament. He's the guy who stiffs the waitstaff because of some imaginary slight in the service. The guy who sneers behind your back that your (first) wife isn't as hot as his (third or fourth) wife, that your kid went into the military instead of a fancy university because the military is for "losers," that he's too smart to pay taxes when you just made your quarterly payment, that he's too smart to believe in God when you're seeking prayers for your sick child. He's the guy you don't let hold your toddler daughter. Ever. The business owner who overlooks your years of service to give the job you've earned to his nephew who has no experience. The guy who makes rude jokes at others' expense and doesn't understand why his peers aren't laughing.

               So, tell me. Would you hire This Guy? Would you ask him to join you and your wife for dinner? Have a drink with him in the bar? Introduce him to your daughter? Play poker with him? Ask him to mentor your son? Nominate him for an office in your professional organization? Suggest him to lead an important fundraising drive? Ask him to babysit your precious grandchild or dog for a weekend, a day, an hour?

               If the answers are no, he's not fit to be the leader of one of the leaders of the free world. We need a leader with experience, a willingness to learn the complexities of the world we live in, and an ability to work with others. (Harry Truman did it with little or no experience in national politics, but he was a selfless guy with a deep love of his country and a willingness to listen to a bi-partisan group of advisors.) Someone who will be honest with the American people (we all know those coal-country jobs aren't coming back--they don't exist any more and the jobs that do exist require a different set of educational and experiential qualifications--we need to be concentrating on education, not standing around waiting for a miracle). Someone who engenders respect, and maybe trust, from our allies and enemies alike.  Someone who can't be bought or influenced. Someone who puts the country's needs ahead of his own. This Guy isn't it. I'm not certain the other candidate was the best the Democrats could have come up with either, but at least I'm not worried she would get us blown up by North Korea because of an ego trip.

               Finally, my friend said, "hey, we've survived worse than this." Really? Is that now the qualification for president, that he's not the worst? Seriously?

Pax? Really?

Who the heck names a snow event Pax? Note that I'm loathe to call Pax a "snowstorm" since even in the hinterlands of Chez Pug 3-4" over three days isn't exactly a blizzard. Yet, here I am, trapped at home waiting for the streets to be clear enough to go to work. Ice, you see, and even with our fine governator's admittedly better efforts, the highways are still largely impassable.

Also note that the Pax namers, The Weather Channel, also called the last snow/ice event, the one I call Clusterstuck, Leon. I don't know which one is dumber, Pax or Leon.

Oh, well, what do you do when you're at home and shamelessly avoiding all the productive things you could do, like housework? You knit and read and watch movies on Amazon Prime. Sometimes all at once. And in between you go on Facebook to see how your friends and relatives are managing their own personal and weather crises.

And, of course, you surf Ravelry. And you find a new Total Time Suck, Goodreads.

In between, you log into work and actually complete some items on the "to do" list, but don't tell the bosses. They prefer to think you're squandering valuable work opportunities and who are we to disabuse them of this fantasy?

Once in awhile, you even complete something. So, in knitting, one project off the needles: Cameo.

What's On The Needles?

Anyone who know me knows that I am incapable of knitting on one project at a time.

I always have several things going at once, probably accounting for the fact that it takes me forever to complete a project. This really makes sense if you think about it.

My knitting projects are specifically for certain places and situations:

First, I always have a relatively complex project, lace or something that requires close attention to a chart or something filled with seemingly (but not really) random short rows. This is for times that I'm not too tired, completely alone, and have both patience and no other distractions.

Then there's the project that is large and/or just complicated enough that I have to think about it. Maybe a sweater with complex shaping or stitch patterns or cables or some such. Or it has too many balls of yarn hanging off it.

Finally, there's mindless knitting. The shawl above, Cameo by Paulina Popiolek. It's miles of garter stitch in two yarns from my stash, some Miss Babs sock yarn in Frogbelly and some turquoise Araucania fingering. Ellen made this shawl (with a lot more imagination, I might say) and I knew I had to make it. It would be my sitting in the snow that some people in Atlanta are currently calling "Clusterstuck," or watching TV with a dog or two on my lap.

Socks, of course, fall into this category, in the subcategory Purse Knitting. I usually have a sock in my purse for line waiting and always at least one in the car for red lights.

but that's for another day.

Wow...a Year?

If asked, and I have been but chose to ignore the questions, I'd have estimated my last post here was a few months ago, October maybe. A year is sort of shocking. But that's about the time a wheel or two fell off the bus here at Chez Pug--personally and definitely technologically. Basically it's been a tough year but no tougher than anyone else's, so no excuses.

I hope the technology is a little more under control, and the rest of it is what it will be. Anyway, here I am again. 

So, Snow-mageddon 2014. What we would have called in the north "a light dusting" has thus far closed down Atlanta for two and a half days. Before I moved here in 2001 I might have chuckled. Now I know this crap is no joke! This city really isn't prepared for any weather at all. Interesting in a city whose news weather branch is called "Severe Weather Center." Seriously, most of us wake up to Channel 2's intrepid weather woman, Karen Minton, saying, "Here in Atlanta the weather is beautiful, 75 degrees and clear. Stay tuned to Severe Weather Center for updates." Really?

Love ya, Karen, but seriously? But that jacket you were wearing this morning? Killer! And that's apparently all that matters, because the governor and mayor don't listen to you anyway. Just a pretty blonde woman with great clothes.

Anyway, this week "weather" was predicted. "Winter weather," to be exact. All the local and national outlets said it was coming and Severe Weather Center said it was coming at 1 pm. About noon flakes started to fall, delicately and without malice at all. Beautiful. No problem. At work we'd planned for such an eventuality and we were as ready as we could be. Some of my co-workers went home. Others, like myself, gave them time to get off the roads and then left later. 5 pm in my case. Snow count? About an inch or less.

Hours later I was sitting about three miles from the office (only 39 to go!) and I checked my traffic app. Yes, I have a traffic app, put out by the same Severe Weather Center TV station. It's a fabulous app--a lovely graphic map with little camera icons that show you where all the traffic cameras are along the route home, and a glowing blue bubble that represented where my car was at the moment (are you kidding me??) and little accident icons that showed trouble spots. The route is also color-coded--green for "no problem," yellow for "whoa, slow down a little, honey, there's something up ahead," and red for "go back, don't even think about it."

Red everywhere. Shit!

This picture was taken when we still thought it was an anomaly that would be cleared up soon. At this point, I still thought I might get home that night. Not so much.

By midnight the traffic was almost completely stopped. Oh, every so often we moved ahead by a car length. I think that was just the Goddesses teasing us. That movement made me think we were making progress. But every time Mr. Pug called, getting increasingly frantic and angry--not at me, but at Georgia's Governator and the Mayor of Atlanta for not having salted and cindered the roads in a timely fashion--I checked my odometer, and my progress could be measured in tenths of a mile. About 3 am, I pulled over to the side of the road, along with 10 or 15% of my fellow travelers, and tried to sleep. 

Lesson Learned: It's almost impossible to sleep with other cars slipping on the icy roads and skimming past your vehicle space with spinning tires and blowing horns. Okay, that was not going to work.

By 4 am I had extracted myself from my shoulder spot and inched far enough forward to see an upcoming exit where I knew there was a fast food joint. I tried to exit but it was completely clogged with broken down cars. Damn! The next exit was a little more passable and I slunk past the abandoned cars on the ramp and into a McDonald's. Good thing because my bladder was about to burst! (I cannot tell you how many men and women I saw standing and squatting by the side of I-75, relieving themselves. I swear if I hadn't been wearing jeans, it might have been an option. I also saw the guys in the car in front of me pour what was left from a carton of orange juice out onto the pavement. Then I saw it re-emptied again a minute or two later. Well, you gotta do what you gotta do.)

Lesson Learned: Just because the sign says "Open 24 Hours" doesn't mean it is. Everything, including the shopping center across the street, assuming I could have gotten across the street,  was completely clogged with cars. I wedged mine into an illegal spot in the McDonald's lot, locked the door, crossed my legs tightly, and tried to sleep. First I woke Mr. Pug one last time to tell him I was safe and hear more diatribes against Governor Dumbass. Around 6, I fell asleep. At 6:30, the parking lot around me began to wake up.

So, to make a hideously long story even longer, I finally strolled into Chez Pug at 2:30 pm the day after I left the office. And here's what I got from the experience:

1. Thank Dog for knitting. I knit off and on the whole time.
2. Thank Dog twice for mindless knitting projects. Mine had lots of yarn and garter stitch. Doesn't get any more mindless than that. (Cameo Shawl if you're interested.)
3. The snow around the parked cars in the McD's lot was splotched with lots of yellow. Good thing I slept through all of it.
4. My night was pretty tame compared to others. My friend Sandy's car ran off the road and she was (luckily) rescued by a friend of her sister's. Otherwise her story could have been much uglier.
5. When the 24 hour McDonald's opens, at 7:30 am, the only person there will be the manager who mostly doesn't speak English. He does know how to make coffee and is happy to sell it for a dollar a cup. plus tax for the governor.
6. The bathroom will be mostly clean but at that point, who really cares?
7. No other food will be available until a worker shows up an hour later and finally grasps that what the manager is saying is "sausage, please cook the sausage."
8. Apparently when they hired him for his facility with languages, they didn't take into account the fact that someone who speaks Croatian fluently may not be able to communicate with a largely Hispanic staff or customers.
9. But Croatians can apparently make great coffee.
10. Oatmeal doesn't require food, just hot water. I set off a trend by mentioning that to the manager and he fixed me a cup.
11. Hundreds of people who slept in their cars all along the block will be happy to pay a dollar a cup. Most will be friendly and just happy not to be on I-75.
12. The road will still not be clear when you're ready to go home, which is right after drinking your coffee and eating your oatmeal.
13. Which is fine because the guy who's got you blocked in with his car isn't in a hurry to leave anyway.
14. When you get out, around 10 am (more knitting with some news and audiobook listening thrown in), traffic won't be able to get up the hill. It will be full of more 18-wheelers as if we haven't seen enough in the last 12 hours.
15. All the gas stations will be simultaneously raising their prices and running out of gas.
16. The parking lot across the street will have one tiny space left, just big enough for your car. The guy in the car next to you will get out of his car to greet you, saying "Welcome! You must be our new neighbor!"
17. He'll fill you in on the neighborhood gossip: the 24 hour cafe is closed (of course!), the Publix is open but filled with people sheltering in place (big shoutout to Publix!), the Starbucks is open but their restroom is suspiciously "out of order." And I  bet their coffee was more than a dollar.
18. Apparently the big convention in town this week is the National Egg and Poultry show. (Not a joke! You cannot make this stuff up!) This explains the large truck parked about three cars away with hundreds of empty chicken boxes in the back. I don't want to know what happened to the chickens.
19. People are mostly very decent. I did not meet one person who wasn't gracious and friendly and we all chuckled about how we'll be telling these stories for years. No one called the Governator Dumbass, with the possible exception of me.
20. We were about a mile from the Governator's mansion. I'm betting there was no one sheltering in place in his house that night. Again, thanks to all the businesses who let folks hang out for the night.

Postscript: When I finally got to my subdivision, there were cars parked all along the entrance. There were also several people shoveling the street. I stopped to thank them and realized their leader was Mr. Pug. One of the young guys told me that Mr. Pug told them his wife was on her way home and he wanted her to be able to get up and down the hills in the subdivision. They all jumped in to help.

Lesson learned: Gotta love people! They're pretty okay. And Mr. Pug's no slouch either.

Finally -- a Finished Object!

Actually, two finished objects. Here's the first pair, Seaweed Socks from a pattern by Wendy Johnson.  This pair came off the needles last Friday, after a mere two years in the making. (One of my lovely friends gave me this yarn on the occasion of my wedding--only a true friend would know to give sock yarn as a wedding gift!)

Love this sock even though I'm a little iffy about the heel. Actually, it's probably the gusset and heel you've been knitting ever since you learned how to knit socks--it's that slip one, knit one that makes a padded back-of-the-heel. This sock is knit toe up but it's done in much the same way, after you knit a sort of Fleegle-ish gusset increase on the bottom of the sock.

The reason I stopped doing this heel is that most of my shoes don't want a big, padded heel in the back--it makes them uncomfortable. I took a chance on this one because I love, love, love everything Wendy Johnson does and I trust her.

This pair of Opal socks, finished just this morning, are my old familiar, Ann Budd-ish socks with a short row heel (also toe up, of course). There's nothing better than Opal, ever, and if I had another skein of Opal at hand, I'd cast on today. Just the best all-around sock yarn ever!

Oh, who am I kidding? There's got to be more Opal in the stash somewhere--I just have to dig around and find it!

Finally, here's a hint of What's On The Needles: I started these on Saturday after finishing the Regia socks. It's a toe-up pattern called Socks on a Plane, with one cable going up the side of each foot. The yarn is Mini Mochi from my stash. Fabulous colors, and I do love my MM socks. The original MM yarn was more splitty and more fragile (it's a single) but the newly formulated yarn is more durable.

And, of course, it's got a weird heel variation, too--somewhere in between the Fleegle heel and a short row heel. I don't like it at all but I'm trying to give it a chance.

Knitting Forward

So, I've been knitting since I was in elementary school, blogging since about 2004, and on Ravelry since 2007. That means I should know better, because my track record of being able to predict what I'll actually knit in a given year isn't that great. I get distracted easily.

But every year I prognosticate about the coming year so it's in the nature of a tradition at this point.

So let's make it easier this year:

• I will start the year promising to finish a bunch of UFO's but will end the year with more than I started with.
• I'll have really good intentions about organizing my stash but will end the year in the same state of chaos that exists right now. Maybe worse.
• Ditto my intentions to knit strictly from stash. Let's face it--I'm like a crow with yarn. If it's pretty, I'll dive on it from a mile in the sky to grab it. 
• Six months after I dive on something pretty, I'll look at it in wonderment and try to remember what I thought I was going to do with it.
• I'd like to make Christmas gifts and ornaments all year but... Well, do I even need to say I probably won't?
• We're not even going to talk about my abysmal record of updating this puppy. Doesn't seem that likely, does it?

On a positive note, I'm trying really hard to finish Fifty Shades of Red within the next two weeks. I'm down to four half blocks, then need to connect the shoulders, and then knit several miles of I-cord. Sounds do-able, right?

After that, I'll either get back to Smitten (yuk!) or do the crab stitch edging on the patchwork jacket. 

I'd like to knit Canyonlands as a Rav KAL. Dream in Color Smooshy.

I'd like to do a Goddess Knits shawl as a KAL.

I'd like to knit one of the sweaters I have yarn set aside for--Three Sisters or Carter Cardigan or Simona. 

Is that too much planning? Or not enough?

2012: The Garter Stitch Year

Will this year not end? I feel like I've been waiting forever, and not that patiently, and this frickin' year will NOT die!

So far it's been December for about 73 days. This day alone has lasted at least 37 hours and it's barely 7 pm. I've been watching bowl games forever and we seem to be no closer to the national championship than we were at Thanksgiving.

In knitting terms, it's been a Very Garter Stitch Year.

Endless rows of the knit stitch. No purls, no yarnovers, not even a nupp to liven things up. Every so often a short row to take you backwards and make you start over, back at the beginning.

2012 has been the world's largest Color Affection shawl.

And lest you think I'm speaking metaphorically, well, I am. But in a literal sense, everything I've knit lately has been garter stitch.

The aforementioned Color Affection. Garter.

Stripe Study. Garter.

The Brooks Farm Fifty Shades of Red vest. Modular garter. Well, you saw that the other day.

And, of course, the famous neverending Sock Yarn Blankie. Modular garter. 

My last almost-finished project? The famous patchwork sweater that might actually be completed in 2013. Modular garter.

My last frogged never-to-be-finished project? The Jane Slicer-Smith vest that I will....I WILL....reknit in 2013 or possibly 2014 or beyond. Modular garter.

I am sensing a rut. And that I'm in it.

Oh, crap!

To totally change the subject and divert your attention from how pitiful my life is, check this out. Grandson KC can SO dunk! He obviously has MY vertical leap!

Fifty Shades of Red

The year is finally, finally, finally grinding to a close. Is it just me, or has this year actually been kind of crappy? I know I shouldn't complain, but 2012's been a tough one. Not just for me, but for friends and family too. (Frankly, I blame the election. I think all that concentrated negativity sucked every bit of good spirit out of the year.)

I'm looking for 2013 to be an easier, softer year.  But in the meantime, we knit.

I'm within shouting distance of the final mitered diamonds of the Acero Diamond Vest, or, as I've been calling  it, Fifty Shades of Red. Literally there are fewer than ten of the big guys to go. Maybe 8 big ones and five or six half-squares.

(Yes, Debra, I know you've told me it's not really red--it's rust. But some of it really is red and rust is really just red that's lost its way, so I'm sticking with red.")

I'm at that point where I'm halfway between "OMG, it's almost over, woohoo!" and "OMG, what will I do when it's done?" I have truly loved doing all those squares, unlike other modular projects I've worked on, and I think the difference is changing the yarn every square and feeling like each one is totally different from the one that went before.

To clarify, I love modular knitting. I think I could restrict my knitting to modular knitting only and be pretty happy. I love the concept and am always looking for new modular projects. But some are more tedious than others. For instance, I've been working for five or six years on the Tess Diamond Vest and I feel weak just thinking about it--I think it's because every diamond is the same and because I've added another whole column of diamonds to make it a little larger and that makes me nervous. I'm scared to death that I'll finish it and it'll be HUGE.

Anyway, once the squares are done, then there are two tiny places to sew--the pointy ends of the shoulder fronts get sewn into the valley ends of  the shoulder backs. Then the endless I-Cord begins, around the armholes and then around the entire perimeter.

And, since I'm a big girl, the perimeter is substantial. That's a lot of I-Cord. Luckily, the I-Cord is purple (see that teensy hint of purple in the lower right diamond above, and the top diamond? That's the purple!). Then to select a button (Cast On Cottage, here I come), and I'm done.

Lest this sound more optimistic than it really is, let us remember that the other modular sweater still hanging out, the Patchwork Sweater in Noro, only got sewn together this year (by Debra, thank you!) and still doesn't have its crab stitch edging. It has yarn, it has a button, all it doesn't have is ... me to finish it.

Did I say this is Brooks Farm Acero? And that I'm already thinking of how to get more Brooks Farm Acero? Love, love, love this yarn!

Finally, and I bet you already knew this, yes, the fawn fur butt at the top of the picture IS a pug butt. Lucy, in this case. She never even moved when I laid the knitting across her rear end and snapped the picture.

The Pack

I'm a big NPR-listener, and one of my favorite segment is "This I  Believe." I love hearing about other people's beliefs, and really about other people in general. I'm always asking some stranger why he loves his job or what got her into her career or what kind of pet they prefer. In some worlds, this is considered being a nosey parker or just plain intrusive.

But not on NPR--there we can wallow in other people's "stuff" and feel perfectly normal.

Anyway, on this particular episode, a youngish woman is relating a discussion she had with her two sons. One of the boys opines that he's very grateful to be a mammal. Some of the advantages he cites were that we have hair (well, I used to anyway!), that we can have babies, and that we're warm-blooded. The other, younger, son noted the oh-so-true fact that the really hardy species, having survived from dinosaur times, was reptiles.  Plus they had scales, apparently a very cool thing to have. The older son said, "well, if you were a snake, you wouldn't be here with us, because most of those moms leave as soon as the egg breaks, but since you're a mammal you're here with your pack!"

Wow! The pack makes all the difference, doesn't it?

It made me think of my pack.

Really, I, like most mammals have more than one pack. My cubs have formed their own packs, and my siblings and my cousin live far away with their new packs. But my knitting pack is here with me every day--steady and reliable.

Even when I was a solitary knitter, meaning that I didn't have even one friend who knitted, I had a knitting pack. I had the Knitlist and the Sockknitters List and the Ample Knitters List and all those folks were my pack. Maggie Righetti was in my pack, maybe even the Leader of the Pack, though she was (and remains) blissfully unaware of my existence. My pack and I chatted back and forth about what was important in our lives--making knots with pieces of yarn--and I was part of a companionable community. Every so often I'd sneak out of town to attend a pack meeting run by TKGA or Knitter's Magazine. I still have that pack, and I meet with them online or at Stitches events--people I know only a little but we have something important in common.

But my everyday pack today is a group of knitting women--no more than five or six usually. Even though we met through knitting, our relationship has grown to be much more inclusive. We knit, eat, travel, eat some more, shop for yarn, and generally hang out. We laugh a lot and occasionally there are tears.  When things get tough in my life, either because of some real or imagined situation, they're there for me. They have walked me through everything from a dropped stitch to a family crisis.  Occasionally, I return the favor.

Together we do what Elizabeth Zimmerman advised: we keep on knitting, through all situations, with confidence.

Thanks, Pack! I love each and every one of you.

When Bad Inflatables Happen to Good People

Seen on my way to lunch today, and once it was seen, I couldn't unsee it! Oh, my!

(And, yes, this is one house, and not a big one.)

Okay, This is a Problem....

I opened a drawer today...don't even ask why...and found some yarn and a UFO I couldn't identify.

Under it was...another UFO. That one I can figure out but have no idea when I started it or put it down. And certainly not why I would have stuffed it into that drawer.

Behind it, you guessed it, one more UFO. That one I do remember, thank goodness.

I searched the entire desk they were hiding in, but no more.

Okay, Houston, we have a problem.

When I have so many started-but-not-finished projects, there's obviously an issue.

Am I losing my mind, and my memory, or is this just the result of my addled ADHD brain starting too many projects?

UFO #1: it's obviously a shawl, with a cable and lace. (Needless to say, no pattern with it.) The yarn is either heavy fingering or light sport. I'm leaning toward the first. It's got one of my KP Harmony needles in it--no wonder I couldn't find my size 8! Can't identify the yarn or the pattern. I probably put it down because I really am not that fond of heavier shawls and this feels heavy.

UFO #2: toe-up socks two at a time. I don't remember starting them but I do have a habit of starting socks and putting them down. And the whole TAAT thing is so fiddly I'm pretty sure I just threw them down in disgust.

UFO #3: fingerless mitts, one finished, one not. I do remember these. Both my daughters wanted mitts one year but in black. Really? Black? I gave it the Old College Try, but all that black on size 1's was too much for this Old Blind Mouse.

So, here's the question: how many more of these nightmares are hiding from me?

Smooth(ie) Sailing

So, I'm not claming there's a direct connection with my grousing about the product, but McDonald's has replaced their Apple Cinnamon Walnut Oatmeal with a variety containing little bits of dried banana and (fresh) blueberries. Somehow, the idea of starting my day by picking pieces of dehydrated banana out of my teeth doesn't have the appeal of the apple version.

Rats! I need to find another solution for the Most Important Meal of the Day. This morning I was running late and had to drive Mr. Pug to pick up his car from the repair shop. I delved deep into the freezer looking for a solution and found

Looks tasty, right? It's a mixture of frozen yogurt beads* and fruit. You add fresh juice (in my case, orange) and shake vigorously to make your take-in-the-car breakfast.

Here are ten things you need to know about drinking a Dole Yogurt Smoothie Shaker :

1. It's not smooth. It should be called a Dole Yogurt Lumpy Shaker . The consistency is large frozen lump surrounded by ice cold liquid, like a chunky frozen slurpee with seeds.
2. It tastes pretty good.
3. When you try to drink it, it will shoot out of the top of the container like Mount Vesuvius raining lava on Pompei (only cold), and you will look like Barney, covered in purple goop.
4. From head to toe.
5. Once it covers your glasses with blueberry goodness, and it will, it will have to be coaxed off with professional quality opthalmic solution.
6. Until it's coaxed off, your vision will be obstructed. You will narrowly miss hitting someone on that same Bobo Road where you got into trouble last week.
7. You will be late to work because you have to go home and change your clothes.
8. Yes, all your clothes--blouse, bra, slacks, jewelry, glasses. I didn't find any blueberry yogurt on my underwear, but I might not have looked hard enough.
9. Yes, your earrings too. And your hair.
10. You'll still be hungry, even after slugging down the remainder over the sink in your kitchen.

Consider yourself warned.

*I know, I know. I don't know what a "yogurt bead" is either. Those are not words that belong together.

The Road Rage Incident You DIDN'T See on YouTube

We have a lot of road rage here in Georgia.The other day, the news said, "Carjacker Surprised by Grandma."  A carjacker had tried to take a woman's SUV and she'd pulled her own pistol out and shot him. The video showed a woman of uncertain age, with 3" fingernails and a 60's beehive, who looked like she'd just climbed off her pole at the Pink Pony. If she was a grandma, she probably achieved that goal at age 22.

This is my own story of road rage, which, thankfully, didn't make the news.

Some of you know that I live in an area called Backwoods County, Georgia. For those of you old enough to know what this means, I've changed the names to protect the guilty. Our county philosophy is "We Ain't Atlanta." Our county motto, in raised letters around our county seal, is "Welcome all y'all, as long as you're white, born in this county, and ain't one of them Muslim terrorists. Or one of them gays, neither."

Yes, it's a big seal.


Anyway, in Backwoods, calling someone a "redneck" is a compliment, we still fly the Confederate flag, every other pickup truck has a gun rack, and the Dixie Chicks are still banned from performing at the Mighty Bulwark Church of Jesus and Fine Barbecue. I don't want to stereotype anyone, but here in Backwoods, the words "Stuffed you in the trunk, EARL!" still makes growed up men take off their camo caps and wipe their sweaty foreheads with their grimy hands.

But I digress.

Yesterday, I'm on my way to work, and sitting about fifth in line at the four-way on Bobo Road. Yes, the street really is called Bobo--here in Backwoods, we name our streets after early county pioneers and family pets. And yes, in the 70's a four-way would have been an intricate sexual encounter, but today, well, you know what it is.

Anyway, I'm at the four-way and I realize I can't find my debit card in my wallet. And you know I don't want to have to call those know-it-alls at Wells Fargo Security and tell them they were right to worry about my debit card. So, now I'm picking through my purse--old receipts and ballpoint pens and lipsticks and stitch markers are flying around the car.

And the guy in the silver Ford pickup behind me honks his horn. Twice.

Really? Really?

I put down my purse, put the car in Park, turn off the ignition, and get out of the car. I walk back to the Ford and I say, "Excuse me, sir. Do you by any chance have my debit card?"

"Uh, no, ma'am."

"Okay, because my debit card's missing and it's making me a little nervous, seeing as how my whole paycheck's in there and I got me some bills to pay. You know what I'm saying?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So," I say, slowly, drawing it out a little, "if you can't help me with my problem, you're really no good to me. Can you please stop honking so I can get on with getting to work and finding my card?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Then I got back into my car, leisurely, put it into Drive, and went through the four-way, because, by then it was my turn.

He took a left on two wheels, screeching. Probably went home to change his jeans. Bless his heart ....

I mean ... really?

Editor's note: Every so often, one of my readers accuses me of exaggeration, or even making things up. I prefer to think of it as adding dramatic effect to the narrative, or some such term from my college writing class. (Thank you, Dr. Taormina!). As for you, just be glad I didn't throw in a flippin' Deus ex Machina, for god's sake!

Second editor's note: I found the card later, stuffed into my checkbook. Whew! Didn't have to call those WF jerks.