Everybody Loves Saturday Night

Multi-directional Scarf, after one skein:



Autumn is Your Last Chance Sock #1, after one stripe pattern repeat:



Greta had it: "Autumn is Your Last Chance" is a track off of Robyn Hitchcock's I Often Dream of Trains, which came out somewhere in the vicinity of the mid 80s. Remember when I said that no matter how hairy and fat Elvis Costello got, I'd run away with him in a heartbeat? Robyn trumps Elvis. Robyn trumps ALL. I'll go into more detail later.

But anyway, how FREAKIN' COOL are those colors?!

And, yes, the Meilenweit sock is next to me. I had Mike try on the sock toe with his size 10.5 feet and it was a little big for him, so I am on the right track with 72 stitches. I've done a few more bands since I took the picture so I'll take another one when I get home tonight. I'm really having fun with this one, because the color combinations and organization are so unexpected right now.

Oh, and in answer to Shannon's question: I'm using Wendy's Generic Toe-Up Sock Pattern with her instructions for the "Easy Toe," found in Knitty (winter 02). I like using the easy-toe start because it doesn't interrupt the pattern of the self-striping yarn, the way the short-row toe does. I use the short-row toe on all my other socks.

Have you all seen Steph's Skull Scarf ? It's awesome!

And all is well. Man, I even slept in a little. Did the morning pages, did the class planning, did the minor revisions required by my advisor to the chapter she just sent back, and popped it off email-style to my first reader. After that, I still had half an hour to kill, so I cruised around a couple blogs. I'm finishing up my cruising now.

Good teaching day today, despite the students who didn't bring in a rough draft and the students who needed to leave class early for some meeting or other. It completely derailed my lesson plan, but I think I bounced back well enough.

So, I am now at home, in my fun penguin pajamas and my ghetto-cheap fuzzy slippers (it's a mite nippy outside, FINALLY)


homage a Rachael

I gotta thing for penguins. And turtles. And elephants (Babar!). I only have penguin pajamas, though. They are very soft and warm. I don't know if you can see them, but there are little snowflakes and igloos amidst the penguins.

I also gotta severe case of startitis, but I can explain! I am close to finishing the Over the Rainbow socks for my cousin (a REAL "Em") and I realized, "crap! it's almost October and I don't even have one pair of socks done! I gotta get a move on!" What's the big big, Michelle, you ask? I mean, cripes, you got til December, right? Well, technically I've got til whenever I'm done--I have a very understanding family. The big big is that my family celebrates Thanksgiving and Hanukkah at the same time, which makes sense because, you know, we're all in one place and what better time to exchange prezzies? (It also saves so many shopping hassles.) So I don't have til December. I got two months. I'd like to have more than one pair of socks done by then.*

Thus, I started another pair of socks so I can work in tandem. After talking with my aunt, I discovered that The Real Em is not the only one in the family who loves colorful, fun socks. Her brother does too! How cool (and rare) is that? So he's getting socks made out of the new-fangled Meilenweit Fantasy #4730 (received from Threadbear):



Here's what I have so far:



I'm using US 3s and at the moment I've got 72 stitches (18 per needle), and I think I'm going to have to go up to 76 stitches for size 11.5 feet. Oof. I wish there were a way of testing it out--anybody ever knit socks for that size, getting a gauge of 7 stitches per inch?

Anyway, there's not much, but you can see what kind of colors I'm dealing with. There are, I've noticed, two different shades of green, and you can see from the bottom left corner that there will be a blue/white fair isle-esque band coming up as well (so exciting). I dig the heathery look to the solids (although I'm not entirely sure it's supposed to be that way). I think the colors are so beautiful, very autumnal. In fact, I'm calling them the "Autumn is Your Last Chance" socks--and if you get that reference, we need to talk. Soon.

*I know, I know: the easiest way to ensure that I have more than one pair of socks by Thanksgiving is to put all the other projects aside and focus only on the socks. Yeah, right!

It takes two days to digest.

Again, happy 5764! Seems like only yesterday it was 5763. {ba-dum ch!} Thank you! (and thanks for all the New Years comments.)

Yesterday (Sat.) Mike and I went to see a play called Recent Tragic Events. Yesterday was the last preview night--it officially opens tonight. NY-ers may recall seeing ads for the play (written by Craig Wright) that feature Heather Graham--this is her theatrical debut. That's not why I wanted to see it--the main reason I went to see it is beacuse the cast also features a certain someone named Colleen, who has also made guest appearances on this very blog. The play is very good, and I encourage people in the area to check it out. It takes place on September 12, 2001: Graham plays a woman living in Minneapolis, about to go on a blind date, but whose sister lives in NY and can't be reached. It's a dark comedy that handles "the situation" with incredible tact and delicacy. The acting is very good (Graham is good--she started a little off but got better). I, of course, liked Col the best--but I think even had I not known her I would've been impressed with her performance. Her character hardly speaks at all, but in a "quirky" twist a character who just happens to be named Joyce Carol Oates, who just happens to have written an impressive amount of literature, pops in because she's related to one of the characters and happens to be stuck at the Mpls. airport, and this character is represented by a sock puppet (which looks remarkably like Joyce Carol Oates--it's pretty funny), and the sock puppet is voiced by Colleen's character, while she's on stage also playing this other character. In a word, it rocks.

Today has been a relatively depressing day; rainy, dark, blah. It's unreal how much the weather affects my mood. I have been bummed out for no good reason all day. Aside from writing about the play I really have little motivation to write an entry.

Good news: I got the most recent chapter back from my advisor and it's done! So now it's down to the entire introduction and the conclusion to the last chapter. I have been having a really hard time finding the time to work on my dissertation. I haven't been very motivated, and I've been busy with teaching, and I've been absolutely exhausted when I come home so that I put off planning for the next day until the next morning, which means that I don't write--at all. This has got to stop. I've already decided to rearrange my computer time so that it's not the first thing I do in the morning--the first thing I do in the morning, as I drink my gallon of coffee, is to get right to work. I'm going to save my blog readin' and writin' for when I get home, because I am absolutely useless work-wise after 4 pm anyway.

It's the strangest thing. I used to abhor the mornings. I used to stay up late and sleep til noon. I still wouldn't consider myself a morning person (and I'm sure Mike would agree), but I have discovered that I am more productive and focused in the mornings than I am at night. I don't know why I changed, but I know it was when I was writing my master's thesis (Gender and Anglo-Jewish fiction: I looked at six 19th-century British novels that featured Jewish women. I titled it Is She Jewish?). I finished most of it over the summer, and the sun came directly into my bedroom in the morning and woke me up naturally--no alarm clock needed. I'd go immediately to the computer and write for four hours. Then I was done for the day. It was a perfect schedule. I don't know why I can't seem to do the same thing here. I think it's time to head back to the morning pages.

Bummed out, say I? Here's a remedy:


In Xanadu did Kubla Kat
A splendid sofa-bed decree

(I didn't make that up. It's from a book of poems written by the cats of famous poets. I know, it's a total cornball concept, but some of the poems are pretty funny.)

I was a little frightened, too. Never worked with yeast before (there's a bad joke in there somewhere but I'll leave you to find it), so had little concept of "rising." My dough expanded rather than rose, and I'm not quite sure why, but I don't really care, because it's got 20 minutes left in the oven and it smells fantastic. I got the makings for some noodle kugel (I don't how it's possible for any Gentile to remain a Gentile after having some kugel. I really don't), and I gotta get to the store yet for the salmon and the wine. All is good.



(you might want to right-click on "Open in a new window" for the pictures. I don't know how Blogger handles links.)

Would you like a bowl of Kureyon for dinner? Yes, please!

That's the #128 for Rosedale. I almost slept with some under my pillow.

I also got this: it's #52, but the picture is a little dark. It's to make one of those multi-directionally fangled scarves for Mike. I, uh, kinda started it already. I got the first two triangles done during "Survivor" (I still love Rupert) and the season premieres of "CSI" and "Without a Trace" (still love Anthony LaPaglia, but what up with the constant use of "Mad World" when teens are involved? Is Richard Kelly (director of Donnie Darko) the kind who would consider it an homage, or a rip-off? I started the third triangle while waiting for my challah dough to rise. I couldn't wait to start working with Kureyon. I couldn't wait to see what it felt like (buttah) and how it knit up (like buttah)...I never knew wool could be this soft. It's just so dreamy. I love it. I want to marry it.

But wait, there's more! Here are the three balls of Meilenweit Fantasy sock yarn: that's #4710 on top, #4730 in the middle, and #4760 on bottom. And last, but certainly not least (never least), the Koigu: that's P610 on the left and P116 on the right.

The challah just came out of the oven! For the really super-good Jews in the room, please avert your eyes from the rather lame shape of my bread. Rosh Hashanah challah is supposed to be round, not braided, and I've seen round braided bread before but there was no way I was going to attempt that. So I just made a round shape and stuck it in the oven. For my first loaf, I am pretty darned impressed with myself. Those black thingies are raisins, yo. And now I need to get going! Have a great weekend, everyone!

So, tonight begins the Jewish New Year. Since I have the day off, I'm going all out on a special Rosh Hashanah dinner, just for me and my (shh!) goyishe boyfriend.

I'm conducting a little challah experiment. I'll keep you posted. Get it? POST-ed? I am a LAUGH RIOT.

Took some pictures, but my camera battery needs a little recharging. Don't we all.

Dude, Kansas ROCKS. But you know who rock EVEN MORE?

This guy. And this guy. And this store.

And, I suppose, the postal carriers who delivered my yarn a day earlier than expected. I guess they helped, too.

The Kureyon for Rosedale is unbelievable. Consider this a teaser, because I will be taking pictures. But right now I got a tall rum 'n' coke and pizza on the way. My week is over and what a closer!

So I'm plugging away at the second Over the Rainbow Regia sock, while traveling the PATH back to Manhattan. A man and his elvish son (I'll guess 6 or 7 years old, but I'm very bad at guessing ages) get on the train and sit opposite me, several seats away. The PATH isn't crowded and it isn't loud, so I can hear them talking and I can tell that they're not conversing in English. Then I hear "tricot" or "tricoter" or even "tricoteuse," which makes me look up and they're both looking at me, so I smile, and get two dazzling smiles in return. Made me wish I knew how to speak French, but unfortunately I fall into that category of people who only know "Voulez vous couchez avec moi" from "Lady Marmalade," and that's just wildly inappropriate. I suppose I know the Marseillaise, or at least a little bit of it, but also--not appropriate. Neither is "Frere Jacques."

I pick up languages rather quickly, at least in the reading/writing/translating way. I know that learning Spanish would be beneficial, and that's the first thing I want to do when I get the time and find the right class. I also want to learn conversational French.

Rachael has a pic of the Indigo Girls on her page, which prompted a lot of memories from people. Maureen's seeing Lucinda Williams tonight. This reminds me of a story involving another Williams, first name Dar.

I was teaching a late afternoon composition course, that ended somewhere around 5:30 or 5:45. One day a female student came up to me before class started and asked for permission to leave early. Actually, no one really asks, do they? She said something like, "I need to leave early today, is that OK?" I asked what was so important that she needed to leave early, and she said that she was going with a bunch of friends down to Cincinnati to see Dar Williams, and her ride was leaving at such-and-such a time. I gave her the usual spiel about choices and risks and said that ultimately, "ya gotta do what ya gotta do." When she left (and to her credit, she wound up staying about 15 minutes later than she originally said she would) I called after her, "Say hi to Dar for me!" At the beginning of the next class, she walked up to me and handed me a piece of paper. It read, "Thanks for letting Kelly come see the show! Dar."

We're gonna win, Twins! We're gonna score!
We're gonna win, Twins! Watch that baseball so-OAR!
Knock out a home run, shout a hip hooray!
Cheer for the Minnesota Twins today!

I believe we're playing the Yanks in the first round of playoffs. This means I might actually get to WATCH a game. Quietly. I don't want any trouble.



"Couldn't you just punctuate this clause with a hyphen?"

"You could...but you would have to use two hyphens together. That's called an 'emdash.'"

"Really? It has a name?"

"Yes. Although in this case, using an emdash would give the clause more emphasis than it really needs. The clause simply modifies the noun before it; it doesn't need to be so dramatic."

"But I like the hyph...emdash. I would use it instead."

"Ok, but this exercise sheet is only asking for commas. COMMAS."

And thus, my secret identity is protected for another day.

I hope that turkeys can fly in Heaven.

Poor Gordon Jump, to be remembered almost solely for his stint as the Maytag repairman.

'cuz I got yarn comin'.

Placed a rather big (for me, anyway) order with Threadbear. Should be here Friday. Maybe even sooner. Oooh. Had a lovely conversation with Rob yesterday as well, when I called with the credit digits.

Sheesh. It's not like I can start working on any of those projects yet...or can I? Usually when I find myself in a rut I make something nice and easy, like a hat, or scarf, something that doesn't require a lot of concentration and something that can be done quickly. Or I take some fun, goofy yarn and swatch it or something. Or I go back to learning how to crochet. (Why can't I do it as well as I can knit? Why can't my little loopies be all nice and even? Why?) The yarn that's coming isn't really for nice and quick projects, though. And most of my needles are taken up already. Dang. I gotta finish some stuff up fast. Because once that Rosedale yarn comes in, baby...oh yeah...once that Rosedale yarn comes in...drool. Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet?

Today I experimented with transportation, with unsatisfactory results. Instead of taking a bus to the PATH station in Jersey, I opted for the 99S bus, which goes to the Port Authority bus terminal in Manhattan. It costs the same as a PATH ticket and bus fare (except that I paid for a number of trips on the PATH which means I'm actually paying less than I would normally) and someone told me that it would be quicker. I don't know why I thought taking the bus from Jersey to Manhattan at 4:30 pm would be quicker. It took me an extra hour to get home tonight.

There's a movie version of The Loved One? Is it any good? [flips over to IMDb...] Oh, wow! Tony Richardson directed it--he also did Tom Jones. And John Gielgud's in it? And Roddy McDowall? James Coburn! Milton Berle! LIBERACE! Oh, I have to see this. I HAVE to. It's not on DVD. Figures.

15. Ever since I got my DVD player (as a gift, three years ago), videotapes have seemed...unclean.

16. If I had known in college that "cultural studies" would be the hippest thing in academics, allowing scholars to indulge in pop culture and write critical essays about it...if I had known that at some point there would be an entire collection of essays and entire academic conferences on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," I would have taken my life in a different direction than the one I followed. I know it's not too late to make those kinds of changes in scholarship, and as soon as the dissertation is done, I intend to go the whole hog (what the hell does that mean, anyway?). I believe in treating pop culture critically, not as a scapegoat or as "mere entertainment," but as something slightly more than a mere reflection of our culture at a particular time. I think the relationship is more give and take than that. I'll talk more about this when my mind isn't so tired. At any rate, this is my sole justification for watching "Everwood" tonight and taking an hour long break from grading papers.

17. Clueless is one of my all-time top three favorite movies. Not so coincidentally, Emma is my favorite Jane Austen novel. I once tried to teach the novel in conjunction with the movie, but almost all of the students had seen the movie already and my whole point about "revision" was kinda lost on them.

18. I drink enough coffee in the morning to awaken an entire nuclear family. I started drinking coffee when I was 13. People told me it would stunt my growth, but I figured my whole family's pretty small as it is, so I'm guessing I'm not getting that much bigger. I used to drink it with tons of cream and sugar, but when I turned 16 I became a black coffee snob. Now I can take it either way--sometimes I need the extra kick from the sugar, and sometimes the coffee is just too harsh to drink without a little sumpin (like Bailey's or Kahlua. Ha! I kid). Really good coffee, though, like Peet's...doesn't need any embellishment. I love Peet's coffee. I love that I don't have to get it mail ordered anymore, because there are a couple places in Manhattan that sell it. Not that I've gone over to get any yet--but I will. I first discovered Peet's when a friend sent me a couple pounds of their Sumatra blend as part of a holiday gift. At that point I could afford spending $11 on coffee, plus shipping. So totally worth it.

19. I am 5'5". I was 5'4" when I finished my first growth spurt, but I had another surprise spurt in college. I didn't know that could happen to girls. Cool, huh?

I'm running out of steam now. Tired. Need coffee! Coffee, the food of my soul.

Although it may just be allergies and/or rapid changes in barometric pressure.

I haven't forgotten the 100 Things list. I've got nine of 'em done, right? OK, here we go:

10. I have three scars on my head, none of which are very visible. One is behind one of my ears--it's been so long that I can't even remember which one. One is just under my right eyebrow, and it's very tiny. One is right above my forehead and is the reason I don't part my hair in the middle. I got all of these scars at the same time. It was late spring or sometime during the summer. I was four years old, still living in North Dakota. My dad was working, my mom was inside the house tending to my baby brother. I was outside playing by myself, and not too far away from me was my dad's cat, Merlin. (My mom was the one who wanted the cat. My dad was dead against it, but eventually relented. Guess who the cat bonded with?) I noticed another cat on the other side of the wooden fence and I thought, "Gee, wouldn't it be nice if Merlin had someone to play with?"

I know. I was four.

I picked Merlin up and walked through the gate of the fence, over to where the other, strange cat was. The other cat made no move towards us or away from us, so I dropped Merlin down by the cat and began the proper introductions. The other cat attacked. What I hadn't realized before was that not all cats are declawed. I went to rescue Merlin and got caught up in the fight.

The doctor my mom rushed me to still used those wooden boards to strap children down while they put in stitches. That's one of the main images I can remember; the other one is seeing my mom come racing out of the house to rescue me (and Merlin). I also have a clear image of talking to my grandparents shortly after the incident and being confused that my mom didn't want me to tell them what happened.

Oh wait--maybe the gash on my ear is why one of them looks longer than the other! That's been bugging me for years! Not that I have mismatched ears, but that I couldn't figure out why.

11. I wanted to name my brother Paul Bird, after my two TV heroes: Big Bird and Paul Lynde. Do not ask me what business a 3½ year old has watching "Hollywood Squares." I can't explain it. I still adore Paul Lynde, even more now that I know he was the voice of Templeton the Rat in the animated Charlotte's Web, which incidentally was the first movie I ever saw. (there--two for the price of one.) My brother's middle name is Paul. I take it as a shout-out.

12. My Barbies used to fight over Darth Vader.

13. I provide my own sound effects while performing daily tasks. I don't know exactly when this started, but I bet it has something to do with living alone with a cat. And watching a lot of cartoons.

14. Evelyn Waugh is one of my favorite writers. I read Vile Bodies in college and was completely hooked. So, naturally, I was intrigued when I heard that there's going to be a movie version coming out soon. Not only that, but Stephen Fry, the quintessential Jeeves, the master of Wilde, and a decent novelist in his own right (get The Liar. It's hilarious), adapted it and is directing it. The movie's title is Bright Young Things. It's too, too exciting.

I highly recommend Waugh's The Loved One. It made me laugh out loud.





Scout's not looking overly impressed.

This one's a bugger to work up. I'm using my usual US 2 dpns but either my gauge was just all off or the yarn wasn't behaving, because I kept having to redo the stripes so that the lighter colors would match up. Eventually I stopped caring. I've tried using 1s on Regia yarn but I don't get the right gauge for the stripes. Anyway, that's the K3 P2 ribbing, for about 8 inches, and then I added one stitch to each needle and switched to K2 P2.

I also got more done on Purple Rain: 16 more rows and I can start the fair isle band!

I think I've caught that early autumn cold that's going around. I just want to stay in bed and have grandmother types bring me lots of mazto ball soup. If I start to feel better I will head out to the Knit Out. Typical. I think this is my conscience's way of telling me that I didn't get all my work done yesterday and so can't expect rewards.

Number of gold stars so far: 0. Granted, I haven't gotten through all the papers yet. But it's not looking good for the gold-star seekers.

For my internet buds, on the other hand:



There. You can save this star and put it on your own blogs. You've earned it.

More later.

The NYC Knit Out is definitely this Sunday. I'm going to go. Who's with me?

I do have 41 papers to grade by next Thursday, and 12 of those need to be graded by Monday. I also need to get back to my dissertation writing. And clean my frickin' office for the fifth time since the semester started. I need more shelves and compartments. I need a professional organizing person because my office is beyond my control. I wonder if I could barter my knitting for some organizing help. Hmm.

As students handed in papers yesterday:

Student #1: So, what's the lowest grade you've ever given out?

Me: (thinks a little) Well, I'm pretty sure I've never failed anyone (big sigh of relief from students), because if a paper didn't meet the requirements of the assignment at all I have requested that the student redo the assignment. You know, redo or fail. They always chose redo. (nervous chuckles from students) I think the lowest actual grade I've given was a C-, though. But that was when I wasn't using this rubric (gestures toward the list of criteria that the English Department uniformly adopted, indicating that part of my grading system has fallen under institutional influence).

Student #2: How come you don't go up to an A+?

Me: Well, the rubric itself doesn't, but I also generally don't give out A-plusses.

Students, in unison: WHY?

Me: An A is not good enough for you? The standard GPA only accounts for As, so an A+ doesn't really do anything.

Students: (mumblings of protest)

Me: How 'bout this: if I get any papers that are worthy of more than just a mere A, I'll put a shiny star on it.

Students: (visibly brightening) Yeah, do that!

Heh.


Arrr! It be Talk Like a Pirate day today, mateys. Quaff yer grog and plunder away!

Speaking of pirates...I watched the beginning of Survivor last night and I just gotta say: I think I love Rupert.

Most of the time I watch the first couple episodes of reality shows like Survivor or The Bachelor or what have you, and then I lose interest. We'll see what happens. It is a good way to relax at the end of a long week of teaching because it requires nothing of me but snark, and after four days of teaching I have much built-up snark that needs release.

Just went to the CBS site and found a link to apply for The Amazing Race. I guess that means there will be a Season Five! Hooray!

Yeah: students have their gold stars, I have TAR.

New favorite commercial: the one for a Nissan car, with four guys driving up to put a water ballon hit on some other guy, to the strains of the most famous aria from Pagliacci. Cracks me up every time. I'm chuckling right now.

It's a good thing, really, that I didn't go to the reading last night. Instead, I talked to various members of my family. I learned an important piece of information about my dad, second-hand, which bugged me enough to call him up and say, "what up with that?" So we talked it out and made a pact to share important information with each other. Everything is OK, no one is in any kind of serious danger, and I will tell you more about it when I am at liberty to do so.

I think it is entirely appropriate that Talk Like a Pirate Day will occur tomorrow, in the midst of Hurricane Isabel. My first hurricane--even though I won't experience it like the folks to the south of me.

The evil people at my evil, EVIL credit card company have decided that I'm not enough of their bitch, so they have increased my credit limit. Every time that happens my first thought is, "Those suckers!" because the idea of anybody just GIVING me money is insane (family excluded). Then, of course, I realize that they're not just GIVING me money. Bastards.

On the other hand, I don't have to put off that order to Threadbear now. So right now I'm grappling with my inner Avenger. She's a lot like Greta's Danger Girl, because she usually wins. And she looks like Emma Peel. Have you noticed how I keep mentioning women in leather? Hmmm.

Yeah, you know what? I don't have the time to grapple, and I'm a fabulous, good person and I deserve really nice things. Oh, boys...

This is too mundane to include on the "100 Things" list, so I'm not counting it. Rosedale is the name of a shopping mall in St. Paul. It was "my" mall growing up--one of my first experiences of adolescent independence was taking the city bus from my house all the way down to Rosedale (my grandpa, in addition to his weather obsession, also knew the Twin Cities bus routes like the back of his hand. He collected every schedule but I never needed to really look at them; I just had to ask how I got from our house to my destination and he'd tell me). Rosedale is part of a four-mall collective known as "The Dales," and if I'm not mistaken, Southdale (in a far ritzier location than Rosedale) was the first American indoor shopping mall. Of course, The Dales haven't been the places they used to be since the Mall of America went up. I dislike the Mall of America, for a few reasons that most people outside of Minnesota wouldn't understand and would take a little longer to explain than I would like.

Rosedale is near (sorta) the Har Mar Shopping Center, which is a site even more depressing than Rosedale has become--at least, it used to be. Perhaps there's been some development. The Har Mar Shopping Center houses the Har Mar Cinema, and that I love. Most of my memorable childhood & adolescent movie-going experiences were at this theater: all three Star Wars movies, E.T., the last two Indiana Jones movie (in fact, Last Crusade may very well have been the last movie I saw at Har Mar--I had just graduated high school and I had two free tickets because I was interning at a radio station and they gave tickets out). The lobby at the Har Mar is HUGE, very old school, and at the time there were only three theaters (that may have changed). The bathrooms, though, are what I remember most. The ladies' room had four stalls, each with its own individual sink and mirror. Each stall was a separate color and everything in that stall was that color: red, blue, yellow, white. I loved going into the blue bathroom, using a blue toilet, washing my hands in a blue sink. Everything blue.

(And yes, that is where Har Mar Superstar got his name.)


If you've already been to Ms. Cari's blog, you know that an historic meeting of the minds occurred last night. Both Cari and Andrea are wonderful people: so welcoming, smart, witty and fun. I had a great time meeting both of them. I remember reading on someone else's blog about how weird it might be to meet an internet pal in "real life," like maybe the online chemistry wouldn't be there, but it wasn't like that at all. I don't feel at all bad that it was only three of us because I really had the chance to talk with them, relax, and knit. And pet the dogs. Oh, the dogs. They are adorable. I also, as promised, worked 12 more rows of Vogue #5...hereby re-christened as: PURPLE RAIN.

How come no one thought of that one before? Jeesh! How come I didn't think of it before? I bow my head in shame.

I am too tired to head over to St. Ann's for Jonathan Lethem's book party/reading. I would go if it were closer to my apartment. Like, in my apartment. (ooh.) But changing out of school clothes into Brooklyn clothes and heading out to be in a place packed with baby hipsters...no. Gonna sit, grade some papers, eat homemade enchiladas (thank you Mike!), and watch an old movie. Gentleman's Agreement, perhaps, or Touch of Evil, neither of which I've seen. I've also got The Apartment, which I have seen and love.

9. I have a thing for jackets and coats. The new issue of Knitty (see button on left--isn't it cool how it automatically updated? Like magic!) is going to bankrupt me, but in the most delicious way. I am positively salivating over Amy Swenson's Rosedale, and I would make it in the exact same colorway. I love the purple/orange thing it's got going on. Oh, mama. I'm going to have to march on over to Threadbear...as soon as I get paid again. Wah! Can't wait! Must...calm...myself. Think of the lonely unfinished projects you have in your workbasket. They need love and attention.

I also simply MUST make Jamie's Saity. I love the seams and the clean lines. Want to find a dark tweedy color--a deep blue or gray.

Love Tilt, too.

And thanks to Rebecca Hatcher, I know what to do with The Sweater That Turned Out Horribly: frog the sucker and use the yarn for her newest pattern. Much better than frogging and redoing the pattern I had before, because that would be BO-RING.

Just feelin' in a sharin' kinda mood. I kept going back and forth on whether or not to do this list. I read so many other people's and thought they were fun, but would I just be a big ol' copy cat? So I'm putting a restriction or two on my list, which is why I'm doing it in parts. First, I'm going to try to make these things that you couldn't figure out by reading the blog. Second, I'm going to not start a new item until I've explained the previous one completely.

1. This one's not very fair, since a lot of you know this already: my first name is not Emily, nor is it Embeth or Emerald or any other name that starts with E-M. The "Em" is long for "M," which stands for Michelle. I haven't gone by "M/Em" in a very long time and felt like bringing it back, mostly because an early contender for my blog title was "Emdash," and then I realized that I could go like this: "M —" and I got all geeky and excited. Another reason is that I noticed a lot of other Michelles in the knitting web ring and I wanted to, you know, be different.

Why divulge my real name now? I guess it's because I feel a lot more comfortable blogging and being out there in public. It took me a while, but iz all coo' now.

2. I am 32 years old. I think. I keep forgetting. Yeah, I'm 32. And a half. I don't know if you could figure that one out, but I thought I'd go ahead and share that anyway. And I am generally OK with being in my 30s, but every now and then I'll look about myself and think, CRAP! what the hell am I doing? I have it on good authority that most people in their 40s do the same thing. (P.S. my birthday is in March.)

3. I know how to play the piano. I don't play very well because I quit lessons after one year because I didn't like my teacher and my mom didn't force me to continue with another teacher. I often wonder what would've happened if she had. I still played because I enjoyed it, and I still do. In fact, I HAVE a piano in my apartment. It belonged to my grandparents and it was always understood that I would inherit it. It desperately needs to be tuned and now that I have a job...my neighbors can look forward to pounding on walls and floors and ceilings to get me to STOP THAT RACKET! I haven't played in over a year, and that makes me nervous.

4. I wanted to be a music major in college. I sang (soprano) in high school (I still sing, but not in public) and thought it would be fun to be a choir director when I grew up. I applied to the music school when I got to college but was rejected. It's more complicated than that, because I never got the rejection notice. In fact, I never heard from them at all.

5. I guess you could say that I've always wanted to teach. I think it's because I have always been a leader trapped in a follower's body. I used to be perfectly content to go along with whatever anyone was saying or doing...until I realized that those in charge didn't always know what they were doing and it wasn't always the case that a follower could make suggestions to the leader. I honestly don't know how I made the switch, how I became more confident in what I was doing or where I was going. All I know now is that I AM ALWAYS RIGHT.

6. I am not used to being unliked. When someone doesn't like me, whether it's because I've done something horrible or for no reason I can discern, it keeps me up at night. It eats at me for days...until I get over it. I always do, because what else can one do?

7. My first concert, The Official Story: Prince, Purple Rain Tour. My first concert, The Truth: Donny & Marie Osmond, Minnesota State Fair.

8. In my short time here on earth, I have learned to love three vegetables that I hated as a kid: zuccini, broccoli, and asparagus. Zuccini was the easiest to overcome. I didn't start liking broccoli until I lived with a vegan in college--and even then, I ate it, but I didn't really like it. Asparagus...where would I be without you, asparagus? You crept up behind me and put your hands over my eyes and said, "guess who?" and I turned around and saw you for the first time. I realized that all those years I had disparaged you, asparagus, it wasn't your fault at all--no, it was the cruel cooks who overcooked you! They didn't know how to treat you, darling asparagus, but I do. I never let you stew in boiling water until you're wilted and pale, and I always make sure you're covered in sweet, sweet sauce.

That's a good place to stop, before I write something weird.

Teaching at NJ went much better today than it did last week, even though it was a day their first major paper was due and three students didn't show up at all. I am still trying to find my way around this class. I can't remember if I explained this or not, but this course is a "basic writing" course and about half the students did not grow up speaking or writing English. Another half, which overlaps with the first half but is not comprised of the same students, have already taken the class and either failed the class or didn't pass the competency exam. It is a challenge to figure out how to talk about writing or reading in a way that most people understand, without talking down to them (I would hate myself if I started doing that) or talking over them (ditto). I think we made progress today. I think maybe they trust me a little more than they did last week.

Knitting...well, knitting's kinda stalled at the moment. The last few trains I've taken have been so packed with people that I haven't been able to whip out the Regia sock, and I haven't wanted to get back to Vogue #5 because I can't face the 70 rows of ribbing that need to get done....blargh. I'm going to force myself to work on it tomorrow, however, at the knitting gathering to which the fabulous Cari has invited me! I am very happy and excited to be included.

This is the first time I've gone two days in a row without posting. I didn't intend to skip two days; I have a draft post from Friday resting precariously below, but I'm going to delete it because it's old news at this point.

By now you've heard the sad news about Johnny Cash and John Ritter. I had a mongo TV crush on Jack Tripper when I was 9 years old. He superseded Donny Osmond. As for Johnny Cash, well, even though Kris Kristofferson wrote the song, I've had "Sunday Morning Coming Down" in my head for the past few days. It's always been one of my favorites, and it's not entirely inappropriate this morning. I find these thoughts far more comforting than dwelling on the spookiness of death.*

I spent an utterly enjoyable day yesterday with Mike and our friends, the Js (I think this is one of those times that "J's" looks better to me). Cute story: several months ago I posted a message to craigslist inquiring if there were other dislocated and alienated PhD students who were interested in forming a support group/workshop, and J. was the only person to respond. We started corresponding and found out that we live within five blocks of each other.

We had plans yesterday to go see Lost in Translation, but were prevented from doing so because none of us thought buying tickets in advance was necessary. New rule: buying tickets in advance is ALWAYS necessary, especially on opening weekend when the movie in question is only playing at three theaters and it's a gross day outside. We went to see Matchstick Men instead. I know, blah blah blah Nicolas Cage blah blah Ridley Scott, but it's an enjoyable movie. I don't have a problem with either Nicolas Cage or Ridley Scott (he who directed Thelma and Louise, let us not forget. It's a lifetime pass as far as I'm concerned, unless he wanders off into Adrian Lyne territory). My biggest complaint with the movie is that it's fairly predictable, but I could go either way on how I respond to predictability in movies. Sometimes I treat it like a Jane Austen novel: you know Darcy and Elizabeth are gonna get together at the end but it's such an enjoyable ride to get there. Other times I tsk and groan. While Mike opted for the tsk and groan, I went the Austen route, and didn't get really ticked off until the overly cheesy and unnecessary ending. Alison Lohman? Worth the price of admission.

We went to see the movie at the Union Square theater, aka Alkatraz. I call it that because of a majorly negative, forehead-vein-popping experience caused by ticket-machine failure and a huge prison-warden of a woman who had granted herself the Godlike Power of deciding who was worthy of cutting in line to pick up credit-card ticket purchases, during a time when all five boroughs were at this particular movie theater. I don't think Colleen has ever seen me looking so in need of medication. I vowed at that point NEVER TO RETURN...but the theater has since gotten better, even with the terminally attitudinal ticket sellers who were clearly absent on the day we were all taught Common Courtesy ("The book that I'm reading is far more interesting than whatever movie you want to see. What's your problem?"). The popcorn is sold separately from the butter, which I kind of like because I can then control how much butter goes on, but I kind of don't like because the butter always fails to seep down to the bottom of the bag. I wonder if they would ever put half the popcorn in the bag, wait for me to go butter it, and then fill it up the rest of the way. I can't remember if they sell Junior Mints or not.

We stopped by the Strand (as if "stopping by" is ever an option at this bookstore), where I picked up Jonathan Lethem's Gun, With Occasional Music and David Liss's A Conspiracy of Paper, which I had mentioned in a previous post--if you want to go looking for it, fine. I'm a little too lazy this morning to look myself. I've read Lethem's Motherless Brooklyn (loved it. LOVED. IT.), but not his other works. His new doorstop of a novel, Fortress of Solitude, is coming out this week and I want it. The New Yorker published an excerpt/short story version of the novel a few weeks ago and it looks fantastic, about a complicated friendship between a white kid, son of flakish liberals, and a black kid, son of a formerly-famous jazz (I think) singer, set against the gradual and equally complicated gentrification of Boerum Hill. Lethem's giving a reading this Wednesday in Brooklyn and I really want to go. I should go. I probably will.

Then we all headed back to Williamsburg for dinner. This was my suggestion because I wanted to stop by The Yarn Tree. Yesterday they celebrated their second anniversary and had a little party with wine and food and a 10% sale on everything in the store. I picked up more Koigu, color P211 this time--socks for mom. And, since I can't ever go into a yarn store and get just one thing, I also picked up some Colinette Point Five, color 103 (Cezanne), to make a scarf for...someone, I haven't figured out exactly who. Perhaps my aunt. Add to that (because I can't just walk into a yarn store and buy only TWO things) a few skeins of luscious off-white kid mohair from Joseph Galler (Plassard) for another gift scarf and a HUGE skein of Schaefer Yarn's Esperanza (70% lambswool, 30% alpaca) in a colorway they call "Scoobs" but I call "matches perfectly with the Mistral Hat I just finished." I did manage to hold off on the sale-priced Tahki Cotton Classic--it was close, but I had told myself no more cotton. My mind works in mysterious ways: it was in the 50% off bin, and yet I went with the outrageously priced other stuff. Whatever. It is a damn good thing I have a job. I still want the yarn for one of the cabled sweaters from the latest Interweave Knits (as soon as I figure out which one to make) and the funky disco sparkly yarn for legwarmers. Next month, next paycheck. I think I can hold off until then.

I had to rip back...well, I didn't have to...to before the short-row heel on the Regia socks for my cousin, because the striping wasn't matching up the way I wanted it to. This allowed me to change directions and go with a knit 3, purl 2 ribbing all up the leg of the sock and I really like the way it's turning out.

Friday was Forget Work Day, and I popped in one of the DVDs from The Simpsons 2nd season and wound up the yarn I'm going to use for the Wave/Shell Shawl Knitalong (I should put a link up to that. Throw it on the "To Do: Blog Tweaking" pile, along with "blogrolling: do it" and "browser-compatibility: look into"). Wow, is this yarn tiny. I've never worked with yarn this small. I have 300-odd yards of it and now I'm thinking it's never going to be enough for the number of pattern repeats called for in the pattern, and I'm wondering if doing only two would work.

So I had my Lazy Sunday on Friday this week, which means today is work work work grade grade grade write write write all the way up to "Alias." I think tonight is the repeat of the season finale, which I missed the first time around.

~~~~~~~~~

* Death totally and completely ooks me out. It's not a 24/7 obsession, more like the creeping thoughts that prevent sleep. And it's not so much the physical as the metaphysical ramifications of death. I cannot accept the fact that at some point my mind will cease to function, end of story. I have had this...condition...since I was about 6. It's hard to be a child suffering form existential angst.**

** The previous footnote was intended to be more humorous than anything else.***

*** How do I get real numbered footnotes to work? Another task for the "To Do" pile.

My heart goes out to those who are mourning the loss of loved ones today.

Heh. Couldn't resist the TLC take on it all.

Now that I think about it, you know, I don't really want to go into the details. Suffice to say that the truck finally arrived at 10:00 p.m. on September 10, 2002, and left at 12:30 a.m. The first anniversary of September 11 was thus spent unpacking--and since I didn't get to sleep until 4:30 a.m., I was also in an opaque state of mind. I unpacked and shelved my books while listening to people read off the names of those who died when the planes crashed into the WTC.

Why is it that we refer to the terrorist attack by the date and not the act? Just because it's shorter?

Oh, and I wouldn't have considered myself particularly materialistic until I had to wait six weeks for my stuff. Now I say, to hell with anti-materialism. Give me my frickin' stuff. Or, as Bernadette Peters' character says in The Jerk: "I don't mind about the money. I just want the stuh-uhhff."

Carolyn, your experience with Allied sounds typical. A colleague of mine moved to Boston a month before I moved to NY and she had to wait 10 days for her things. And I would hope that local moving companies would be a bit better. Where else are they going to go? Just make sure that they give you the pamphlet on Customer's Rights and Responsibilities. All moving companies are supposed to do that. And there are websites out there now that list the bad moving companies so that you know who to avoid.

Now, on to my other daily rants:

What kind of school allows students to add and drop courses for a whole two weeks? I've already assigned two short papers and the major paper is due next week and I have two new students who have a lot of catching up to do. My other course is designed to be a workshop in which most of the writing takes place in class, and the first major paper is due in class on Monday, and whaddaya know, someone new shows up today. Granted, the inconvenience is mostly the students', because I'm not letting them off the hook. They have to turn everything in when the other students do. And I understand the problems students can have with scheduling. I have a feeling that scheduling is not run as well as it was at my other institutions. There, students would "shop around" for courses--not that fit their schedules, but the ones with the least amount of work. In the two schools I'm at now, it seems like students are put in two courses that meet at the same time, or they have to wait to see what lab section they get and that of course messes up the rest of their schedule, and THEN, oh wait, THIS is the kicker: at the school in NJ, students have to take a qualifying exam to see if they test out of the basic writing course (the one I teach). Students who have taken the basic writing course take the qualifying test to see if they can register for the "regular" composition course. In the meantime, they are told to go ahead and register for the regular composition course. It takes at least a week to determine students' scores on the test. Two of my new students in the basic writing course had already sat through two regular comp courses, only to find out that they had failed the qualifying test and had to go back to basic writing.

That pisses me off so much I can hardly write about it. Not because they're in my class, but because it's an unnecessarily cruel thing to do to a person.

Don't even get me started on what I think about the qualifying exam.

Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. Here's the back of Vogue #5:



I started the front last night but I'm only four rows into it.

I'm just too freakin' busy right now! It's only been two weeks since I started working and already...I'm a little overwhelmed. I bring a lot of it on myself; the papers I got on Tuesday DO NOT have to be graded by Thursday, but since their first big paper is due next week I want to give them a lot of feedback. I grade and I grade and then realize, CRAP! What the hell am I doing in class tomorrow?! I've been online for over an hour--I could've been GRADING!

Then I stop to ponder, were my college professors as disorganized and scattered as I am? They always seemed so prepared and well put together. Maybe I come across that way--people tell me that I always seem so confident when most of the time I don't feel that way, so I must put up a damn good front. Ssshhh. Don't tell anyone.

I know that we are approaching the second anniversary of a tragic event and I do not mean to belittle the occasion. It just so happens, however, that today marks the one-year anniversary of my furniture arriving in New York.

Yes, that's right. I arrived in New York on July 29, 2003. It would be another SIX WEEKS before I would see my bed, computer, books, TV, couch, dining room table and chairs, kitchen utensils...you get the idea.

Clearly, I hired the wrong moving company. I was sucked in by the low estimate and my general naivite regarding business matters.

Do a search on "Elite Van Lines" and you'll see what I'm talking about.

At least I got my furniture.

Film at 11.

Just, yay.

OK, maybe a little yay, woo!

I have too many other thoughts jockeying for position right now. Hence, this entry will be all over the place.

What was the quote? "Fabulous sexy-ass BIRTHDAY SOCKSTRAVAGANZA," I believe? The Socks Formerly Known as The Koigu Affair? Here they are:



As for the leftover yarn, for the time being I'm just happy to cuddle with it and whisper sweet nothings to it.

Teaching today: class met in the Science building. Ten minutes in, the most horrific stench wafted in from the vents. Think sulfur mixed with public bus exhaust. Lab experiment gone awry, methinks. So we had class outside. I didn't want to have class outside, despite the beautiful day. But I must give credit to my students, who were the most well-behaved students-having-class-outside I've ever had.

I have heard tell of a librarian doll. Considering that the blog entry I found about it is dated July 11, you all may have known this for some time now. The doll has gray hair in a bun and she (right, because all librarians are female) shushes. When M. (the boyfriend, another "Em," I know, it's too cute for words, our last initial is the same too, yada yada yada) told me about this I expressed first extreme indignation and then a desire to see a Librarian ACTION FIGURE. M. asks, "What would that look like?" I answered, "Catwoman."

Then I realized that what I really should be desiring is a Grammar Avenger Action Figure. It would also look like Catwoman.

THEN we started riffing on how great it would be to have literary figure action figures. Collect 'em all, kids! Wordsworth--with daffodil accessories! Coleridge--comes with an albatross (I know, I know, you're all thinking opium pipe, but that would have to be De Quincey's accessory). Blake (and this is my favorite): comes with his own plate-printing machine, so that you can create your own poems and gloriously illustrate them!

I can picture the commercial now: two kids, one with a Wordsworth figure and one with a Keats figure, battling it out: "Emotion recalled in tranquility!" "Negative capability, you overinflated egoist!"

If only the market for these toys were huge. I could retire before I'm 40.



This is my subway stop:





Scout has been feeling a bit put out because I've been oohing and aahing over other people's pets. So here he is in the pose that would win best something, if they gave out awards for that kind of thing:




ADDENDUM: I found exactly what I pictured for the Librarian Action Figure here

A little while ago, I alluded to a great story. Today is the right day for sharing it.

I had also mentioned at one point that my parents divorced in the summer of my fifth year, and I moved down to St. Paul, MN to live with my maternal grandparents. The neighborhood I now lived in had once been full of children who had since grown up and moved away; in other words, most of the people living on my block were contemporaries of my grandparents. Good for cookies and candy, but not for games. Bridge? I don't think so.

It is significant that I cannot remember life in St. Paul previous to the day I am about to describe. It was a fairly cloudy, nondescript day and I was sitting in the family room, watching TV with my grandmother. My mom, who had been out for whatever reason (if I remember correctly, she was selling magazine subscriptions door to door), suddenly swept into the room, grabbed my arm, and brought me outside. "I want to show you something," she explained as we headed up the block and crossed the street. I was a little put out at having my quiet afternoon disrupted in such a way, and even at the tender age of five had already developed a suspicion of anything my mom found interesting, and I muttered my discontent.

We stopped in front of a house that had a pastel blue VW bug parked out front and a swing set in the yard. I knew then that my mom wanted to force another child on me and this made me nervous. Just because we lived near each other and were the same approximate age didn't mean we would like each other. Just because our moms thought this was a good idea didn't make it so. What if she was mean? What if she was stupid? What if she thought I was stupid? What if she refused to play with me? I really wanted to play on the swing set.

What followed is to me now a jumble of snapshot memories that may or may not be accurate. My mom greeting her mom, who called to her daugher to come and meet us. The introductions and initial silent appraisals. The exhortation to "go play outside" and my euphoria at getting to play on the swings. The cautious mutual interrogation of likes, dislikes, and toy possessions (toy compatibility is so very important at the sapling stage of friendships. Did I mention she had a swing set?). The inferiority complex settling in upon learning I was six months and one full school grade the younger. Oh, woe: would we have anything in common?

(Ah, rhetoric.)

From the very beginning, she was my creative inspiration. She introduced me to drawing via Ed Emberley. We held our own radio broadcasts by recording songs off the radio and then inserting our own brand of Morning Show zaniness (loo-dee doo-dee doo doo doo). We recorded our landmark discovery of the lost tribe of Zimbabwe. We idolized Michael Jackson to the point of coining "Jackson" as the new "excellent." We revised the lyrics of popular songs (inspired by Weird Al?), most notably changing Duran Duran's "The Reflex" into "The Reject." She still remembers our lyrics. We went to camp together--a German language camp sponsored by Concordia College. The number of inside jokes from that experience alone is astronomical, made possible in part by the generous cultural donations of Falco and that band that sang "Der Kommisar." You all remember that VW commercial with the two guys and the smelly chair, right? The one with "Da Da Da"? Yeah, well, we knew that song ten years before that commercial. What's more, we had a dance to go with it.

One summer, the camp had a costume party, for which C. and I wore similar shorts and stuck both our heads into the same (WLOL) T-shirt. It's a pretty accurate representation of the way we wuz.

The last clear memory I have of our teenager years is going to see her as Emily in her high school's production of Our Town. I can remember how close I was sitting to the stage (halfway) and I can remember a couple girls behind me snarkily giggling at the intensity with which my best friend performed (Philistines) and I can remember turning around to loudly shush them. I remember my friend's performance moving me to tears, and knowing at that moment that there would be no other profession that could satisfy her.

She graduated and moved on to NYU (natch). We drifted. We'd been drifting for a while, but the distance between us seemed final and we completely lost touch with each other, save for what our mothers told us after they ran into each other. I often wondered what she was up to, but never made the effort to find out--it would have been so easy, but I never did it.

Fifteen years (give or take) went by. I moved from MN to IL back to MN and then to OH, and I met a boy from WI living in IL who soon moved to NY. I went to NY for a visit in October of 2001, and during my stay the boy and his co-workers threw a party at their office, to which many people were invited. I had not been feeling well--20/20 hindsight points to precognition of the end of my relationship with the boy, but at the time I put it down to feeling very shy and unwilling to be around many people who didn't think I was cool enough to talk to. Eventually, I grudgingly came out of my shell, and in the midst of a conversation I glanced across the room and saw a face. Time slowed. Enough for me to remember the exact order of my thoughts:

1. That looks like what I imagine C. would look like now.
2. Wait, C.'s an actor.
3. As an actor, C. would totally be living in NY and not LA.
4. That could actually BE C.

I turned to the boy. Do you know who that is? I asked, pointing. Yeah, that's C., he said. I started hyperventilating, but I needed to make absolutely sure it's not some other C. who just happens to look remarkably like MY C. Do you know...did she grow up in St. Paul? I whisper. HEY C! he yelled across the room. YEAH? she yelled back. DID YOU GROW UP IN ST. PAUL? YEAH!

(I love that she yelled YEAH as a statement and not as a question, as if it were perfectly reasonable for anyone to inquire where she grew up, with no explanation, and no follow up.)

I pushed my way across the room--half of me was still disbelieving while the other half considered this moment to be the most natural, most expected thing to happen, ever. The two halves were still battling it out by the time I made it over to where she was standing so I couldn't figure out what to say...which didn't really matter because I had my hand over my mouth in a futile attempt to not scream and start crying. I sputtered something that made her turn to look at me expectantly...and then she recognized me.

The rest of the party was a blur (except for the exuberance with which we announced to people, "We grew up together!"). We met a few nights later to catch up and hum a few bars of Peaches & Herb.

2001 was a nasty year by all accounts. The one bright spot in it was reconnecting with one who had been so dear to me. She's a much better reason to pack everything up and move to New York.

I'd said in a previous post that I've been accused of being too demanding in my relationships with friends. I don't need to demand or ask for anything from C. She gives unselfishly and unconditionally. She let me stay with her when I looked for apartments. She shared her air conditioned apartment with me when my furniture was missing and it was unbearably hot. She made sure that I was included in gatherings so that I wouldn't be alone and that I would meet people. When I told her how grateful I was at all the effort she made, she said, "I figured that's what friends do, you know?" I know. And I know how truly rare and special a gift that kind of friendship is. I realize now that the qualities I look for in friends are the same qualities I have always found in her.

Happy Birthday, C. You continue to inspire me in all things. Mofe moni may s'mo ho gbe-ke, but ich liebe dich, baby. Uh-huh.

Photo Navy is experiencing technical difficulties while they search for more bandwidth, and that's why you're not seeing the pictures. I'm guessing the culprits are all us freeloadin' bloggin' knitters.

In other news...Vielen Dank, Debbie und Greta!

It's five minutes before my first class and I still don't know where my classroom is.

The best anyone can tell me is that I should go to the library, because most English classes are held there. But will I be on the second floor? Or the fifth floor?

The library in my dream is remarkably like the library at Northwestern--not the original gorgeously old library but the concrete late-20th-century addition that always reminded me of the Enterprise, because of the circular rooms. I remember (in waking life) that there are three towers (one view here) and they're color coded, so that a particular book you need would be in the stacks of Red 4: the red room (redrum) on the fourth floor. In each room there are stacks that line the perimeter, desks and carrels, a carpet-covered concrete half circle to sit on in the middle of the room (where you could really feel the centrifugal pull), and occasional seminar-sized rooms. I had a couple seminars in the library and I could never remember which direction to start walking in to get to the room quickest. I always got vertigo. Perfect nightmare setting.

But I'm not supposed to be in the library at all, no. I'm supposed to go to one of the newly-constructed rooms in the student center, across campus (so no, I'm not at NU anymore). It's half an hour after class was supposed to start--would anybody wait? How could any student take me seriously if I'm that egregiously late?

Then, suddenly, it's the next class period and all the people who left before I got there on the first day have shown up now. The section limit has exploded and I have twice as many students as I'm supposed to and, naturally, there aren't enough desks to go around.

Not only that, I've got the most unruly students this side of an asylum. The more I try to get them to listen, the more disruptive they get. They challenge everything I say. The louder they get, the louder I get until I can't scream any louder and then the bell rings and they all leave, congratulating each other on another hour well spent.

I have this dream every semester.

Hee. I'm knitting, too.

My body requires more time to adjust to my new schedule. I do not know why I had enough energy to go see the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars last week after teaching two classes but yesterday, after only teaching one class, I was exhausted. Today I have loaded up on water and protein to get me through a very long day.

Yesterday's exhaustion may have been due in part to a very sweet woman. A month ago, when I journeyed to Joisey to interview for this teaching gig, I met a woman I'll call Frieda (not like I'm going to remember that I'm using this name, but whatever). Frieda was going to the same place, slightly different department, to interview for a full-time job while she completed her teacher training. She was, as I said, incredibly nice and very sweet and we wished each other well, and that was that. Fast forward to yesterday: I walked into the faculty lounge and there's Frieda! Turns out, she'd been hired to teach a few English classes. It also happens that she has hardly any experience teaching the kind of class she's been hired to teach, and instead of translating or applying what she already knows about teaching to this course, she instead started bombarding me with all sorts of questions, from "how do I assign [insert writing assignment here]?" to "can I ask them to [insert perfectly reasonable assignment here]?" She was, essentially, asking me to write her syllabus. We're not even teaching the same course, and I have no idea what the requirements for her course are. I tried telling her that. I told her that there's a whole file cabinet full of other people's syllabi and that I found those helpful when I went through making up my own syllabus. I was as helpful as I could be but I had my own work to get done and she was not getting my subtle hints. She wants to look at all my paper assignments (that I haven't written yet). She wants to talk to me every day before class. I just don't think I have that kind of energy.

To make matters worse, it's not the most helpful department. At my orientation we were given very loose guidelines for what to accomplish in class and very little support--so that when someone asked a question pertaining to how many assignments on average are given, or in general for some kind of sense on how to proceed, the answer was invariably "do whatever you want." Finally I gave up and did just that. But I can't believe that they hired someone who doesn't have the experience necessary to teach the class that she's teaching, without giving her a little more support than that.



The Koigu Affair is nearly at its bittersweet end, just in time for the weekend! I will take pictures and post them on Monday. Last night, before I collapsed, I started my first pair of Holiday Present Socks. I have decided that as long as I don't tell people what they're getting, I can post pictures of holiday presents. I haven't completely decided who's getting what anyway, so maybe the members of my fam who read this blog could weigh in with their suggestions. If you see something you like, you let me know. I'll hook you up.

So the first socks are out of Regia 5048, the crazy rainbow ringel socks. I know who these are for and I'm calling them the Over the Rainbow socks. It fits: her real name starts with my nonsyllabic nickname. Greta will have that one figured out in no time. I will post a picture of my progress on that as well, although I'm only just getting to the end of the toe increases so there may not be much to see.

Am I wrong to think that Regia feels cheap and tawdry after Koigu? How can I ever knit with anything other than Koigu ever again? Why is life SO UNFAIR?!

Or whatever. It's early.

I found two school-related articles in the NY Times this morning. One on the increase in internet plagiarism, which is shocking only for students' attitudes, which go far beyond "everyone does it" and into "blame the teachers" territory. The other is far more interesting to me. The president of NYU has a bold new plan for improving undergraduate education:

The idea would be to supplement the tenured faculty not with adjunct teachers who are hired as part-time workers but with higher-prestige professors willing to teach without tenure.*

To read the link, you'll have to subscribe to the NY Times, but it's free to do so.

How do I feel about this? On the one hand, I think the tenure system as it exists today should be abolished--or at the very least, completely overhauled. At the same time, I fear this is going to make the job market even more treacherous for ordinary schmoes with excellent teaching records and no star power. It sounds like Sexton wants to improve undergraduate education by attracting "higher-prestige" professor who will actually have teaching responsibilities (many don't), but is he assured that they can teach? It's another way to improve the appearance of the school, sure--NYU could say they've got BigName #1 on their staff and BigName #1 actually teaches undergrads. So what? Big names do not equal Stellar Teaching. Besides, I can't think of any Big Name that would willingly teach without tenure.

Am I implying that Celebrity Teachers aren't Good Teachers? Mmmmmmm...yeah, alright. On the whole. I'm sure there are Big Names who can also teach. I would bet that Toni Morrison is an excellent teacher.

You bet I feel threatened by this. Guess I better start that Great American Novel/Screenplay.

I start teaching in Joisey today.

Is there a way to ensure that this page, and in particular the pictures, will look relatively the same on different browsers and monitors? I was checking my site yesterday at my office (I have an office! Yay!) and the picture of the Mistral hat was so dark that I couldn't distinguish colors. It's way more vibrant on my monitor at home. This is probably a boneheaded question but I thought I'd ask.

Greta reminded me of my ethnocentric tendencies. I live in the US, therefore everything must be according to US standards. We're #1! USA! Bleah. When I gave the needle sizes yesterday, I should have indicated that they were, in fact, US needle sizes. My apologies.

I love the commercial for chocolate milk that takes place in an electronics store and starts with a salesperson showing a customer a toaster and pointing out the Cancel button, "in case you decide you don't want toast."


*Arenson, Karen W. "N.Y.U. President Says Teaching Isn't Such a Novel Idea," New York Times online, Sept. 3, 2003. http://www.nytimes.com/2003/09/03/education/03NYU.html?pagewanted=1&th. Accessed 9/03/03.

It's officially the first day of school, even though I started last week. There is a slight chill in the air, and it is raining.

Fabulous.

When I was growing up, it nearly always rained on the first day of school. I'm glad some things haven't changed.

Autumn is my favorite season. I am completely in my element in the autumn. I love the relief of cooler weather--that "sweater-no-jacket" weather. Autumn colors are my colors. Autumn means new pens and fresh notebooks. It means new shows on TV (at least one of which has to be good, right?)! Better movies in the theater (for the most part)! In the past, it has also meant driving around and around looking for a parking spot. Now it means slightly more crowded subways.

The kiddies are all back in town. It's not that NYC is a college town, but there is a noticeable difference in the age demographics of the L train and the streets of Lower Manhattan. The hipster look had been dying a slow summer's death, and autumn gives it its rebirth.

For those of you who want to hold on to the last vestiges of summer, I'm very sorry. It's the day after Labor Day. It's FALL. Where I come from, it could SNOW any day.

Invisible Adjunct is a blog that lets me keep in touch with my academic cynicism. The Aug. 27 post about college brochures is very funny and insightful, as is the link she (?) provides.

Pictures of the weekend knitting:

Here's Vogue #5 so far:



This progress shot brought to you by Aunt C. in Illinois, who generously sent me inexpensive T-pins, as shown in the photo. In my hood, 20 T-pins cost $2.59! The ribbing and fair isle band are both done on size 5s (see? no apostrophe). I had a little trouble with the tension on the fair isle and some of the light purple stitches went into hiding, but I went back and "popped" them out. I figure, it's the back, so I'm not too concerned about how it looks. I will rip out the front fair isle band as many times as I have to. I'm working the top part on size 4s and it's taking forever, although the pattern is really easy to remember. I took a close-up shot but it didn't come out very well.

I am finally getting to the point of remembering which decreases go on which side (K2tog vs. SSK) without having to look it up, but it bugs me that Vogue doesn't make the distinction. Instead, the pattern simply states, "dec 1 st each side." Every pattern says that, even the "Very Easy Very Vogue" patterns ostensibly for new knitters. I would think that it would be discouraging for a new knitter to work the same kind of decreases on each side because the armhole shaping, etc. won't look even, and they might think it's because of them and not the directions.

Here's a close-up of the Mistral hat:



I'm working the round version of the "Fat Hat" in Hip to Knit (I'm not fond of the title, and I find the designs a little blah right now, but it was a good choice for me a year ago when I was just starting out). I thought I would experiment using cables with this bizarre yarn. The cables don't show up, as I expected they wouldn't, but it's still fun and I love the way the yarn looks with the moss stitch. This is going to be a fun hat to wear.

Finally, here's a picture of me. At least, that's my spot on the bed, and that's the book I'm reading, so it must be me. Man. I could really use a wax.



(that's the free bamboo plant over on the left! Isn't it lovely?)

1. a personal masseuse
2. throw rugs to cover the jagged edges of my floor
3. DSL
4. a pocket-sized Jon Stewart to carry around
5. another set of eyes
6. two more pairs of arms
7. a back-up brain
8. a work environment containing people who know what the #%&$ they're doing
9. Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich

I'm actually getting #9 as we speak. I love men who cook comfort food.

Is there a standard way to spell epithets with symbols?

Syllabus #2 is ready for copying, as is Paper Topic #1 for Course #2. Still need to plan tomorrow's lesson for Course #1 (which shouldn't take too long because I've only got an hour of class time and half of that is going to be taken up with questions they forgot to ask last week). I wonder if this will get more or less confusing as the semester goes on.

Yesterday was a fantastic Lazy Sunday, although I didn't work on the Lazy Sunday sweater. Instead, I watched a few episodes from the Third Season of The Simpsons and worked on Vogue #5 (still need a catchy name for that one), and the Koigu Affair, AND I started a hat with the ONline Mistral. Doesn't sound like a Lazy Sunday at all until I factor in that 3 hour nap that I apparently needed.

I started reading The Secret Life of Bees. Did this come out before or after Oprah put the kibosh on her book club? It's got Oprah Book Club written all over it, which is not to say I don't like it, because I do. So far, at least. I have the tendency to rave on and on about books I only just started, or am halfway through, only to be incredibly disappointed in them by the end, by which point my friends and family have gone out and purchased the book, so I feel guilty. I was incredibly disappointed in The Lovely Bones, for reasons that were I to divulge them, I would be giving key plot elements away. Everything is Illuminated, on the other hand, did not disappoint. Not once.